Save The Date Part 22

Cara's bedroom was a large, high-ceilinged room, with wide coved crown molding at the ceiling, and high baseboard molding, all painted a yellowing white. The wallpaper was old and age-speckled, but the pattern of ivy and white roses against a pale aqua background made the room look like the inside of a garden.

The ceiling was painted a soft aqua, and there was a large Victorian bra.s.s gaslight that had been electrified, hanging from the middle of an ornate plaster medallion. The scarred heart-pine floors were bare, with the exception of some scattered braided rugs in muted colors. An elaborately carved and gingerbread-decked mantel on one wall held a small coal-burning fireplace.

Her bed, a white-painted four-poster, was unmade, its crocheted bedspread tossed aside, the pillows and sheets rumpled.

"You caught me," Cara said lightly. "I usually make my bed, but last night was so miserable, and it's so hot, I couldn't stand being up here one more second."

"I'm shocked," Jack said, with a laugh.

"Nice room," he said, looking around. "All original woodwork and plaster and wallpaper. Even the fireplace. I guess that's the upside of having a cheapskate landlord. They left everything alone. You'd be surprised how many downtown houses from this era I see that have been carved up or stripped of everything original."

"Oh, it's all original," Cara said ruefully. "Right down to the ancient plumbing, the leaky roof, and the c.r.a.ppy wiring."

He went over to the double set of windows facing the street, took the screwdriver she'd given him earlier, and ran it across the windowsill. Paint shavings fell onto the floor, but the window stayed shut.

He went around the room, examining the other windows, but they were all in the same condition, as Cara warned, painted shut with years and years' worth of layers.

"Okay," he said, turning to her. "I'm gonna run home, get my truck and some tools, and I'll be back in about half an hour."

"Really?" Her face lit up. "It's your day off, and I know you do this for a living and I hate to ask ... but if there's any way you can cool this place down-even a little-you would totally be my hero for life."

"No big thing," he said lightly, heading for the stairs.

"Just leave Shaz here with me and Poppy," Cara called. "They can stay out in the garden where it's a little cooler."

29.

Half an hour later, Jack eased his pickup truck into the lane behind Cara's town house. Back at home he'd taken a quick shower, and grinned at himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaved for the first time that weekend. Wouldn't hurt to not look like like a Yeti, he decided. He changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and work boots, then went outside to load what he needed.

He went around to the bed of the truck, grabbed his tool belt, and fastened it around his waist.

Cara met him at the gate from the courtyard, unlocking it so he could enter. She eyed the tool belt, then looked over his shoulder at the truck. "Ladders?"

"Yup. I'm thinking I'll probably need to unseal the windows from the outside as well as the inside. No telling what all they did to paint those windows shut."

"I had no idea this was going to be such a production," Cara fretted.

Like those of many homes and shops in the historic district, Bloom's front windows were covered with decorative and functional wrought-iron burglar bars. Jack attacked these with his cordless screwdriver. Cara helped him lift off the bars, and set them aside, along with the flower boxes she'd planted with ferns and Nikko Blue hydrangeas.

He pulled a lethal-looking tool from his belt. It had a spade-shaped head with wicked serrated edges, and he ran it along the edge where the windowsill met the bottom of the lower window sash.

"What the heck is that thing?" Cara asked.

He held it up for her to examine. "It's called a window zipper. We have to use them on almost every historic restoration we do downtown."

"Gotta get me one of those," she nodded.

He performed the same operation on the top of the window sash, then ran the tool along the sides of the sash.

"Now we move inside," Jack told her.

He used the zipper on the interior of the front window, and then, with an X-Acto knife, removed globs of old paint from the sash lock before he could finally flip it open. Then he examined the window jambs. "If we're lucky, these babies will still have the sash cords and sash weights."

He took a small pry bar and worked it cautiously under the edge of the jamb, popping off the molding and exposing the channel, where he pointed at the cotton sash cord. "Good news."

He pushed hard on the bottom sash, but it didn't budge.

"Uh-oh," Cara said glumly.

"I'm not done yet." Now he took a slender putty knife, inserted it between the windowsill and the bottom sash, and lightly tapped it with a hammer, working the knife from side to side along the sash. He did the same thing on the top of the sash.

This time, when he pushed, the window slowly slid open.

Cara threw her arms around Jack. "My hero!"

He grinned. "And it only took what? About forty-five minutes?" He poked his head out the open window. "I'll put the burglar bars back up-but you're definitely gonna need some window screens, or you'll get eaten alive in here. Do you happen to know if there are any still around?"

"I think I remember seeing some screens in the toolshed," Cara said, with a shudder.

"What?"

"The last time I opened the shed, I saw a rat. I haven't been out there since."

"Does that mean you want me to rummage around in the shed?"

"Yes, please," she said meekly.

Twenty minutes later, he was back, with an armload of wood-framed window screens. His shirt and pants were streaked with dirt, and a bit of cobweb hung from his hair. She silently picked it off.

"See any rats?"

"Mmm. Not the rats. But evidence that they've been there. You might want to put some poison out there. I also found more sets of burglar bars, probably for the second-story windows. I'm thinking I'll need to put those up if we can get those windows open."

"Absolutely."

After he'd worked his way around to the back of the house, unsealing the windows, Jack got out the extension ladder and clambered up to work on the second-story windows.

Declaring herself his a.s.sistant, Cara did what she could to help, rinsing off the window screens with the hose, wielding the window zipper on the inside windows, breaking the painted seals with the putty knife and hammer the way he'd shown her, fetching tools from his truck, and even ferrying the newly cleaned window screens up the ladder.

Overhead, the sun blazed down. It was hot, sweaty work. But by six that evening, Cara had enough open windows-with screens and burglar bars in place-to admit what little hot breeze existed.

After loading the ladder and the last of his tools into the truck, Jack came into the town house.

"Up here," Cara called down. He found her in the kitchen alcove. She handed him a cold long-neck bottle of beer before uncapping her own.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he said. "Thanks." They clinked bottles and he drank thirstily.

"Are you kidding? You just spent your whole day-your day off-doing what you get paid thousands of dollars to do."

"Wait'll you get my bill."

Her face fell.

"Kidding. Really. I was happy to be able to help out. I just wish I could have resuscitated your air conditioner. Getting the windows open is only a temporary fix, you know. You're gonna have to make your landlady install a new air unit."

"I'm calling Sylvia first thing in the morning, and I'm going to keep on calling, and I'll send her a registered letter, like you suggested. But in the meantime, I am so, so grateful to you, Jack. Let me at least take you out to dinner, as partial payment. Okay?"

He gestured down at his grimy clothes. "Like this?"

"Okay. I'll cook here. What do you like?"

She opened the refrigerator, and stood in front of the door, letting the cold air wash over her. "Ahh."

Jack leaned against the doorjamb, appreciating the view.

"I like you," he said.

And he did. Her topknot had mostly come undone, and loose strands of her b.u.t.terscotch hair fell over one eye and around her exposed collarbone. Her face was pink and sunburned, and her chest, arms, and legs were dirt-smudged. She was barefoot, and he noticed that her toenails were painted sort of a coral color. Her cotton sundress was thin and faded, and in the dim light of the kitchen he could see her body clearly silhouetted through the light from the refrigerator.

She had worked as hard as he had today, without complaint, eager to learn the skills he took for granted. Now she was as grimy as he, but she was totally unself-conscious and unapologetic about her appearance.

"Me?"

He put his hands around her waist and drew her to him. "You," he said, and kissed her deeply.

She kissed him back, without hesitation. They stood there like that, with the cool refrigerated air washing over them. His lips traveled to her earlobes, and then to the nape of her neck and her collarbone. Her skin tasted warm and sweat-salty, but she still smelled faintly sweet, like floral shampoo.

"I could make us a salad," she whispered, as she worked her hands up the back of his shirt.

"Mmm. Salad's good."

Her dress had skinny little straps that tied in a bow. He took the end of one of the stringlike things between his teeth and pulled, and it easily came undone. He kissed the bare spot, nibbling it just a little.

She inhaled sharply, but there was no protest, so he kissed his way, slowly, across her collarbone, pausing at the hollow just below her chin, where he felt her pulse quicken. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, but her hands were busy on his back, ma.s.saging his shoulder blades, running down his back, then around, to his chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples. He detoured for a moment, burying his hands in her thick hair, and then he was kissing her again, their tongues darting in and out of each other's parted lips. Her hands roamed down to his hips, and then back to his chest again.

She was saying something, but he'd lost his concentration. "Hmm?"

"I said, what kind of dressing?"

But before he could answer, not that he had an answer, she'd gathered the hem of his T-shirt in her fists, and abruptly jerked it upward. Helpfully, he crossed his arms over his head, and allowed her to pull it all the way off.

She took a half step backward, and a.s.sessed him lazily, through lowered eyelashes. Jack felt the blast of cold air on his bare chest. Caught her chin in his hand. "Did you say dressing, or undressing?"

Cara had drunk exactly one-half of a beer. So why did she feel so dizzy, intoxicated, and totally unlike herself?

It was all Jack Finnerty's fault. She was not the kind of woman who noticed men's bodies, ogled the way their jeans fit, obsessed about their muscled physiques, or fantasized about their romantic prowess.

So why had that been not far from her mind? All. d.a.m.n. Day. Why had she paused at the foot of that ladder, gazing up at his b.u.t.t with an unexpected heat that seemed centered somewhere south of decent? Why had she obsessed about that thin-cotton T-shirt, sweat-soaked, clinging to his chest and his belly, wishing he'd just rip it off? And when the weight of his tool belt dragged his jeans down, and she'd glimpsed his navel and a downward-pointing arrow of dark hair, why had she been forced to go inside and slap cold water on her neck and face? Why?

Maybe it was inevitable that they would end up like this. After all, the second time she locked eyes with Jack, he'd dropped his trousers in front of her with absolutely no hesitation.

Jack kissed her again, and worked his knee between her legs.

"I could grill us a steak," she whispered.

Dinner was the last thing on Jack's mind. "Hmm?" His lips were working their way toward her left shoulder. He took the other thin strip of fabric between his teeth, pulled, and performed the same cheap trick as before. The strap fell away, and he nuzzled her bare, salty shoulder. Like a pretzel. Only way better. With his thumbs, he leisurely worked the dress downward, until he found her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and her nipples, lowering his head to kiss them each, in turn.

Another brief gasp.

For a moment, he debated about the proper way to do this. The top of her dress had some kind of elastic. Should he pull it over her head, as she'd done with his shirt, or downward? Such a delicious dilemma.

"Steak." She'd plunged her own hands into the waist of his jeans, her fingertips easing lower, digging into the flesh of his backside, at the same time, pressing her torso against his. He was already hard.

He nudged her backward, until she was pressed against the refrigerator shelves.

"I like steak."

Down was the way to go, Jack decided. While his lips concentrated on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he skimmed his hands over her hips, pausing there. He found the hem of the dress, and in one easy movement, tugged it downward, past her hips and then her knees. From there, the dress fell to the floor, puddling around her bare ankles. Cara stood on her tiptoes, and with her right foot, delicately swept the discarded dress to one side.

The one remaining, infinitesimal rational part of her brain not subsumed with crazed l.u.s.t told Cara that this current situation was insane, indecent, and yet, weirdly intoxicating. She was naked, except for her panties, which weren't all that substantial, with her tushie pushed up against the cold metal shelves of her refrigerator. It was broad daylight outside. Her front door wasn't even locked. What was she thinking?

Right now, the contents of her fridge, not all that exciting-the past-expiration-date quart of milk, half-head of Romaine lettuce, containers of no-fat Greek yogurt and a.s.sorted Tupperware containers of leftover roast chicken, steamed broccoli and molding strawberries, not to mention the pickles, mustard and Paul Newman balsamic vinaigrette-were getting the show of their lives. What was she thinking?

She didn't care. And she definitely didn't want to think.

Cara smoothed her hands over Jack's flat belly, hooked her fingertips into the waistline of his jeans, pushed them down to his narrow hips, appreciating the hollow of his hipbones. She let the palm of her right hand drift leisurely down to his crotch, pausing there. Now it was his turn to gasp. She glanced down, and just the tiniest smile played across her lips as she saw his erection straining against the denim fabric. She grasped his waistband and nimbly unb.u.t.toned his jeans.

She stopped then, and ran her hands back up his chest, feeling the rough texture of hair, of muscle and bone. And something else. She opened her eyes, frowned. Tiny black flecks of some hardened substance dotted his chest. With her fingernail, she sc.r.a.ped off a fleck and held it up for him to see.

"Roofing tar."

"Oh."

"From the barn at Cabin Creek. So it's all your fault."

"We'll have to work on that," Cara said. She lowered her head, and with her tongue and teeth, gently teased his nipples as her hands slowly inched downward, down toward the waistband of his jeans. With her thumbnail, she raked the metal tines of his fly. Down. Up. Down again. She cupped him with the same hand. He moaned into her hair. "You're killin' me here."

She was naked, except for that languorous smile and a tiny pair of panties. Pink, with flowers. Naturally. He rolled them easily past her hips, her thighs and knees. And then gravity did the rest. She stepped daintily out of them and kicked them in the direction of the dress.

He kissed her and pulled away, finally able to feast on the sight of her-naked, just the way he'd imagined her since the first time he'd spotted her in that pink dress at his brother's wedding. Only much, much better.