The Science of Loving by Candace Vianna Page A

stopped Angie. “No mija , you already earned your place at the table. You just sit and relax.”
    We all bustled off in the dimming light. Danny went to get the folding table and chairs, while I carried the bagged canopy to the front edge of the campsite where Dad was already waiting. He stood back as I upended the bag, the contents clanking onto the weedy dirt, letting me sort out the pipes and joint connectors until I was satisfied everything was there and properly placed. After doing this so many times, I still didn’t know if he respected my system or was just humoring my compulsive nature.
    We worked together in companionable silence, assembling the frame then unfurled the cloth shell over it. We inserted the front legs, the canopy canting awkwardly until we repeated the process on the back, standing the whole thing up. Lastly, I inserted the legs into some heavy cinderblock anchors. I added the anchors to the canopy after an ornery Santa Ana wind turned it into a kite one day, and sent it cartwheeling across the campground, taking out several tents along the way.
    It was almost full dark by the time we’d finished, and I could barely make out Angie’s shape at the table. “So what do you think of Angie?”
    Dad knew I was asking for more than a superficial impression. Mechanical disability notwithstanding, he was one of the most insightful people I knew. Having spent several decades working as a community organizer and activist, he'd witnessed people at their best, and worse and all conditions in between. His perceptions, especially about people, were always illuminating.
    “Handy to have around… Troubled though. She say anything on the drive?”
    “Not really, just that she’d been talking to her dad.”
    He stiffened. “Think he’s hurting her.” Hurting women and kids was one of the few things my family’s live-and-let-live philosophy had no tolerance for.
    “No, from what I can tell, they’re really close. It’s her mom that’s abusive.”
    “Strong words.” He twisted his wedding ring, considering. His eyes narrowed. Then he nodded, coming to a decision. “I think there may be a few surprises hiding inside her she hasn’t discovered yet. In the long run she’ll be all right.” Grabbing the back of my neck, Dad gave me a shake. “Let’s get the lights set up and a fire going. I want to dance with your mother.”
     

     
    As the temperature dropped with the setting sun, I sat in the gathering shadows hugging my knees to my chest, watching the men talk in front of the canopy. It was easy to imagine a younger more vigorous Stewart, and see the man Mat might eventually become: Lighter, leaner, but no less vital. Splitting up, it took them only a few minutes to transform our campsite into an enchanted retreat, alight with lanterns and strings of twinkling Christmas lights.
    Stewart disappeared into the RV as Mat came over to light the kindling waiting in the nearby fire pit. His eyes reflected a sinister sparkle from catching fire and shadows danced and shimmered across the planes of his face. He straddled the bench behind me, bringing the scent of wood smoke as he snuggled against me, his large hands sliding warmly down my arms to stroke my wrists.
    “I love the lights.” Suddenly out of breath, I could barely get the words out. My heart fluttered as my body recalled the earlier heat those hands left.
    “Yeah?” He breathed a feathery tickle against the side of my face, and a wave of lust broke over me. All it took was one breath, one lowly uttered word, and I was drowning in him: His heat, his touch, rolling me under as thunder pounded in my ears. His fingers closed around my wrists and arms, thicker than my thighs, tightened. I nodded, feeling deliciously trapped. Gasping as he rasped his stubbled chin along my skin then soothed the prickly burn with heated kisses.
    When Danny and Stewart exited the RV heading to the canopy with a folded card table and camp chairs, Mat sighed, planting a