By the time he got back to George’s, the sun was high overhead, and those fuckin’ bugs were hissing their whirligig song. He was exhausted and nervous at what kind of reception he’d get.
Getting no answer to his knock, he peered through her screen door. The inside of her house looked dark and cool compared to the sweltering heat out here. Over a hundred today, the cashier at the store had warned him, and Clay had nodded. Of course. And the woman had no A/C.
He pulled open the door—unlatched, as usual—and walked inside, calling her name.
Quiet, still, relatively cool. With the windows shut, the busy drone from outside was held somewhat at bay, and it smelled like… What was that? Not flowers, exactly. Not so girly as that, but close. It smelled cozy and clean, like herbs or cinnamon or something. A place to rest, to heal and restore not just your body, but your soul.
He eyed the couch, considering a quick nap in this oasis while he waited for her but pretty sure that wouldn’t happen, since he could almost feel her presence out back. Setting his purchases down, he went through to the kitchen to the screened-in porch, where he finally caught sight of her, toward the rear of her yard, struggling with some huge wire structure wrapped in what looked like vines.
Watching her, Clay smiled. There was something epic about this small woman and her big house, her massive garden, her funky animals. She yanked at the metal again, attempting to pry it up from the ground and replant it in the soil. She might have cussed, but he doubted it. Knowing her, she was probably whispering sweet nothings to the stupid object. He should go out there and help her. He should, but she was so perfect like this, pissed, but civilized in a way he admired but could hardly comprehend.
Anyway, he must have made some noise, because suddenly her eyes were on him, wide and cautious before creasing at the corners into a welcoming smile. Clay folded up a little bit inside at the sight. Or maybe he unfolded. It hurt, even that little unbending. Like a cramp or a growing pain, it touched a part of him he wasn’t used to feeling. All he could do was smile back.
“Think you could lend me a hand?” she called. “Or you going to just stand there and watch me make a fool of myself?”
Clay’s smile widened, and he stepped outside, letting the door slam behind him. “I’m all yours, ma’am,” he said, breathing in the cracked-earth smell.
“Help me with this tomato plant.”
“That’s a tomato?”
“Yes. The cucumbers seem to have attacked it, and they’ve all gone kind of crazy, and I’ve been so distracted by—”
She stopped midsentence, and Clay wondered what she’d been about to say. “By me?” he finally asked, almost at her side now.
After a quick second, where he figured she’d opened her mouth to protest, she closed it and nodded, one side of her mouth quirked up. And that, right there, was what was so absolutely appealing about this woman. No games. No bullshit, no hiding or embarrassment—although that last might not be entirely true, if the blush working its way up her face was any indication.
He wanted to touch his fingers to that blush, wanted to greet her with a kiss but held back, uncomfortable with the impulse. Instead, he reached out, took the wire frame from her hands, and went to work.
Clay’s stomach had been growling for a good hour at least by the time he raised his head and noticed how far the sun had dipped in the sky. A look around showed the garden relatively still, aside from a bird or two—even the chickens knew better than to stir up trouble in this heat—and George nowhere to be found.
Things were looking pretty good after what had to be at least five hours of hard labor, and Clay felt deep satisfaction at the part he’d played. He flexed his shoulders, stretched, and swallowed a yawn. He hadn’t had the best sleep last night. He slapped at a mosquito lazily sipping from one more pinprick in his skin and came away with a smear of blood. The bug bites itched like crazy, and he was hungry enough to eat a cow. Time to head in.
Clay let his dirt-encrusted boots fall to the porch floor with a clunk before heading inside to find George exactly where he’d pictured her—in the kitchen. She’d changed into something white and flowing, loose and fresh-looking. He wanted to go up and put his hands on her waist, feel her flesh through the cool cotton, burn his mouth on her neck.
“You hungry?” she asked, throwing a lazy smile over her shoulder. Fuck, she was pretty. His stomach tightened with something that felt strangely like fear.
“Starving.”
“You’re a mess. Want to go upstairs and grab a shower?”
Only if you come with me, he thought, although nothing she’d done made him think she’d feel that way about him in broad daylight. “Sure. Didn’t bring anything to change into, but…”
She eyed him dubiously. “I might have something that’ll fit you.”
“’S okay. I’ll just put these back on.”
“Come on,” she said, leading him up a staircase that was wide but creaky, to a bright landing, a cozy nook with a little desk and an armchair, and past her open bedroom door to the bathroom—the only one in the house. He hadn’t been surprised at the claw-foot tub or the old-school enamel sink, but the whiteness of everything still shocked him a little, after the Technicolor chaos of the rest of the house.
“White,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Your bathroom, it’s so…different. It’s nice.”
“Oh.” She looked around, big green eyes blinking as if she’d never been here before. “Thank you. Here, towels and…I’ll find you something to put on.”
She disappeared, closing the door behind her, and he stood for a few seconds, alone in her pristine bathroom, before reaching down to pull off his filthy T-shirt—one of the dozen he’d bought at her suggestion. He caught sight of himself in the hazy mirror over the sink, and the air blew raw through his throat. Fuck me. He took in the scabs and redness, the scar, and the mean face. There’d been moments, as a kid or even in college, when he’d seen himself and stared into his eyes and failed to recognize the link between inside and out. But here, now, in this perfect, calm, white place, he saw with utter clarity the rightness of his skin. Ugly. Inside and out. Ugly like the tight knot of pain in his gut.
