did dream such things.
And he bent over and put his hands in the setting concrete.
And then he insisted she leave her prints there beside his. Kyle added his handprints happily, writing his name under his handprint, giving her a sideways look.
“Can I write, it sucks to be you?”
And then they had all laughed. Again. That beautiful from-the-belly laughter that felt as if it had the power to heal everything that was wrong in the world. Her world, anyway.
“Did you know,” Ben asked her solemnly, “that your nose crinkles when you laugh?”
She instinctively covered her nose, but he pulled her concrete-covered hand away.
“You don’t want to get that stuff on your face,” he said, and then added, “It’s cute when your nose does that.”
She had been blissfully unaware until very recently that there was anything in her world that was wrong, that needed to be healed.
Beth had been convinced she was over all that nonsense with Rock/Ralph. Completely.
But now, as her world got bigger and freshened with new experiences and with laughter, and with a man who noticed her nose crinkled when she laughed and thought it was cute, she saw how her hurt had made her world small. Safe, but small.
Now it was as if something magic was unfolding in her yard, and the three of them were helpless against its enchantment. She had actually considered having Kyle put those words in there, it sucks to be you, because with those words this funny, unexpected miracle had been brought to her.
Not just the tree house.
Maybe the tree house was even the least of it. This feeling of working toward a common goal with other people, of being part of something. This feeling of the tiniest things, like washing the concrete off their hands with the hose, Ben reaching over and scrubbing a spec of stubborn grit off her hand, being washed in light, the ordinary becoming extraordinary.
Who was she kidding? The feeling was of belonging. The feeling was of excitement. It was as if something was unfolding just below the surface, as if the excitement in her life had just begun. As that the yard took shape, her staircase beginning to wind around the tree, it was as if she saw possibility in a brand-new way.
Now, as she came out the door with her tray of goodies and set them on the worn picnic table that once had been the pathetic centerpiece of her yard, she watched Ben stop what he was doing. He walked toward her, scooping up his T-shirt as he came, giving his face and chest a casual swipe with it, before pulling it over that incredible expanse of naked male beauty.
“Milk and lemonade,” he said, grinning, eyeing the contents of the tray. “Interesting.”
“Why?” she demanded. She had just known he would read something into whatever choice she made! She should have known not making a choice had a meaning, too.
He laughed. “You’re trying to make everybody happy.”
“No,” she said, and put the tray down, stood with her hands on her hips staring at the reality of the staircase starting to gracefully curve around the tree, “you are. And look at my yard.” But she wanted to say Look at me. Can’t you tell how happy I am? Instead she said, “Look at Kyle.”
Kyle arrived at the picnic table, smudges of dirt on his face, glowing with something suspiciously like happiness even without the choice between lemonade and milk.
“Look,” he crowed, and showed her his hand.
A blister was red across the palm.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s terrible. I’ll get some ointment.”
But his uncle nudged her and shook his head. “It’s part of being a man,” he said.
Just loud enough for Kyle to hear him.
Kyle’s chest filled with air, and he grinned happily, dug into the cookies and didn’t look up until the plate was nearly emptied. He drank two glasses of milk and one of lemonade, and then leaped up and went back to what he’d been doing.
“Okay, I admit it,” she said, watching the boy pick up his shovel. “Your plan is better than mine. He loves this. He is a different boy than he was a few days ago.”
“Well, don’t say it too loud or he might feel driven to prove you wrong, but, yeah, it’s good for him.”
“It’s really good of you to do this. I’m sure today should have been your day off.”
“I don’t take much time off at this time of year. It gets slow when the weather changes, and then I take some time.”
“And do what?” Was it too personal? Of course it was. She didn’t want to know what he did with his spare time. Yes, she did.
“Usually I go back to Hawaii for a couple of weeks.” His eyes drifted to Kyle. “This year, I’m not sure.”
“How is your sister?” She could tell right away that this was too personal, by the way his shoulders stiffened, how he swirled lemonade in the bottom of his glass like a fortune-teller looking for an answer.
She could tell this was the part of himself that he didn’t want people to know about. It was easy for him to be charming and fun-loving. She almost held her breath waiting to see what he would show her.
And then sighed with relief when he showed her what was real.
He rolled his big shoulders, looked away from the lemonade and held her gaze for one long, hard moment. “She’s not going to make it.”
Beth had known Kyle’s mother was seriously ill. There was no other reason that Ben would have been appointed his guardian. But she was still taken aback at this piece of news.
She touched his arm. Nothing else. Just touched him. And it felt as if it was the most right thing in the world when his hand came and covered hers. Something connected them. Not sympathy, but something bigger, a culmination of something that had started happening in this yard from the first moment he had said he would build a tree house for her.
She could have stayed in that wordless place of connection for a long time. But his reaction was almost the opposite of hers.
He took his hand away as if he could snatch back the feeling that had just passed between them. He smiled at her, that devil-may-care smile, and she realized a smile, even a sexy one—or maybe especially a sexy one—could be a mask.
“I’m going to kiss you one day,” he promised.
Was that a mask, too? A way of not feeling? Of not connecting on a real level? She looked at his lips.
The terrible truth was she was dying to be kissed by him.
But not like that. Not as part of a pretext, a diversion, a way to stop things from hurting.
“Actually, you’re not,” she said, and was pleased by his startled expression, as if no one had ever refused him a kiss before.
