July Thunder. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the smoke hadn’t penetrated her house, at least not yet, and Sam noticed a delicate scent of lilac on the air. “Is that lilac I smell?” he asked.
“Yes. I love it. It’s in the carpet freshener.”
Almost in spite of himself, he smiled. “When I was about six, we lived for a while in Michigan. My dad was pastor of a small church up near Saginaw. And we had this huge lilac bush at the corner of the house, just covered with blossoms. I used to like to suck the nectar out of them. And I used to hide under it. Nobody could find me there. I seem to remember spending entire afternoons daydreaming, surrounded by lilacs.”
Mary led him into the kitchen, shucking her flannel shirt and hanging it over a chair back. “Did you have to hide often?”
He found himself looking into her green eyes. Sinking into her green eyes. And he saw a gentleness there that made his heart slam. Gentleness wasn’t something Sam had experienced very often in life, not even in his marriage. It had an unexpected effect on him, an effect that held him rooted to the spot even as she turned away, apparently accepting his silence as an answer.
“How many sausage biscuits do you think you can eat?” she asked, opening the refrigerator door.
“Uh…” Her question might as well have been spoken in another language. Somehow it didn’t connect with his brain.
She smiled over her shoulder. “Why don’t you wash up in the bathroom, and I’ll make coffee. The caffeine might clear the cobwebs.”
He was grateful for the easy escape. Because, for no reason he could figure out, Mary’s tidy little kitchen had suddenly seemed as threatening as a dragon’s lair. As if something awful might leap out at any moment.
A strange way to react to a gentle smile.
One look in the mirror over the bathroom sink almost caused him to laugh out loud. He looked like a raccoon, so much smoke, sweat and dirt had stained his face. He was surprised any woman would offer him breakfast, looking the way he did.
And now that he noticed, his shirt stank of smoke and sweat, too. Oh, man. He ought to slink out of here now, before she noticed.
Although how she could have failed to notice, sitting right beside him in the truck cab, he couldn’t imagine. Maybe the smoke covered the sweaty smell.
If he’d had a change of clothes, he might have hopped into her shower. Instead he had to strip off his shirt and do what he could with a washcloth and a bar of soap. And when he was done, it was kind of embarrassing to look at the black stains on the cloth. He rinsed it out as best he could, but it was going to take a heavy-duty trip through a washing machine to save it. And it was pretty, too, not just some colorless white cotton of the kind he owned.
That was when he noticed that the whole bathroom was pretty. Lavender and lilac and cream dominated in the shower curtain and rug, along with the soap dish and other stuff he never knew the names of. He bet her whole house was pretty. Feminine.
He and Beth had been kind of basic about such things, preferring instead to spend their money on skiing and a recreational vehicle. Not to mention a boat for fishing on the reservoir.
There was even a tiny old medicine bottle holding a few tiny dried purple flowers.
All of a sudden he was uneasy, feeling as if he’d stumbled into a virgin’s bower. Mary McKinney dealt in things he couldn’t begin to fathom, things like tiny little flowers and probably satin sachets in her dresser drawers. It was an alien world.
Moving swiftly, he donned his flannel shirt, thinking that he’d wasted the effort of washing himself. Once again he was enveloped in soot and stench.
When he returned to the kitchen, taking care not to peer off to the side at her living room—it was probably dripping with cute feminine things—he found her pouring two mugs of hot coffee. The microwave was humming, its digital display on a countdown. She, too, had scrubbed up a little, washing the ashen color from her face and neck, restoring her rosy color. But as she moved closer to hand him the coffee, he could smell the smoke on her, too.
“I’m afraid I killed your washcloth,” he said as he accepted the mug. The cream and sugar were already on the table, in blue willow containers. His mother had done that, too, he remembered with an unwelcome pang. She’d never been content to put the milk on the table in a store container.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said pleasantly. “It’s just a washcloth. Two-ninety-nine at the discount store. I’ve got bigger worries.” Then she laughed.
God, her laugh was incredible. Warm and throaty, seeming to rise from deep within her. Its touch was almost physical.
“Sorry,” she said. “I seem to be punchy from lack of sleep.”
A helpless smile came to his own mouth, like the harmonic response of a tuning fork. Irresistible. “Me, too. Tell you what. Nothing either of us says is to be taken into evidence.”
She laughed again. The microwave pinged, and she pulled out a clear plastic pouch containing bacon. “This stuff is actually pretty good.”
“I know. I depend on the microwave. Without it, I’d either starve to death or go broke from eating out all the time.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him, still smiling. “One of those, huh?”
“One of whats?”
“Testosterone-based life-form.”
He had an urge to laugh, but instead he played along. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know. Those poor unfortunate creatures who are incapable from birth of cooking or cleaning.”
“Ah. You mean I suffer what some folks call testosterone poisoning.”
She shrugged, still looking impish. “Same thing, I guess.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll have you know my house is pretty clean.”
“No underwear on the bathroom floor? No giant dust bunnies under the bed?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure what’s under the bed….” He trailed off and enjoyed watching her laugh again. Damn, it had been so long since he’d shared anything approaching humor. Who cared if they were punchy from lack of sleep? It felt good.
Using only the microwave and coffeepot, she put quite a meal in front of him: bacon, sausage biscuits, orange juice and coffee, and plenty of it. And once he started eating, he realized he was famished.
She spoke as he bit into his second biscuit. “It must have been hard work, building the firebreak.”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been quite so hard if I hadn’t been spending too much time on my can in a patrol car recently.”
One of those enticing smiles flickered across her face. “I could say the same. It’s funny, when I moved up here I had all these ideas about cross-country skiing, hiking in the summertime. Instead I always seem to be too busy.”
“That’s life. There’s always something that needs doing.” But then he remembered Beth. “My late wife had a different philosophy.”
“What was that?”
“That the responsibilities won’t go away if you ignore them for a few days. They’ll always be there. In fact, she used to say that if you let them, responsibilities will expand to take all your time.”
“How did that work out?”
“Not too bad, usually. Yeah, the bills had to be paid on time whether you felt like it or not, but other things… Well, she used to get up on her day off, and the house would be a mess because we’d been too busy, and the yard would need mowing, or whatever, and she’d say, ‘Let’s go fishing, Sam. It’s a beautiful day.’” He almost smiled, remembering.
“And I’d say, ‘But, Beth, I’m supposed to work on the yard,’ or whatever