Jennifer Greene: Can’t Say No

That was it. Something clicked in Bree. She’d put up with his insensitivity over her nightmare; she’d taken his insulting comments about her cuddling sleep habits; she’d tolerated his yawning over the speeding ticket that was entirely his fault. But there was no way she was going to sit still and hear that man malign Gram’s cabin. Slamming her purse on a dusty wood table, Bree unsnapped the top of her ballpoint pen and bent over to scribble furiously on a notepad.

Hart was leaving, whether he knew it or not. And if he ventured one more amused comment about her inability to talk, he would leave with the iron frying pan, preferably connected to his head.

“I love it,” a husky baritone announced.

Her writing hand wavered. Scowling, she glanced up. Hart had taken his jacket off and was holding it with two fingers over one shoulder. His other hand was in his pocket, absently jangling change. The white shirt clung to his chest and wide shoulders, and the suit pants seemed to have been purposely tailored to show off his flat rear end and muscular legs. Everything about him shouted sexual animal.

Rationally, she said to herself, So what? Irrationally, there was a very stupid pulse in her throat that went ping when Hart’s head suddenly whipped around and his lazy dark eyes settled in on hers.

“Everything in this place is a hundred years old or more, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded warily.

“It’s like going back in time. You’re a history buff?”

She nodded again. Hart wandered, one hand slipping from his pocket occasionally to finger an object in the room. “Fascinating.”

Gram had lived in the cabin until two years ago, when Bree’s parents had whisked her off to a South Bend apartment where she was close to medical facilities-and their watchful eyes. Her home, though, had always been here.

The cabin consisted of the main room, a loft and a lean-to in back. A trapper had built it some 150 years before, and without sophisticated tools had hand-chinked and notched the logs to make a snug fit. Gram had lathered whitewash on the inside walls-Bree had helped make that whitewash, stirring the hot lye mixture in a kettle outside for two days in a row.

In one corner stood a functional spinning wheel and carder; beyond it was an old oak chest with white porcelain pitcher and water basin. Behind Bree was the cooking corner-the scarred converted dry sink, the ancient wood stove that still cooked the most delicious stew this side of the Appalachians, the butter churn and vinegar barrel used to preserve eggs in the winter. A fat iron kettle still rested on the brick hearth, so heavy a woman could barely lift it, and Bree could well remember the hours when wax had melted in that kettle to make candles, even though the place was wired for electricity.

Gram used to say that people had lost the essence of life. That living wasn’t weekends, or punching in and out at nine and five and playing the politics of promotion. That people had forgotten about the natural order of things, the laughter that no one had to pay for, the peace that you couldn’t buy.

Certain things in the cabin were purely decorative; others were-or had once been-functional: the cradle that hung from the whitewashed rafters; butter molds shaped like pineapples; the hooked rug in blue and red and cream. Dried baby’s breath and thyme still swayed from the ceiling…

Covered in cobwebs. The whole place was wreathed in a half-inch layer of them. The early afternoon sunlight filtered through thick dust motes, nestled in spider webs, and sent mottled streams of yellow everywhere. Bree suddenly closed her eyes, aware of just how much work it was going to take to make the place livable again.

She was so weary she could barely move; for two cents she’d have walked out and flown back home…but then she thought of Gram. A shaft of guilt pierced Bree, familiar and painful, for failing Gram when she’d needed her. And because of all those memories of laughter and purpose and joy, Bree was going to find the energy to fix the place again. And to put her life back together, and to make herself talk…

“You don’t mind if I take a look upstairs, do you, honey?”

“Wait!” Bree’s lips soundlessly formed the words, but it was too late. Busybody was already ascending the narrow stairs to the loft.

Darn it, that was a private place. Some very foolish young-girl dreams were locked up there; Hart just plain didn’t belong, though it would probably sound silly to vocalize her objections, even if she could. It was just…the rope bed was in the loft, covered with a feather mattress so thick you sank into a cocoon when you lay down. Moonlight had a way of trickling over that bed when you first went to sleep, so bright you couldn’t sleep but only dream-and they were always good dreams. The softness and the silver promise of night were plain old-fashioned erotic. The aphrodisiac of dew-scented flowers always wafted in through the window; the linen always smelled as if it had been softened and dried in the sun-because it had been.

A few moments later, Hart paused halfway down the stairs to close the loft’s trapdoor again, then took three more steps down and perched on a step, studying her. Bree felt warmth rise in her cheeks for no reason at all…or maybe because she was thinking about feather beds. Hart’s lips curled in a perfectly wicked smile. “The place is yours?”

The lump in her throat felt thick and heavy. Yes, it was hers. Gram had left it to Bree in her will. Bree crumbled up the nasty note she had started to write, and simply penned out a plaintive, Please. Won’t you leave me alone?

In four swift strides. Hart was down the steps and standing in front of her. He chucked her chin with two curled fingers, and his eyes searched hers fiercely. “Whatever it is, Bree, it’s not that bad. Nothing’s that bad. Don’t you dare get that look in your eyes again.”

His fingers dropped, as quickly as if he’d never touched her. Startled, Bree let out her breath, but Hart already had his hands jammed loosely in his pockets and was casually looking around the room again. “Guess it’s time I got your groceries,” he said idly. “You want to make out a list, or shall I just buy the obvious basics? How long are you planning to stay here, anyway?”

After a moment, Bree’s lips formed a careful message: “Look, I don’t want anything. Please just-”

“Didn’t catch that. What did you say?” Hart waited. “You know,” he said mildly, “I’ve always believed that people will walk all over you if you don’t stand up and shout about what you want in life.”

He picked up his jacket from the kitchen table, where he had casually draped it earlier. “I’ll be back.”

He closed the door behind him, but that didn’t stop his arrogant words from ringing in her ears like a promise. Seething with helpless fury, Bree spotted a plate within arm’s reach in the open cupboard. Gram had always hated that set of dishes, had meant to seek out more authentic crockery that would suit the cabin as soon as enough of that set broke or cracked to justify the expense. Gram was practical. At the moment, Bree didn’t feel in the least practical; she felt out-of-control frustrated, and she soon sent one china plate hurtling toward the door, to shatter noisily in a thousand tiny pieces.

Shock replaced that instant silly feeling of satisfaction. For heaven’s sake, she’d never thrown anything in her life. Of all the childish…

The door popped open again. A lazy, devilish grin was mounted on Hart’s lips like a trophy. “Tsk, tsk. Who would have guessed you had such a temper?” He added gruffly, “You hold on to that temper until I get back, honey. Anger’s a strong medicine that most people never take advantage of.”