Sarah Mayberry - Within Reach

After a minute she lifted her head and he let her go.

“Thanks,” she said with a small, self-conscious smile as she stepped backward.

“I want cuddle, too,” Charlie demanded, both arms raised.

Angie laughed. “Of course you do.”

She stooped to pick him up and Charlie wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed a big, wet kiss to her cheek.

Michael smiled. “I’ll go find that bin.”

It wasn’t until he was turning the corner in the corridor that it occurred to him that hug had been his first adult human contact in months.

CHAPTER FOUR

“HEY, CHARLIE, COME away from there. You don’t want to touch all that nasty stuff,” Angie said, herding him away from the pile of debris in the corner.

Charlie complied readily, trotting off to inspect the safe instead. Angie watched him distractedly. She was still getting over the surprise of Michael’s spontaneous embrace.

They had hugged before, but not often, and usually only briefly, in greeting or thanks. And, of course, after Billie’s death there had been condolence and sympathy hugs.

Today’s hug had felt different, and she couldn’t understand why.

Charlie spun the dial, fascinated. Angie thought about the moment when Michael’s arms had come around her and she’d found herself pressed against the firm, warm wall of his chest. She’d been surprised at first. But then something inside her had relaxed as she’d understood that she was in a safe place and she’d allowed herself to take comfort from him.

Then he’d shifted slightly or she had and their knees had bumped and she’d become very aware of how well-matched their bodies were—knee to knee, hip to hip, breast to chest.

The realization had been enough to make her step away then, and it made her feel uneasy now, even though he’d been gone for more than ten minutes.

Because that moment had been about sexual awareness. The woman in her noticing the man in him.

But Michael wasn’t a man. At least, he wasn’t an ordinary man. He was Billie’s husband. He might as well be Angie’s brother.

And yet there’d been that funny little moment when he’d opened the door wearing his running gear yesterday and she’d seen him with fresh eyes and registered that he was a very attractive man….

There was a loud rumbling in the corridor and Michael appeared in the doorway, a large wheelie bin in tow. She forced herself to meet his eyes, almost as though she was testing herself, and was relieved to feel nothing. He was simply Michael.

Exactly, drama queen.

“Looks like you hit pay dirt,” she said.

“Yeah.” There was a flatness to the single word.

“What’s wrong?”

“I went to the bathroom.”

She grimaced. “Yeah. I should have warned you about that. The plumbing’s not great. Might want to wash your shoes when you get home if there was any ‘water’ on the floor.”

“I checked out the ladies’, too.”

He was so stern, so disapproving, that Angie had to suppress a smile.

“Not up to the Michael Robinson standard?” It was a rhetorical question, because she knew they weren’t. Many was the time she’d simply crossed her legs and waited until she went out for lunch to avoid having to set foot in the space.

“This building is a complete shit hole, Angie.” He glanced at Charlie to see if he’d registered the four-letter word, but his son was inspecting the wheels on the bin. “Half the lights are out, the roof leaks and I bet most of the windows are rusted shut. The bathrooms are possibly the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m including the developing world in that assessment, too, by the way.”

“It’s true, the old girl ain’t what she used to be, but that’s why the rent’s so reasonable. Beggars, by which I mean artists, can’t afford to be choosers.” She shrugged philosophically.

“Even if that means being exposed to deteriorating asbestos, lead paint and electrical wiring that can’t possibly be up to code?”

“Asbestos? What asbestos?” she asked, alarmed.

Michael pointed at the ceiling. “What do you think that is?”

She tilted her head to look at the textured stucco ceiling. “Plaster?”

He shook his head slowly. Grimly.

“I don’t like the idea of you working in this building, Angie.”

She sighed heavily. “Well, that makes two of us, but I’m afraid there aren’t a lot of options in the city. I looked around a couple of years ago, but it was a dead loss.”

“Then move farther out.”

“Right, and make my clients travel to find me.”

“They’ll make the trip. You’re worth it.”

She shook her head. “I need to be central. All my suppliers are in here—my valuer, my metallurgist, my gemsetter, the jewelers’ toolmakers…”

Michael’s frown deepened. She didn’t know whether to be amused or touched by his obvious concern.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve survived eight years in this place.”

He glanced pointedly at the debris in the corner and the four-letter word sprayed on her wall. “Just.”

She knew what he was saying made sense, but she had formed an attachment to the Stradbroke over the years, decrepit bathrooms and all.

“If it makes you happy, I’ll take a look around, see what’s out there.”

“Good.”

Charlie punctuated Michael’s words with a thump on the side of the bin.

“I think he’s seconding the motion,” Angie said.

“Good.” Michael moved to her workbench to inspect her tools. “I’ve never seen where you work before.”

“Really?” Billie had been a constant visitor, but there had never been a reason for Michael to come here. “No, I guess you haven’t.”

He walked over to where her crucibles and welding gear were located. “Is this where you make your alloys?”

“Yep.”

He turned and laid a hand on the scarred wood of her stump, a four-foot-high section of tree trunk that had served her well over the years. “And this is where you shape your rings?”

“Sometimes. But I’ve got a couple of different types of ring benders, too. It depends on what I’m working on.” She moved closer, picking up one of the many hammers that sat in the leather loops circling the stump.

“No wonder you have Obama arms,” he said.

“Don’t forget the calluses.”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. She displayed her work-toughened palms to him.

“I’ve never noticed,” he said.

“I should hope not. A lady likes to have a few secrets.”

He smiled, glanced at his watch, then at Charlie. She checked her own watch and saw it was past twelve.

“Someone’s going to want lunch soon,” she said.

“Tell me about it. Probably needs his diaper changed, too, and I didn’t bring any with me.” He crossed the room and hoisted Charlie into his arms. “Time for us to go, Charlie-boy.”

Charlie immediately began fussing. Michael gave her an exasperated look over his son’s head.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, I’d cry, too, if I had to leave this palace.”

She walked them down the stairs and out the side entrance, kissing Charlie goodbye in the cobblestone laneway.

“Thanks for all your help, little man.”

He stared at her, bottom lip trembling, eyes awash with tears.

“I think that’s the saddest face in the whole wide world,” she said, unable to resist stroking his cheek with her finger.

“And yet nothing is actually wrong,” Michael said drily.

They exchanged smiles.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will. Thanks.”

She watched as they walked away, Michael’s long stride easy despite the fact that Charlie was no lightweight. She was still smiling when she returned to her studio. Having them visit had somehow taken away the worst of her angst over the break-in. What had happened was shitty, but not insurmountable.