Pocketful of Sand
Page 7
In addition to being lustily mesmerized, I’m stunned. Of course. He just appeared out of nowhere. And now he’s here. In my house. In my personal space.
And I realize how very much I want him here. In my house. In my space.
I guess that’s why I just stand statue-still in my stained T-shirt, holding a magazine, mouth hanging open, staring at him. I’m not as surprised by his surly demeanor when he turns his nearly-furious gaze on me, though. I’m beginning to think he’s always this way.
“I thought your house was on fire,” he growls in his bedroom voice. “What happened?”
He’s like a thundercloud, popping and crackling with irritable electricity. He even makes the hair on my arms stand up, like he’s reversing the polarity around me. I think it’s his proximity. His face is within a few inches of mine where I’m still tucked into the corner of the cabinets. I was fanning smoke toward the door. Now I’m just standing here, oddly mystified.
He seems to be even taller, even broader standing in front of me here in my tiny kitchen. And despite the gagging smoke, I can smell the clean scent of his soap–fresh and piney. I make the mistake of inhaling deeply, which only makes me cough.
His ever-present frown deepens initially as I sputter, but when I catch my breath, it softens as he raises his brow. Without uttering a word, it says, Well?
I can’t even remember the question when he looks at me this way.
“P-pardon?” I stammer, continuing to stare despite how rude I must seem.
Good Lord, he’s gorgeous! I mean, I thought he was incredibly handsome the first time I saw him. And he still is, whether he’s angry or frowning or pretending to ignore me. But like this…when he’s not scowling at me… he’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. His blue eyes are bluer, his lips more chiseled, his jaw even stronger. The pull of my body, of my soul toward him is magnetic. Gravitational. Irresistible.
“What happened?” he repeats, helping to shake me from my stupor.
“I-I don’t know. I was preheating the oven to make muffins.” I glance at the pan where it rests on the counter. “And then…”
Since most of the smoke has cleared out through the now-open window, Cole cracks the oven door. Another, smaller gray cloud belches up out of it. He just waves it away and bends to look inside.
“There’s something stuck to the broiler. Didn’t you clean it before you turned it on?”
His question makes me feel defensive. It’s my turn to frown. “As a matter of fact, I did. I guess I just didn’t think to check the heating elements. Why would I? Who gets food on the broiler?”
“Well, it’s too hot to clean now. You’ll have to wait until it cools off,” he announces, closing the door and straightening.
“Thanks for that piece of wisdom,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Cole’s brow furrows into its frown again. “I just didn’t want you to burn yourself.” His concern seems genuine.
Oh.
Now I feel like an over-sensitive ass. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s just been a long couple of weeks.”
With his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowed on mine, Cole watches me. Without saying a word, he just watches. I can tell he’s thinking. His lips move as though he’s biting on the inside of his cheek.
“What brings you here? To Miller’s Pond?” He finally asks, almost grudgingly, as if he really didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help himself.
“Fresh start,” I respond, forgetting all my carefully rehearsed half-truths and full-lies.
“What was wrong with the old one?”
I think vaguely to myself that I should kindly berate him for his nosiness, so as to dissuade him from asking so many questions in the future. But before I can, I see a curious little face ease slowly into my line of sight behind Cole.
Emmy.
This must have her all out of sorts.
I drop my magazine and squeeze out from between Cole and the counter so that I can make my way to my daughter. Her thumb is already in her mouth.
She turns her head and presses her cheek to mine when I pick her up, both of us facing Cole. Her big green eyes are trained unwaveringly on him. “This is Mr. Danzer,” I tell her, not bothering with the normal mommy things like Can you say hi. She won’t. And the doctors tell me not to try and make her. It only adds a sense of pressure, and she doesn’t need more anxiety. “This is my daughter, Emmy.”
Cole’s color fades a little. He doesn’t look quite as…unhealthy as he did the day we ran into him on the beach, but he still has a haunted look about him, one that I now understand. I wonder about the child he lost–how old she was, what she looked like, if they were close. My guess is that they were.
“Hi, Emmy,” he greets, his voice softly scratchy as he addresses her. It brings chills to my arms and a lump to my throat. I imagine this is his daddy voice, the one that says you are loved and I would never hurt you. I hear it as plain as day and my chest aches for his loss.
Cole doesn’t approach us and Emmy, of course, says nothing. After a few seconds of staring him down, though, she lifts her free hand and points toward the refrigerator. Cole’s intense blue eyes swing in that direction and settle on the picture hanging there. He approaches it slowly, reaching out to drag a single finger over the Crayola daisy. “Sand and daisies,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
He stares at the image for several long seconds, during which I’m at a loss as to what to say. I can feel his sadness filling my kitchen with a fog as thick as the smoke.
And I realize how very much I want him here. In my house. In my space.
I guess that’s why I just stand statue-still in my stained T-shirt, holding a magazine, mouth hanging open, staring at him. I’m not as surprised by his surly demeanor when he turns his nearly-furious gaze on me, though. I’m beginning to think he’s always this way.
“I thought your house was on fire,” he growls in his bedroom voice. “What happened?”
He’s like a thundercloud, popping and crackling with irritable electricity. He even makes the hair on my arms stand up, like he’s reversing the polarity around me. I think it’s his proximity. His face is within a few inches of mine where I’m still tucked into the corner of the cabinets. I was fanning smoke toward the door. Now I’m just standing here, oddly mystified.
He seems to be even taller, even broader standing in front of me here in my tiny kitchen. And despite the gagging smoke, I can smell the clean scent of his soap–fresh and piney. I make the mistake of inhaling deeply, which only makes me cough.
His ever-present frown deepens initially as I sputter, but when I catch my breath, it softens as he raises his brow. Without uttering a word, it says, Well?
I can’t even remember the question when he looks at me this way.
“P-pardon?” I stammer, continuing to stare despite how rude I must seem.
Good Lord, he’s gorgeous! I mean, I thought he was incredibly handsome the first time I saw him. And he still is, whether he’s angry or frowning or pretending to ignore me. But like this…when he’s not scowling at me… he’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. His blue eyes are bluer, his lips more chiseled, his jaw even stronger. The pull of my body, of my soul toward him is magnetic. Gravitational. Irresistible.
“What happened?” he repeats, helping to shake me from my stupor.
“I-I don’t know. I was preheating the oven to make muffins.” I glance at the pan where it rests on the counter. “And then…”
Since most of the smoke has cleared out through the now-open window, Cole cracks the oven door. Another, smaller gray cloud belches up out of it. He just waves it away and bends to look inside.
“There’s something stuck to the broiler. Didn’t you clean it before you turned it on?”
His question makes me feel defensive. It’s my turn to frown. “As a matter of fact, I did. I guess I just didn’t think to check the heating elements. Why would I? Who gets food on the broiler?”
“Well, it’s too hot to clean now. You’ll have to wait until it cools off,” he announces, closing the door and straightening.
“Thanks for that piece of wisdom,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Cole’s brow furrows into its frown again. “I just didn’t want you to burn yourself.” His concern seems genuine.
Oh.
Now I feel like an over-sensitive ass. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s just been a long couple of weeks.”
With his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowed on mine, Cole watches me. Without saying a word, he just watches. I can tell he’s thinking. His lips move as though he’s biting on the inside of his cheek.
“What brings you here? To Miller’s Pond?” He finally asks, almost grudgingly, as if he really didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help himself.
“Fresh start,” I respond, forgetting all my carefully rehearsed half-truths and full-lies.
“What was wrong with the old one?”
I think vaguely to myself that I should kindly berate him for his nosiness, so as to dissuade him from asking so many questions in the future. But before I can, I see a curious little face ease slowly into my line of sight behind Cole.
Emmy.
This must have her all out of sorts.
I drop my magazine and squeeze out from between Cole and the counter so that I can make my way to my daughter. Her thumb is already in her mouth.
She turns her head and presses her cheek to mine when I pick her up, both of us facing Cole. Her big green eyes are trained unwaveringly on him. “This is Mr. Danzer,” I tell her, not bothering with the normal mommy things like Can you say hi. She won’t. And the doctors tell me not to try and make her. It only adds a sense of pressure, and she doesn’t need more anxiety. “This is my daughter, Emmy.”
Cole’s color fades a little. He doesn’t look quite as…unhealthy as he did the day we ran into him on the beach, but he still has a haunted look about him, one that I now understand. I wonder about the child he lost–how old she was, what she looked like, if they were close. My guess is that they were.
“Hi, Emmy,” he greets, his voice softly scratchy as he addresses her. It brings chills to my arms and a lump to my throat. I imagine this is his daddy voice, the one that says you are loved and I would never hurt you. I hear it as plain as day and my chest aches for his loss.
Cole doesn’t approach us and Emmy, of course, says nothing. After a few seconds of staring him down, though, she lifts her free hand and points toward the refrigerator. Cole’s intense blue eyes swing in that direction and settle on the picture hanging there. He approaches it slowly, reaching out to drag a single finger over the Crayola daisy. “Sand and daisies,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
He stares at the image for several long seconds, during which I’m at a loss as to what to say. I can feel his sadness filling my kitchen with a fog as thick as the smoke.
