Ruth Logan - Loving the Lawman

Orchestral strains broke into his train of thought, deep strings with a slow, haunting percussive backbeat. He could bang his head against the wall right now, or man up and pretend he didn’t notice, but when some guy began belting out all the angst of the world in some foreign language, he reached for the earplugs he’d brought along and almost hugged the packaging. Some guys used earplugs for the most minute sawing jobs. Not Seth, but Gianna and Carmen didn’t know that.

Let them think he was protecting fragile eardrums. And he was, in a way. Because his eardrums would be okay if he never listened to opera again.

* * *

She’d redone the side seam twice, a ridiculous novice mistake because it was a simple seam, straight and thin.

Easy when there isn’t a wonderful man working ten yards away, wearing well-washed Wranglers and a perfectly fitted dark knit turtleneck.

He was humming something, too, something that didn’t meld with Pavarotti’s majestic tenor, and as Gianna plied her seam ripper for the second time, inspiration hit.

Seth was wearing earplugs. For the drill’s noise?

Or the opera?

Chagrined, she realized that just because she was a huge fan of the singing stage, a guy like Seth might want to tear his hair out rather than hear the deep operatic tones and strings repeatedly. She moved to the apartment, spotted her grandmother catching a midday catnap in the living room overlooking the snow-swept frozen water and turned off the music feed to the shop. When she came back through the curtained door, the only noise was his slightly off-key rendition of “Fields of Gold.”

Seth liked Sting.

So did she.

She retook her seat in the well-lit sewing corner and hummed along with him. The new quiet bathed her in peace, the melding of her voice with his soft and unassuming. The duet was broken from time to time as he mounted the bars high enough to avoid street-length dresses grazing the floor. Just before he turned on the drill to set bracket holes in the next section, he turned, frowned, then smiled.

Oh, that smile.

Her heart melted. Her fingers stuttered and the business end of a pin bit the tip of her thumb. She jumped back, not wanting to taint the gauzy fabric with a prick of blood, and Seth moved to her side instantly. Concern erased the smile, and he grabbed for her hand. “Are you hurt?”

“No, just silly.”

He looked puzzled momentarily, then awareness dawned. He snatched the earplugs from his ears and pocketed them. He examined her hand, seemed to decide she’d most likely live and dropped it back into her lap. “Sorry. You just looked scared there for a minute.”

“Only because blood won’t wash out of dry-clean-only fabric,” she told him. She pressed a small pad of white cotton to the tip of her finger and nodded toward the far wall. “The brackets look good. I love that stressed bronze color.”

“It fit.”

“Yes.”

He started to turn back to his work, then swung around again. “You turned off the music. You can listen if you want. This is your place now.”

Add considerate and self-sacrificial to the list of attributes she liked about this man. She shrugged, checked her finger, then reapplied the pad to make sure she’d stanched the tiny cut. “Compromise is a good thing when people work together. You’re not an opera fan, I take it.”

His face said more than his reply. “No.”

She laughed. “Well, did you know that Pavarotti and Sting have sung together?”

“I’m not sure I believe it, but I’ll ask—when?”

“On Pavarotti & Friends,” she explained. “The producers arranged for all kinds of musicians to perform with him. Rockers. Jazz. Classical. My father was highly insulted, but I loved it.” She sent him a pointed look and added, “Pavarotti and Sting sang ‘Panis angelicus.’”

“I love that hymn,” Seth admitted. “It’s majestic.” He drew up a chair, pretended to check a nonexistent watch and said, “Break time. Is it a rule that if you’re Italian you must love opera?”

“It should be,” she teased. “I love the rise and fall of voices, and I don’t care if it’s opera, a barbershop quartet or a strong choir. The synchronized timing of music and voice calls to me.” Memories swept her. Made her smile. Broadway. The Met. Concerts in Central Park. “I worked in New York after college, and I had the opportunity to see all kinds of things, a multitude of cultures. An amazing experience.”

“Will you go back?”

The question hung between them, suspended in midair, as if her answer meant a great deal, as if their casual conversation could lead to something stronger. More permanent. But that was silly. “Just to visit,” she told him. “My home is here now.”

He smiled again, but it wasn’t the amused smile of moments ago when he’d realized she’d switched the music off. This smile held the warmth of hope and the promise of spring. “Well.” He stood, brushed his hands against the sides of his thighs and squared his shoulders. “The finger’s okay?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Then I’ll get back to work.”

“Me, too.”

Everyday words, simple and sweet. But as she watched him cross the room, his gait relaxed, she knew she hadn’t shared easy conversation with an attractive man in a long time.

She’d dated occasionally after losing Michael. And she’d had fun from time to time, but she’d worked to have fun, putting forth concerted effort so her dates wouldn’t think she was a total waste of time.

Enjoying moments with Seth required no work. That slow, comforting gaze. The big, blue eyes. The firm chin with the tiniest cleft when he smiled.

He didn’t need her to impress him. She liked that. Too much, most likely, but since there was nothing to come of it, she’d enjoy the opportunity to have a new friend, as long as that was all it was.

* * *

Old-world beauty.

The phrase struck Seth when he pictured her, tucked in the corner behind him, the whir of the pricey sewing machine a soft hum beneath her hands. A cloud of delicate fabric covered her lap, and she’d clipped her hair back, away from her face. The combination of the curls and the puffs of gray fabric were a Renaissance painting come to life.

He kept his eyes on the wall and the drill, his gaze focused on the sturdy brackets needed to brace the movement and weight of hanging garments.

But his thoughts? Those were ten yards back, on the pretty girl sitting at the pale blue machine, the motorized pause and go of intricate work keeping her in his mind.

The scent of something amazingly delicious captured his attention midday, about the same time as a knock came at the street-side door. Gianna started to stand, but Seth waved her back down. “I’ll get it. You keep working.”

He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed him, but when he opened the door, his mother stood on the snow-crusted sidewalk. “Mom.”

“Hello.” She breezed in, flashed him a smile, then held a basket high. “Gianna?”

“Yes.” Gianna stood, settled the fabric onto the chair and rounded the sewing table. “I’m Gianna Costanza.” She put out her hand in welcome. “You’re Seth’s mother.”

“Jenny Campbell.” Jenny handed off the basket and waved toward the kitchen in the apartment beyond. “I wanted to welcome you and your grandmother to town. I’d have been here sooner but one of our grandsons was sick and I took over with him the past few days so his parents could work.”

“Is he doing better?” Gianna asked, and it didn’t surprise Seth to see genuine concern in her eyes. “I hope so.”

“Much,” Jenny told her. “He had fifth disease, nothing major, but I wanted to keep him away from Piper if possible because she’s quietly expecting.”