Dorothy Garlock by More Than Memory Page B

they operate, but I wondered how in the world I was going to get to them when I couldn’t raise the inside window.” She was talking to Lute’s back, trying to ignore the fluttering of her heart. He was moving through the house raising the stuck windows. “It’s cooler already. I had to prop open the front and back doors to get the smoke from my first cooking disaster out of the house. Oh, Lute! Smell that fresh country air.” Nelda knew that she was babbling as she followed him from room to room, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
    “All I can smell is that roast.” He strained to lift a tight window that had been closed for years. Fascinated, she watched the muscles rippling across his shoulders. “There’s not much you can do about the porch, but during the day you can open the inside door and unfasten this glass panel on the storm door.” He suited his words to action, and soon a nice breeze was cooling the house. “How about the upstairs?”
    “Oh, yes, please. If you have time,” she added after a moment’s hesitation, following closely behind when he went up the stairs. “This is the only room I use up here,” she said, as they approached an open door.
    Lute’s eyes swept her bedroom, and she was glad it was neat. Her robe, a gauzy cotton, was flung over the foot of the bed, but everything else was in order. A tightness gripped her throat when his eyes settled on the framed picture of Rebecca on the table beside her bed. He picked it up and looked at it for a long while. His back was to her, and she couldn’t see the expression on his face.
    Like one hypnotized, she watched him. When he replaced the picture, he turned and his eyes met hers. A startling thrill of desire coursed through her. Standing there, the sweat trickling down between her breasts, she felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life.
    It was heart-stopping to see this handsome man towering over her bed, the photo of the child they had created together between them. When his eyes dwelt for an inordinate amount of time on her mouth, she could almost taste his lips, feel his arms.
    For what seemed an eternity they were held in suspended animation. Not daring to breathe, she drank him in with unquenchable eyes. Lute raised a hand—to touch her? she wondered fleetingly. She glimpsed the ring on his finger.
    The spell was broken.
    Reality returned like a kick in the teeth. She turned quickly and went down the stairs. The pain in her chest was almost more than she could endure, but she was not going to crumple in front of him. Damned if she would!
    In the kitchen she turned on the light, suddenly realizing darkness was only a few minutes away. She bent over the sleeping dog, gently stroking his satiny head and hoping her bleak hurt was not visible in her eyes.
    “He’ll be all right.” Lute was behind her. “Mind if I have a drink of water?”
    Nelda stood quickly and moved to the sink. “I’m sorry. I’ll wash my hands and get some ice.” She
turned on the tap, letting it run full force. The cold water on her wrists and palms calmed her a little.
    “Do you want me to put the pan back in the oven to keep your supper warm?”
    “No, I’ll probably eat it cold.” She dried her hands and took two glasses to the refrigerator to fill with ice. “I’d invite you to stay for supper, but I’m sure your wife is expecting you home.” They were the most difficult words she’d ever had to say, and she tried fervently to keep her voice from betraying her desperation. Before she turned around, she asked, “Cola, ginger ale, or water?”
    When he didn’t answer, she turned, a glass of ice in each hand. He was leaning against the counter, his eyes on her face. She felt her pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. She stood waiting, leaving the refrigerator door open. He stepped forward, reached around her, took out a large bottle of cola, and shut the door. She moved to the cabinet and put the glasses down. He came