Key of Knowledge
Page 59
She looked, he thought, like an angry, and aroused, wood nymph. “You are doing a good job of it.”
“I like kissing men—the right man, the right circumstances. I like sex, under the same conditions.”
His eyes warmed to a deep, foggy gray that was unexpected and compelling. The charming creases in his cheeks—too manly, Zoe thought, to be called dimples—deepened. Her fingers itched to trace those creases, and the sensation warned her she was in trouble.
“That’s a relief to me.”
“You’d better understand that I make the conditions at this point in my life. The fact that I have a kid and I’m not married doesn’t make me easy.”
Angry shock leaped into his face. “For Christ’s sake, Zoe. Where did we veer from me finding you interesting and attractive and wanting to kiss you to finding you easy?”
“I want to be clear, that’s all. Just like I’m going to be clear that nobody uses my kid to get to me.”
The shock, the anger iced over. The chill hit him from a foot away. “If you assume that’s what I’m doing, you’re insulting all three of us.”
She felt twin jolts of guilt and embarrassment. As she started to speak, Simon flew into the room. “I rule! Beat your high score, sucker!” He danced around Brad, shaking his index fingers in the air in a victory dance.
With effort, Brad folded his emotions further inside, then hooked an arm around Simon’s neck. “A momentary event, I promise you. Gloat while you have the chance, you midget.”
“Next time I’m beating your butt in the NBA play-offs.”
“Never happen. And when I humiliate you, you will crawl to me on your belly like the insignificant worm you are.”
As she watched the exchange, saw their obvious enjoyment of each other, her guilt only increased. “Simon, we have to go.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me mop the floor with ya.”
“I’m just luring you in, so crushing you will be more gratifying.” With his arm still around the boy, he looked at the mother. “I’ll get your coats.”
Chapter Fourteen
SINCE it became apparent, very quickly, that Dana wasn’t handy with home improvement chores that involved tools, she was designated head painter. Which meant, she thought, a little sulkily, that she spent all day slapping paint on walls while Zoe went around doing stuff with a cool little electric screwdriver or drill and Malory putzed around with the leak under the kitchen sink.
The fact that Malory was the girliest girl of Dana’s acquaintance and that she got a wrench was lowering.
It wasn’t that she minded painting so much—even though it was incredibly boring, despite the magic roller machine. She just could’ve used a little variety on her job list.
Still, watching the walls take on color was satisfying. Malory and Zoe had been on the money in the choice. Her bookstore section was going to look not only warm but stylish.
Zoe swore that once the floors were sanded and sealed, they would glow.
She knew how it could look. Kane had shown her. And if he’d used her own fantasy to build the image, that was fine. This was one fantasy she was going to make sure came true.
As an idea struck, she stopped, turned off the machine, set the roller aside.
The truth in his lies. Her fantasy, and his manipulation of it.
What if the key was here, as Malory’s had been? Why couldn’t it be that simple? He’d shown her, hadn’t he? Look what you can have, if you only cooperate with me: your dream bookstore, full of customers and stock. Not real, she thought now, not truth. But there’d been truth in it. It was what she wanted, what she intended to work for. What she could have, with her own effort and on her own merits.
Maybe the key was right here, if she could only see it. If she could bring it out as Malory had.
She took some deep breaths, shaking her arms, rolling her shoulders, like a diver about to spring off the high platform.
Then she closed her eyes, tried to let herself drift.
She could hear the whirr of Zoe’s drill, and the cheerful music that Malory had playing on the radio.
What was that? ABBA? Jesus, couldn’t she find a station that recognized music from this millennium?
Annoyed with herself, Dana struggled to erase the image of a teenage dancing queen from her mind.
The key. The pretty gold key. It was small, shiny, with that looping Celtic pattern at the hilt. Was it a hilt when it was a key? she wondered. It wasn’t a damn sword, so there had to be another word for it. She’d have to look that up.
Oh, stop it!
She huffed out another breath, and focused.
The whirr of the drill, the tinkle of music, and beyond that, the muffled sound of cars passing on the street outside. The hum of the furnace as it kicked on.
And if you listened hard enough, she realized, the creaks and whispers of an old house settling into its own bones.
Her house. Hers. The first she’d ever owned. A step out of the past toward the future. A single, definite move that changed the pattern of what had been toward what would be.
She could smell fresh paint, a testament to a new start.
Those things were real, as real as her own flesh and blood. Those things were truth.
The key was real. She had only to see it, to touch it, to take it.
She saw it now, floating on a field of peacock green, shimmering against that deep color. But when she reached out, her hand passed through it as if it, or she, was insubstantial.
I’m the key. It’s meant for me.
She tried again, again, bearing down with the effort until sweat pearled on her forehead.
It’s mine, she kept thinking. And this place is mine. Soon books will be lined along this wall, other walls. Knowledge.
“Dana!”
She snapped back, swayed even as Zoe’s hands caught her arms. “What did he do to you? What did he do? Malory!”
“No, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Hold on to me. Mal!” she shouted again.
Dana calculated she had a good thirty pounds on Zoe, but her friend managed to hold her upright and steady.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” With a crescent wrench gripped like a weapon in her hand, Malory rushed in. For some reason, seeing the pretty, feminine blonde in her plumber’s gear of sexy black leggings and slim green sweater—with matching hair tie—wielding a wrench had Dana giggling weakly.
“I like kissing men—the right man, the right circumstances. I like sex, under the same conditions.”
His eyes warmed to a deep, foggy gray that was unexpected and compelling. The charming creases in his cheeks—too manly, Zoe thought, to be called dimples—deepened. Her fingers itched to trace those creases, and the sensation warned her she was in trouble.
“That’s a relief to me.”
“You’d better understand that I make the conditions at this point in my life. The fact that I have a kid and I’m not married doesn’t make me easy.”
Angry shock leaped into his face. “For Christ’s sake, Zoe. Where did we veer from me finding you interesting and attractive and wanting to kiss you to finding you easy?”
“I want to be clear, that’s all. Just like I’m going to be clear that nobody uses my kid to get to me.”
The shock, the anger iced over. The chill hit him from a foot away. “If you assume that’s what I’m doing, you’re insulting all three of us.”
She felt twin jolts of guilt and embarrassment. As she started to speak, Simon flew into the room. “I rule! Beat your high score, sucker!” He danced around Brad, shaking his index fingers in the air in a victory dance.
With effort, Brad folded his emotions further inside, then hooked an arm around Simon’s neck. “A momentary event, I promise you. Gloat while you have the chance, you midget.”
“Next time I’m beating your butt in the NBA play-offs.”
“Never happen. And when I humiliate you, you will crawl to me on your belly like the insignificant worm you are.”
As she watched the exchange, saw their obvious enjoyment of each other, her guilt only increased. “Simon, we have to go.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me mop the floor with ya.”
“I’m just luring you in, so crushing you will be more gratifying.” With his arm still around the boy, he looked at the mother. “I’ll get your coats.”
Chapter Fourteen
SINCE it became apparent, very quickly, that Dana wasn’t handy with home improvement chores that involved tools, she was designated head painter. Which meant, she thought, a little sulkily, that she spent all day slapping paint on walls while Zoe went around doing stuff with a cool little electric screwdriver or drill and Malory putzed around with the leak under the kitchen sink.
The fact that Malory was the girliest girl of Dana’s acquaintance and that she got a wrench was lowering.
It wasn’t that she minded painting so much—even though it was incredibly boring, despite the magic roller machine. She just could’ve used a little variety on her job list.
Still, watching the walls take on color was satisfying. Malory and Zoe had been on the money in the choice. Her bookstore section was going to look not only warm but stylish.
Zoe swore that once the floors were sanded and sealed, they would glow.
She knew how it could look. Kane had shown her. And if he’d used her own fantasy to build the image, that was fine. This was one fantasy she was going to make sure came true.
As an idea struck, she stopped, turned off the machine, set the roller aside.
The truth in his lies. Her fantasy, and his manipulation of it.
What if the key was here, as Malory’s had been? Why couldn’t it be that simple? He’d shown her, hadn’t he? Look what you can have, if you only cooperate with me: your dream bookstore, full of customers and stock. Not real, she thought now, not truth. But there’d been truth in it. It was what she wanted, what she intended to work for. What she could have, with her own effort and on her own merits.
Maybe the key was right here, if she could only see it. If she could bring it out as Malory had.
She took some deep breaths, shaking her arms, rolling her shoulders, like a diver about to spring off the high platform.
Then she closed her eyes, tried to let herself drift.
She could hear the whirr of Zoe’s drill, and the cheerful music that Malory had playing on the radio.
What was that? ABBA? Jesus, couldn’t she find a station that recognized music from this millennium?
Annoyed with herself, Dana struggled to erase the image of a teenage dancing queen from her mind.
The key. The pretty gold key. It was small, shiny, with that looping Celtic pattern at the hilt. Was it a hilt when it was a key? she wondered. It wasn’t a damn sword, so there had to be another word for it. She’d have to look that up.
Oh, stop it!
She huffed out another breath, and focused.
The whirr of the drill, the tinkle of music, and beyond that, the muffled sound of cars passing on the street outside. The hum of the furnace as it kicked on.
And if you listened hard enough, she realized, the creaks and whispers of an old house settling into its own bones.
Her house. Hers. The first she’d ever owned. A step out of the past toward the future. A single, definite move that changed the pattern of what had been toward what would be.
She could smell fresh paint, a testament to a new start.
Those things were real, as real as her own flesh and blood. Those things were truth.
The key was real. She had only to see it, to touch it, to take it.
She saw it now, floating on a field of peacock green, shimmering against that deep color. But when she reached out, her hand passed through it as if it, or she, was insubstantial.
I’m the key. It’s meant for me.
She tried again, again, bearing down with the effort until sweat pearled on her forehead.
It’s mine, she kept thinking. And this place is mine. Soon books will be lined along this wall, other walls. Knowledge.
“Dana!”
She snapped back, swayed even as Zoe’s hands caught her arms. “What did he do to you? What did he do? Malory!”
“No, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Hold on to me. Mal!” she shouted again.
Dana calculated she had a good thirty pounds on Zoe, but her friend managed to hold her upright and steady.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” With a crescent wrench gripped like a weapon in her hand, Malory rushed in. For some reason, seeing the pretty, feminine blonde in her plumber’s gear of sexy black leggings and slim green sweater—with matching hair tie—wielding a wrench had Dana giggling weakly.
