*5* Skirmish

*Rob*

Extracting myself from beneath the bathroom sink, I stand, rubbing the spot where the cabinets pressed into my back as I worked changing out the faucets and supply lines. I test the connections for each handle and the hot and cold feeds for leaks as the water runs and, pleased with my work, gather my trash and tools, heading downstairs. Four down, three to go, I think, dreading the update in the tiny downstairs’ powder room more than any of the others.

At the landing, my eyes are drawn through the entry windows where I can see Grace has returned from her errands. I curse, hurrying to empty my arms, as I watch her close the driver-side crew cab door on her pick-up, then collect the handles of all of her shopping bags and start towards the house, slumped under the weight of the too heavy burdens.

I leap off the veranda, racing across the snowy front yard toward her. “Let me help you with those.”

Smiling, Grace relinquishes the bags in one hand, then shifts half the remaining ones into it. “I’ve got these.” She shakes her head when I reach for more. “Thank you for helping.”

“These are heavy. Why are you trying to haul all of this in one trip?” I hold the front door for Grace, following her into the kitchen with her purchases.

“It’s cold. I didn’t want to make a second trip through the snow. Why are you insistent I should let you carry everything and open all the doors?” Grace counters, removing bagged items and sorting them into the refrigerator or the narrow cupboard pantry beside it.

Taking a convenient position near the bags still containing items I expect she wants in the basement storage, I watch as she puts things away. “That’s how I was raised. It’s good manners. As long as my dad or I was around, my mother never carried anything or opened doors for herself.”

Stopping everything else she’s doing, Grace faces me across the kitchen, her head tipped to one side. That provocative gap has opened between her gorgeous lips, a mannerism I now recognize is typically associated with her thoughtful contemplation. But with lips like hers that vie with her astounding eyes for the most expressive part of her face, it’s captivating for a wholly different reason. One my body responds to at a visceral level.

One that’s getting difficult to ignore.

“It is good manners,” she agrees. A slight smile curls the corners of her lips, drawing my attention there again. “Most men aren’t quite so vigilant as you are though. Is it,” here she stumbles on her words, “cultural that you’re so attentive?”

It’s something I like about her—well, I like a lot about her—how carefully she addresses her questions.

I shrug. “I couldn’t tell you. The way I see it, if a pretty woman is going to be holding onto something, I’d rather it be my arm or hand than a bag or handle.” Embarrassed by the forward confession, I combine the remaining items Grace hasn’t put away into a couple bags to take to the basement. “Is this all going downstairs?”

Grace waits without answering until I meet her eyes, the curls at the corners of her mouth spreading into a full and beautiful smile that takes my breath away.

“Yes. Thank you.”

*Grace*

I watch Rob’s biceps flex through his long-sleeved t-shirt, his exposed forearms corded with veins. As he lifts the bags, I blatantly admire his broad shoulders, muscular back and narrow waist, then he opens the basement door and disappears into the cellar.

I’ve thought Rob was attractive from the get-go, but physical attraction is seldom much of a motivator in my interest. His particular blend of good looks and gallantry though, that’s a powerful one-two punch. If I think much about it, it feels strange, seeing him off for the day after breakfast, looking forward to his return after classes and the time we spend together talking over meals or working on projects in the house in the evenings and on the weekends. Strange, and kind of nice.

Doubtless, Rob hadn’t meant to reveal as much as he did, and I’m genuinely grateful for the compliment. I haven’t invested much in my appearance since Juliet became ill. It took everything I had to keep up with basic household chores and getting my grandmother to the medical appointments she needed. Mostly, I’d begun to consider brushing my teeth and hair a beauty accomplishment. That Rob didn’t seem to mind, even complimented me, that struck a deep chord.

*Rob*

In the cellar, I do my best to sort Grace’s recent purchases into the correct positions on the shelves by looking at the ones already present. You shouldn’t have said that, I chastise myself. The last thing you need is for her to feel uncomfortable having you here. This job is a real help you can’t afford to lose.

A hard knot loosens then tightens in my chest, thinking of the few grand I’ve saved in the three months since I moved in. It’s more than I’d managed total in the preceding six months and since the sponsorship hearing for my parents’ immigration applications. I need everything I can save to get them out of Korea as quickly as possible when USCIS and the State department finish processing their applications.

“Is it just me, or was that more than you usually buy?” I ask as I emerge from the cellar. Grace has lunch set for us at the countertop bar, and at the smell of hot food, my stomach gives a loud growl. As if I haven’t already embarrassed myself enough today, I think, apologizing quickly. “It smells wonderful.” I wash my hands at the sink, then wait to pull out Grace’s chair as she comes around the counter.

“Thank you.” Grace unfolds a paper napkin across her lap. “It is more than usual. For the holidays—Christmas and New Year’s. I expect you’re spending it with your family? Or your friends like Thanksgiving?”

My brows rise as I shake my head. “No. If you don’t mind, I’ll be here.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

My attention focuses sharply. It’s clear from her expression and the tone of her voice Grace is happy to have me around for the holidays. Still, I worry I’ll keep her from some family tradition. “You’re not spending them with your family?”

Grace looks down at her plate with a resigned sigh. “No. The only family I have left around here is Ella. She and her family are going on a cruise for the holidays. My dad and stepmom moved to Florida after he retired a few years ago and my younger sister is on the other side of the country. She never visits any of us.” Uncomfortable, she grasps for the nearest thing to change the topic. “Did I see you’ve finished replacing the faucets already?”

I shake my head, taking a seat beside her. “No. Just the upstairs. I’ll start with the ones down here after lunch. It’ll be done today though. Was there something else you wanted me to work on after? Something you need or want done for the holidays?” I take a bite of the hot sandwich she’s prepared. It’s scrumptious. “Mmmmm.”

“You’re welcome.” Grace smiles. “Weren’t you going into town tonight?” she asks, knowing I usually spend one weekend evening with my friends, drinking and playing darts or pool.

“Not this weekend. All of us have finals on Monday.”

“Oh? What subject?”

“Economics. I think it’s a math of some sort for my friends attending State.”

“Spend the time studying then,” Grace insists. “It’s not as if the work is going anywhere. I’ll get you a list—.”

“If you don’t mind, it’s easier if you just tell me,” I interrupt. “I’ll remember and take a look to see what supplies I’ll need.”

As Grace speaks, I memorize the repairs she wants. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather move the laundry up here?” I ask when one of the repairs she mentions is for the laundry room in the cellar.

“I’d love not hiking two stories to do laundry, but where would I put it? They’re not exactly small appliances.”

Rising, I walk to the edge of the kitchen where she can see me over the counter. The bigger issue would be the water supply and drainage lines. “Here. I’d take out the built-in desk. Frame the entry.” I sketch invisibly with my hands to help aid Grace’s visual. “I could hang folding doors to close it off. This is already a wet wall because of the master bath upstairs and the powder room here. Probably why the laundry aligns below. Plus it has 240 volt wiring from your stove I could tap for the drier’s electrical.”

Grace comes to stand beside me, staring into the space I’ve indicated, imagining what I suggested.

“I like the idea. Especially the part about not doing laundry in the cold, musty cellar during the winter.” She shifts to look at me instead of the desk. “What would happen to my desk?”

I take a deep breath, leaning to look into the great room. Deciding against any kind of built-in in that space, I poke my head into the dining room first, then the overlarge mudroom. Grace actually keeps very little in it, and the space could easily be used for a desk if she’s determined to have one downstairs.

Returning to the counter bar where our meal is growing cold, I wave her to my side. As she leans over, resting her elbows on the bar, her head in her hands, I flip the slip of paper she’s been using for her list of supplies, and quickly sketch a revision of the mudroom with the desk inside.

Seeing what I mean to do from my rendered draft, Grace gasps, her mesmerizing blue eyes locking on mine. “This space—where you’ve planned the desk—could you make that a pantry?”

“That’s actually a great idea since you don’t have much cupboard space in the kitchen.” I lean over the drawing again, inking over the previous draft with bold lines. “You’d sacrifice the desk. I might be able to put it upstairs or I could move the one that’s in my room for you. You’d gain a spacious, enclosed pantry and laundry off the kitchen instead of in the cellar, and still have a small mudroom.”

“Deal!” Grace exclaims, her face beaming her pleasure.

Oh, when she smiles, I think, and it’s impossible to keep a smile off my own face. A silent lull expands into the area between us. Suddenly I’m aware of a humming along my nerves, as if each of them is firing at top speed and flooding my brain with chemoelectrical signals. I savor the sensation. I’ve never been the kind to get ga-ga over a girl, yet this one has the capacity to derail my thoughts with nothing but her presence and expression.

Recovering myself, I gesture to her chair, tucking it under her as she sits. “I can start on the mudroom after my last final later this week, if you don’t mind helping bring home the lumber.”

*Grace*

Rob waits patiently, watching as I agonize over my choices—stain or paint—for the trim in the remodeled laundry and pantry. This is the third time we’ve been to this section of the hardware store. Each time previously, I’ve delayed the decision, wandering to some other department to collect something else on our list before returning here, so I can debate myself again.

“I can’t decide.” I look away sheepishly.

Chuckling, he steps closer, ducking so he can meet my gaze with those achingly gorgeous honey colored eyes. “I think you’ll be happier if you go with the paint. Like the rest of the house,” Rob soothes. “But if you’re not, I’ll take the trim right off, strip the paint and stain it instead. I’ll do it for every room if you want. It’s no big deal.”

Maybe. Maybe not, but I hate to ask him to redo his work just because I vacillate about my choices. Plus it’s his winter break from classes. I’m sure he doesn’t want to spend his holiday working around the house, if he even plans on being there for much of it. He’s just too nice to say otherwise.

That he offered his opinion helps too. Since Rob moved in, I’ve realized he’s hypersensitive to people’s emotions. As if he needs the boost in his considerable appeal.

“Okay,” I sigh, allowing Rob to add a gallon of semi-gloss trim paint to my purchases in the cart. As I head towards the registers, he follows dutifully, pushing the cart behind me.

We’re nearly to the front of the store, just past the tools, when someone speaks, “Gracie Hammond.” The wry voice says loudly, oozing with weaselly charm. “Just the woman I’d like to talk to.”

At the sound of my name, I stop abruptly, but don’t turn. I know that voice, and it gets its usual response. My back stiffens. My jaw clenches. My eyes squeeze shut as I release my breath slowly over a ten count before I answer. “Mr. Mueller. I can’t imagine a single reason you’d want to talk to me.”

Abandoning his companion in the tools, Mueller swaggers towards Rob and me with a slimy smirk. Completely ignoring Rob, he focuses on me. “Why? To offer my condolences, of course. Juliet was a pillar of this community. One of the toughest women I ever met. She had my utmost respect.”

But you don’t, I finish for him in my head. Incredible. I’m certain Mueller managed to pack all of the most annoying personality traits known to mankind into four sentences and the ten seconds it took him to speak them.

“That’s interesting,” I drawl, “I didn’t see your name on the guest list at her funeral, even though you’ve attended the same church for the last forty years. And I didn’t see you at the house for her repast, even though you were neighbors for fifty years.”

Unfazed, Mueller flashes me another greasy smile. “You know how life on a farm goes.”

Oh, brother. Here it comes.

“No, that’s not right.” Mueller eyes me with smug condescension. “You don’t know anything about life on a farm. Well, let me educate you—things can get a bit hectic.”

I stand corrected. Now he’s managed all of the most annoying personality traits known to mankind and maybe discovered a few more. Though I’m steaming mad, there’s no keeping the ice out of my voice. “Then we can’t possibly have anything to talk about, Mr. Mueller. Goodbye.”

Turning on my heel, I stride determinedly toward the registers. I hate how much he gets under my skin, and a little voice inside my head always chimes in that maybe he’s right—maybe I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate that little voice even more.

*Rob*

Though it took longer than I anticipated—almost a week to finish the mudroom and pantry—I’m pleased with my work, doubly so because I completed it before Christmas and Grace is absolutely ecstatic, commenting each time she takes something from the pantry shelves or uses the laundry. The only thing left is to paint and attach the trim.

We’ve been ambling back and forth across the hardware store for over an hour, even though we only have a few things to buy. She can’t commit to stain or paint for the trim and I think it’s cute as hell. Not that I mind. I’m with Grace and the view is exceptional.

Her ocean blue eyes are stormy though when I get her to look at me, so I suggest the paint and assure her if she doesn’t like it, I’ll redo the trim with stain. It’s a small thing to me. Besides, how could I complain if it keeps me around her more?

As we’re headed to the registers, someone says her name. It’s a small, lanky man in his early fifties with a graying buzzcut and a face like a rat, and he smiles in a way that makes even my skin crawl.

Grace’s face and body flash innumerable cues of distress so fast I can’t read them all. But what’s dumbfounding is that after all that happens in a matter of seconds, when she turns to face the speaker, she’s completely composed, her face an impenetrable mask.

Mueller, Grace says, and I remember he’s the quintessential schoolyard bully in this small town. The guy owns the neighboring farm and has a habit of acquiring other properties by some shady means. He’s got a nasty reputation as a victimizer and exploiter, and he looks the part.

Grace lobs back some scathing responses in a completely deadpan voice, her eyes flashing daggers, then dismisses the conversation and heads for the registers.

I linger a few seconds longer, mildly curious where the animosity between these two started. Mueller is old enough to be Grace’s dad at least, and she’s not the kind to hold grudges, so the family feud seems strange.

I realize as I’m studying Mueller, the older man is eyeing me back, raking snake-like eyes set in a net of deep wrinkles over me with obvious distaste. I know his type and can see what’s coming from a mile away.

“You got something to say—,” Mueller starts.

I don’t give him time to finish the racial slur he planned to add. I’m bigger and with the moral high ground, and that’s enough for this coward especially in a public place and with an audience. I step into the shorter man’s space, glaring down at him. “Don’t. Even. Think it.”

Having issued my warning, I grab the lip of the cart, pulling it as I trail after Grace. Behind me, I hear Mueller curse and return to his companion. He’s 0 and 2 in his interactions today, and while I’m feeling good about it now, I’m sure this guy will be making an irritation of himself later.

“I hate those Hammond women,” Mueller says when I’m not quite out of earshot. “Now she’s gone and gotten herself some kind of kung-fu samurai bodyguard. I’ve never seen one of his kind so tall, have you?”

Pulling up behind Grace at the register, I unload our items onto the counter so the teenaged checker can ring them up. “So what’s with Bob Ewell back there?”

Grace exhales a dramatic sigh, waiting until she’s fished cash out of her purse and handed it to the cashier before replying. “He’s into ‘isms’.”

I arch a brow, prompting her to continue and she elaborates, leaning in and whispering. Her breath tickles across my neck and I can smell her shampoo. Every nerve in my body lights up like the Vegas strip, and if it weren’t for the fact Mueller annoys Grace, I’d forget my own name in the simple sensations.

“Narcissism. Ageism. Homophobicism. Religionism. Sexism. Racism. I’m sure there’s a few I’ve forgotten.”

I don’t doubt her assessment is correct. Which also confirms Mueller will be skulking around to remind her what other ‘isms’ she’s forgotten. Waiting until Grace zips her coat, I hold the door for her as we head for my car. “He’s a jerk. Got it. What’s his beef with you?”

“That my mother married someone else. That I’m related to my grandmother and he couldn’t put her out of business, even though she was twenty-five years older than him, a widow and dying of cancer. I’m sure he has more grudges. Take your pick.”

I can’t help but grin at her cattiness, but it’s probably best to let the topic drop. Grace can clearly handle direct confrontations, and what she can’t, I intend to be around to handle for her. Nothing good could come of giving the rat-faced man a chance to resort to something worse.

Juggling our purchases, I press my thumb against the car door’s biometric pad to unlock it. Using the trunk release on the armrest, I pop the trunk, then realize Grace isn’t waiting for me and intends to open the passenger side herself. Dropping our bags in a rush, I hurry around the front of the car. “Let me get that for you.”

As I grab for the handle, so does Grace. My chest brushes against her shoulder, my fingers grazing the softness of her palm as they catch the handle’s underside. I freeze, fascinated at how tiny and fine her hand seems resting on mine, before the shock of her touch registers. Then, every nerve in my body is sending rapid-fire signals into my head and my brain lights up like Disneyland on the fourth of July.

A ghost of a smile is on her magnificent lips as Grace looks up at me. She doesn’t move and something unspoken hovers between us. Though silent, she’s communicating volumes. A warm intensity swells, supercharging the air around us, even though I know it’s still cold.

The handle releases at the slightest pressure, the door swinging open into my other hand as I draw Grace out of its way. She doesn’t need it, but I hold her hand until she’s completely settled and I feel her pull away.

“Here.” I extend the keys to her. “Start the heat so you’re warm.”

Returning to the trunk, I secure our purchases. My hand’s still tingling after Grace’s touch, and I’m grappling with my response to it when I slide in the driver’s seat beside her.

*Grace*

There’s an expression on Rob’s face I don’t recognize as he pulls the car door closed. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t smile and his honey-colored eyes seemed somehow darker and more intense than usual.

“Everything squared away?” I ask, uncertain what to make of him just now, and not just a little aware of something sparking between us.

Nodding, Rob holds one hand up before the vents. “Are you warm enough?” he asks. Without waiting for me to reply, he clicks the fan up a notch, then starts my seat warmer.

“I’m not that fragile, you know. I can stand a few minutes of cold.” I latch the seat belt at my hip and his eyes follow my hand. The look I didn’t recognize flickers and disappears.

“I know. Entertain me.”

Despite his polite smile, Rob looks at me as if I’ve missed the point but for the life of me, I can’t understand where or how. Something definitely shifted between us when our hands touched. Now, everything sits precariously askew.

Confusingly, uncomfortably, it’s exciting and sedative at the same time, the barrage of mental, emotional and physical signals impossible to sort.

Fastening his own belt and checking the mirrors and blind spots, Rob eases the car out of the parking lot. The gray December sky is low and feels heavy. Kind of like the mood in this car.

“It smells a bit like snow, doesn’t it? I’ll get the wood rack restocked as soon as we get home.”

Clearly, he wants to let it drop. I can’t blame him. Rob has an income, a future. Even with my grandparent’s savings, it’s likely I don’t. He doesn’t need to saddle himself with that. “Okay, thanks. I have a few errands to run anyway, so don’t rush.”

His eyes still have that magnetic intensity when he looks at me. “Do you want to go now?”

“No. I’ll need the truck from home anyway.”