Arlene James - An Old-Fashioned Love

“Crummier than hiding to avoid doing what you’re supposed to?”

He made no answer to that, just challenged her with a belligerent glare. The other one had the grace to look vaguely ashamed.

“Look,” she said, laying it on the line, “I didn’t ask you two to vandalize my place. I didn’t even ask for your help in putting it to rights. You got here all on your own, but now that you are here, it’s up to me to teach you a very valuable lesson. So get with it. I want this whole place cleaned up by the time your father gets back here. No more fooling around. Understand?”

One of them nodded. Max, she assumed.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” she warned, turning away. She could hear them softly arguing as she went inside, but a quick check moments later told her that they were at least making an effort to appear to be working. She went back to her own work with a smile. Firmness and honesty. Chalk up another one for the Reverend Bolton Charles, not that it was going to be easy by any means. She wouldn’t fool herself about that. She expected to be tested and tried at every turn, but it was a small price to pay for getting the shop open at last, and if she could help those two scamps in the process…Well, she couldn’t ask for much more. Now if only she didn’t have the disturbing Wyatt Gilley to thank for it. But, no, she wouldn’t think of him. She simply wouldn’t.

“Miss Temple?”

With carefully concealed exasperation, Traci removed her head from the interior of the display case motor compartment. The ominous clanking continued. Nothing she had done had made the least difference, and now she was covered in grease. Most frustrating, however, was the knowledge that the whole exercise in failure might have been accomplished in mere minutes if not for the many interruptions caused by those two Gilley scamps, and the worst of it was that they seemed to be actually trying to help today. She sighed and pushed a wayward strand of hair out of her face with the back of her forearm, her fingers too grimy to be of any use. Whether they were trying to help or not, the result was the same. They were singularly successful distractions apart. Together they were nothing short of disaster. She sat back on her heels, her toes and knees taking her weight, and resisted the urge to straighten the sleeveless, scooped-neck, pale pink T-shirt she wore atop her faded, old jean cutoffs.

“What is it, Max?”

“This!” shrieked Rex, popping up over the glass hood of the display case.

Squirts of water hit her squarely in the eye and splattered over her face. She gasped and sputtered while more water drenched her blouse and shorts, and the twins giggled delightedly. Anger flashed through her. She made a grab for the water guns, got a hand on Max’s and took a squirt in the palm from the other, while Rex beat a fast retreat.

“Blast you, Rex Gilley!”

“Only if you catch mel” came the taunt.

All right, if that was the way he wanted it. A tug delivered Max’s gun into her possession. Quick as a flash, she was up and around him, sprinting after his brother. Rex’s laughter trailed after him as he tore out the door, along the front deck, up the steps and across the big deck at the side of the store. Traci was closing on him by the time he reached the edge of the big deck. He leaped to the ground, and she followed, landing practically on top of him, so that their legs tangled and they went down. Before he could struggle up again, she grabbed the wrist of the hand that held his gun, pointed her own and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession, splashing his freckled face with streams of water. He twisted and writhed, trying to push her off with his free hand.

“Stop! Stop it! Stop!”

“Ho! Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, Rex?”

“Cut it out!”

“Not til you apologize!” She kept on squeezing. He opened his mouth, but whether in protest or apology, she couldn’t know, for the instant he opened it, water poured in, and the words he would have spoken came out as comical gurgles. Traci started to laugh. Rex spluttered and joined her, bubbles dribbling over his chin. That, too, was a comical sight, and Traci laughed all the harder, releasing him. When Rex pointed his own gun at his chin and washed away the bubbles by shooting water at himself, she laughed so hard, she collapsed. Then he turned the gun on her again, and the battle was joined once more, but this time it was all in fun.

They were both out of water, scrambling together on the grass, and laughing helplessly when Traci spotted a familiar pair of leather athletic shoes very near her face. Wyatt. Laughter died to be replaced by breathless pants and little moans as the combatants disentangled and sat up. They were wet, rumpled and covered in grass stains and dirt. Traci looked at Rex and groaned inwardly. If she was as disheveled as he was, she must look a sight, indeed. Adding to her discomfort, Wyatt Gilley went down on his haunches and reached a hand toward her. She flinched involuntarily, her heart beating a heavy, rapid rhythm in her chest. She felt a gentle tug, and her sagging hair tumbled about her face. Simultaneously his hand came away with the soft, fat, elastic band that had held her hair in a loose ponytail. He offered it to her, and she plucked it from his fingers.

“Thank you.”

His mouth quirked up in a grin. “You’re welcome.” For a long moment he just squatted there and stared at her, his forearms resting upon his knees and his grin growing wider by increments while her face slowly heated to a red glow. “Work must be going well,” he said at last, “if this is how you’re spending your time.”

The remark reminded her of her earlier pique, and she frowned. “Work is not going well,” she snapped, “because this is how I’m forced to spend my time.”

“Ah.” That was it. Just “Ah.”

For some reason she was all the more irritated. She pulled her knees up in preparation of standing, then found his hand beneath her elbow. Realizing it would be churlish to pull away, she allowed him to help her up, but when he began to dust off her backside, she danced away. Smoothly, as if he had not even noticed her escape, he turned his attentions to Rex.

“I can guess who forced whose hand,” Wyatt said, dusting off his son with firm, even strokes. “Rex is the mastermind of my matched pair. His day is just one long prank, or so his teachers tell me.”

“If he gets into as much mischief at school as he does here, I imagine you speak to his teachers a lot,” Traci said smartly.

Wyatt laughed. “Quite a lot.” Looking down, he pulled Rex’s water gun from his hand, smoothed the boy’s flaming red hair and planted his palm between protruding shoulder blades, pushing firmly. “I’m sure you and your brother are supposed to be doing something useful. I suggest you get to it.”

“Aw, Dad,” the boy whined, “it’s time to go!”

“We’ll go when you’re finished and not before.”

“But we haven’t even started!”

“All the more reason to get busy.”

“Blast!” The boy put on a mulish face at his father’s raised eyebrow, and defended his language. “She says it all the time!”

“Does she now?” said Wyatt, giving the boy another firm push. Reluctantly Rex moved off, and Wyatt Gilley turned his attention to Traci, who was staring at the grimy fingers with which she’d almost combed her hair. He grinned. “Do you say Blast!’ all the time?” he asked.

Traci grimaced. “I guess I do,” she admitted, and Wyatt Gilley’s grin widened.

“Well, it’s quite an improvement over what usually comes out of that kid’s mouth. I wonder what other improvements you’ve managed.”