TRACY PULLED HERSELF up off the porch swing, newly mended with strong nylon rope. After an initial day of moping and feeling sorry for herself, she’d thrown herself into home improvement projects—sweeping, polishing, sanding and mending. But though she’d made the house look fresh and lived in, the work didn’t seem to banish this strange restlessness. A restlessness she’d never felt here before.
The sun was just setting, turning clouds orange and pink, and fading away the deep blue of the sky at the horizon. She didn’t seem to be in the mood to watch the sunset tonight. She didn’t seem to be in the mood to do much of anything. Five days without Paul, five days without human contact. Solitude usually suited her fine when she was out here. But apparently since she’d met Paul, what was “usual” would have to be redefined.
She had called her father once, to let him know she’d be out of the office this week. He’d been fine with her absence professionally, but was obviously worried personally. He’d really wanted things to work out between her and Paul. To the point where he’d apparently invented the Great Guacamole Disaster of Guajolote, Texas, with Becky’s help, to get Tracy and Paul alone for lunch at Chez Mathilde.
Well, she wanted things to work out with Paul, too. But wanting wasn’t enough.
She shuffled into the house, used the bathroom and scowled at herself in the mirror while she washed her hands. Hair a chaotic wreck; makeup cancelled due to lack of interest. Dark circles from fitful sleep interrupted by strange dreams. Dreams that the house had been turned into a giant pink golf resort by a developer who looked suspiciously like Paul. Dreams that she’d wandered onto a construction site and stepped in quick-drying cement where she stuck, flailing her arms, trying vainly to shout for help, while the rest of the world went on unconcernedly around her.
But worst by far, were the dreams of making love with Paul, of the fabulous, joyous feeling of completion, of the terrible fear she’d never feel that way again. Those dreams were the worst, because those dreams played in a continuous loop during the day, when she was fully awake and there was no escape.
She dragged herself into the family room and flicked on the old television, adjusting the antenna until the picture came in clearly. A movie starring Mel Gibson. God, how bad must she have it if even he paled in comparison to Paul? She sank onto the beat-up sofa, still decorated with a few hairs from Tinker, their dog who died shortly after Tracy’s mom. No amount of vacuuming seemed to be able to clear them all away. No amount of busy work or wishing seemed to be able to clear the confusion from her brain.
A close-up of Mel’s mesmerizing blue eyes refocussed Tracy’s attention to his character’s plight. She frowned when he lost his beautiful soul mate to an accident that left her in a coma. She shook her head when he was frozen by his scientist best friend and accidentally revived fifty years later. She smiled in sympathy as he tried to find his way around a totally changed world. That, she could certainly identify with.
The movie broke for a commercial and Tracy wandered into the kitchen to make popcorn since cooking dinner held no appeal. She measured oil into a pot, added a few tablespoons of kernels, and turned on the stove. A horrible buzz sounded, like an enormous electric shock. Sparks stuttered out of the burner coil and a blue-orange flame licked greedily at the pot.
Tracy yelled and flung herself away, then reached and shut off the stove, snatching her hand back as if it might get eaten. She stood, panting, fist to her chest, trying to get control of her breathing. The second her heart began to slow, she started crying. Ugly, wracking sobs that made her want to laugh because they were so melodramatic and unlike her, except she was too miserable to laugh. The counter hit her back and she slid down onto the floor and cried some more.
In her beautiful wonderful perfect sheltered little world, she was no longer happy. No longer complete. She might as well be in a giant deep freeze along with Mel. Fifty years could disappear and she’d still be here, watching TV, wrestling with the stove and the toaster and the windows. Tracy Richards, that weird old woman who lived by herself in the drafty ramshackle farmhouse. Kids would be scared to come by on Halloween and would dare each other to throw stones through her window. She’d hobble out on her cane, gray hair to her waist, most of her teeth missing, and shake her broomstick at them.
Tracy’s tears changed to hysterical giggles. Okay, enough. Her life wouldn’t come to that. She wouldn’t let it. Maybe she’d spent the past few years treading water, but she wasn’t going to stay in and get pruny skin anymore. Time to start swimming forward, find a nice island with room for two people in love, a nice house and plenty of compromises. She pushed herself up and grabbed a tissue, blew her nose, wiped her eyes and extended her arms sharply as if she needed to shoot her hands out of too-long sleeves.
Toaster first.
She pulled the plug out of the wall, rummaged under the sink for a large sturdy trash bag, and dumped it in. Kitchen timer next. Burned potholders, dull can opener, chipped glasses, cracked plates. This. Felt. Good.
Ugly wall clock, greasy teakettle, stained dishrack, threadbare towels, bent forks, rusted spatula. She laughed, positive adrenaline running for the first time all week. Mismatched mugs, shelf paper with red chickens, faded decades-old curtains, and on and on, leaving the real treasures, the truly meaningful items, alone. She filled the bag, and dumped it out in the hall where the appliances Paul bought still sat. In her pathetic state of sorry-for-herself paralysis, she hadn’t bothered to return them.
She set up the new toaster, the new timer, lugged the new microwave to the counter and plugged it in. She ripped open the box of microwave popcorn Paul had bought and tossed a pouch into the oven. Two and a half lazy, hands-free minutes later she brought her bowl of steaming perfect popcorn back into the living room, pulled off the dog-haired couch cover and tossed it into the hallway.
Take that.
Half an hour later, she sighed as Mel Gibson, whose body had conveniently aged fifty years in a matter of hours, flew a conveniently available 1930s plane to his true love, who had woken from her coma after he was frozen and who had even more conveniently been widowed.
Tracy sniffled and gave the reunited couple on the screen a glowing smile. So what if it was all too convenient. She loved happy endings. And this one held a special message for her. Mel’s character had survived, triumphed in his new world, yet managed to bring his past into his future. He could still fly the old planes, still count on his old love.
Message received.
Tomorrow she’d go to the store. Buy new versions of everything she’d thrown out. Get that air conditioner for her bedroom, and a bed built for two. Replace the porch screens. Do it all. Then she’d rent that luxury car and go back to the city on Friday, in time for Paul’s presentation to 21st Century Produce. Talk to her dad about quitting the business, about finding something else to do. Maybe use her money to help other aspiring farmer researchers live more comfortably while their ideas took shape. Dad might miss her, but he’d be glad she was moving on, as he had.
Because a house couldn’t make her happy, because land couldn’t make her whole and complete and at peace. Now that she’d found Paul, only one thing could.
Herself.
“WHAT THE HELL do you mean she’s sick?” Paul stared at Dave, who’d come to Paul’s office to deliver the bad news in person. The presentation to 21st Century was due to start in fifteen minutes and the model he’d hired, a friend of Dave’s, had come down with a stomach bug.
Served him right for not going through a professional agency that could offer a replacement. But the woman Dave suggested, a woman trying to get her modelling career started, had been so perfect he’d jumped at her. Petite, dark, very much like Tracy, who was of course the inspiration.
God, he missed her. The week had been an agonizing mix, full of frantic busy preparation and empty unsettling anxiety. Had he gotten his message through or just infuriated her? When the fury died down would she move toward him or seal herself off forever in that antique memory factory?
He brought himself back to the more currently pressing nightmare of stress. “Okay, look, there’s nothing we can do short of grabbing someone off the street, which isn’t very likely in the next fifteen minutes.”
Dave shrugged. “I could try that.”
“If anyone could pull it off, you could.” Paul laughed without humor, pulling his collar away from his sweating skin. Everything was supposed to be perfect; everything had been perfect. His big shot, his fabulous campaign. Now he was going to have to go out there and ask the 21st Century Produce crowd to use their imaginations like he was a puppeteer at an amateur kiddy show.
So be it.
“At least we’ve got the still photos.” He adjusted his tie and picked up his presentation notes. “They’ll have to do. The concept is intact.”
“Another thing, Paul.”
He glared at Dave. “No more bad news.”
“I think Tracy’s here. I caught a glimpse of her out in the hall. Thought you might want to know before you went in.”
Paul swallowed. He was pretty sure his heart had stopped, except it suddenly began pounding so hard he swore it was making his lapel jump. She was back. Back from the farm. He’d invented excuses to call her office every day last week and the answer had always been the same. Still away, no news about her return.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Good luck, man.” Dave came forward and slapped Paul on the back. “I’ll hang around to see how it goes, take you out for a—Hey! I gotta idea.” He rushed to the door, turned, and rushed back. “Start the presentation five minutes late, okay?”
Paul shook his head. “Dave, I don’t think I can tolerate another one of your ideas.”
“No.” Dave held up his hands. “This is a good one. I feel responsible for this mess, but I can fix it. You got the dress and stuff here?”
Paul pointed to a dry cleaning bag hanging from a hook on his office door. “Yeah, but it won’t fit you.”
“Ha…ha…ha.” Dave lunged for the bag and rushed out of the room.
Paul sighed. If he wasn’t so desperate…But even Dave wouldn’t take chances with this presentation. Most likely he just remembered girlfriend number six-thousand-thirty-four had short dark hair.
He went over his notes one more time, tapped the cards on top of his desk to align them. Inhale. Exhale. Out of his office, down the hall toward the presentation room where Karen and Jim already waited. And possibly Tracy as well. One look at her eyes and he’d know. One look.
He put his hand on the doorknob, focused his energies, his thoughts, tried unsuccessfully to calm his still-sprinting heart, and went in.
Immediately Tracy’s father stood, along with two other managers Paul had been introduced to briefly, and Tracy’s secretary Mia, whom he hadn’t expected to see. Paul smiled and shook Derek Richards’s hand warmly, while sick disappointment threatened to expose his heartiness for the act it was.
Where the hell was Tracy? Had Dave made a mistake?
He greeted the other two managers and Mia and moved to the middle of the room, trying to bolster his sagging enthusiasm for the presentation and for life in general. Why wasn’t she here? Was she still at the damn farm? Or just down the hall?
“Welcome. I hate to begin a presentation this important to The Word, Inc. with an apology, but a model I hired to be part of a tableau came down sick and we’ve been unable to find a replacement.”
A few murmurs he assumed were disapproving. Paul gritted his teeth and gestured to a corner of the room covered by a black cloth curtain. At his cue, the lights went down in the room, a soft spotlight hit the corner and the curtain drew back.
The audience applauded wildly. Paul took a step forward, not blinking, his arm still outstretched. On the exact replica of the steps to the Richardses’ farm he’d had built, dressed in the sexy black minidress, with red lipstick and nails, about to bite into a perfect ripe tomato, sat Tracy.
She broke her pose to smile shyly up at him. He’d never seen anything so gorgeous in his life. She looked tired, but her eyes were calm, not troubled, not flat, not afraid.
Hope began building up a sweet pressure in his chest.
“Hello.” He crossed the space between them and extended his hand for a shake, wanting desperately to kiss her until she was out of breath, but too aware of the room full of eyes on him. “This is certainly a surprise. I’m glad you could make it.”
She took his hand and squeezed it hard. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He held on a few seconds longer than necessary, room full of eyes be damned, to see if she’d pull away. She didn’t, but kept her warm, confident gaze on his. The hope grew sweeter.
He drew back, before contact with her drew his thoughts irrevocably away from the professional arena, or before his pants took on a shape the designer had not intended.
Paul moved back to the middle of the room, power and determination back in spades. He gave a quick nod and another spotlight lit a large photograph of the same set, with the original model sitting on the steps. The background colors had been faded nearly to gray, so the black dress, red tomatoes and her red lipstick and nails stood out vibrantly. “This is the image I want for Tracy’s Tomatoes.”
A gasp from Tracy, and chuckles from her father and the managers.
Paul held up his hands, grinning. “The innuendo in the name is deliberate. What I’m after is the perfect combination of innocence and sophistication. Old-fashioned family tradition, the father who names a product after his beloved daughter, and modern snappy sensuality.”
He took a deep breath and turned his head slightly to direct his remarks to Tracy. “I wanted the woman to embody the same contrasting combination. In the campaign she’ll always be the epitome of sexy sophistication, in fabulous clothes and jewelry. But her surroundings will always be humble—a farm, a ballpark, a burger joint. What I want to imply is that she can indulge herself and still feel at home anywhere she goes.”
Tracy’s smile grew so wide he could see it around the tomato in front of her face. Her eyes over the top were clear and direct. “Yes. She can.”
Laughter in the room, and applause. Everyone appreciated the joke. Paul cleared his throat, grateful for the brief wave of audience commentary to cover his slide into emotionalism. He understood the real meaning of her words. That they could make it. That she was willing to try. He suddenly wanted this damn presentation he’d focused his entire life toward over with as soon as humanly possible so he could get her out of here, follow up on the promise in her eyes and talk about forever. Then do wildly sexual things to her for hours.
He continued the presentation, showing the other boards, talking about the media they should target, the possibilities for expansion into television and radio, trying to sound as though there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
He wrapped up his talk, took some questions himself, directed others to Karen and Jim, and finally, finally, ushered the group minus Tracy out of the conference room and out of the offices, ready to growl with impatience.
The second the door swung shut behind them, he dropped the smile from his face, headed back to the conference room and nearly bumped into Karen and Jim.
“Well, boss.” Karen slapped him on the back. “I think that went really—”
“Yeah, it was great.” He brushed past her, knocked on the conference room door and went in.
TRACY LINGERED behind after Paul escorted his guests out of the room. She had to put her own clothes back on and she had to make sure Paul had gotten the message.
Several minutes of major making out wouldn’t hurt either. Seeing him again had made her want him, physically and emotionally, with an ache that she had a feeling wouldn’t quit any time soon.
She stepped out of the black dress and grinned at it. Okay, so the way she’d acknowledged her willingness to change had been a little melodramatic. But when Dave approached her with the plan it seemed too good a chance to pass up. And judging by the pop-eyed, drop-jawed look on Paul’s face, she’d made a good decision taking a somewhat playful approach to show him the changes in her.
She pulled on her new suit jacket, bought yesterday on a clothes-buying spree that had left her plenty of styles and moods to choose from. Yes. She had enjoyed herself. Yes, she had felt a little guilty, but also giddy and self-indulgent, and definitely eager for Paul to see her in some of the skimpy underthings.
An impatient rapping came at the door. “Tracy?”
“Come in.” She smiled, resisting the urge to weave her fingers together. No reason to feel unsettled, just because her emotions were swirling to the point of total meltdown.
“Hi.” She stretched the smile to a grin, took two steps toward him, then ran the rest of the way.
He caught her and whirled her around, then kissed her, drew back to stare at her as if he’d never seen anything quite so miraculous, stroked down the side of her face and kissed her again. “God, I’m glad to see you. I was afraid you weren’t ever coming back.”
“I had some thinking to do. You won’t recognize the farm. I made some changes. I want to make more. You’ll see when we go back. If…you’d like to sometime.” Her words tumbled over themselves in her eagerness to let him know she was ready to meet him halfway.
“I’d like to. Anytime.” He smiled, crinkling the corners of his blue-gray eyes. “How about now?”
“Honest?” She laughed at his eagerness. “Now’s good. I think we can get there by—”
Mia burst into the room and reared back guiltily at the sight of them. “Oh, sorry! I came all this way to lend Tracy my red lipstick and polish and I forgot to put them back in my purse.”
She spotted the makeup and went over on exaggerated tiptoe. “There they are.”
“Hey, Colonel.” Dave’s head peeked around the door. He saw Paul and Tracy together and gave a thumbs-up. Tracy sighed and took a step back. A party. How nice.
“How did the presentation—” Dave glanced toward Mia and froze.
Mia glanced back at Dave and froze as well.
“…You.” The word struggled out of Dave’s mouth.
“Oh!” Mia walked closer, gazing up in awe at the gentle giant from her five-foot petite frame. “I’ve found you.”
“I’m hit,” Dave whispered. “You’re The One.”
“It’s all right there, in your eyes.” Mia put a finger to her own face, then reached up toward his. “Like a part of myself that was missing.”
“What’s your name? I’m Dave.”
“Dave. I’m Mia.”
“Mee-a.” He dropped to his knees. “It’s nice to meet you, Mia, will you marry me?”
“Yes.” Her face crumpled into happy tears. “Oh, yes. I’ll marry you.”
Dave swung her tiny form up into his massive arms and carried her out of the room.
“Tracy?” Mia’s voice sounded faintly going down the hall. “I’m taking the rest of the day off….”
Tracy and Paul stood staring after the apparently engaged couple, then turned to stare at each other.
Paul blinked. “Did that just happen?”
Tracy burst out laughing and moved back toward him. “From what I remember of our first meeting on the beach, if we hadn’t spent so much time fighting it, that could have been us.”
“From what I remember, you’re right.” Paul put his hands on her waist, drew her close. “I’m done fighting. No more designer everything. No more luxury for luxury’s sake. I promise.”
“And I promise no more keeping things forever just to keep things the same. Including me.” She bit her lip, tried to smile and got all watery-eyed instead. “I love you.”
He kissed her lingeringly, driving up the emotional stakes until she felt she would go mad loving him, mad wanting him.
“I love you, too, Tracy.”
“Oh, gosh.” She drew back before she started crying and ripping off her clothes. Some things were better left to places other than corporate conference rooms.
“You know what?” She attempted a smile that went wavery and crooked. “I’m starving.”
He grinned, a sexy grin of understanding and tousled her curls. “Want to go out for pizza on our way to the farm?”
“Pizza?” She pretended surprise. “Is that really what you want?”
“Sausage or pepperoni?”
“Hmm.” She pressed herself against him, unable to be out of contact for long. No question. She’d been hit. He was The One.
“Pizza is okay.” She grinned and drew her finger across his lips. “But I kind of have a craving for quail eggs and Loire Crémant.”