Page 6 of The Marriage Sham
I’m clearly overwhelmed because I burst out laughing the second he stops talking. I can barely form words I’m laughing so hard. “Oh, Granddaddy. You said it’s only three things and won’t take much effort. Move here? Get married? Sure! Let me just order up a husband and get right to it!”
The giggles finally wind down, and I wipe the tears from my eyes to see he’s just staring at me, the patient smile I saw on his face a lot growing up.
“Just three things, Frances. Before I die.”
And then he moves his head and stares out the window. I wait for him to say something more. To explain his three wishes. Or to give me an out of some sort. Because his list is ludicrous. Obviously.
But nothing more leaves his mouth.
Eventually his eyes slide closed and I stay for a few minutes longer, making sure he really is asleep again before sneaking out and continuing my chores. This time with all new stresses and worries on my brain. Move here permanently and get married? That’s crazy. Right?
There’s a huge weight sitting on my chest, but I simply can’t address all that right now. I have two other clients to call, an alpaca farm to locate, and a raised toilet seat with handles that is currently stuck in the front door. If I think about Granddaddy’s health or his last wishes, I just might break down and cry. And we can’t have that, now can we?
Maybe a diet soda break is just what I need right about now.
I pull a fresh can from the fridge and lean against the sink to savor the first sip. I’m aware it’s not healthy for me, but neither is sweet tea with all its sugar and calories. Life is a tradeoff, and I choose to fit in my jeans. Well, the ones that have some stretch to them. I’ve worked hard the last ten years to shed at least a small amount of the weight I carried in high school and appear like the successful professional I am.
Right as I go for a second swig, I catch movement outside Granddaddy’s kitchen window. I lean to the side to see what it is, hoping for a distraction. Any distraction.
And what a distraction it is.
“Oh, lordy…” I fan my face then promptly slip from leaning so far to the left, bump my elbow, spill my soda down the front of my shirt, and barely keep myself from going down to the floor. My life flashes before my eyes, and I’m disheartened to see it’s a short film. Getting my two feet to hold solidly under me, I rub my knee, the one that slammed into the cabinet, plop my soda can down, and grab the kitchen towel to rub out the stain.
I shake my head at myself and peek back out the window, thrilled the vision is still there and not just a figment of my overstressed mental state. He’s thoroughly occupied, thank heaven, and didn’t see my near face plant.
And now I’m thoroughly occupied, staring out at the most beautiful specimen I’ve seen in maybe forever. A tall, fit-looking man is standing shirtless outside his house, a hose held in one hand spraying down his upper body. His other hand is wiping down his face and chest. Then down to his chiseled midsection. Water’s flying everywhere, his eyes are shut, and I might be hyperventilating. He seems unconcerned about his wet cargo pants or the wet hair dangling in his eyes. This must be the neighbor Granddaddy told me about. He’d moved in probably three years ago by now, but I’d never seen him on my visits home.
All too soon, he leans down and turns off the spigot, tossing the hose down on the soaked grass. He finds his discarded t-shirt on a bench nearby, using it to wipe off his face and chest, then swiping it over his hair before tossing it back on the bench. He fumbles around a bit more, and then I see him put a pair of glasses on his face.
If it were even possible to be more attractive, the glasses seem to hit me in the gut and spike my interest more than anyone has in the past ten years. He’s a beautiful example of a man, but now I’m wanting to march over there and wind up his hose, nice and tidy. How can he just leave it out there all over his grass? I watch agape as he traipses in through his front door, wet trail following after him.
He may be gorgeous, but I can’t stand that kind of mess. I’ll just stay over here and watch the show from a distance. And speaking of being a mess, I see the sad state of my nails and wonder if Love has more than one nail salon these days. Back in high school there was only one place to go, and the polish selection was limited at best.
Not that I need to look good for any reason. Not like there are any clients or good looking men here. Well, minus the neighbor. But I am not going there. No way no how am I going to get mixed up in some guy here in Love. Been there, done that, didn’t even get a t-shirt.
