Smitten - LOVESWEPT - 392 Read online

  "No kidding?" Elsie was obviously pleased. "That comes from her mother's side of the family. We're a feisty bunch. So how about this guy's nose—did she flatten it?"

  "Wasn't exactly flattened," Matt said, "but it was definitely broken."

  "Wow," Jason said, "that's so cool. Wait'll I tell the guys. My mom broke someone's nose!"

  "It was an accident!" Lizabeth said. "I reacted without thinking, and his nose got in the way. Now if you'll all excuse me I'm going to take a shower. If I'm not out of the shower in half an hour send up a chisel. And don't you dare invite Matt to supper. He smirked at me all the way home."

  "She don't mean it," Elsie said to Matt. "We're having pot roast. Well eat at six."

  Matt stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Sounds good to me. Ill pull the tile up in the downstairs bathroom while I wait. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'll come first thing in the morning and put down a new sub floor."

  Lizabeth kicked her clothes into a corner of the bathroom and dragged herself into the shower. Laying plywood was a lot more tiring than paint­ing trim. Chances were, if she hadn't been so tired, she wouldn't have fallen into the cement, she decided. If she hadn't been so tired, she would have sensed Oliver Roth sneaking up behind her. And if she hadn't been so tired, she might have had more patience with Roth's groping. She lath­ered up and watched the last vestiges of cement sluice down the drain. Thank heaven it hadn't hardened on her. She washed her hair and winced when the water beat against the back of her neck. She was sunburned. Occupational hazard, she told herself, wondering about the statistics on skin cancer for construction workers. The statis­tics probably weren't good. On the other hand, after another week of pounding nails she'd be so physically fit she'd be able to forget about cardio­vascular disease. And there were other things she was learning. Elsie was wrong about carpenters. Most of the men were extremely courteous to her, going out of their way to make her feel comfort­able. She shut the water off, wrapped a towel around her head, shrugged into her threadbare terry-cloth robe, and stumbled into her bedroom. She flopped facedown onto the bed and instantly fell asleep.

  At six, Jason shook Lizabeth awake. "Mom, it's time for supper. You better hurry up."

  Lizabeth opened her eyes halfway and looked drowsily at her youngest son. "Huh?"

  He put his face down next to hers, nose to nose, and shouted. "It's time for supper!"

  "Gotcha," Lizabeth said. "I'm moving."

  "You better move fast. Aunt Elsie doesn't like people being late for supper. She’ll whack you one with her wooden spoon. She’ll make you eat the stalks on the broccoli." He backed off and ran out of the room. "Ill meetcha down there."

  Lizabeth pulled a faded T-shirt over her head, stepped into a pair of old running shorts, and combed her fingers through her hair. She was doing her best to hurry, but her muscles weren't cooperating. Everything ached. Matt had been right. She was a wimp. She was thirty-two years old, and she was falling apart at the seams. She took the stairs one step at a time, mumbling as she went. She stopped grumbling when she saw Matt watching her. "Oh jeez, what are you doing here?"

  "Elsie invited me for supper."

  "What a nice surprise." About as nice as bu­bonic plague. She could barely move without screaming in pain, her hair looked like World War III, and she wasn't wearing a bra. As she de­scended the stairs, she decided it was the last fact that caused his look of rapt fascination.

  "You seem kinda tuckered out."

  "I'm fine," she said, shuffling past him. "I'm not at all tired. And I'm not the least bit sore."

  "Guess you're tougher than I thought."

  Jason took a scoop of mashed potatoes. "Good thing you're not tired. Matt said he'd play soccer with us after supper, and you could play too."

  Lizabeth noticed it was no longer "Mr. Hallahan." She supposed that was okay. Matt didn't seem to mind the familiarity, and the boys needed to have male friends. She would have preferred someone without a tattoo advocating sex with the animal kingdom, but she wasn't in the mood to quibble. She stared at her fork, wondering if she had the strength to pick it up. "Soccer? That sounds like fun," she said absently. "I could use some exer­cise." She could use some exercise in the year 2000. Anything before that was going to be a major imposition. Not to worry, she thought. Soc­cer was at least a half hour away. Right now she had more immediate problems. She needed to fig­ure out a way to eat her meat. Cutting and chew­ing seemed like insurmountable obstacles.

  "Something wrong with the meat?" Elsie asked Lizabeth. "You keep staring at it."

  "It's fine, but I'm thinking of becoming a vege­tarian. I'm worried about my cholesterol."

  "Don't be a ninny," Elsie said. "You're nothing but skin and bones, and you have bags under your eyes. You need meat. How do you think I've kept my looks all these years? I eat right. Except for that time when I tried living in the old people's home. Worst food I've ever seen. Everything got squeezed through a strainer."

  "Yuck!" Jason said. "Like baby food." He acci­dentally tipped over his milk, and it spread, like a flash flood, across the table.

  Elsie jumped to her feet and ran for a kitchen towel. Lizabeth mopped up milk with her napkin. And Ferguson seized upon the opportunity to run off with the remainder of the pot roast.

  "Ferguson's got the pot roast!" Billy shouted. He reached out for the dog, caught his elbow on the gravy boat, and the gravy boat slid into Matt's plate and smashed, dumping a cup and a half of semi-congealed gravy into Matt's lap.

  "Oh, gross," Jason said. "One time Ferguson got sick and made a mess on the rug and it looked just like that."

  Elsie watched the pot roast disappear around the corner. "There goes tomorrow's lunch," she said. "Damned if you don't have to be on your toes in this house."

  "I guess we should postpone the soccer game until tomorrow," Matt said. "If I play soccer in these clothes, I'll have every dog in the neighbor­hood following me."

  Lizabeth leaned back in her chair and managed a weak smile. She was saved. God bless Ferguson.

  There were four bedrooms on the top floor of the old Victorian. Lizabeth had chosen a back bedroom for herself and had meagerly furnished it with a double bed and a secondhand oak dresser. One window looked out at the side yard, the view partially obscured by a mature stand of Douglas fir trees that served as a privacy fence. The other window in Lizabeth's room overlooked the back­yard, which was, for the most part, packed dirt. Ferguson had littered the yard with punctured footballs, soccer balls, half-chewed baseballs, and a few mangled shoes. A redwood picnic table and two benches had been left by the previous owner.

  The table was seldom used for picnics, since Lizabeth didn't have a grill. Instead, it served as the collection point for half-filled jars of soap bubbles, used boxes of crayons, a handful of Matchbox cars, empty juice glasses, plastic water pistols, and what­ever other flotsam accumulated from two boys at play. Since the yard was dominated by several large trees, it was continuously cast in shade. By moonlight the yard seemed solemn and spooky, and usually only Bob the Cat ventured into its black shadows.

  This evening a human form picked its way around the footballs, soccer balls, and baseballs. He cursed when he stepped on a shoe and stood still for a minute to get his bearings. He moved back a few feet and took a handful of small stones from his coat pocket.

  As Lizabeth pulled herself up from the drowse of sleep, she thought it must be sleeting. She lay absolutely still, very quietly listening to the "tik tik tik" of something hitting against her window-pane, and realized, as she became more awake, that it was summer and sleet wasn't possible. It almost sounded as if someone was throwing stones at her window! There was a brief stab of alarm and then she relaxed. Matt. The thought brought a smile to her lips. Poor guy was really smitten with her. Another stone pinged on the glass and Lizabeth swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was two in the morning, and obviously Matt hadn't been able to sleep. She imagined him thrashing around in his bed, feverish with
pent-up passion. And now he was here! What was she supposed to do with him? She could hardly invite him up to her bedroom. Maybe he would want to take her back to his apartment. Maybe he wouldn't be able to wait that long. Maybe he'd drag her off into the bushes or lay her out on the picnic table. She hated to admit it, but the picnic table sounded incredibly erotic. She rolled her eyes in the dark bedroom and groaned. What was wrong with her? She was a mother, and mothers didn't go around rutting on picnic tables. Lord, what would her children think? What about Elsie? Lizabeth, she told herself, you're getting weird. That's what hap­pens when you've had a whole lifetime of sexual deprivation. Lizabeth pulled the curtain aside and squinted into the darkness. "Anybody out there?" she called.

  There was the distinct rustle of clothing in the darkness below her. A flashlight clicked on and Lizabeth was temporarily blinded as the light played across her face. The intruder held the flash­light aloft, redirecting the beam onto himself, and Lizabeth was treated to a solid minute of full fron­tal male nudity. The man was wearing a paper-bag mask, a striped tie, and docksiders. "Matt?" Lizabeth whispered. No, of course not. Matt was blond. Then again, blonds might not be blond all over. She stifled a hysterical giggle and dialed the police.

  Ten minutes later a black-and-white cruiser pulled up to the house and two policemen met Lizabeth at the door. The taller of the two men looked Lizabeth over. "You the lady who saw the flasher? Can you give us a description?"

  "He was pretty ordinary. Not too fat. Not too thin. Average height. I didn't get to see his face, but I'd guess he was in his twenties or early thir­ties. No chest hair ..."

  Elsie stomped down the stairs in her robe and nightgown. "What's going on here?"

  "I thought I was hearing sleet," Lizabeth said, "but it was actually a flasher throwing stones at my window."

  Elsie's eyes got wide. "You mean he stood there with no clothes on? Buck naked?"

  "He was wearing a tie," Lizabeth said. "And shoes."

  "Shoot. I always miss the good stuff," Elsie said. "It isn't fair. I never get to see any naked men."

  "This is my Aunt Elsie," Lizabeth explained to the policemen. "She's spending the summer with me."

  "Maybe he'll come back," the cop said to Elsie. "You might get another crack at it."

  The possibility of that happening made Lizabeth uncomfortable. She didn't like having a naked man skulking around in her yard. "You don't re­ally think hell come back, do you? Maybe you should stake out my house."

  "We don't usually stake out for flashers. If he threatened you, or if there was indication of vio­lence ..."

  Lizabeth shook her head. "No. He just stood there."

  Matt rang the doorbell again and looked at his watch. Seven-thirty. The curtains were still drawn and there was no sign of life in Lizabeth's house. It was hard to believe they weren't up yet. Seven-thirty seemed like the middle of the afternoon when you were used to getting up at five every day. He set the bag of doughnuts and the gallon of paint on the porch and walked around the house. Lizabeth's bedroom was in the back. "Liza­beth!" he called in an exaggerated whisper. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called again. There was no response. Her curtain remained closed. He gathered a few stones and tossed them one by one at her window.

  Lizabeth woke up with a start. A stone pinged against her windowpane, and her heart jumped to her throat. He was back! She reached for the phone beside her bed and dialed the police, then waited, like a frightened fugitive, while the stones continued to tap on the glass. Five minutes passed on her digital clock. It seemed like five hours. Someone was forcefully knocking on her front door. Lizabeth crept to the stairs and saw the flashing red light of the cruiser pulsing behind her living room curtains.

  Jason shuffled from his room, rubbing his eyes. "There's a police car in front of our house."

  Elsie flung her bedroom door open. "Did he come back? Did I miss him again?"

  Everyone trooped downstairs and stood behind Lizabeth as she opened the door.

  It was Officer Dooley. "We caught your flasher," he said. "We were just going off duty when the call came in. My partner has him cuffed in the cruiser."

  "I want to see him," Elsie said. "I want to see what a real pervert looks like."

  "Me too," Jason said, following after Elsie. "What's a pervert?"

  Lizabeth grabbed a raincoat from the hall closet and ran after Jason. "Jason Kane! You come back here," she yelled, struggling into the raincoat. "You stay away from the pervert! Don't you dare go near that police car!"

  Elsie pressed her nose against the cruiser win­dow. "That isn't a pervert," she said disgustedly. "That's Matt."

  Lizabeth looked through the window at Matt. "What are you doing in there?"

  "I've been arrested."

  "Omigod."

  "We caught him red-handed," Dooley said. "He was throwing stones at your window."

  "I was supposed to come over first thing in the morning to work on her bathroom," Matt said. "She wouldn't answer her door, so I went around back and tried to wake her up by throwing stones at her window."

  Lizabeth groaned. "I thought you were a flasher."

  Matt grinned at her. "Wishful thinking."

  "No. Last night some man showed up in my backyard, and he was only wearing his tie and his shoes. Guess I panicked this morning. I thought he'd come back."

  "So what do you think?" Dooley said. "Is this the guy or what?"

  Lizabeth shook her head. "The flasher was shorter. Not nearly so muscular. He had sort of a potbelly."

  Matt climbed out of the black-and-white cruiser. "He was only wearing his tie and his shoes?"

  "A yuppie flasher," Elsie said. "They're the worst kind."

  It was getting out of hand, Lizabeth decided. She was beginning to regret calling the police. Now that it was daylight the whole thing seemed silly. The man just stood there with a bag over his head. It was probably a prank, a fraternity initia­tion, a practical joke. "I'm sure I'll never see him again," Lizabeth said to the gathering. "And if he comes back, I'll send Aunt Elsie out after him."

  Dooley looked Elsie over and grinned. "Go easy on him," he said. "Call us if you need help."

  Elsie grunted and turned toward the house. "What's in the bag sitting on the porch? Looks like a bakery bag."

  Ferguson raced across the lawn, snatched the bag without ever breaking stride, and disappeared down the street.

  "Yup," Matt said wistfully. "It was a bakery bag."

  Elsie narrowed her eyes. "I could have used a doughnut this morning. Were there any Boston creams?"

  "Yup. Fresh from the oven."

  "I don't mind that dog sinking his teeth into an old football," Elsie said, "but when he starts swip­ing my doughnuts, he's gone too far."

  "He's just a puppy," Lizabeth said. "He had a traumatic infanthood. He was abandoned on the side of the road."

  Matt thought the people who abandoned Ferguson knew what they were doing. He looked like a cross between a schnauzer and a Great Dane, and he had the personality of Attila the Hun. The dog obviously had an eating disorder, and what was he doing when the potbellied degenerate was pa­rading around in his birthday suit? The damn dog probably hadn't given out a single woof. "So he's a puppy, huh? He's pretty big for a puppy."

  "Of course he's big," Elsie said. "Worthless dog eats everything in the house. He'd eat a table leg if you put gravy on it."

  Lizabeth sat on the closed seat of the toilet and watched Matt run his thumb over a bead of caulk­ing compound at the base of the tub. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, cup­ping her chin in her hands. She was close enough to feel the warmth from his body, close enough to see that he had freckles under the fine blond hair on his forearm. It was nice like this, she thought. Even nicer than working together at the construc­tion site. The employer-employee relationship had been replaced by something that was much more relaxed, more intimate, almost conjugal. He was an interesting man, she decided. Sometimes he fit her stereotype of a macho
carpenter and some­times he surprised her with his intelligence and sensitivity. "So what do you like to do when you're not building or repairing houses?"

  He stood, wiped his hands on his cutoff jeans, and thought about it. "I watch television. I go to hockey games in Philly. I ride my bike around."

  "I saw a hockey game once," Lizabeth said. "I thought the men looked cute in those short pants, but it was horribly violent. They kept beating on each other. I don't understand what men find so fascinating about fighting."

  Matt felt his mind go blank. It was a good thing he didn't tell her about his short-lived career in amateur boxing. Or his front-row season passes for the Flyers. Or the time he met Hulk Hogan and almost passed out from excitement. "How about you?" Matt finally said. "What do you do?"

  "I used to bake cookies. Does that sound dumb?"

  "No. It sounds nice. Very domestic." He thought she looked displeased at that, so he amended his answer. "Very creative."

  "Mmmm. Well, I'm not sure what I do now. I still bake cookies, but it's not nearly as satisfying. I suppose I'm at a crossroads."

  He sat on the edge of the tub and studied her. "What about childhood dreams? Did you want to be a doctor? Or an astronomer? Did you want to grow up to be a fire chief?"

  Lizabeth examined the tube of caulking com­pound and squeezed out a glob that artlessly landed on her foot. "I was never that realistic about my future. I wanted to be a fairy."

  "And did you succeed?"

  She laughed. "Not entirely. I'm still working on it. I'm having a hard time with the wings."

  "So what are your adult dreams? What do you aspire to now?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't seem to have any aspirations. I suppose I have little goals.

  Paying my bills on time. Making a home for my­self and my children. Learning how to caulk a bathtub."

  Disappointment prickled in his chest. All her aspirations were of independence. And she hadn't mentioned Paris. If she'd asked the same ques­tion of him, he might have said he'd like to get married and have a family. Of course, she'd al­ready done that, so he understood she would want something different. But understanding didn't make it any easier. He decided to change the sub­ject. "So, how do you like construction work?"