Dreams of Her Own Page 4

  “What did the doctor say?” Millie asked when she heard the front door open only moments later.

  “Everything is steady as she goes.” Darcy hung her coat in the hall closet.

  “What about the morning sickness?”

  Darcy sighed. “Some women are just lucky—like me—and they have it their entire pregnancy. But, there’s still a chance I’ll get past it in the last trimester. In the meantime, I’m starved.”

  “I made a fruit salad. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Millie, you do remember I can cook, right?” Darcy stood, arms akimbo, belly filling her tunic sweater.

  “Yes.”

  “And that I still have two arms and two legs with which I can wait on myself?” Darcy indicated her arms and legs, imitating Pinocchio.

  “Yes.”

  “But?” Darcy lifted a brow.

  “But nothing. I’ll get the salad.”

  “Ian’s here?”

  “Yes, upstairs.” Looking far too sexy for his own good. And hers. “I almost brained him with one of Josh’s bats.”

  Darcy gasped, hands on her hips. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Because I didn’t know it was Ian. You didn’t tell me he had free reign over the place.” As Millie headed for the kitchen, a thud from above startled her. “Cheese and crackers.” How was she supposed to have peace of mind with that racket going on? For that matter, how was she supposed to have peace of mind with that man in the house? His very presence gave her the jitters.

  She closed her eyes in mortification over her behavior earlier. When she stood next to him, felt the heat rolling off of him, her brain had simply . . . shut down. Like the power grid during a blackout. All synapses ceased.

  She just needed to steer clear of him. Like that would be possible over the next several weeks.

  Taking a bowl from the cupboard, she turned to the fridge and grabbed the container of fruit salad, placing them both on the counter.

  That a man who looked like Ian, who worked in construction, rode a death machine, and had at least one tattoo—that she could see—listened to, and apparently enjoyed, Beethoven shocked her. Putting the two together was like entering one of Asimov’s alternate universes.

  How had Ian come to appreciate the music? And what else did the man appreciate? She shivered at the possibilities.

  Chapter 5

  “Brand,” Ian growled as he climbed off his bike, not even looking to see who called. He was dirty, cold, tired, and hungry. A lethal combination.

  “Ian? Geez, what crawled up your ass and died?” Caleb returned.

  Ian sighed. “Nothing that a hot shower, a soft bed, and a juicy burger couldn’t cure.”

  “Shouldn’t you eat before you go to bed? I mean, I don’t usually eat in bed, especially hamburgers.” He snickered.

  “What do you want?” Ian set his helmet on the seat and walked over to the interior door.

  “I’ll buy you that burger.”

  “What? Jillie kick you out of the house again?” Jillie had a weekly book club where a bunch of women got together, ate desserts, drank wine, and, oh yeah, sometimes got around to discussing books.

  Tossing his keys on the desk, he headed for the kitchen.

  “Yeah. Shower and meet me at Sea Witch in thirty. That give you enough time to do your hair?”

  “Fuck you,” he said on a laugh. “What’s the emergency?” Opening the fridge, he grabbed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap.

  “I’ve got some news.”

  “Christ, you’re like the town gossip.” Ian took a gulp of water, then wiped his mouth.

  “Yeah. Well, you’ll like this bit of gossip.”

  Half an hour later, Ian strode into their favorite watering hole and spotted Caleb already at a booth, a beer in his hand.

  “Another Sorachi Ace,” Caleb called to the bartender.

  “You know I don’t drink,” Ian said has he slid into the booth.

  “Not for you.” Caleb lifted the bottle he had and drained it.

  After ordering his usual, the Sea Witch burger and a root beer, Ian stretched out his legs and directed his attention to Caleb.

  “Oh, sure, so now you want to know my news,” Caleb said.

  “I want my burger, but in the meantime . . .”

  Caleb leaned forward conspiratorially. “You remember my buddy Jon, works for the Landmarks Preservation Commission? He said a permit came in to renovate the old Yardley Mansion, one of the few remaining Gilded Age mansions. The new owners want to turn it into a chichi inn.

  “Okay . . . and this is news, how?”

  “Boy, are you grumpy when you’re hungry,” Caleb said. “This is news because the owners are going to be soliciting RFPs from companies on the very extensive renovations they require . . . renovations that, because of the building’s landmark status, will need to conform to the historical style of the era.”

  His hunger forgotten, Ian sat forward, then cringed. Another RFP. He’d done dozens of RFPs in the last few years. Check that–Ruby had done dozens of RFPs. He had one in the hopper already for a job that, if he got the bid, would take his business international. But the Yardley job sounded intriguing.

  Could he do it? Ian wondered. “When?”

  “Jon thinks the RFP will be posted on their website this week or so. Once posted, they’ll expect the responses in about a month, so probably after New Year’s, I’d say.”

  Cutting it close to the other job. “And you’re interested?”

  “Damn right I’m interested, but I can’t do this without a general contractor, one with expertise in historical renovations. That’s where you come in.”

  “I made the first cut on that renovation in England, Hawkins Hall.”

  “Dude! Congratulations!” Caleb lifted his bottle in a toast.

  Ian met it with his root beer mug before taking a swig.

  “If you get the England job, when would you start?”

  “In the spring.”

  A new waitress delivered their burgers, flashing a come hither look at Ian, which clearly didn’t go unnoticed by Caleb, because as soon as she walked away, he said, “She wants you, man. You should go for it.”

  Ian snorted, then picked up his burger and took an enormous bite. His stomach practically rolled over in pleasure.

  “How long has it been since, you know?” Caleb lifted his eyebrows.

  “Since what?” Ian asked around a mouthful of juicy red meat.

  “You know.” Caleb made a crude motion with his hands.

  “What are you, like twelve? None of your damn business,” Ian returned.

  “Too long,” Caleb said with a nod, then took a pull from his beer.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ian stuck a fry in his mouth, eyeing his friend.

  Caleb shrugged. “If you’d gotten some recently you wouldn’t be so pissy.”

  “Asshole.”

  “That jealousy talking ‘cuz I’m getting it on a regular basis?” he asked with a grin, setting his beer back on the table.

  “Back to this RFP—”

  “Nice deflection,” Caleb said with a smirk.

  “Shut it. So, you’re thinking I respond to the RFP, and include Five Boroughs Electrical on the deal as one of the subs.”

  “Of course.”

  Ian chewed his burger, washing it down with the root beer. It’d be great working with his friend on this project. If he got the job, he’d have to hire the skilled labor to do it. And subs. Lots of subs. He already had some of the best tradesmen—and women—in New York he worked with on a regular basis. Getting the cart before the horse, Brand.

  Ian sat back, his hunger finally sated. “All right. Let’s see what they’r
e looking for. I don’t plan on responding to an RFP if I don’t think I can do the job.”

  “You can do it,” Caleb said with enthusiasm.

  If only he had Caleb’s confidence. He had no doubt he could do the renovation, even with all the other jobs he had in the queue. Completing the RFP? Well, he’d leave that up to Ruby.

  Friday evening, Millie hurried up the sidewalk to her apartment building, tugging her coat around her as a particularly icy blast threatened to rip it off her.

  “Hey, Mousey Millie, got a hot date tonight?” a teenager called from behind her, followed by the guffaws of the other boys with him.

  “Yeah, with a vibrator,” another one replied, as the others laughed even louder.

  Heat flared up her neck and into her face. Ignore them and keep walking. She put her head down, the familiar taunts an unwelcome reminder of her painful middle and high school years. “Thugs,” she muttered, then began reciting Descartes’ rule of signs to herself. The number of positive real roots of a polynomial is bounded by the number of changes of sign in its coefficients.

  One of them must have said something else because the group’s laughter followed her all the way to the building.

  Just as she opened the door, her neighbor, Chelsea, breezed past her wearing leggings, sky-high boots, and a barely-there halter top.

  “Hi, Millie!” Chelsea said in her breathy voice.

  “You do know it’s winter, right?” Millie asked, confused by her neighbor’s skimpy attire.

  “It’s okay, my date is waiting with his car.”

  Millie glanced out to the street and saw a small, shiny car waiting at the curb. “Have fun,” Millie muttered.

  Chelsea received a few catcalls from the same group of thugs, which elicited a flirtatious giggle. “Thanks, boys!” She sashayed down the sidewalk. “Don’t wait up,” she added with another titter.

  Millie rolled her eyes and stepped into the foyer, stopping to check her mail. Friday evening and Crazy Chelsea had yet another date.

  The thugs were right about one thing. She didn’t have a hot date. Or even a cold one.

  Climbing the stairs to her third floor apartment Millie planned out her evening. A microwave dinner and some in-depth research. She unloaded the stack of library books she’d picked up that afternoon. Anticipating Number Two on her list, one of the books in the pile was The Joy of Sex.

  The key to reaching goals was preparation. The book would also come in handy for her novel’s sex scenes, which she’d been putting off. Despite the extensive research, she’d found it difficult to write realistically about an act she’d never experienced. Of course she knew the mechanics—insert Tab A into Slot B—as well as the biochemistry, but she couldn’t write the emotion or the physical response with any authenticity. She could always fall back on her extensive vocabulary, but would it ring true?

  Her phone rang before she could even remove her coat. “Hello?”

  “Millicent. We’ve done it!” Her mother’s voice was uncharacteristically excited. The fact that her mother had even called her came as a surprise. Most of the time she wondered if her parents even remembered her existence.

  “Done what?”

  “Done what? Millicent, what have your father and I spent our careers trying to prove? Found definitive evidence that the unsigned manuscript is in fact, Hardy’s.” For as long as she could remember, her parents, college professors specializing in Victorian literature, had been doggedly engaged in proving that a particular unpublished manuscript they’d unearthed in an archive—in the New York Public Library, of all places—had actually been written by Thomas Hardy of Jude the Obscure fame.

  “That’s great.” Millie couldn’t work up the enthusiasm she should feel for her parents’ life’s work. They’d paid her very little attention when she was growing up, not out of disdain; they simply forgot about her, they were so focused on their scholarly pursuits. So how could she be anything but indifferent?

  “We’re drafting our paper on it now for submission to the English Literary Journal, so we won’t be able to meet you for dinner tomorrow night. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No. No, of course not.” She was surprised her mother even remembered their monthly dinner date, having spent many an evening alone in a diner or restaurant because her parents had forgotten.

  “We’ll reschedule soon. Your father’s calling me, so I have to run. Thank you for sharing our news.”

  Did she have a choice? “Sure. Talk to you soon.” But her mother was already gone.

  Chapter 6

  Monday evening Ian carried two bags of groceries into the Sunset Park apartment building. Ringing the bell, he shifted his burden then reached inside his pocket for the key.

  “Ruby,” he called as he entered.

  “Ian? Is that you?”

  “Yes.” Who else would it be?

  “Come on in. I’m just watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote.”

  Ian strode into the kitchen to set down the bags, then walked into the living room that hadn’t changed since he’d first set eyes on it back in sixth grade.

  Ruby sat up from her recliner appearing frailer than she had last week. It broke his heart. Yet she refused to let him take her to the doctor.

  “Come. Sit. Tell me about your day.” She muted the TV.

  Before she’d retired ten years earlier, Ruby had been the head librarian at the Sunset Park Branch Public Library. The library had served as a haven for Ian when he was growing up, keeping him off the streets. And just as important, out of the house and away from his stepfather’s version of discipline—his fists.

  He leaned down, pressed his lips to the papery skin of her cheek. “I brought food. You should eat.”

  “In a minute.”

  Here lately her usually robust appetite had been off. “If I tell you about my day, do you promise to eat some soup and a grilled cheese?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ian sighed, dropped to the sofa next to the recliner, and proceeded to describe his day. Nothing exciting, but she listened with rapt attention.

  She and her late husband, Curtis, never had children. Her one regret, she’d once told him.

  He’d apprenticed with her husband, learning the ropes of construction, renovation, and historical preservation. Curtis taught him everything he knows. In fact, he owed his life to Curtis and Ruby. Without his and Ruby’s kindness and direction, he’d likely be on the street, in prison. Or worse, dead.

  Curtis had given him a job when his stepfather kicked him out of the house at seventeen. And Ruby had given him a home until he could support himself.

  After he’d stumbled into the library with a shiner and a busted lip, Ruby had introduced him to her husband, who’d taught Ian self-defense. Hard work on the construction sites had added bulk to Ian’s scrawny frame. Before long, Ian could stand up to anyone stupid enough to get in his way. Including his stepfather, which was the reason the asshole eventually kicked him out of the house. He didn’t like his prey fighting back.

  Ian hadn’t started the fight, but he hadn’t walked away from it either.

  When Curtis died, Ian had been surprised to learn that he’d purchased a second life insurance policy, naming Ian as the beneficiary. ‘Use this money to start your business,’ he’d said in a letter Ruby had given him after the funeral. Ian had been blown away that a man who was not his father would take out an insurance policy just for him. But that was Curtis.

  He ended his story with the RFP.

  “You’ll get it.” Ruby nodded. “Don’t let the old fears take hold. Remember, divide it into bite-size pieces so it’s not so overwhelming.” She paused, her eyes a little misty. “Curtis would be so proud of you.” She held his gaze, and Ian tried to swallow around the grapefruit-sized lump in his throat. That anyone wou
ld be proud of him seemed . . . impossible. He’d been lucky to get through high school, even with Ruby’s help.

  “Speaking of RFPs”—Ruby pointed to a neat stack of paper on the coffee table—“the one for the Irving house in Westchester is ready.”

  Washington Irving’s house, Sunnyside, needed some preservation work. Easy enough job, to Ian’s mind.

  Thanks to Ruby’s writing skills, he’d garnered numerous jobs over the years. Taking her frail hand in his, a twinge of guilt swept through him. Clearly, she’d grown feeble over the last few months. He shouldn’t be asking her to do what amounted to hours and pages of work. Perhaps it was time to look at alternatives.

  “Now, how about that soup?” Ian finally asked, slapping his thighs with his hands.

  “You’re a good boy.” Ruby unmuted the TV and went back to her show.

  In the kitchen, Ian opened the can of tomato soup, and poured it into a pot on the stove. Then he buttered two slices of bread, sprinkled them with dried Italian herbs, and placed two slices of provolone between them.

  Ian heard Ruby shout at the TV, “It was the snooty maître d, you twit!”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. She might be physically frail, but her mind was sharp as ever. He popped the sandwich onto the heated griddle, and since Ruby was more likely to eat if he ate with her, made another one for himself.

  With Ruby’s help and encouragement, Ian had discovered a love of learning he’d never thought possible, spending hours in the library studying philosophy, history, art, and architecture after Ruby showed him the audiobooks that were available free to anyone with a library card. Up until that point, he’d just assumed he was the moron his stepfather had often called him.