Sunburst

Chapter 7

Erica woke before the sunrise, to a scratchy little tongue trying to wend its way into her ear. Her hand automatically reached outside of the covers to stroke the cat. A thunderous purr resulted.

Unsmiling, she opened her eyes. The room was gray in the predawn light, lifeless and silent. She had locked the door to the loft; she had no idea where Kyle had slept.

The air was chilly, and a crisp breeze stirred the draperies at the open windows. The cat nuzzled insistently, uncaring of the early hour, the chill, anything so irrelevant as heartache. Nuisance wanted food, and to go back out on the prowl. In a few minutes, Erica was dressed in a short, loosely knit topaz top and dark brown jeans. She tried applying makeup to hide the shadows under her eyes, but the effect looked painted; she wiped it off, brushed her hair vigorously, and headed downstairs, the cat leading the way.

Kyle and Morgan were both in the kitchen nursing their coffee, their shoulders hunched and weary. The sun was peeking through the kitchen window; the men for the building project would be arriving soon. Kyle and Morgan were talking in low, morning voices, but she felt both pairs of eyes on her as she prepared a bowl of milk for the cat and then poured a cup of coffee for herself.

She felt Morgan. He radiated concern. She didn’t want it.

Kyle looked-the problematic Celt he was. He had not brushed his black hair yet, and he had probably slept in his T-shirt, but he had the kind of good looks that were enhanced rather than obliterated by hollows beneath his eyes. He was straddling the stool, his jeans stretched taut over his lean thighs, all hard muscle and no waste. He had the look of a very strong and complicated man, who could wear his melancholy like an air of mystery, and whose dishevelment implied sensuality to her, even now.

The cat lapped up the milk. Erica found a breakfast roll for herself, and as soon as Nuisance was done drinking, she opened the back door and followed the cat outside.

“Erica?”

She heard Kyle’s quick step, but she closed the door behind her quietly, deliberately. She wasn’t giving him the silent treatment, nor was she sulking. She simply had nothing to say. What could she possibly say when he had all but told her he no longer loved her?

Her mind was still spinning webs of anger and hurt just as it had through the long night. It was not the kind of morning on which she noticed the crystal gleam of sunlight on dew-soaked grass, or the bright chatterings of cardinals and blue jays above her head as she walked toward the old shop. She just kept remembering the sting of her palm, the cold look in his eyes, the nauseating realization that her love and loyalty meant nothing to him…

Absently, she tossed the unfinished breakfast roll to a trio of squirrels waiting hopefully at the edge of the woods. Kyle seemed to have been trying to tell her last night that it was over. There’s no love without an active choice, he’d said.

But there was love without choice: the feeling a parent had for a child; the sensations one felt on seeing an attractive person of the opposite sex; the feeling one had when the sun was out on a certain kind of day. But the kind of love that mattered in a marriage was not free at all; it involved commitment, an active choice day after day, just to live through those days when the sun wasn’t shining, the days after a spat over a good-looking man who had made a pass, the days when one of them had the flu and courtesy was the only thing that helped them get through the hours. One made that choice to muddle through because the love was worth it, because the relationship was worth it…because the man was worth it, she thought achingly. And she’d made her choice; it just increasingly seemed that Kyle was choosing differently.

Leave? she wondered wrenchingly. Was that what this was all about? Did he want her to leave? Toss away nine years of marriage… She couldn’t. She just couldn’t, no matter how he felt-or what he didn’t feel for her any longer. Not this minute, not just like that, like the blind turn of a card…

What she needed, she told herself, was work. And the work was there, waiting for her in the shop. The new building was almost finished; very soon everything would have to be moved, which meant packing all the small items… There were bills to pay and invoices to make out, orders for materials to check through…

She sat at the ancient desk with her coffee cup and buried herself for almost two hours-succeeding, almost, in putting a share of her problems on hold until she felt better able to cope with them. Weary finally, she stood up and stretched, then wandered idly to the window.

Her eyes widened in surprise. A pickup was pulling up outside the door, a decrepit old thing that had been painted a shiny yellow and was decorated with decals shaped like bright orange-and-green flowers. In the back was a huge table secured with ropes. Beside it stood a monster of a dog, woofing, his nose jutting out precariously to catch every last vestige of wind on his dark, furry face. In spite of herself, Erica managed a smile and hurried outside.

“Hi there!” The speaker was a little sprite of a woman, with brownish-gray curls fringing her forehead and snapping gray eyes. Perhaps forty, the lady had the kind of wrinkles on her face that said she’d never been as careful about staying out of the sun as she should have been and a smile that never did quit. “Down, you ornery old thing, and stop all that barking!” she scolded the huge shaggy dog, then turned to Erica. “I’ve got a problem I’m hoping you can help me with. You’re Kyle’s wife, aren’t you?”

Her step was as sprightly as the brilliant orange blouse she wore, never minding the arm encased in a heavy plaster cast. She offered her left hand for Erica to shake instead of her right, which obviously couldn’t do the job. Her hand was warm and welcoming, her handshake firm. “I’m Martha Calhoun; we’re neighbors. Got a dairy farm about five miles down the road. We were friends of Joel McCrery’s once upon a time. He used to stop for dinner once a month and take us all at poker. All right, get down,” she shouted to the whining animal. “But don’t go scaring everyone all over the place!”

Erica blinked when the dog promptly vaulted over the side of the pickup. “He’s half horse?” she questioned dryly.

The lady laughed. “He’s half rabbit. Likes raw carrots. Intimidates half the countryside with the look of him. I never did know whom he belongs to, but he’s got a thing about riding in my truck. We call him Lurch.”

“I can see why.” The dog had a loping, crooked gait as if his legs didn’t quite know how to accommodate his size; he also had ears that flopped, the soft eyes of a spaniel, the tail of a setter and the thick, soft coat of a St. Bernard.

“He’s the stud of the neighborhood,” Martha Calhoun said disgustedly. “If I were a female dog, I’d take one look at him and turn my nose in the air. But I know of four litters in the last two years, and one of the bitches was a prize English setter. Nancy Chase hasn’t talked to me since.”

Erica gathered that Nancy Chase owned the setter. The dog bounded close enough to sniff her, and she extended her palm for him to check out. The dog promptly washed her whole hand, sitting down next to her to do a most concentrated job of it.

“He doesn’t like people,” Martha offered sadly.

“I can see that.”

Martha laughed, motioning to the bed of the daisy-yellow pickup. “I should have come over here to meet you before! Come and look, would you, while I tell you all about my aunt Beatrice.”

With Lurch dogging her heels, Erica made her way to the back of the truck. The table was mahogany and had perhaps been intended to stand in someone’s castle hall a century or so earlier. The legs were intricately carved, an N in an upholstered wreath dominating one drop leaf, a carved eagle on the other. At one time, the top must have been faced with leather, but sometime in the recent past it had simply been finished and varnished-and, unfortunately, all but destroyed. Huge whitish rings, apparently caused by potted plants, scarred the wood…

“I’m sure it’s very valuable,” Erica said tactfully.

“Very. The N is for Napoleon. The period is Empire French, just so you can avoid it in the future. I covered it with plants so I wouldn’t have to look at it, but now you can see what I’ve done.”

Erica nodded with another glance at the water spots.

“It’s all right,” Martha said cheerfully. “Go ahead and say it.”

“I never thought a table could actually look pompous…”

Martha laughed again. “But then, you’ve never met my aunt. And I got a letter from her this morning saying she’d be here in ten days from England-”

“So you’ve got ten days to get the table back in shape?” Erica viewed the piece with a critical eye. Finally, she shook her head. “I’d love to help you, honestly. But the antiques I’ve been working on have all been American, nothing this old or valuable. Kyle would know what to do, but he’s so tied up-”

“Honey. I know what to do; it’s this broken arm that won’t let me do it. I can see you’re not dressed for messy work at the moment, but…”

No, she wasn’t; however, Martha’s eyes were bright with pleading. Just seeing her gave Erica enormous pleasure. How long had it been since she’d chatted with another woman?

“We might not even have to refinish it,” Martha coaxed. “Have you got a smoker around the house?”

“Smoker?” Erica asked blankly. “No…”

“Well, we need ashes.”

Within an hour, Erica had found laughter she had never expected to find that morning. Ashes and lemon juice were what Martha had in mind for removing the water spots, spurning all the scientific preparations stored in Kyle’s shop. While Erica changed her clothes, Martha made coffee for both of them. Then they discussed the ashes…and along the way, hair styles, clothes, living on a farm, cooking and animals. Martha had a lively sense of humor, and by the time they headed back outside they were chattering like friends of long standing.

They shelved the lemon and ash mixture temporarily in favor of another old-fashioned preparation for removing water stains: vinegar and cold water. Erica sat in the bed of the truck, wearing a halter top and shorts, working there because the table was too heavy for them to lift down. Occasionally, she glanced up to the sound of hammering and sawing where the new building was going up. Lurch was lying in the middle of the fray, being stepped over frequently, completely oblivious.

“He’s unbudgeable,” Martha said ruefully. “I should have left him home. And I never meant to take up your whole morning-”

“No problem,” Erica assured her. She added absently, “The vinegar’s good, but not good enough.”

“I’ve heard a little alcohol on a fingertip rubbed really hard-”

Finally, they gathered paper and a small stack of twigs and crouched over them in the driveway, Erica waving her hands furiously to get the fire going. “This is ridiculous,” she said idly.

Martha agreed.

“No one would go to this much trouble to get a few tablespoons of ashes. Anyone who saw us would be looking for straitjackets on sale.”

Martha agreed.

The ashes were cooled and collected. Martha’s broken arm in no way inhibited her ability to make trip after trip to the kitchen. She fetched more vinegar and water to remove the old furniture polish; then iodine to hide the tiny scratches; then lemon juice to blend with the ashes for removing the water spots. The mixture worked, although Martha had an alternative potion in mind-toothpaste mixed with baking soda.

Erica laughed harder each time Martha brought back something else from the house. “Where did you ever hear of all these home remedies?”

“Oh, in any old farming family this kind of lore is handed down from generation to generation. Needs must, as they say. A long time ago, the woman of the house didn’t have a store to pop to every time she needed something. I just wish I could do the work myself; I’ve ended up taking your whole morning. If it were only my left arm that was out of commission-”

“What on earth is going on?”

Morgan had crept up behind Erica and pressed a kiss on the nape of her neck. The two women had been so immersed in the project that neither of them had heard him approach. Morgan’s hand lingered on Erica’s shoulder as he surveyed the table-and the half of her kitchen that seemed to be on the truck bed, from bowls to spoons to the crazy mix of household supplies.

“This is Morgan Shane, Martha,” Erica said. “Martha Calhoun-she’s a neighbor of ours, Morgan.”

“I take it that’s your dog in the middle of the sawdust,” Morgan guessed dryly. There was charm in his smile for Martha, but his eyes rested on Erica, an intent look at her clinging halter top and the long stretch of midriff below it. “I’ve got to get back to it. Just wanted to tell you I’d be going into town for lunch…and I wanted to see how you were faring this morning.” One finger tapped her cheek, and Erica felt a spark of warmth because Morgan had checked on her, a reminder that he had braved an argument out of worry over her the night before.

Then he was gone, with a wave and a goodbye for Martha, who stared after him with wide-eyed interest. “I’ll have to ask Leonard,” she said gravely, “but that hunk can put his slippers under my bed anytime.”

Erica burst out laughing. She had already formed a very definite impression of Leonard and the kind of life the Calhouns had together. Their dairy herd consisted of sixty cows, just short of good size, according to Martha. They were up at three every morning to be ready to milk at five, and the second milking didn’t end until eleven at night. That left only a few hours’ sleep every night, so a nap was essential every day for both of them. It was the kind of life that took closeness between couples for granted. Without it they couldn’t have survived.

The Calhouns had a teenage son whom Martha dismally labeled immature, and whose sole interest in life, it seemed, was playing drums. Their seven-year-old daughter already needed braces and apparently lived in trees. Martha spent her time alternately worrying that the girl was going to kill herself climbing, or that one or all of them would go deaf from the constant drum practice. Erica pictured Leonard as stocky and steady, probably no better-looking than Martha but just as good-humored. He had to be, in a house where shaving cream was mixed with food coloring to make finger paints, and toothpaste was used to clean pewter. That Martha was happily married was as obvious as her clear, bright eyes and her smile that never took a rest.

“We aren’t going to have to strip the finish off this, you know,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll just use a good, strong cover-up polish…”

The table was nearly done, the water spots barely perceptible, the scratches hidden. Kyle, a perfectionist, would never have allowed it to leave his shop without refinishing it, but Martha claimed it looked a lot better now than it did when she first got it, which was more than the monstrosity deserved.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a recipe for polish, too,” Erica pleaded teasingly.

“A third of a cup each of boiled linseed oil, turpentine and vinegar. Preferably cider vinegar. For the curves, you use a soft old toothbrush and brush it on real lightly.” She waved Erica back as she started to leap down from the truck. “Hold on! I’ll get it. I told you, it’s the least I can do after you’ve dropped everything to take care of me.”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Erica admitted truthfully, but in the back of her mind was her gratitude for these few hours of no heartache.

“You’re coming for dinner tonight,” Martha insisted. “The only thing I can do with my left hand is cook. Don’t bother saying no. Leonard will never believe I’ve found someone who likes Lurch!” She was back in ten minutes, her makeshift polish in a well-shaken jar. “Kyle must have changed since he was a boy,” she said absently.

“Pardon?” Erica whirled so quickly that she almost upset the jar. Martha’s words had penetrated the numbness she’d shrouded herself in all morning.

“Your husband,” Martha said wryly. “Now, mine wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if any man as good-looking as that brown-eyed blond kissed me, he’d have been in traction before he got out the door.”

“Morgan?” Erica said incredulously, and chuckled. “Martha, that’s just his way. He’s been Kyle’s friend for years.”

“That’s funny. I could see right off we were going to be friends, and I haven’t had urge one to kiss you,” Martha pointed out blandly.

Erica shook her head with a grin. “Morgan’s just like that,” she repeated, and then hesitated, polishing the wood with long, careful strokes. “Kyle and I hit a little rough spot,” she confided after moment’s thought. “Morgan was the first one to offer help. There really aren’t many friends like him.” Martha was silent, and Erica glanced at her. “Really!” she insisted. “He really is!”

“Evidently, he is-to you,” Martha agreed smoothly. “As I said, Kyle must have changed.”

Martha had ten years on Kyle. At eighteen, she had been Martha O’Flaherty when Joel McCrery was an occasional visitor to the O’Flaherty household, and she’d served on occasion as Kyle’s babysitter.

“Oh, I regretted it,” Martha said ruefully. “Kyle accepted no one’s rule, denied that he ever needed anyone to take care of him. So he’d take off and disappear until his father came back, worrying everyone sick. And if anyone dared criticize anything Joel McCrery did…” Martha shook her head expressively. “Nine years old and one time he took on a grown man who said Joel could have spent a penny’s more time on work and a penny less on Irish whisky. This was a smaller community then, and we all rather thought Joel was digging a hole for himself and dragging his son in with him, but for the most part we kept quiet. Maybe we were wrong. Everyone liked Joel; he just wasn’t a simple man… His wife died when Kyle was real young, and Joel was never the same after that. We all tried, but Kyle was the only one he cared for… And Kyle, he turned out fine once he stopped being a perfect little hellion. You’re trying to rub the finish off?” she questioned Erica curiously.

Erica looked at her hands, white-knuckled from the thorough polishing she was giving the wood. Martha was talking about loyalty in the way Kyle had related to his father, and loyalty was a word Kyle had treated with contempt and disparagement the night before. Digging a hole and dragging his son in struck another painful spot; if Kyle was in a hole, it was Erica’s nature to dig in with him, as if she couldn’t help herself.

She felt as if Martha had inadvertently provided the missing puzzle pieces with her casual comments. Troubled, she felt she finally had caught a glimpse of something that really mattered, that would really help her understand Kyle…but she could not put all the pieces together. She ached when she thought of Kyle as a child. Joel sounded irresponsible, Kyle as if he had far too much to handle for one little boy. Fiercely loyal…independent, needing no one… Those traits were all echoed in the mature Kyle. She thought fleetingly of an earlier conversation she’d had with him, when he’d seemed to feel guilty for not loving his father as he felt he should have…yet how could he? How much could anyone put on one little boy before he started feeling resentful? Before love changed to a sense of duty? But what did any of it have to do with their marriage?

“…class president,” Martha continued irrepressibly. “But he did have a reputation with the girls. Hell on wheels, I believe, is the polite phrase. Always knew he would never settle for a small-town girl like the ones he took out, though. In fact, I would have guessed you for Kyle’s wife just by the look of you.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” Erica asked, surprised. The table was completely finished, shining under the midday sun. There were a half dozen bowls and various other items to put away, but…

“Oh, I can picture pretty well how you’d look if you were all dressed up. High class right down to the toenails, an aristocratic nose, silks and emeralds…”

Erica chuckled, with a pointed glance at her shorts and halter, well splashed by this time, her knees red from kneeling. “I see what you mean,” she said, deadpan.

“Oh, it’s there,” Martha insisted. “Believe it or not, it’s there, even dressed as you are. Thank God the personality doesn’t fit. From the time I was a teenager, I had a picture in my mind of the sort of girl Kyle would marry. She certainly wasn’t the kind to let a mutt jump all over her or get down on her hands and knees the way you have all morning. I figured her for a real beauty but a sheltered type; he was always so protective. Anyway…” Martha pivoted around, her hand screening the sun from her eyes, searching for the dog. She turned with a smile for Erica, who had both arms full of supplies to take back to the house. “I’ll see you-say, about six tonight? Bring Kyle, of course, if you can tear him away from the work.” She chuckled, adding, “Watch this.”

The hammering and sawing had stopped as the lunch hour approached. Lurch was lying on a pile of boards, surrounded by tools and half covered in sawdust, his head drooping in sleep. Martha called to him, but the dog didn’t even raise an eyelid. She marched to the truck, got in and started the engine, with another grin for Erica. Lurch sprang up instantly at the sound of the truck engine, and galloped past Erica in a blur of parti-colored fur. When the truck pulled out of the yard, the dog was settled in the back with his head angled out to catch the wind.