Sealed With A Kiss

“In the future, if I ever refuse to follow your instructions, use this.”

Chapter Four

By noon the next day, a hole big enough to accommodate a fire engine gaped in the back wall of the Elliott Building. Each time a sledgehammer met with the antique structure, Tara shuddered from the impact, but she was intent on watching the entire operation.

The hems of her black silk-knit slacks were coated in dust. Fine particles of baked clay clung to the tail of the matching knee-length tunic, a sign of her dogged determination to retrieve as many undamaged bricks as possible. Surely, she reasoned, some quaint and nostalgic collectible could be fashioned and sold at Bridges from the hundreds of otherwise useless blocks.

“Why don’t you leave that to the crew? They’ll be just as careful and you won’t be picking bugs out or your hair for the rest of the day.”

Sam removed a leather work glove and touched the top of her head. Waving his fingers in front of her face, he dangled a shriveled granddaddy long-legs.

She yanked off her own gloves, tossed them on the pile of rubble and brushed frantically at her crown, further dislodging hair from the already beleaguered braid.

“Oh, I hate spiders!”

“Don’t get excited.” It was obvious from the chuckle in his voice he was enjoying her discomfort. “The thing’s been dead for ages.”

“It doesn’t matter. The very idea of a spider touching me makes my flesh crawl.”

“I know.”

“That’s right, you sure do.” She looked up into his dark sunglasses and, instead of obsessing over her dirty reflection, she noted the mischievous grin on his face. As a child she’d seen that smile many times, often accompanied by a silly prank.

“I figured you’d toughen up and get over that.”

“I thought I might, too. Then I moved to Manhattan into an apartment that had to be the spider capital of the world. And I don’t mean a few here and there that you manage with a can of bug spray. I mean millions of the creepy things spinning webs faster than I could knock them down with a broom.” She shuddered from the memory.

“You wouldn’t exaggerate, would you?”

“No.” She swatted at the top of her head again, certain the drop of sweat that slipped down her once-careful part was an errant arachnid. “Working with antiques, you run into all kinds of insects nesting in forgotten corners. I can live with moths and carpenter ants and I don’t mind the odd beetle now and again. But spiders…”

“I remember when you first came to live with your grandma.” Sam removed his glasses, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I was eight and my mama told me to be nice to you because you were Miss Elliott’s granddaughter. It took me six years to work up the courage to ask how Miss Elliott came by a grandchild when she’d never been married herself.”

Tara nodded, understanding the circumstances surrounding the sudden appearance of a three-year-old in spinster Miriam Elliott’s life. As small as she was, even Tara could sense the heads and tongues wagging behind their backs. By the time she’d started school the scandal was old news and most of the whispering had stopped.

“Anyway, you wouldn’t give me any peace till I came up with a deterrent.”

“How did you know I was afraid of spiders?”

“What little girl isn’t?” He smiled at the recollection of his plan. “It was worth a few minutes under the front porch to find out.”

Tara grimaced at the long-buried memory. “You were bad to bring that jar of spiders into the kitchen.”

Sam tilted his head back and laughed. Again, she was struck by the appeal of his smile, her mind sweeping back to the one tender kiss she’d given him years ago.

“Hey, Sam, you want to measure this cased opening one last time to make sure we’ve got it wide enough to suit you? Then we’re gonna knock off for lunch.”

Sam turned his back, striding away without so much as a nod. She shook off the dismissal and returned to the salvage operation. Reaching for another brick, she noted the hopelessly chipped state of once well-maintained nails.

“Oh, well,” she mused aloud, “the first time I strip a cabinet with five layers of paint you’ll be history anyway. Might as well throw out all my polish and trim you short.”