Jennifer Greene: Yours, Mine & Ours

He couldn’t leave his son, of course. He never left his son alone. Teddy had occasional nightmares, besides. Still…how long could a quick check take?

He didn’t even bother with shoes, just sprinted out the front door, already calling himself every flavor of dumb. She undoubtedly locked the house, so he wouldn’t be able to get in…but it was open, he discovered when he turned the knob on her front porch. Where was her head? A woman and little girl alone in the house after dark, and she hadn’t locked the door?

He considered knocking, but was afraid he’d rouse the prissy white dog into a fit of barking that would waken her daughter. He just called quietly, “Hey…it’s me from next door. Mike. I was in my living room, thought I saw you fall from upstairs. I’m not trying to be nosy. I’ll go right back home. I just wanted to make sure-”

Abruptly he quit with the bumbling greeting. Even from her living-room foyer, he heard a groan coming from the second story.

He vaulted upstairs, had no problem identifying which room she was in, because night-lights reflected in the bathroom and kid’s room. It was the room with the ceiling light shining in the hallway where the redhead had to be.

He pelted in, took in the mess at a glance-the wobbly ladder on its side. The newspapers spread over the painting area, with the usual gambit of brushes and rollers and blue tape and supplies. It wasn’t hard to tell what color she was painting the room, because there was now baby-blue all over her, the floor, the walls and everything else.

He didn’t give a damn about the spilled paint. She was lying in the middle of it. He knelt down, fast, and saw with relief that her eyes were open-even if they did look dazed.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t move if I tried.”

“At least you’re talking. And I don’t see any blood.” He just saw a whole lot of baby blue. In her hair. On her chin. On her halter top. On her tummy. On her shorts. On the floor, too, but the gleam of baby blue on the floor wasn’t interesting. “Where does it hurt the worst?”

“How am I going to get this out of my hair?”

“How about if we worry if you need an ambulance before we let vanity into the picture?”

“It’s not vanity that’s killing me. It’s pride. I just bought that stupid ladder!”

He’d already noticed the pip-squeak-quality ladder. “You bought a girl ladder. Instead of a sturdy, practical one.”

“I couldn’t carry the sturdy ones! They were too heavy! Besides, it wasn’t the ladder that caused the fall. At least, not exactly. My mom called. If you knew my parents, you’d understand why I fell.”

It was pretty obvious that the fall had unleashed her ditsy side, because she started babbling nonstop. While she ranted on, he looked her over more seriously. Obviously her head and spine would be the most serious worries, after a crash like that, but she could also have broken or sprained something. He started by examining her feet-which were bare except for the neon-painted toenails.

“My parents are wonderful. Both of them. It’s just that they raised me to be spoiled. To believe that I deserved everything, from Prince Charming to a perfect life. You have no idea how useless I am.”

“Uh-huh.” The calves were perfect. No fat. Just those perfect curves, leading to delectably soft thighs.

“My mom-her name is Gretchen-she wanted to hire painters for me. And a decorator for the house. And to pay for a summer program for precocious four-year-olds.”

He figured, since she was conscious if not exactly lucid, that he’d better keep his hands off her belly and breasts. Technically he supposed he should check things like ribs and all. But since he was already mightily turned on-against his will-he knew perfectly well that the wrong kind of touching was on his mind. He’d lost all interest in checking for injuries.

Still, he tried to get his attention back on track. Her neck was fair game. Shoulders. Hands. Wrists. And she’d stopped talking-for the few seconds it took to carefully and touch and probe those areas-he followed through with a question. “So what did you tell your mother when she wanted to do all those things for you?”

“I told her- and my dad-that Molly and I moved closer specifically so they had a chance to be more active grandparents. I know they wanted more time with Molly. And I wanted that, too, for it to be easier for them to be a regular part of her life. But I also told them I didn’t want anything else.”

“And this was a problem somehow?”

“Hey.” Apparently she forgot the conversational track. Her fingers suddenly banded his wrist, and her gaze met his, clear as daylight. “Quit right there. No touching below the neck. For Pete’s sake, we haven’t even been introduced.”

“I’m Mike Conroy.”

“I’m Amanda Scott.” There was humor in her eyes now. He had introduced himself quickly. “I can get up. I’m pretty sure.”

“Let’s do it slowly.”

“You know, I would really like to stop meeting like this. We could try it all over again. You know. Behave like real neighbors. Knock on the door. Show up with cookies or a beer or a bottle of wine. Say hi, welcome to the neighborhood. I mean, we could try meeting without a disaster. Oh, no, no, Darling!”

Startled, Mike couldn’t fathom where the endearment came from-but then he realized the half-breed white dog had shown up, clearly realizing something was wrong with her mistress. She was aiming straight for the puddle of paint on the floor.

“Got it,” Mike said, and lurched for the dog. The poodle or poodle mix-whatever the devil she was-didn’t object to being hauled up in the air. She seemed to expect being carried. He suspected going home would entail Slugger giving him hell-and howls-if he showed up smelling like girl-poodle, but there was no help for it.

“Could you put her in Molly’s room, and then just close the door without latching it? She loves sleeping with Molly.”

“Got it. Only, you don’t try standing up until I get back.”

A night-light was the only illumination in the girl’s room, but Mike could readily make out that it was a girl’s version of what he’d done for Teddy. Amanda, though, had gone even more overboard. Shelves were jammed with stuffed animals. A bitsy dressing table had a matching bitsy chair. The kid was swallowed somewhere in a canopy bed, and it was hard to find a path to walk between the flounces and little chairs and dolls. Lots of dolls. Dolls in cradles, dolls in various states of undress, dolls on shelves, dolls on the floor, dolls without heads.

Finally he located the little doll-the real one-on the pillows under the canopy deal. The rosebud mouth was emitting a few teensy snores. The red hair curled all over the pillow. She’d kicked off half the covers. Mike set the poodle down, who promptly circled and settled at the foot of the bed, then tugged up the covers. He discovered a clearly sacred blankie had fallen on the carpet, and retrieved it. He knew about sacred blankies. Anyway. The kid was fine. The dog was fine.

But on returning to the empty room next door, he discovered that Amanda wasn’t remotely fine.

She’d made it to a sitting position. Was sitting with her knees up, one hand on her forehead, making choking sounds as if she were holding back tears…only, tears were flooding her eyes in thick clear drips, turning her pearl-cream skin blotchy, turning… Aw, hell, she wasn’t just a mess. She was a complete mess.

“Something hurts that bad?” He crouched down.

“Go away. Thank you for helping. But go away. I’m fine.”

Yeah, he knew that female twist. No matter what he did now, he’d be in trouble. She wasn’t fine. But she didn’t want him here-and he sure as hell didn’t want to be here. But he sure as hell couldn’t leave a woman crying her eyes out.