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  “What else?” He began to add to the pages with his pencil.

  Although happy to admire his back view, she had work to do and so she slunk to the paint room, where yesterday’s mess greeted her. In a way, she had already sorted out the paints. Her primary colors sat on the shelves, taking up more than one row each. Apparently the other painters didn’t check the colors needed before they bought more, and so she had twelve tins of the same two blue mixers, none more than half-full.

  Being boringly neat herself, she removed lids and began pouring from one can to the other. Aside from having a trail of blue paint from her wrist to her elbow and a blot under the sole of her left shoe, she ended up with five full cans of blue, three of one shade and two of the other, more than this production could ever possibly need. “You’d think I was a pauper,” she muttered to herself, blotting her sleeve with a rag.

  She did the same with the two shades of red and the two shades of yellow, and then she worked on the ochre and sienna, realizing that, unless she had miscalculated, she wouldn’t need to spend a cent on paint. Saving money was one of her skills, weird when she’d never needed to.

  Tim had married her for her family’s wealth, but she hadn’t known that in the beginning. She’d assumed he was also rich, which he could have been, but he thought he deserved the best of everything, a big house, expensive cars, and extravagant entertaining. Being “old money” herself, she was totally conservative. Her father had taught her to save money where she could. He even made his own wines. Watching Tim buy five-hundred-dollar bottles of French champagne to impress his friends, who drank the wine for the price rather than the taste, used to make her shudder.

  Her marriage hadn’t been made in heaven. Only the twenty-year-old optimist she’d been could have expected a happy-ever-after. Tim had been keen to use her money and her background, and she’d been dazzled by his flash, which had faded within a few months of marriage. She tried to tone him down and he tried to smarten her up. Instead of feeling comfortable in trophy-wife clothes, she ate. Instead of enjoying titillating positions in bed, she ate, for she was, of course, as sexless as he always said—a situation that would apparently never change. She blinked her eyes and straightened her mouth, which had a tendency to wobble during the odd recall.

  Someone tapped on the door. She wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “It’s not locked.”

  Sherry popped her head inside. Today she had her dark hair in a high ponytail, and she looked fresh and young in tight jeans with a blue cotton top. “Hi, Vix,” she said, examining Vix’s face. “I brought Luke’s lunch. I didn’t have fresh bread this morning and so he went without anything to eat. You’re very quiet, packed away here by yourself.”

  “I would only be in the way out there.”

  Sherry drew her eyebrows together and patted Vix’s hand. “Those guys make you feel like that, don’t they? Men’s men. Don’t let them get to you. Luke’s dad was a man’s man. He didn’t want his boys to be fairies. If it hadn’t have been for Jay, they wouldn’t have been anything but drunks like him.”

  “What did JD do?”

  “He looked after Kell and Luke, although they’re all two years apart, like my boys. JD’s the oldest.” Sherry widened the door to show a stroller with a small, freckled, redheaded boy in the seat and a dark haired, bigger boy holding the handle, or rather, swinging on the handle while he stared wide-eyed in the direction of the screaming saw. “Apparently their mum held the family together but after she died of breast cancer, their dad started drinking. JD would have been six or seven. He was eighteen when their dad died.”

  “And he looked after Kellen and Luke after that?”

  “To keep it legal, they had an auntie who looked in occasionally but, yeah, he was the sole supporter. Lucky they owned the house. I don’t know how you get a kid to look after two younger brothers. Mine sure doesn’t, though he’s only six. He’s the first to ignore these two.”

  “He knows they’re safe with you and Luke.”

  Sherry nodded. “Hope so. JD always used to scare me. He’s, like, big and smart and you never know what he’s thinking.”

  “The strong silent type.” Vix half smiled. “But I don’t see him as intimidating. He’s been very friendly towards me.” And she managed not to blush.

  “You look like Lonny, but you’re not like Lonny. He wouldn’t want to scare a woman like you, but I didn’t even finish high school. He didn’t want me hanging around Luke because he wanted both his brothers to finish school like he did. Boy, was he mad when I got pregnant! But Luke married me and now JD accepts me.” Sherry snatched at the arm of the boy who had been holding onto the stroller handle. “Noah, you can’t go over there while the saw is working. When it’s quiet you can go over to Daddy.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Max, Noah, and Oscar. Oscar is the baby. Max is at school. Say hello to Vix, Noah.”

  The four-year-old gave Vix a considering stare. “Do you have a truck?”

  “No. Does your daddy have a truck?”

  “A pickup.” The bench saw stopped and Noah glanced at his mother for permission before running over to the work area. “We brought your lunch, Daddy,” he called in a high-pitched voice. “Mummy gave you cheese.”

  Luke appeared from behind the partition that only marginally kept the sawdust from the other parts of the room. The redhead spotted Sherry and she pushed the stroller over to him. He kissed her. Vix’s throat thickened. Those two were younger than she was, but they had a family and a stroller and a pickup. She had paint cans and everything she wanted, except a family and a stroller and a pickup.

  She didn’t join them. So, she looked like Lonny, the friend Jay wasn’t involved with that way, but she wasn’t like Lonny. In what way? And should she be flattered or flattened? The break in the noise of the saw heightened her awareness of the voices, the shrill of the older child and the questioning tone of the younger, who stood precariously in the stroller, arms out, expecting to be lifted up by his father, who while talking to Sherry, did so.

  Then JD arrived from the other side of the building, where she could hear low male voices, and took Oscar from Luke while Luke encouraged his look-alike son to help him shift a few pieces of wood into a neat pile. Vix watched JD. For some reason, the sight of a big strong man holding a small shy child made her blood race. JD couldn’t have looked more masculine if he had flexed his muscles. His smile at the child glossed her eyes again. No doubt, all her sniveling today had been caused by the time of the month. She turned her back, determined not to yearn for the big strong man who hadn’t, at any stage, flexed his muscles or done any more than tease her with a few placatory kisses.

  She drew a deep breath and concentrated. Now having liters and liters of useless premixed colors to dispose of, she decided on conservation. At one stage, while she stood by the long bank of paint-spattered sinks at the back of the warehouse, the usual place for mixing or thinning paint, or for cleaning up, or whatever, she called to JD, who was opening packs of tech screws in the supply area. “Which room in your house would you paint green?”

  He stared at her. “I don’t think I would choose green.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said glumly. “I can mix a couple of stunning greens but other than as a feature wall, I can’t see where you would use green.”

  “Where would I want one as a feature wall?”

  “In the back area. The wall that opens out to the garden, if you had French doors there that opened out.”

  “To a garden? Clearly, you haven’t seen my backyard.” He laughed.

  She crossed her arms. “Would you want me to make a nice green for there, or not?”

  “Sure. What color would the other walls be?”

  “Do you want to go with the style of the house or modernize?”

  Concentrating, he rubbed his chin. “Eclectic.”

  “Your floor would come up a lovely red brown if you polished it.”
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  “I’m polishing the floor, too, am I?” His gaze questioned her.

  “You’d be mad not to.”

  “Do I have to pay a consultant’s fee for all this decorating advice?”

  She smiled. “I can’t stand waste. If I add a tad of red to the green, I think I can make an interesting beige, that is, if beige is ever interesting. There’s so much white in some of these greens that it ought to work.”

  He lifted his eyebrows in an unasked question. “Luke and Sherry would like a yellowish green for one of the kids’ rooms.”

  “I could make recycling old paint into a profession.”

  “You could. Will you be helping me do this painting you expect me to do?”

  She sighed, glancing at the tins of paint. “If only I could say I don’t have time.”

  “I could say I don’t.”

  “I was waiting for that. I’ll help you if you help, too.” Her heart thudded. She had invited herself to his house and she had asked him to be present. Her faked confidence had perhaps taken her too far.

  “When?”

  “You’re the one with no spare time.” She turned her back, pretending to be absorbed in removing a can lid.

  “Saturday?”

  “Are you trusting me to choose the colors?”

  “You’re the expert.”

  “How long will it take you guys to make the house backdrop for the show?”

  “I could mock-up a section today.”

  “Can I look at the plans with you?”

  He nodded. “I can do whatever you want done first.”

  “I want the house first.”

  “Sounds like a woman.”

  She eyed him with a question. “In a divorce conversation? Yes, I got the house, but it was mine.”

  “Yep. Still sounds like a woman.”

  She let the conversation go. Her father had bought her house as a wedding present. Even Tim didn’t have the front to try to claim it. No way would she let JD know how she had been used. And no way would she be used the same way again.

  * * * *

  Jay stretched his aching muscles when he heard the first ring of his phone. The second made him sigh. He knew without a doubt that Vix wouldn’t be holding the receiver at the other end.

  By concentrating on his work, he’d kept her out of his mind most of the day. Seeing her tomorrow would be tomorrow’s problem. She had every quality he wanted in his woman. He saw only one drawback; she didn’t notice any of his—really didn’t notice anything but his body. He could give her pleasure, but that was all she wanted from him. And that wasn’t enough, would never be enough for a man who was determined, despite every set back, to be more than his upbringing would normally have allowed.

  “Hi, Lonny,” he said, recognizing the caller number. He dropped a handful of detailed architectural drawings onto the couch.

  “How’s your presentation going?”

  “Pretty near finished. I’m just completing the poster layout.” He raised a palm to the ceiling, stretching slowly, easing the stiffness from his back. Building the set at the rate he’d been going took a toll on his body, though he kept fit by running when he had the time. “Thanks for the book on landscaping. I found it in the kitchen when I got home yesterday.”

  “I thought you’d be there. I thought that when I said I wasn’t going to play volleyball, you wouldn’t play either. I thought you’d rest instead.” Ilona sounded hurt.

  “Yeah, well, if I’d known that you were making a sacrifice for me, perhaps I would have.” He subsided onto the couch, and single-handed, sorted through his drawings. He wanted to be sure he had chosen the right design.

  “You’re pathetic, Jay. You can’t make me feel guilty. I don’t make sacrifices and I never have. I was tired, that’s why I didn’t want to go.”

  “If you eased up on the night life a little, you might have the energy to do a few healthy daytime things.”

  “A fit mind in a fit body? I know your theory, but it won’t work for me. I’m expected to be wherever the in-crowd is. When is your group presentation? Next week?”

  “The beginning of next month.”

  “Can we have dinner on Wednesday night?”

  “Sure. Where do you want to go?” He held up his first plan again, but no. The third was still the best.

  “Maison Dee.” Lonny said nothing for a few moments; then she sighed. “Do pasta. Something bland. Love you. See you Wednesday.”

  “Bye,” he said, but she’d gone. For Ilona, conversations finished when she finished them.

  After eating a slightly singed steak served with limp lettuce and a couple of tomatoes, he re-worked his computer model of sustainable apartments; then he went out for a run along the moonlit, rippling Port river, watching for the dolphins that often surfaced in the clear sea water. Not tonight, though. In the dark, he dodged dog-walkers and a few rough-sleepers and finally returned home, sweaty. Physically and mentally tired, he showered and swung into bed, expecting to sleep. Fortunately, he didn’t mull over Vix for more than half an hour.

  He drifted off formulating plans on how to keep eluding her. So far, that seemed to be the only way to maintain her interest.

  * * * *

  On Tuesday, Vix started painting the house-backdrop that would open the show and appear only then. The gracious house would fill the back of the stage, a house she would be slightly modifying from the original house in the Victorian production. The designer, who lived in Melbourne, had agreed that a direct copy was unnecessary, luckily, since Vix wanted to paint an American foursquare, which she saw as more appropriate for the wealthy family in the play; not only more traditional, but more difficult for her as a painter. She enjoyed a challenge and the ’50s house in the movie had looked ordinary enough to have belonged to anyone.

  Her High Society family was a little dippy. She laughed, knowing the play very well, and hoping the cast could manage the eccentricities required.

  First, however, she needed to scale down the twelve by sixteen feet mansion and she did the work at home that night, sitting at her French antique desk whose patina was a joy to behold. Her whole study had been built to her specifications. Her leather chair molded exactly to her back and her footrest automatically adjusted to her position. She had no excuse to let her mind wander, but the memory of JD’s big body easing between her legs made her tingle in that very place. But of course, if he belonged to another woman she had no right to those thoughts.

  Something inside her chest twisted and she tightened her fingers around her pencil and concentrated. She expected to take most of tomorrow ruling up the panel he had constructed for her.

  All she needed was a good ladder with a platform and she would be perfectly happy. Perfectly. Happy.

  Chapter 5

  “Do we have a platform ladder or do I need to buy one?” Vix stared at the messy paint-splattered wall on which a multifunction ladder and a combination extension ladder rested. A wooden stepladder painted black stood waiting to be tripped-over or walked into.

  “We used to have one.” Steve scratched his dark head, leaving his hair standing on end. “The sissy-ladder, Trent? Where did we put it?”

  Vix sighed. The warehouse looked a mess. She could fall over almost anything from a hammer drill to a bundle of hessian, but she couldn’t find a basic tool unless it was meant for tough guys. But she was a painter, not a cleaner, and she wouldn’t tidy up a mess to which she hadn’t contributed. “Why wouldn’t you keep everything together?”

  Trent put his hands on his hips. “We don’t have time for housekeeping.” His eyebrows lowered and he sounded outraged.

  Vix had spent six years housekeeping and could understand why no one wanted the job she’d found far less mind-numbing by using a routine she never needed to change; tidiness, putting articles back where she found them, and finding logical places for everything. And so, with this in mind, she ignored logic and found the ladder she needed beh
ind two black masking flats near the ghastly paint-spattered toilet block. If an element of being a sissy was to balance quite happily on a safe ladder, she would choose being a sissy any old day.

  The whole place needed organizing, ladders with ladders, large flats standing along the walls at the back and smaller flats in front, wood in stacks kept with the composite sheeting in the building area, and broken furniture somewhere, anywhere else. If she were in charge, she would set everyone to doing that from the beginning. But she wasn’t in charge, and she was a neat freak, and so she contained her frustration, setting up her ladder in front of her gigantic, composite-wood flat.

  Within minutes, she was lost in her element, marking off, plotting, and drawing lines she constantly need to scribble out. Measure twice and mark once wasn’t in her repertoire. She measured constantly and marked constantly, bearing in mind the scale of her drawings and her math, which was not her strongpoint. In the background, she could hear the guys talking and working, but she existed above their heads. She could hear their jokes, their camaraderie, and she belonged by not getting in the way.

  She had noticed that the guys brought their lunches, and so she did, too. They ate thick sandwiches filled with meat or cheese, cold sausage rolls, scones or donuts, with nary a green leaf to be seen. She ate skinny sandwiches filled with salad and pieces of fruit. They eyed her food warily as if a vitamin might crawl out and bite them.

  During breaks, she sat with them over mugs of tea, initially embarrassed by being the center of attention. She knew they carefully didn’t swear in front of her, a courtesy she treasured. Her former crowd, Tim’s smart friends, saw expletives as sophisticated when offered with a charming smile. She saw swearing as a waste of word time.

  She hadn’t been brought up to offend others, nor had she been brought up to see beauty in stick-like figures with faces plastered in makeup. She’d hoped beauty came from within. Only after she lost her husband and a quarter of her body weight had she paid more attention to her face and hair, and now men paid attention to her comments. Since she was exactly the same person, cynicism warred with enjoyment of her new guru status, which she’d assumed Tim’s Ilona had been awarded because of her looks.