damned business about the condom had acted like a dose of ice water.
Resentment added extra energy to her scraping. Why had Michael spoiled it for them? Why couldn’t he just have let passion overwhelm them? The way he used to. Snippets of erotic scenes played in her head—the time they’d made love outside on the lawn three summers before, with the sprinkler’s rhythmic arc soaking them every few moments, their laughter wild and desperate because they couldn’t stop long enough to move out of the water.
And the time at the Fieldings’ party, when they’d looked at each other and terrible desire had sizzled between them, so that she’d pretended a headache and they’d hurried away. They hadn’t even made it home; Michael had driven into a park and they’d made love like two teenagers, writhing in the back seat of the car, trying to stay sane enough to watch for the lights of a patrol car and in the end, blinded with pleasure, not caring.
“How’s it going up there?”
Polly jumped, grabbed the side of the scaffold, and almost dropped the scraper.
“Steady, there. Sorry I scared you.” Jerome looked up at her, eyes masked behind sunglasses. “I’m finished this fence now, so I’ll be right up. I’m just gonna get a drink of water first. It’s hot as blazes this morning.”
“It is hot. And there’s more to this scraping job than I expected.” Like X-rated love scenes from another life.
“It won’t take long with two of us,” he assured her. “You want me to bring you up a drink?”
“Oh, please.” She wiped a gloved hand across her forehead. “I brought a case of spring water. It’s in the fridge. Have some yourself and bring me up a bottle.”
Isabelle wasn’t home. She’d announced when Polly arrived at nine that morning that she was going shopping and then out for lunch with friends, and she’d sailed off, wearing a blue seersucker suit and a smart straw hat.
Isabelle always looked elegant; it never failed to amaze Polly that her mother could emerge from the chaos of her bedroom looking bandbox fresh.
A few moments later Jerome climbed the ladder and swung himself onto the scaffolding with athletic grace. He handed Polly the bottled water and then settled to the job of scraping.
“Daddy, see my bubbles?” Clover was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the middle of the backyard with a basin of soapy water and a bubble wand Isabelle had given her that morning. Polly had heard Jerome telling her a moment ago that she was not allowed anywhere near the side of the house where the scaffolding was, that it was dangerous.
Now, however, the little girl slid off the lawn chair and made her way over until she stood directly beneath the ladder. “Daddy, I wanna come up with you,” she whined.
Polly looked down at Clover, and it was all she could do not to snap at the child, to order her away from the ladder. Just as Jerome had said, it was dangerous.
“Move back, sweetheart.” There wasn’t even a trace of impatience in Jerome’s tone, only concern. “Remember what Daddy told you, you’re not to be near the ladder.”
“But I want to come up where you are,” she insisted, putting one foot on the first rung.
Again, Polly felt the urge to reprimand the little girl, but Jerome patiently coaxed her away, promising he’d come down and talk to her if she did what he asked.
She did, and he clambered down, then swung Clover up in his arms and reassured her in a low, calm voice, before planting kisses on her neck and making her giggle.
Polly watched, frowning. Why did Clover irritate her so? How could she dislike a small child? She sipped at her water and reasoned with herself, observing the scene on the lawn below as Jerome settled Clover once again with her bubbles. It was natural, after all, for a little girl to get bored and want her daddy’s attention. But it would slow the job considerably if it happened all the time, Polly thought, feeling resentful.
“She gets bored.
Resentment added extra energy to her scraping. Why had Michael spoiled it for them? Why couldn’t he just have let passion overwhelm them? The way he used to. Snippets of erotic scenes played in her head—the time they’d made love outside on the lawn three summers before, with the sprinkler’s rhythmic arc soaking them every few moments, their laughter wild and desperate because they couldn’t stop long enough to move out of the water.
And the time at the Fieldings’ party, when they’d looked at each other and terrible desire had sizzled between them, so that she’d pretended a headache and they’d hurried away. They hadn’t even made it home; Michael had driven into a park and they’d made love like two teenagers, writhing in the back seat of the car, trying to stay sane enough to watch for the lights of a patrol car and in the end, blinded with pleasure, not caring.
“How’s it going up there?”
Polly jumped, grabbed the side of the scaffold, and almost dropped the scraper.
“Steady, there. Sorry I scared you.” Jerome looked up at her, eyes masked behind sunglasses. “I’m finished this fence now, so I’ll be right up. I’m just gonna get a drink of water first. It’s hot as blazes this morning.”
“It is hot. And there’s more to this scraping job than I expected.” Like X-rated love scenes from another life.
“It won’t take long with two of us,” he assured her. “You want me to bring you up a drink?”
“Oh, please.” She wiped a gloved hand across her forehead. “I brought a case of spring water. It’s in the fridge. Have some yourself and bring me up a bottle.”
Isabelle wasn’t home. She’d announced when Polly arrived at nine that morning that she was going shopping and then out for lunch with friends, and she’d sailed off, wearing a blue seersucker suit and a smart straw hat.
Isabelle always looked elegant; it never failed to amaze Polly that her mother could emerge from the chaos of her bedroom looking bandbox fresh.
A few moments later Jerome climbed the ladder and swung himself onto the scaffolding with athletic grace. He handed Polly the bottled water and then settled to the job of scraping.
“Daddy, see my bubbles?” Clover was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the middle of the backyard with a basin of soapy water and a bubble wand Isabelle had given her that morning. Polly had heard Jerome telling her a moment ago that she was not allowed anywhere near the side of the house where the scaffolding was, that it was dangerous.
Now, however, the little girl slid off the lawn chair and made her way over until she stood directly beneath the ladder. “Daddy, I wanna come up with you,” she whined.
Polly looked down at Clover, and it was all she could do not to snap at the child, to order her away from the ladder. Just as Jerome had said, it was dangerous.
“Move back, sweetheart.” There wasn’t even a trace of impatience in Jerome’s tone, only concern. “Remember what Daddy told you, you’re not to be near the ladder.”
“But I want to come up where you are,” she insisted, putting one foot on the first rung.
Again, Polly felt the urge to reprimand the little girl, but Jerome patiently coaxed her away, promising he’d come down and talk to her if she did what he asked.
She did, and he clambered down, then swung Clover up in his arms and reassured her in a low, calm voice, before planting kisses on her neck and making her giggle.
Polly watched, frowning. Why did Clover irritate her so? How could she dislike a small child? She sipped at her water and reasoned with herself, observing the scene on the lawn below as Jerome settled Clover once again with her bubbles. It was natural, after all, for a little girl to get bored and want her daddy’s attention. But it would slow the job considerably if it happened all the time, Polly thought, feeling resentful.
“She gets bored.
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