Susan Kirby - Your Dream And Mine

The stars had dimmed, but the sun had yet to rise. Rainwashed grass was soggy underfoot. Thomasina’s sandals sucked and slapped her weary feet as she trekked over the lawn in her sleeveless blouse and matching white crinklepleated skirt.

The brush of her hem released the cloying fragrance of white clover as she opened the garden gate.

A tangle of baby’s breath and rambling roses spilled over her path to the low stone wall that skirted the graveled drive where the pole lamp burned the brightest. She lowered her face to a lush wet purple umbrella of clustered petals. Heliotrope. Could heaven smell any sweeter? Elohim. Creator God.

His cool breeze and trilling wrens stirred her weary spirit. Hidden crickets joined in, chirping from the foot-high stone wall enclosing the garden. Thomasina hummed beneath her breath as she picked flowers for Milt’s sweetheart bouquet. She was about to retrace her path to the house when a pickup truck rattled up the rutted lane.

Shading her eyes against the glare of headlights, she watched as the truck braked on the other side of the stone wall. The lights winked out. The door opened. Long legs reached for the ground. Her gaze climbed from a pair of work boots to the knees, past the yawning mud-splattered truck door to the bare-chested upper torso showing through the open window.

“’Morning,” he called, meeting her wary glance.

“Good morning.”

He leaned into the truck and reached for something behind the seat. When he returned to her line of vision, he had a shirt in hand. His keys jingled as he slipped his arms through the sleeves and snapped it closed. “Are you the only one up?”

He was lean, long-waisted and broad-shouldered. His hard-muscled frame shrouded in darkness sent her thoughts reeling across the years to a squalid kitchen of her earliest years. “The boys are in the barn, milking.”

He looked toward the barn and arched a brow. “In the dark?”

His dangerous edge melted with his smile. Responding, she relaxed her guard. “Who is it you’re looking for?”

“Will. You must be Tommy.”

“To Milt, I am,” she said.

“Trace Austin.” His eyes held hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

The hand that engulfed hers was nearly as scuffed as the fellow’s work boots. Palms callused, knuckles nicked. Thumbnail black and blue by the light of the overhead pole lamp where moths beat powdery wings against the glass. He turned up his cuffs and drew a hand over a well-shaped jaw as he looked toward the road.

“Will was supposed to meet me here, but I don’t see his car,” he said.

“You’re friends, I take it.”

“A work-intensive proposition, too.” He grinned. “Baled hay, walked beans and milked more cows with him than I care to count.”

“With the lights on, I bet,” said Thomasina.

“Cows don’t care, but it works better that way.” His mouth tipped in response to her thawing. “So are the folks up? Or am I going to wake them if I start on the smaller branches?”

“Branches?” she asked.

“I’m here to take down the oak tree.”

“The one that shades the front side of the house?”

He nodded. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“I’m surprised, is all. Milt and Mary hadn’t mentioned it.” Thomasina turned toward the house, then glanced back when he didn’t follow. “Are you coming?”

“It’s a little early. I think I’ll just wait here. Will should be along shortly.”

Thomasina nodded and watched him stride around to the back of the truck and let the tailgate down. He carried himself well, his gait smooth, his shoulders thrown back. He could use a haircut, though. And a shave. And he might want to think about keeping his shirts somewhere other than behind the truck seat. It had more wrinkles than poor old Milt.

Trace’s mouth twitched as he oiled his chain saw, and checked the rest of the gear. Milt had been so sick, he hadn’t guessed he had any fun left in him. He’d been wrong. Tommy this and Tommy that. Deliberately leading him to think he had a male nurse.

And there she was, about as female as they came. Round and firm in all the right places, swaying a little as she strolled toward the house. Nothing provocative, just graceful and natural, the breeze rippling her skirt and her long dark hair. A sweet scent trailed after her. In the barn, milking. He regretted calling her on it. She was right to be careful, for her own sake and Milt and Mary’s, too. It was isolated out this way, and though it was private property, the timber acreage and the creek running through the farm attracted hikers and campers and fishermen and canoers, most of whom were friends and neighbors. But not always.

Trace walked around to the cab of the truck, turned the key and checked the time. He had worked second shift with some overtime tacked on and wanted to get the tree down, go home, get a little shut-eye and make the most of his time before he had to head back in for his next shift.

He leaned against the truck door, shoulders bunched, and caught himself patting down his shirt pockets as he watched the road. He’d quit a month ago, but out of habit now and then reached for cigarettes that weren’t there.

Trace started giving Will the countdown. Sometime after lunch, a prospective renter was stopping by, and he wanted to get the porch painted. The renovation of old houses, squeezed in between shifts at the car plant kept him hopping. But it’d pay off one of these days.

Trace reached inside the truck, turned the key in the ignition and dialed in a country station. He yawned and fought the sandman, and toyed with the idea of starting without Will. But the tree was too close to the house to take any chances. He needed a ground man to guide the branches down. Should have told Will to call him when he was ready. Shoulda-coulda-woulda.

The aroma of perking coffee wafted from the house. It smelled good. Almost as good as Milt’s nurse and her armful of flowers.

Coffee perked on the stove as Thomasina let herself in. Hand towels with crocheted tops were buttoned to the knobs of floor-to-ceiling bead-board cupboards. The cow salt-and-pepper shakers matched the cookie jar on the red gingham-covered table. Dated and charming, the kitchen, like the rest of the house was as hospitable as Mary Chambers herself.

Thomasina dropped her flowers beside the white enamel sink. She found the milk-glass vase Milt had specified and was cutting the flower stems to size under running water when Mary came in. Her hair was braided and coiled on her head like a silver garland. Her eyes brightened at the sight of the flowers.

“Special delivery for you,” said Thomasina.

“Heliotrope! I could smell it from the living room!” Mary broke into a wrinkled smile. “Thank you, dear.”

“Thank the milkman.”

Mary laughed. “Once a dairy man, always a dairy man. The coffee’s almost ready. Will you have a cup with me?”

“It smells wonderful, but I better not,” said Thomasina. “I’ll be sweltering once I get home and off to bed. No point in adding caffeine to the mix.”

“Your air-conditioning still isn’t working?” Mary said, “Honey, you’ll have to be more assertive with your landlord if you hope to get any results.”

“I’m taking the pacifist route, and moving,” said Thomasina with a wry grin.

Mary looked up from running water into a copper-bottom sauce pan. “You’ve found something?”

“Maybe. It’s in Liberty Flats.”

“Really? Anyone I know?”

Thomasina wrinkled her nose and admitted, “I didn’t jot his name down, I was so busy asking questions.”

Mary reached for the oatmeal box. “I wonder if he’s married.” She pinched salt into the pan, adding quickly, “Married men make better landlords. They’ve learned how to fix things. On the other hand, if he isn’t married, who knows? He might like to be.”