Fay Robinson - Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

“No, silly.” She tried not to smile.

“I could maim him slightly,” he teased. “Lock up one of his knee joints so he’d have to hobble around for a few weeks.”

He could, too. She’d once watched him take down three suspects in a robbery and never even draw his weapon.

“Better not,” she said. “As much as I’d love to see him in pain, he’s the only brother I’ve got.” She waved for him to follow her. “Come inside. It’s a bit cooler.”

“Have any beer?”

“I think so.”

The front room was a combination den and kitchen and even had a bed for nights when no breeze came off the river and the tiny bedroom became an oven. The old ceiling fan rattled overhead but barely stirred the air.

Her treasures—bird feathers, turtle shells, fossils, snakeskins and other objects she’d found in the woods and water—covered the walls and nearly every surface. Photographs littered the couch and chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.

“Things are a mess,” she said.

“When haven’t things been a mess?” He headed for the kitchen area.

“Try calling first to let me know you’re coming. I might clean up.”

“Like that would do any good. You need to throw away or burn some of this junk. The place is worse than a nature museum.” He opened the refrigerator, leaned in and started moving things around in search of a beer. He jumped back abruptly. “Damn! There’s a dead animal in here in a garbage bag!”

Oops. She’d forgotten about him. “That’s an otter.”

“What’s it doing in the refrigerator?”

“The poor thing drowned in one of my fish traps. I put him in there until I can give him a proper burial.”

He turned back with a pointed stare. “You’re going to have a funeral for an otter?”

“Not a funeral, Jack. Don’t make me sound like some nut. I don’t feel right simply tossing him in a hole in the ground since I caused his death, so I’m going to find a nice box for him.”

“Dead animals don’t belong in the refrigerator.”

“The next time I buy a chicken, I’ll remember that.”

“I’m serious, Lucky. Stuff like this shouldn’t be in the house, and you know it.”

She made a mental note not to let him in the bathroom if she could help it. He’d have a stroke if he saw what she was keeping in the tub.

“Let’s not argue, please.”

“Fine. It’s your place. You do what you want.” He slammed the fridge door. “I’ll pass on the beer until after the eulogy.”

Lucky bit back her retort.

He wandered over and took a cursory glance at the prints on the couch. “What’s this stuff?”

“Leigh asked me to frame two or three of my photographs to hang in her new office, now that Dad’s vacated it.”

“I’m surprised he’s taking his retirement so well. He seems really happy.”

“When did you see Dad?”

“He and Cal and I played golf the other day. He looked better than I’ve ever seen him. More relaxed.”

“I think he’ll enjoy concentrating on his weekly column and leaving the day-to-day hassle of running the newspaper to Cal and Leigh. Besides, Leigh’s managed the editorial side of things for a couple of years, anyway. She may as well have the title.” Lucky picked up some of the photographs. “I like the ones of the hummingbirds. The sunrise reflecting in the water is pretty good, too, but what do you think of this one? It’s Mr. Byrd, the old man who squeezes lemonade down at Turner’s drugstore.”

“I like it. Shows all the character lines in his face.” He chose one from a stack she’d developed that afternoon. “I’d skip this ugly thing, though. What is it?”

“A cicada. They’re courting right now.”

“That must be the racket I heard when I drove up.”

Racket. She thought of it as music.

He picked up several more prints and this time studied them. “These are pretty incredible,” he said, making her smile. “It’s a shame the public only ever sees your news photos. If you had your own studio…”

The smile vanished. “Don’t start, Jack.”

“Come on, Lucky. At least think about it. You’d get exposure for this area of your work. You could set your own hours and you wouldn’t have to be out at night. I don’t like you driving around here in the dark. It’s too isolated.”

“I’m three miles from downtown! And as far as my job goes, I couldn’t make a living freelancing. I’d have to worry about paying rent, getting equipment, setting up my own darkroom and buying chemicals—”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Not to mention having to hire someone to answer the phone and handle appointments.”

“I said I get it.”

“I like being able to take personal photos at my convenience, and Dad lets me use the Register’s dark-room after hours for nothing. That saves me a lot of money. I’d be foolish to quit my job there.”

He squeezed his forehead with one hand, his usual gesture of frustration. “I said okay. You’ve made your point.”

“Then please stop nagging me about this.”

“I would if you’d stay out of trouble. Your name’s already crossed my desk twice this week. What were you doing in the middle of that domestic dispute on Carver Avenue Monday afternoon?”

“That was purely accidental. I was taking photos there when the woman’s ex-boyfriend showed up drunk and tried to break down the door.”

“Situations like that can get you killed. What if he’d had a weapon?”

“Good grief! The story was about her doll collection. How could I have possibly known there’d be problems from that? You act like I get myself in trouble on purpose.”

“Sometimes I think you do. You thrive on the thrill of it.”

She started to respond, then let the comment slide. No, she wouldn’t talk about this anymore. Not with him. She had a job she loved and did well, and he was wrong in trying to tell her what she could and couldn’t do.

She crossed her arms and didn’t say anything. He tried to discuss it further, but she refused. Finally he gave up and dropped the subject.

He asked her about bills that needed paying. She asked him about her traitorous dog, who preferred to live with him. They talked about the weather, if she thought it might rain by morning. The conversation was stupid, purposely noncombative. But at least they weren’t arguing.

When they’d exhausted every “safe” topic, they stood staring at each other.

“Well…” He absently scratched his dark head.

“Well…” She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze without feeling foolish. Her cheeks grew hot. Other places grew hot. They were about to engage in something she didn’t want—sex without commitment—and she couldn’t figure out why.

Because…the only time they got along was when they were horizontal. Much as she hated to admit it, that was the sad reality. He accused her of being too independent, and maybe she was. But he was too dictatorial. The one thing they had in common was their overpowering physical attraction to each other.

The anticipation thickened. She shifted from one bare foot to the other. Her pulse rose and her heart thumped so hard she imagined he could hear it. One of these nights she’d refuse to give him what he’d come here for.

But not tonight.

“I guess we should look for those boxing gloves before it gets too late,” she told him, playing the game. They never spoke the rules out loud or even acknowledged there was a game, but the result was always the same. “Where do you think you left them? The storage room?”

“The bedroom.”

Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. He was anxious tonight. He’d skipped a couple of the usual steps.

She swallowed her nervousness. “Okay, let’s go look.”