going to hurt yourself,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. And then just in case she thought he had a weak place somewhere in him, that he might actually care, that he might be feeling something as intoxicatingly unprofessional as she was, he said, “Second Chances can’t afford a compensation claim.”
She smiled to herself, went back to shoveling.
He seemed just a little too pleased with himself.
She tossed a little dirt on his shoes.
“Hey,” he warned her.
“Sorry,” she said, insincerely. She tossed a little more.
He stopped, glared at her over the top of his shovel. She pretended it had been purely an accident, focused intently on her own shovel, her own dirt. He went back to work. She tossed a shovel full of dirt right on his shoes.
“Hey!” he said, extricating his feet.
“Watch where you put your feet,” she said solemnly. “Second Chances can’t afford to buy you new shoes.”
She giggled, and shoveled, but she knew he was regarding her over the top of his shovel, and when she glanced at him, some of that remoteness had gone from his eyes, finally, and this time it didn’t come back. He went back to work.
Plop. Dirt on his shoes.
“Would you stop it?” he said.
“Stop what?” she asked innocently.
“You have something against my shoes?”
“No, they’re very nice shoes.”
“I know how to make you behave,” he whispered.
She laughed. This is what she had wanted. To know if there was something in him that was playful, a place she could reach. “No, you don’t.”
He dangled it in front of her eyes.
A worm! She took a step back from him. “Houston! That’s not funny!” But, darn it, in a way it was.
“What’s not funny?” he said. “Throwing dirt on people’s shoes?”
“I hate worms. Does our compensation package cover hysteria?”
“You would get hysterical if I, say, put this worm down your shirt?”
He sounded just a little too enthused about that. It occurred to her they were flirting with each other, cautiously stepping around that little zing, looking at it from different angles, exploring it.
“No,” she said, but he grinned wickedly, sensing the lie.
The grin changed everything about him. Everything. He went from being too uptight and too professional to being a carefree young man, covered in dirt and sweat, real and human.
It seemed to her taking that chance on showing him who she really was was paying off somehow.
Until he did a practice lunge toward her with the worm. Because she really did hate worms!
“If I tell your girlfriend you were holding worms with your bare hands today, she may never hold your hand again.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Ah, it was a weakness. She’d been fishing. But that’s what worms were for!
He lunged at her again, the worm wiggled between his fingers. He looked devilishly happy when she squealed.
Then, as if he caught himself in the sin of having fun, he abruptly dropped the worm, went back to work.
She hesitated. It was probably a good time to follow his lead and back off. But, oh, to see him smile had changed something in her. Made her willing to take a risk. With a sigh of surrender, she tossed a shovel of dirt on his shoes. And he picked up that worm.
“I warned you,” he said.
“You’d have to catch me first!”
Molly threw down her shovel and ran. He came right after her, she could hear his footfalls and his breathing. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he was chasing her, holding out the worm. She gave a little snicker, and put on a burst of speed. At one point, she was sure that horrible worm actually touched her neck, and she shrieked, heard his rumble of breathless laughter, ran harder.
She managed to put a wheelbarrow full of plants between them. She turned and faced him. “Be reasonable,” she pleaded breathlessly.
“The time for reason is done,” he told her sternly, but then that grin lit his face—boyish, devil-may-care, and he leaped the wheelbarrow with ease and the chase was back on.
The old people watched them indulgently as they chased through the garden. Finally the shoes betrayed her, and she went flying. She landed in a pile of soft but foul-smelling peat moss. He was immediately contrite. He dropped the worm and held out his hand—which she took with not a bit of hesitation. He pulled her to her feet with the same easy strength that he had shoveled with. Where did a man who crunched numbers get that kind of strength from? She had that feeling again, of something about him not adding up, but it was chased away by his laughter.
“You don’t laugh enough,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I’m not sure. I just do. You are way too serious, aren’t you?”
He held both her hands for a moment, reached out and touched a curl, brushed it back from out of her eyes.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted.
Something in her felt absolutely weak with what she wanted at that moment. To make him laugh, but more, to explore all the reasons he didn’t. To find out what, exactly, about him did not add up.
“Truce?” he said.
“Of course,” she panted. She meant for all of it, their different views of Second Chances. All of it.
He reached over, snared the camera out of her pocket and took a picture of her.
“Don’t,” she protested. She could feel her hair falling out, she was pretty sure there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and probably on her derriere, too!
But naturally he didn’t listen and so she stuck out her tongue at him and then struck a pose for him, and then called over some of the other gardeners. Arms over each other’s shoulders, they performed an impromptu can-can for the camera before it all fell apart, everyone dissolving into laughter.
Houston smiled, but that moment of spontaneity was fading. Molly was aware that he saw that moment of playfulness differently to her. Possibly as a failing. Because he was still faintly removing himself from them. She had been welcomed into the folds of the group, he stood outside it.
Lonely, she thought. There was something so lonely about him. And she felt that feeling, again, of wanting to explore.
And
