When Sarah Screamed

Love in the Ruins-4

There had been a time when Sarah believed that he lacked any kind of long-term ambition at all, but the truth had turned out to be far more subtle, and come way too late for her to appreciate it in any meaningful way. She realized that Army NCOs, even after they left the service like her ex-husband had done, all seemed to have discovered a nearly perfect balance between power and responsibility, and found it to be sufficient to their purpose. Fletcher Bolt didn’t want to run the world, but rather to live fully within it, and within himself.

And you’re just an ex-hairdresser masquerading as an assistant office manager, who tends bar in her spare time to make ends meet, and can’t even keep her checkbook balanced, the little voice sneered.

“There’s nothing wrong with my checkbook,” she growled, talking to herself again. Henry thought she was crazy. And maybe she was.

She went to peer into her closet to find a shirt to layer over the tank. Looking down, she noted her areola, which were hard to miss. They were so large she could barely cover them with the palm of her hand, and her damned n*****s were like thimbles, for Christ’s sake. She was always trying to hide them and scrounged around, grumbling, until she found a tight sports bra that flattened her breasts like a bandage but didn’t smell too bad. She stripped the tank off and changed, then went back to look for a blouse.

One of Fletcher’s old blue oxford cloth shirts hung in the back of her closet, and Sarah couldn’t even imagine how long it had been there, or why she hadn’t thrown it away. She pulled it on, thanking her lucky stars that the shirt hadn’t retained his scent. That would have been just too much. Pushing those kinds of memories firmly aside, Sarah rolled the sleeves up onto her forearms and knotted the shirt tails at her waist, then went to put her contacts in, brush her damp hair and apply too much shadow and eyeliner, as usual.

That done, she rooted around to find a matching pair of shoes. Prophetically perhaps, the only ones she could find on short notice were the open-toed slides she’d worn for Henry, which had way too much heel for daylight, and were too sexy for meeting an ex-husband. Was there ever a pair of flats anywhere to be found when she needed them? No, of course not. She wiggled her toes, wishing she’d taken time to give herself a pedicure.

“Mom jeans and spikes,” she sighed. “You’re a real fashion plate, Sarah.” She hopped from one foot to the other, working the shoes onto her bare feet, and trying to get out of the house all at the same time. Henry was at the kitchen sink, washing up. “Got to go,” she said. “I’m late. Fletcher’s waiting to look at that damned car, and….”

“Don’t swear,” he said sharply. “It isn’t becoming.”

“Sorry, hon’, you know how I am when I get flustered. Please lock up for me. I’ve simply got to run.”

What she really wanted to say was f**k you, asshole, but managed to resist the impulse, hating herself for being the coward that she was. Why couldn’t she just tell the prick off once and for all, and be done with it?

Because you’re a chicken s**t, the little voice in her head whispered. Because you’re afraid to let go, afraid to be alone, afraid nobody will love you.

Sarah gritted her teeth. f**k you! I’m not afraid. I’m not!

She snagged her purse off the counter and went out the back door wondering what Henry would think if he ever heard how she really talked to herself. She used the real words, the gritty, sexy, dirty words. He hated them, she loved them. The story of my life, she thought, realizing that she hadn’t even slowed down enough to kiss him goodbye. There was just the sharp click slap, click slap of the mules on her size elevens as the final word of thanks for their evening together. She was unlocking the car before realizing that she still didn’t have any panties on. Where was her head?

Way to go, Sarah!

And, of course, the damned engine wouldn’t start. The car was a classic 1957 Porsche convertible, a 356 Speedster that Fletcher brought home from their last posting in Germany, back when he was an Army Staff Sergeant. They’d bought it used in Berlin, when Sarah was pregnant out to there and barely old enough to drive. They’d made love in it the very first day, and many a day afterwards.

Two decades later, that car was about the only visible reminder of her former life as Mrs. Bolt. It was painted sky blue, the color of her eyes, Fletcher used to say, and for awhile there, she had believed him. She’d gotten the thing as part of her divorce settlement, more out of spite than anything.

Her ex had loved the Porsche, maybe even more than he had loved her, and she used to be proud of herself for getting it from him. That hadn’t lasted long, and eventually, she’d become embarrassed, and more than a little ashamed of herself. But she loved the thing, too, even though she didn’t have any idea of how to maintain a classic car that was substantially older than she was and worth, conservatively, more than everything else she owned combined.

The problem was that she just didn’t understand balky carburetors or dual-point distributors or any of that. Lately, the engine was prone to flooding, but she only had a faint memory of instruction from Fletcher on how to flush gas through. The battery didn’t seem to be doing a very good job, either, but she coaxed it, grinding the starter without touching the gas pedal, hoping to clear the raw gas.

She was trying to be gentle with it, but how in the hell can you be gentle with a car? She didn’t know that, either. Finally, she was rewarded with a stuttering roar and a dispirited puff of blue smoke from the exhaust. Smiling for the first time all day, Sarah patted the steering wheel like she’d pat a dog with a new trick. The engine promptly died, perhaps with embarrassment, and wouldn’t restart. She said f**k, over and over, in between silent entreaties for the old thing to start, desperately trying to hurry.

She was always trying to hurry but, much to her chagrin, had never gotten any better at it. And the damned car wasn’t going to start because she was late. It had to be some kind of plot. However, she did recognize the futility of fighting with the thing and dug into her purse for the cell phone, punching the speed dial for her ex-husband’s number, thinking, “f**k, f**k, f**k…”

3.

Fletcher arrived twenty minutes later driving a new looking Mustang GT convertible. He had on baggy surfer shorts and a black t-shirt that said, I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m making good time, across the front. Sarah only just managed to stop herself from smiling.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said, motioning to the beautiful car. “This thing wasn’t fit to drive, so I had to shovel it out and run through the car wash. And then, at the last minute, I remembered you like Kona coffee, so I stopped off on the way and…” He handed her a sleeved paper cup that was almost too hot to touch. “Double sugar and cream, right?”

“Um, right.”

She was ridiculously pleased by the minor courtesy, and by his apology, especially as she’d been the one running late to start with and they both knew it. She wasn’t about to tell him that she had started drinking her coffee black as part of the calorie cutting routine to lose weight.

Henry had been gone for all of two minutes. She’d been about to wet her pants with fear, terrified that her two ex-husbands might run into each other. Well, one of them was an ex, and the other one ought to be, but, either way, she didn’t want a fist fight in the front yard, knowing full well that Henry would be on the receiving end. He surely didn’t deserve that.

The f**k he doesn’t, her little voice said.

Fletcher was pretty easy going, mostly, but that didn’t change the fact that he could be mean as a damned crocodile when the occasion demanded. He’d wipe the floor with the likes of Henry Finnegan, and not break a sweat. Sarah had once seen him take on three rough commercial fishermen who’d made a crude pass at her. They were in a bar down on the Elbe River waterfront in northwestern Germany at the time, and the fight had been very brief and very, very ugly. It had taught her a little of what Fletcher Bolt was capable of, and she definitely didn’t want that on her conscience where Henry was concerned, whether he deserved it or not.

Seeing Fletcher in the flesh for the first time in…well, she didn’t even know how long it had been…made her wish that he wasn’t quite so good looking, or so damned tall. They stood eye to eye, even when she wore heels, and those legs of his in the golf shorts were…God in heaven…he had muscles on top of muscles! It was all she could do to keep from licking her chops, just looking at him.

She knew it would crush the life out of Henry if he ever saw that greedy expression on her face, which would probably mean she’d never get laid again. But…wow! Fletcher was just so big—not pot bellied and ponderous, but big as in broad shouldered, narrow waisted and low-fat enough that he’d qualify to appear in the healthy choice column on a lunch menu. Definitely yummy big.

“The damned thing wouldn’t start,” she said for the third time, trying to get a handle on her thoughts. “I know this is the week-end, Fletch, and you’ve got other things to do besides fixing cars. Maybe we ought to do this…I don’t know, another time?”

Fletcher smiled reassuringly, his teeth so white and perfect in the angular, sun browned face that they made her want to squint. He was wearing his hair long and shaggy, and had a couple of day’s growth of beard. And those eyes—the color of deep forest on a summer day, so green they seemed almost counterfeit. She knew, however, that they were not.

He gave her another brief, reassuring hug, which was tantamount to being embraced by a Mack truck, only warmer. Sarah resisted the impulse to jump up and wrap her legs around his hips. That was fantasy stuff; for her, of course, not Fletcher. She’d seen to that, years before.

“Sorry, I’m a little sweaty,” he said apologetically, but without diffidence. “You sure look pretty in the morning sun, girl.” He grinned suddenly. “Now, if you’d just wear that denim mini skirt with those shoes, my day would be complete.”

She touched her hair self-consciously without an idea in her head of how to respond to a compliment like that. He put his big, capable hands on her shoulders, holding her out for a critical look, either knowing how she was reacting to him and choosing to ignore it, or not caring one way or the other.

Sarah wondered just what he was looking at. Well, not really. She knew, but didn’t quite believe it. And calling her girl ought to be setting her teeth on edge. Unfortunately, it made her want to twitch with pleasure, instead, and that really did set her teeth on edge. As did the sudden awareness of how the jeans felt sliding across her bare behind, and…other places. The weight of his hands made it feel like her lungs had stopped working.

Imagine him remembering that stupid skirt like that, when she’d had it in her hand that very morning for the first time in who knew how long. The idea that he had thought of her that way gave her a warm feeling. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she ought to run back inside and change.

Stop it, Sarah! For God’s sake, just stop.

“I miss you in glasses,” he said, judiciously. “They were sexy.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, either, What she did know was that it was definitely harder to breathe standing that close to him again, smelling him, hell, even feeling the heat come off of him. Her knees were shaking, and she hoped he didn’t notice. She made a mental note to forego the contacts more often in future, especially if Fletcher Bolt was going to be around.