Chapter Thirteen #2
She walked toward the screen door and watched him unload his truck.
He strode back and forth from the cabin next door with armfuls of bedding and supplies.
He was wearing faded blue jeans, a green T-shirt with a fishing logo, and the well-worn cowboy hat.
She thought about his gunshot wound and the way he evaded personal questions.
Something niggled at the edge of her mind, like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.
On his third trip from the cabin, he reached across the bed of the truck and stopped short.
He winced, rotating his left shoulder in a futile attempt at relief.
The repetitive, grating action would only cause him more discomfort.
Vanessa wasn’t aware she was moving until she heard the screen door slap against the doorframe behind her.
When he noticed her presence, he let his arm drop to his side and leaned his forearms against his truck in a casual gesture that didn’t fool her. His hat disguised the glint of his ash-brown hair and dimmed the signature blue of his eyes.
“I know you’re in pain,” she said. “I can show you an exercise that will help you increase your range of motion and reduce soreness.”
His jaw tightened as he considered her offer. Instead of accepting, he continued unpacking. She followed him into Cabin 7. He’d stacked his purchases against the far wall, on a dusty section of tile floor.
She glanced around the dark, cavernous space.
He’d removed the carpet and cleared out the debris, so the place looked even more bare bones than before.
There was nothing in the kitchen or living room.
No light fixtures, no cabinets, no appliances, no furniture.
She felt a stab of guilt for usurping him.
He tugged off his hat and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. His T-shirt was damp, his body fragrant in the warm, still air. He smelled like those sheets—clean, male, elemental. Another shiver of longing arced through her.
She swallowed hard, unsure of herself. He seemed to be waiting for her to demonstrate. She returned to the front porch, where she could see Emily napping through the screen door. Paul tossed his hat aside and joined her.
“It’s like this,” she said, lifting her arm in a practiced motion.
He tried it, and his breath hitched as he reached the sore spot.
She stepped forward to place a hand on his elbow.
She helped him complete the exercise ten times.
He must have felt some relief from the action, because he didn’t argue when she walked him through a series of similar movements.
They stood close together, with her guiding him.
The only sound was her murmured instructions, and their mingled breaths.
She moved to stand behind him with her hand on his shoulder. Her breasts brushed the back of his arm. It was incidental contact, but she adjusted her position to give herself space. Even so, he pulled away, cutting the session short.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly. “It feels better.”
“Sure.”
His boots made a scuffing sound on the porch. “I was wrong about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we first met, I thought you were reckless about safety. You stayed in your car out of pure stubbornness instead of going to the campground. You fell asleep on the dock while Emily was playing.”
“I didn’t fall asleep.”
“I realize that now,” he said. “And I know you were keeping an eye on Emily yesterday. After I thought about it, I remembered you glancing over to check on her. You’d been watching her the whole time. You’re always aware of her.”
Vanessa appreciated his acknowledgment. As a mother, she was never off duty.
“I’m the one who got carried away and forgot she was there.”
“I got carried away, too.”
He studied her face in silence.
“I shouldn’t have accused you of flying off the handle,” she said, owning up to her part in the argument.
“I’m sensitive to criticism of my parenting, maybe because I’ve been doing it on my own for so long.
It’s not easy, and I’m far from perfect, but I don’t want to be judged by anyone who hasn’t walked a mile in my shoes. ”
“That’s fair,” he said simply.
“Truce?”
“Truce,” he agreed.
While she lingered on the porch, surprised by their solemn exchange, he returned to his truck and grabbed a square package. He thrust it toward her. “I forgot to change the sheets,” he said in a gruff voice.
“They smell like you. Like soap and eucalyptus.”
His brows rose at her comment. She flushed, aware that she’d just admitting to sniffing the bedding. She hoped he couldn’t sense her desire to strip naked and rub herself against those sheets in an attempt to feel close to him.
“Hang on a sec,” she said. She went inside, noting that Emily was still asleep. She set the sheets down on the couch and retrieved his stack of clothes. She took them out to him. “Here. They’re clean.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She gave an awkward shrug. “You can use the washing machine anytime you want. We might as well share.”
His gaze darkened as if she’d offered to share the bed.
She cleared her throat and moved on. “There’s food in the fridge.”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I cook it?”
“Be my guest.”
The invitation tumbled out, unbidden. “Will you join us for dinner?”
Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is your brother coming?”
“Why? You don’t like him?”
“He’s okay.”
She smiled at his begrudging tone. “It can be just me and Emily, if you prefer.”
“Fine,” he said, and seemed annoyed about something. “What time?”
“Seven.”
He nodded and walked away without another word.
She watched, bemused, as he took the path through the trees toward the dock.
A few minutes later, she heard the puttering sound of the boat engine.
He wasn’t an easy man to read. Maybe she shouldn’t have issued the invite, but what else could she do?
He’d apologized. They’d reached an understanding.
She was cooking the food he’d purchased, in a cabin she’d yanked out from underneath him.
She grumbled under her breath as she went inside. After this dinner, they were square. He could be a grumpy recluse for the rest of the summer with zero interference from her. She didn’t need to beg for his company—or anything else.
Emily roused from her nap in front of the TV and demanded lemonade.
Vanessa gave her a glass of orange juice instead.
Then she asked to go swimming, so they donned suits and spent an hour at the lake.
Emily had noticed other children using floating devices, rubber tubes and animal shapes.
Vanessa promised to buy her one tomorrow.
They returned to the cabin to bathe. Vanessa took the time to shave her legs and moisturize her skin.
She wasn’t primping for Paul, of course. She just wanted to pamper herself after several days of roughing it at the campground. She donned a pair of jean shorts and a sleeveless shirt with a sunflower on the front.
Let summer officially begin!
She started making chicken fajitas because all of the ingredients were there.
Paul didn’t have any salsa, but that was okay.
She could ask Jackson to bring some tomorrow.
She used a cast-iron skillet to give the meat and vegetables a nice sear.
While that was simmering, she heated up a half-dozen flour tortillas.
Paul arrived a few minutes before seven. Emily let him in, chattering about Penelope and the lemon pirates. They gathered around the kitchen table. Vanessa transferred the skillet to the table, along with the tortillas.
“That’s hot,” she said to Emily. “Don’t touch it.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“What do you want to drink?” Vanessa asked Paul.
“Water is fine.”
She filled three cups with ice water and sat down between Paul and Emily.
She scooped chicken into a tortilla for Emily, who demanded a fajita with “no veggies.” Then she served herself, and let Paul do the same.
They proceeded with the meal in a stilted fashion that reminded her of the lunch with her father.
The food was good; the conversation wasn’t.
Vanessa didn’t care. She was too hungry to act dainty. She ate two fajitas in rapid succession. Paul followed suit. When she offered him the last tortilla, he took it. He made a third fajita and finished it with obvious relish.
“That was delicious,” Paul said.
“Thanks.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“My dad taught me,” she said, sipping water. “It used to be our thing. We cooked together a lot when I was a kid.”
“We went to Grandpa’s house today,” Emily announced. “Mommy said a bad word.”
Vanessa gave Emily a warning look. “Mommy’s going to say another bad word if you don’t eat your dinner.”
“I don’t like it,” Emily said. “Can I have a quesadilla?”
Vanessa rose from the table with a sigh. She was used to Emily asking for meal alternatives. While she heated another tortilla, Paul leaned back in his chair and watched her. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him.
“I thought you weren’t speaking to your father,” he said.
“I wasn’t.”
“And now?”
Vanessa shrugged, and flipped the quesadilla over. When it was finished, she slid the quesadilla onto a plate and brought it to the table. Emily moved on to chat about her plans for the lemonade stand.
“How much will you charge?” Paul asked.
Emily took a bite of quesadilla, considering. “What does lemonade cost, Mommy?”
“Depends on where you buy it.”
“Can we make it free?”
“How about fifty cents?”
“Fifty cents,” Emily repeated. “Mommy says we need a sign.”
“I have plywood,” Paul said. “You could paint it.”