Love - From His Point Of View!: Meeting at Midnight

“I can do it.”

“Now how did I know you were going to say that?” She ignored my scowl, putting her hands under my calf and helping me lift the leg onto the couch. “I must be psychic.”

“That makes sense. It’s not like I’m predictable.”

She laughed and settled on the other end, curling one leg up beneath her. That surprised me. She’d mostly stayed away this afternoon unless I needed something…which I figured was my fault. Because of that kiss. With my leg stretched out between us, I couldn’t jump her. That’s probably what she was thinking.

And I was not thinking about that kiss again. I was just wondering if she was.

“I liked watching you and Zach together,” she said. “Gave me the idea that you’re crazy about him.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I am. Any man…“My voice trailed off as I remembered that her father hadn’t acted like he was crazy about her. I cleared my throat. “Of course, some men are jerks.”

“I can agree with that.”

The bitter note in her voice surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. She had a right to be bitter. “Do you hate him?” I asked abruptly. “Your father, I mean.”

She blinked. “I…oh, damn, I wanted to say no, that he doesn’t matter enough to hate. And that’s almost true. But sometimes…”

She shrugged and looked away, but not before I’d seen the unhappiness in her eyes. “It’s like having a trick knee. You go along fine for days, weeks, even months. Then all of a sudden you put your weight on it, and it doesn’t hold. Every now and then I still get angry. Dumb, isn’t it?” Her mouth twisted. “I’m thirty-two years old. I should be over it by now.”

“I don’t see what ‘should’ has to do with it. Seems to me we can control our actions, but thoughts and feelings don’t pay much attention to rules.” Or I wouldn’t be thinking about that blasted kiss again.

She looked startled, then smiled. “I suspect a lot of people underestimate you.”

That was probably a compliment. I studied her a moment. Though her body was easy, relaxed, I thought shadows lingered in her eyes. I decided to steer us into less painful territory. “So, what would you change in here?”

“Me?”

“You said things hadn’t been changed in a long time. You must have had something in mind.”

“I’d paint the walls,” she said promptly.

I looked around critically. “Nothing wrong with the paint.”

“It’s white, Ben.”

“So?”

“So the room could use some color. Red would be great.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Green would be good, too—a rich green, nothing wimpy. But this couch is a lovely, warm brown. I think red would be great with it. And maybe some molding over the fireplace to match the crown moldings. That would make the mantel really pop.”

I eyed her dubiously. “You sound like an upscale decorator.”

She laughed. “I’ll admit to being hooked on those shows on cable.”

“They have decorating shows?”

“Don’t watch much TV, do you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Well, there’s a whole network devoted to it. Shows about gardening and all kinds of decorating—window treatments, kitchen remodels, painting techniques, all that sort of thing.” She grinned. “A friend of mine calls it female porn. We can look and drool, but we can’t touch.”

“Sounds about right.” I gave a thoughtful nod. “Green, maybe. I could see a pale green in here. Or purple.”

“Uh…purple?”

“Sure. Put a little gilding on the crown moldings, too. It would really dress the place up.”

She caught on. “Gilding the moldings! I never would have thought of that. But then, you really must use red for the walls. Chinese red. And maybe a little pagoda in the corner?”

We spent the next few minutes turning my living room into a Chinese emperor’s nightmare, complete with bamboo, lacquered screens and dragons, all in the most garish cast of colors possible. Somehow that evolved into a discussion of building styles, remodeling and how to honor the architectural integrity of a building when creating an addition.

Now, all this was right up my alley. I don’t often swing a hammer or hang drywall myself these days, but I’ve done it enough in the past. A good builder has to know a little about everything, from the right temperature to pour concrete to the current craze for paint glazes to how to shore up a damaged load-bearing wall. So it might seem like I was enjoying some shop talk and Seely was humoring me, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about me at all. I would have talked about blueberry muffin recipes if that’s what got her this excited, just so I could watch her glow.

This slow-moving woman came alive when she talked houses. Which was downright peculiar for a woman with no nesting urges.

“Your den is an addition, isn’t it?” she said. She was snuggled into the corner of the couch, her shoes off and her feet tucked up. A strand of hair had worked loose to wiggle along her temple and cheekbone like a hyperactive question mark.

I grimaced. “Sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn’t it? I’ve always meant to redo it. The roofline messes up the rear and side elevations. My father had it done, and I don’t think he gave a thought to how it fit with the rest of the house’s style.”

“He wasn’t interested in construction and architecture himself, then?”

“Sure, if it took place two or three thousand years ago.”

“I’ve wondered about that,” she said slowly. “I would have thought there would be exotic mementos scattered around from all the time he spent abroad. Pot shards, maybe, or a scarab or two.”

“I’ve got a pretty little Egyptian lady in my bedroom, on the dresser. Most of that stuff is boxed up, though. Never really knew what to do with it. Now what,” I demanded, “did I say to put that polite look on your face?”

“Who, me? Polite?”

“Like you’re thinking something you’re too nice to say.”

“Oh.” She flushed. “And here I’m trying to be tactful…it just seems like you have some issues with your parents. Maybe with the way they died and left you to raise the family they’d started.”

My good mood evaporated. “I did what had to be done. That’s all.”

“And that was a less-than-delicate hint to close the subject. Good enough.” She said that with perfect good humor, but rose to her feet. “I’d better go check on the roast.”

“Don’t rush off. I didn’t mean to…dammit, you can’t get offended every time I’m an ass, or we won’t be able to talk at all.”

She patted my shoulder. “No offense taken. I don’t blame you for getting testy when people make a fuss about the way you took on the responsibility for your brothers and sisters. It must seem sometimes as if you’re defined by what happened twenty years ago. As if nothing you’ve done since then matters, compared to that.”

Having leveled me with a few words, she swayed gently toward the door. “Supper should be ready soon. You want to eat on a tray in here?”