The Passion Play Read online

  "You're familiar with the habits of children?"

  "I've got more than my fair share of nieces and nephews. We're a big family."

  "That must be nice."

  "I like it."

  "You must miss them."

  "I do. But we keep in touch. Besides, you got to go where the work is. So what do you reckon? Shall I get a tape measure and some big sheets of paper, measure it up, draw it out and show you what I'm thinking?"

  "Oh Luke, that's too big a project." She did not want her garden dug up and left a mess when he stopped coming over.

  "Alright. I'll just start by clearing some of the undergrowth, maybe put in a couple of shrubs."

  "Okay. Not too much, though. And keep a total for me of how much it costs, so I can pay you back. I'll show you the gardening tools I have. There aren't many, but you're welcome to any of them you need."

  "Sure thing. Lead the way."

  So she went to her first work appointment and left him happily grubbing in the dirt, examining the soil and muttering his way around the place as he thought out loud, a pencil and paper nearby. He had said he was a keen gardener. She supposed she would have to trust he knew what he was talking about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When she returned at the end of the long day – later than she had thought she would – it was dark. Yet unexpectedly the house was lit with welcoming light. Luke must have stayed all day. She should resent the intrusion, but instead she was glad.

  She parked her car in the garage and entered the house, paused to remove narrow shoes from feet that had started to ache.

  "Luke?" she called out.

  "I'm in the kitchen. You've timed that perfectly."

  "Have I?" She walked towards his voice, pulling pins from her chignon until it unraveled and fell to her shoulders. "I'll have to take half an hour to make some notes before I forget- Oh."

  He had laid two places at the table and there was an appealing aroma in the air.

  "It's nothing fancy," he warned. "Just a casserole. If you need to take some more time I'll just turn off the oven and leave it in there. It'll keep warm."

  "Ten minutes. You serve and I'll take ten minutes to write down enough to prompt my memory. I'll do the rest after we've eaten. I'm hungry!"

  He smiled happily. "Great."

  So she went to her study, woke her computer and typed like a fiend, brief bullet points she would flesh out later and add to her database of client notes. She was finished in twelve minutes.

  "This will spoil me, you know," she told him as she returned. He was already seated.

  "I don't believe it. You're impossible to spoil."

  She took the seat opposite him, and unfolded her napkin to spread it over her lap. "Put you to work in my garden, make you cook all my meals-"

  "And satisfy you in bed."

  She blushed, and looked down as she fingered the cutlery at her place. "Very decadent."

  "This casserole is something Mom taught me to make as a teen. I don't do it as well as she does, but it's easy and healthy and you had all the ingredients."

  "It looks great," she said sincerely. And it did. Plain, simple fare with – she inhaled and considered carefully – bay leaves and thyme from the garden, and something else. She had to taste it to get the flavor. "Nutmeg."

  "You're good. Not much of it, either."

  "Oh, I should have asked if you want some wine."

  "No thanks. I don't drink much during the season. But you go ahead."

  "No, that's fine. I don't need it. So. Did you get much done in the garden?"

  "Quite a bit. I didn't want to make any drastic change without you there, so mostly I just trimmed the best of your trees and shrubs, and made a lot of notes. I called around to get quotes on felling the trees that aren't working for you, and at the prices they're asking, I reckon you're better off for me to just get the tools and do it."

  "No. I can't ask you to take on all that-"

  "Honestly, I loved it. It's been a good day for me out there. I'll have next Tuesday off again and I can have everything ready, get it all down and chopped up for firewood by nightfall."

  "Isn't that dangerous?"

  "I know what I'm doing. Besides, I'm not talking about the really massive ones. It would be a crime to take down your oaks or the striped maple or walnut. Those will give you the shade so it's still great out there for kids in the middle of summer. It's all the others that are making it dank and encroaching on the house. I'll show you the sketches I made-"

  "This is really a passion of yours, isn't it?"

  "It is. I don't want to go on about it but if you aren't in love with what's out there it would be a heap of fun to turn it into something really nice for you."

  "I'd owe you too much, though. I don't want to put you to all the trouble-"

  "I swear, it's good for my soul. I like it. If you want to say thanks come and hang out with me while I'm working."

  "I'm not a big fan of gardening."

  "You don't have to do that stuff. Just come and talk to me. Or bring a book even."

  "We'll see."

  He gave her a rueful smile at her continued caution, but he did not nag. Only ate with solemn dedication. When they were done she insisted on doing the dishes and he went to sit on the sofa and watch her. It made her self-conscious to have his heavy-lidded eyes on her and she felt warm from more than just the hot water she used for rinsing before she had stacked everything neatly in the dishwasher. The room was too quiet when they did not talk, the atmosphere growing thick.

  What was he thinking behind those eyes? Something naughty, from the look of him.

  When she pulled the rubber gloves off and removed the apron she had put on, he spoke up.

  "Come here." He patted the sofa beside him. The intent look from under his eyebrows made the invitation salacious. She paused in the middle of the floor, defiant from shyness.

  "Why?" she stalled.

  "I want to rub your feet. I bet they're sore. Those shoes you wear are very pretty, but they hurt, don't they?"

  "Sometimes," she admitted, came forward and curled up on the other end of the sofa.

  "Give me your feet."

  She considered, then extended them in his direction. "I should go and finish those notes."

  "In a moment."

  When he put strong thumbs into the center of her arches, she nearly groaned aloud, her eyelids drooping closed. He chuckled quietly and then there was silence as she slowly melted into a puddle against the cushions.

  "Yes," she said after a long, long while, more a sigh than a word. "Definitely spoiled." His hands were stroking up her calves now, deep pressure that was half therapeutic and half stimulation. "Did you learn this from the team physios?"

  "Some of it. There's a certain amount you can do working on your own legs and feet. Plus I had a friend studying massage a while back, who used to try stuff on me. Massage and reflexology. I asked lots of questions."

  "A friend, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "A guy friend?"

  "No, Ma'am. See, this spot here is supposed to relate to your liver," he said, with a touch at once more gentle and more specific.

  Of course she was not the first woman he had ever given a foot rub. No reason to feel piqued about it. Just enjoy his touch for what it was. "So I should be feeling liverish right now?"

  "Yes. Can you feel anything?"

  "Maybe you're not rubbing hard enough. It's just ticklish. Try a little harder – oh, not that hard."

  "Sorry. You've got such delicate feet I keep thinking I'm going to snap something in there."

  "I think you snapped my liver."

  "You want me to get under there and kiss it better?" he asked, reached over from his position with her feet in his lap and lifted her blouse to peer straight up it with a leer. She laughed.

  "No, I should go and write up those notes."

  "Forget the notes. Another half hour won't hurt them."

  "Only half an hour?"
>
  "Sure. If all I'm doing is kissing." He redistributed himself on the sofa so his chin rested on her upper thigh. "I'm going in," he said, raised the edge of her loose-fitting shirt and kissed his way up her flank with delicate little points of suction here and there that made her lie back with a happy sigh, acquiescent.

  "I don't know that you'll ever make it as a reflexologist," she said, "but if there's a position for liver-kissers you've nailed it."

  "You'll give me a swelled head."

  "That's only a problem if it can't fit under my shirt anymore."

  "I think you will find," he released a button at the bottom of the blouse, "that I have unexpected reserves," he released a second button, "of ingenuity."

  "How did I ever think you were stupid?"

  "I know. I know. It blows my mind too. Beyond inexplicable."

  "Well you weren't this glib the first time we met."

  "As I already said, I was mesmerized into something resembling stupidity by your beauty. Also by the hard on you gave me, asking me if there was anything I wanted."

  "You – what? You never told me that!"

  "Now you know."

  "I . . . well. Gosh."

  "I love the way you say that. Gosh. All prim and proper. Yes, very gosh. You took my hand like this and looked all soulfully into my eyes," he fluttered his eyelashes at her, "and said 'Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Barrett?' and I felt the pressing urge to take a seat."

  "I didn't say it like that."

  "Near enough."

  "And I gave you a hard on?" she asked.

  "You surely did, Ma'am," he drawled. "A good and proper one."

  "How can a hard on be good and proper?"

  "Don't you know? Perhaps you're not as clued up on the subject as I thought."

  "Perhaps I'm not. You might need to educate me." She smiled and looked at him under her lashes.

  "I can see it's my duty. Now if you'll just give me your hand, I think you'll find this is a fair to middling hard on."

  "I see. And this is used for?"

  "It's your general garden variety erection. Good for maintenance of the equipment, a little light frottage, for generally expressing one's interest and attention."

  "I see. Do go on."

  "Well if madam would care to give it a rub . . ."

  "Madam is so inclined."

  "Madam is very kind. Now you hold a specimen of a considerable hard on."

  "And what is that good for?" she said, her hands enclosing him as well as they could through the straining denim of his jeans.

  "That's your good-to-go erection, ready for all sorts of friskiness. You got to keep your eye on those."

  "I've got my eye on it. Do you think it might need a bit more space to express itself?" she stroked him again. Such a pleasant shape. She reached for the top button of his pants.

  "It's possible. I see you have an instinct for these things."

  "I do my best. All the buttons?"

  "I think so. I think . . . mmm."

  "Sorry, you were saying?" she teased him as he lay his head back against the couch cushions.

  "Oh don't worry about me. You go right ahead with what you're doing."

  "I don't want to interrupt you," she murmured, her lips brushing against the tip of his erection as she spoke, hands encircling him.

  "Oh a good . . . mmmm . . . teacher is always responsive to his . . . audience."

  "Very obliging of you."

  "I aim to please."

  "Luke?" she said an hour or more later, adjusting the throw he had tossed over them both, so it covered her toes as well.

  "Yes?" He sounded sleepy.

  "What are you going to be when you grow up?"

  "Woman," he said with a put-upon sigh, "how much sex do I need to give you before you acknowledge my great and terrible powers of manliness. Urf arf," he finished with a couple of mangled gorilla grunts.

  She laughed against the hair on his chest, slightly scratchy on her cheek, smoothed it out a little with the palm of her hand so it all lay in one direction, then settled in again. "When you've finished playing, I mean. You said once you're already planning for that. So what will it be?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I was just wondering." Just thinking about categories and boxes, actually. It was so easy to see football players as a group of overgrown kids, running around playing at life with too much money to spend and for many of them, too few responsibilities. She might – just possibly – have been guilty of lumping Luke in with that generalization.

  "My degree's a Bachelor of Science in Landscape Architecture, so I'll go into that. I'm not sure yet if I'll go back for a couple of years to get my Masters first and refresh my knowledge, or just get started looking for jobs. I'm more of a practical sort of guy so studying really dragged for me. I did it and made a good job of it but I can't say it was a lot of fun. I'd like to get my hands on the actual work."

  "Oh."

  "I'll use my savings from football to start my own firm and hire an office person to take care of all the paperwork, and maybe a draftsman too. I haven't managed staff before so I don't want to get too overloaded. My dad has a business and he says it's the staff that are his biggest headache.

  "It sounds like you've got it all sorted out."

  "I've given it some thought. I won't last forever in football, though I've stayed relatively injury-free so far. Just little things. Broken fingers and toes and the like. I thought I should probably invest a bit too. Actually I was planning to ask if you'd sit down and look at what I've got, give me some advice. That's what you do, isn't it?"

  "I do, yes. I suppose I could take a look." She felt reluctant. She'd done the work for other players on the team but she didn't want to know so much about his intimate personal details. It was too much of an intrusion into his life. Not that she ever sensed him throwing up barriers against her. She was the one striving to keep her boundaries up against this genial man who just assumed his welcome and sauntered in.

  Thinking of which, she should not linger like this in his arms. Her remaining work awaited. She levered herself up and away from her and he let her go, his hands giving her a final stroke as they helped her upright. She scooped up her blouse and thrust her arms into it.

  "You don't have to dress again for me. I like it when you're naked."

  "I've noticed. But it's too cold in here."

  "So turn up the thermostat. I foresee more nudity in your future."

  "Not this second. You've distracted me enough."

  "Yes, Ma'am. I'll just watch some TV, then."

  "Uh, okay." She hated the background noise of television, especially the canned laughter that would dominate the airwaves at this time, but she could close her study door. She brought him the remote control. It had not been touched since Dan left.

  "Thanks," he said, took it, inspected it and pressed a button. The chatter of strangers chased her out of the room.

  When she finished her notes in her client database she checked the current mortgage rates, then the performance of the shares she was tracking. Then she shut down the computer with a sigh, rubbed the back of her neck as was habitual, and found it unusually soft, the muscles relaxed.

  Well. The wonders of a foot massage and a lot of sex. Not to mention home-cooked meals she had not needed to prepare. She got up and opened the study door, intending to go down the hallway to him, but the television noises stopped her. Pressing her lips tight together she changed direction and went into her craft room.

  Here everything was orderly and precise, each tiny tool in place, the fabric and threads and paper and card and every other lovely thing sorted by color and pleasantly arranged. She stroked an idle hand over the front of her newest purchase, cloth in a print of citrus fruits on a white background, out on display to let her think how to use it. Best to put that away too, for now, since nothing had come to mind.

  It was comforting to refold it precisely square, then open her filing cabinet and compare it to the
lengths of fabric already within, draped over suspension file hangers. Similar overall color to these, lighter than this one, darker than that. Here was the perfect place. She put another suspension file in the spot and hung the fabric over it, smoothed it down lovingly and shut the drawer. Then she sat in her desk chair, laid her hands flat on the desk and looked around her for inspiration. What should she make?

  But immediately her gaze fell on the shelf of scrapbooks just above her head. That was why she had chosen that spot for them: the eyes went there first.

  Gorgeous scrapbooked albums full of photographs meticulously embellished, spanning more than a decade of her life. A life with Dan. He was not in every image, of course. Plenty were of her with friends, in her cooking classes, receiving awards for her work at financial aggregator conferences, with her parents, her brother, at his wedding or with his and Caroline's three sons.

  But Dan was a presence throughout. She only needed to look at the album spines to see the images scroll past her mind's eye. So many of them careful poses for a camera someone else held, while she strove to look happy and relaxed in a supposedly candid scene. She had set up most of those shots to take home and put in these albums. They told a lie of a contented life together. It was hard to even look at the albums. She could not face them.

  She stood abruptly and strode from the room, down the hall and into the room where Luke lounged on the sofa. "Do you have to have that on so loud? I can't even think in here."

  He looked up in surprise, then reached for the remote. "Sorry."

  "It's an open-plan space. When you have that on it dominates everything."

  "Yeah, you're right."

  "You have work tomorrow, don't you?"

  "Sure do."

  "I suppose you better get a good night of sleep, then."

  His smile died, his face went blank. "I should." When he got up the throw slid off him to the floor, leaving him completely naked. She looked away. After a moment he picked up his clothes and started to put them on. "You want me to go?"

  "It's probably a good idea. You'll sleep better at your own place."

  "Something happen you want to talk about?"