Chapter 2

"Thirty seconds in the microwave and it will be fine," I said, reaching for her plate of congealed mac and cheese.

She ate like foreigners usually eat when they come to America—slowly and carefully, as though what they're eating might explode at any second. She didn't look like a carnivore, but I reminded myself that I'd already stereotyped her once, and she'd probably make her wishes known. If not, she'd eat what I served her or nothing at all.

"So, tell me about what happened all those years I didn't get to watch you grow up," I suggested.

She took a tiny bite. She actually bit a single macaroni elbow in half and chewed thoughtfully.

"I don't know. I read a lot, and went roller skating and rode my bike a lot. I went to high school and graduated. I couldn't afford to go to college, and I met this guy and did stupid things and had a little boy. He's six now, and will start second grade this fall. His name is Spencer. That's pretty much it."

"Hmmm," I said. "Twenty-six years summed up in seven sentences. I was hoping for a bit more detail."

"My life has been boring," she said. She started picking the raisins off of the ants-on-a-log and putting them on the edge of her plate. I reached for them and popped them in my mouth. "Sorry," she said. "I don't like raisins."

"Everyone has a flaw or two," I said. "Not liking raisins is a pretty harmless one."

"It's not a flaw, I just don't like them."

"Anna, dear, if you keep getting upset at the things I say, you're going to spend a lot of your time here upset, and that could make you break out and destroy that glorious skin on your face. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"You could just not talk," she suggested, deadpan. I honestly didn't know if she was joking or not.

"Never happen," I said. "Besides, I suspect most men babble around you."

"No they don't," she said.

I sighed. "Do you ever agree with anybody?"

"When they say something that makes sense ... yes, I do."

It was beginning to appear as though this completely unconventional, wild and crazy, throw-her-differences-in-your-face woman wasn't as unconventional or wild and crazy as she looked.

I decided this might be an interesting visit after all.

"So, you're divorced," I said.

We were sitting in the living room. There was still a sense of strain in our budding relationship.

"I didn't say that," she said, looking at me out of that one exposed eye. I thought of sheep dogs.

I let my eyes drift to take in her whole body. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, leaning on one arm with her legs drawn up under her. It was a singularly feminine position. I could see her nipples pushing through the T-shirt.

"You said you made mistakes and had Spencer," I said. "Perhaps I jumped to a conclusion."

"Perhaps," she said. I was astonished that she'd actually agreed with something I had said. "I'm not the marrying kind," she added.

"I see."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"I understand. You're not the marrying kind," I said.

"Do you have any alcohol?" she asked.

I was a little taken aback at the sudden subject change. "Not at the moment," I said. "Should I get some?"

"No," she said. "I don't drink. Well, not usually. I like some ales and flavored beers. And I get wasted once in a while, but I usually wish I hadn't."

"So you were thinking about getting wasted, but now you can't, and that's a good thing," I said.

"Something like that," she said.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"I told you," she said, looking up at me. "It will save me some money."

"I mean why did you need to come here in the first place?" I asked.

"Oh that," she said. "I got interested in genealogy, and Mom didn't know a whole lot, except that her side of the family was here for a long time, and came here from Pennsylvania. I did some research online about exposing one's roots and one of the recommendations was to go through old property and marriage records at what's called a nexus. This is a nexus for our family. The idea is that the records sometimes contain information that can lead you backwards to another nexus, and on and on."

"Really," I said, grinning.

"Yes, really," she said. "Why are you smiling? Do you think that's funny?"

"Not at all," I said. "I just think it's interesting. While I was in the Army I did something like that. Whenever I was overseas, I tried to find evidence of our ancestors. I'm pretty sure I hit pay dirt in Germany, but I've never had the time to make the bridge between here and there."

"You're kidding!" she said, leaning forward.

"Not at all. Some of it is on Sherry's side—your side—of the family. Want to see my notebooks?"

"Of course I do!" she yipped, unfolding her legs and jumping to her feet.

"Attic," I said. "Follow me."

It was late afternoon by then, in July, and the attic was an oven. I'd insulated below there, but I hadn't gone to the trouble of insulating the roof itself. I was sweating freely within fifteen seconds of climbing through the trap door. Anna followed and exclaimed about the heat. The box containing my genealogy notebooks was on the bottom of a stack, of course, and dust flew as I moved the other boxes rapidly. She sneezed as I unfolded the lid of the genealogy box and peered inside. My genealogical research had always been a hobby at best, and a low priority one at that. When I got into it I did as much as I could. When a vein of information was mined out I usually lost interest for a while. I grabbed the three spiral bound notebooks and turned around.

Anna was fanning herself with her T shirt, held at the waist. She had raised it high enough that I could see the undersides of her naked breasts as she moved the material. I stopped and stared. The tantalizing edges of her breast flesh, above a flat, slim belly and the beginnings of the swell of her hips, were also singularly female in appearance. It wasn't at odds with her "look" necessarily. It was just that what she showed the world on the outside tended to distract the viewer from the fact that she had all the parts of an attractive woman underneath.

"What?" she asked, staring at me. "It's fucking hot in here!"

I don't know what made me say it. It just slipped out. "You could just take it off," I suggested.

Her hands stopped for a few seconds, and then waved the cloth ... lower ... more slowly.

"Are you a dirty old man, Uncle Bob?" she asked. Her tone wasn't angry. In fact I couldn't quite nail down exactly what her tone was, which was odd because I was usually pretty good at reading people's emotions.

"Have been for years," I said. I was trying to joke and lessen any strain I might have caused. I didn't know if I actually liked this girl or not, but I did know that she didn't set off any of the bells, whistles or radar that would make me wish she was gone. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but that's the way my mind works. It is still tuned to spotting the problem person, even though I retired from law enforcement years ago. "All men are," I added.

"Which agrees with my own assessment," she said. She didn't sound upset at all.

"About me?"

"About men in general," she said.

"Smart girl," I said, grinning. "These are what we were looking for. Care to get somewhere cooler?"

"Desperately," she said. She dropped the shirt and descended the fold-down stairway.

When I got down, I handed her the notebooks while I folded up the ladder and closed the trap door. I turned to see her leafing through the top book. Her shirt, like mine was damp with sweat. Her nipples, having just come from 120 degree weather to 78 degrees of air conditioning, were spiked hard. I licked my lips before I realized I'd done it. Then I lifted my eyes to find that single green/brown/blue eye examining my face. She looked down at her chest.

"Is that why you took me up there?" she asked. "So this would happen when we came back down?"

Again, her tone of voice was unreadable. But she was quick on her feet, and she didn't react like a lot of women would have, huffing and puffing and making a scene. It was another tick for her on the positive side of the scoreboard.

"Sadly, no," I said, trying to sound sad. "If I'd have thought of it, maybe, but I didn't. I should have thought of that. A younger man would have thought of it. I'm sure of it. You don't suppose dementia is setting in do you? Maybe I should go lie down." I didn't look at her, but I changed my voice to hopeful. "You could lie down with me. That might help."

She laughed.

An interesting thing happened when she laughed. I've always liked to hear a woman laugh, particularly when I was responsible for it. Laughing women are inherently sexy. Or maybe it's the knowledge that she's happy with you that makes a man feel so good when he can make a woman laugh. But when Anna laughed, it was like icicles were shot into my body all over. My prick actually began to stiffen. It was incredible. I could count the number of times on one hand that a woman had had that effect on me. And it hadn't happened in over a decade. In the space of the few split seconds that she laughed, my ambivalence about her vanished. I wanted her to stay.

"Well, if you're a dirty old man, at least you're the relatively sweet, harmless kind."

My first instinct was to bridle at being called harmless and sweet. I didn't mind the dirty old man part. I was, after all. But I didn't respond. Instead, I just turned her around so she was facing back towards the dining room and gave her a two-fingered shove in her lower back, right on top of that tattoo. As she walked away from me, the hips in those tightly-packed jeans rose and fell in the classic feminine runway walk.

I definitely wanted her to stay.

In fact, a week wasn't going to be long enough.

"You want to look at these now, or maybe cool off in the pool first?" I asked.

"You have a pool?" she sounded wistful.

"Right out back," I said.

She frowned. "Are you going swimming?" she asked.

"Why would that possibly matter?" I asked.

"Because I didn't think to bring a swimsuit," she said.