Susan Kirby - Your Dream And Mine

Hearing footsteps on the brick walk, he turned, an apology ready.

“The porch floor is wet If you can…” The rest of the explanation faded away, so unnerved was he at finding himself looking into the deep-set darkly fringed eyes of Milt’s nurse.

“Tommy Rose!” he blurted. “What are you doing here?”

The disheveled man Thomasina had met at Milt and Mary’s early that morning was no longer so disheveled. Just surprised. And discomfited at having blurted out Milt’s pet name for her.

Thomasina buried her own discomfort in a smile. “Hello again, Mr. Austin. I’m here to see the apartment.”

“It was you I talked to on the phone? I didn’t take down a name.”

Thomasina nodded.

“I’ll be.” Trace shifted his feet.

“Small world, huh?”

The house, with its fresh coat of white paint, white carpenter’s lace and green porch begged to be seen.

Thomasina smiled and moved out of the sun, asking. “How did you get along with your tree cutting?”

“It went about like the rest of my day.” Trace gestured toward the board spanning the porch. “The paint’s wet. The only way in is over that board. Or have you lost interest?”

“I was having second thoughts. But,” she admitted. “I’m here. I may as well look.”

When she phrased it that way, Trace wanted to tell her not to put herself out, that he’d have no trouble renting the place. With the city limits near by, Liberty Flats had become a bedroom community. It was a seller’s market, and renters were even easier to find than buyers. But he didn’t want her mistaking his words for pressure. He said instead, “I’ll get a wider board.”

“This’ll do.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why not? If Nadia can trip the light fantastic on a balance beam, I can inch across a two-by-four.” Thomasina tossed her purse into the back of his truck. She slipped out of her shoes and set them on the tailgate beside her purse.

“Nadia?”

“You know. The gymnast?”

“Oh, her. Sure!” Trace grinned and vaulted onto the tailgate to offer her a hand up. “You’re dating yourself, though. That was a few Olympics ago.”

“Twenty-seven and holding,” she said with a puckish grin. “The cat’s out of the bag, now. How about you?”

“Thirty-four,” he said, surprised she would ask.

“I’ll go first, make sure it’ll hold.” He strode across the two-by-four, then turned to see her tip her face and start after him with no sign of hesitancy.

“And she nails the landing!” Thomasina quipped as she stepped into the entryway beside him.

Trace answered her with a grin and ushered her inside.

The living room was long and a little narrow. But the high ceiling and a bay window gave it a spacious feel. Thomasina circled the room and stopped to visualize filmy sheer curtains at the windows. The walls were freshly painted a warm eggshell shade, a nice backdrop for her floral sofa with its splash of Victorian colors. “This is lovely.”

Pleased, Trace led her toward the kitchen where plush carpet gave way to recently installed linoleum. High, old-fashioned built-in cupboards lined one wall. There was a recessed nook for dining, with a table and benches built in. A stove and refrigerator were in place.

“Appliances included, as long as they hold out. They were here when I bought the house. Or do you have your own?”

“No.” Thomasina saw that the wooden countertop matched the table. “Maple, isn’t it?”

Trace nodded as her hands trailed over the countertop. They were sensible hands—nails clipped short, lightly tinted. Slender and smooth and graceful to the eye. “Cut on Will’s sawmill. The finish is supposed to protect the wood against water. We’ll see if it lives up to expectations.”

“I like it,” said Thomasina, impressed with the craftsmanship.

He gave a modest shrug. “Thought I’d try something different. The laundry room is through here, with a back entry off the porch.”

“My own laundry room?”

“Shared, actually,” he said, and unlocked a second door.

Thomasina realized that the laundry room with its washer, dryer and utility sink connected the two apartments at the rear of the house. Another door lead out to a screened-in porch. Her eye was drawn to the porch by bright-colored hanging plants that swayed in the breeze coming through the screened walls. A wicker love seat and an old-fashioned swing like the one on the front veranda just begged to be tried out. She pushed the door open.

“Careful,” Trace warned, and stretched an arm across the door, preventing her from stepping out on the porch. “The paint’s still wet.”

“Here, too?”

“I didn’t read the drying time until after the fact.” He turned back the way they had come. “The stairs are off the kitchen.”

Thomasina lingered a moment in the open door. She looked past the porch to freshly mown grass and ancient oak trees. “It’s a huge yard.”

“It looks even bigger when you’re mowing it, and the acorns are a real pain when they fall.” Trace flung words over his shoulder. “I’ll provide the mower, plus knock some off the rent if you want to mow the grass yourself.”

“Fair enough. Does your other tenant mow?” she asked.

“I live in the other half.”

For the second time that day, Thomasina’s gaze strayed to his ringless left hand. “With your family?”

“Just me,” he said, and turned away again.

Thomasina tracked with her glance a droplet of water dripping from a springy brown curl. It disappeared over the curve of his ear. It was a well-shaped ear, a little pink on the ridge where the skin had burned and peeled.

“Utilities are included in the rent.”

Thomasina followed as he moved toward the enclosed staircase leading to the second story. She tracked the water droplet as it fell from his earlobe and slid down his neck. He paused on the bottom step and turned.

“The hot-water heater needs some adjusting. Comes out of the spigot hot enough to make coffee.”

“Convenient,” she said.

“Unless you forget and scald your hide stepping in the shower.”

“Duly noted.” As was the small scar at the cleft of his chin and the straight nose anchoring his hazy blue eyes. His cheekbones were prominent and freckled beneath a deep tan. She noticed the insignia on his work shirt. “You work at the car plant in Bloomington?”

“Second shift.” He started up the stairs.

“No wonder you asked about kids and dogs. You sleep days.”

“Yes.”

“Me, too, since I started caring for Milt.”

“Are you out there every night?”

“I work for Picket Fence Private Nurses. It’s pretty much their call.”

Trace stopped on the landing. “The bathroom’s through the bedroom there. The other door is a walk-in closet.”

Thomasina sailed past him and flung her arms wide. “Bed here, dresser there, bookcases flanking the window. I wonder if I have enough furniture.”

A smile tugged at his mouth at her unbridled enthusiasm. He could have predicted that the dormer window would draw her.

“What a pretty view!” She turned as she spoke. “Are those train tracks I see cutting across open country?”

Trace nodded. The countryside as seen from the upstairs was old hat to him. She, on the other hand, was a fresh look. A cloud of dark bangs spilled over a wide forehead and ended at delicately arched brows. Her heart-shaped face ended with a dimpled chin. Her eyes were so dark, he had mistaken them for black. They weren’t. Bittersweet chocolate came closer. Her hair, loosely held at the back of her head with a butterfly clip, was equally dark and rich. One escaped wisp clung damply to her temple.