Cat's Cradle. Christine Rimmer

Dillon asked.

      “What? Oh. Yeah. All done.”

      “Same time tomorrow?”

      “Tomorrow?”

      His expression was bland, but the gold flecks in his eyes seemed to be dancing. “Yeah. You know. The day after today.”

      “You need me tomorrow?”

      “You bet.”

      “For what?”

      “A thousand things.”

      “Like what?”

      “The satellite dish might arrive.”

      “And what else?”

      “Let’s talk about it then. Ten o’clock. As usual.”

      She felt provoked, though she couldn’t figure out why. “As usual. What does that mean? I’ve only worked for you for one day.”

      “Is this an important point?”

      “Of course not. I just want things clear, that’s all.”

      “Fine. What isn’t clear to you?” A single crystalline drop of sweat dripped down the bridge of his nose. He swiped at it with the back of his hand. She saw the inside of his forearm, shiny with moisture, as hard as a rock and ropy with tendons and veins. “Well?”

      She felt dazed. She couldn’t think. “I...nothing.”

      He was smiling again. “Good. I do appreciate this.”

      Now she felt like a fool. “Of course.”

      “Tomorrow, then? Ten o’clock.”

      “Yes. Tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

      Four

      The satellite dish did not arrive the next day, but Dillon’s books did.

      He put Cat right to work measuring and estimating the cost for new shelves in the living area and also downstairs in the big central room. Next, he decided a trip to Reno was in order that very day, to purchase the lumber. He insisted they both had to go, since she was the one building the shelves and he was the one buying them.

      She told him that there was absolutely no reason he had to go with her to get the lumber.

      He gave her a grin that actually looked shy. “Yes, there is. I want to choose the wood myself. Please?”

      He was really laying on the charm, she thought, and refused to admit that it was working. She looked away—anywhere but into those coaxing brown eyes—and gestured at all the open boxes of books strewn around the room. “I don’t get it. What’s this new thing you’ve got about books?”

      He made a tsking sound. “Now, Cat. Was that a nice thing to say?”

      She glanced at him again, wondering what he was up to. “What do you mean?”

      He was pretending to look wounded. “You’re referring to the fact that I almost flunked out of high school my senior year, aren’t you? You can’t understand how a loser like I was could have grown up to need a whole houseful of bookcases.”

      “I did not say you were a loser.”

      “No, but you thought it. And hey, it’s okay. I was a messed-up kid. It’s not a secret. But now I’m not a kid anymore. And I like to read. When I first started doing gags for the movies, it was books that kept me sane.”

      “Gags?”

      “Yeah, gags. Stunts. Same thing.”

      Cat asked, “Why did books keep you sane?” though she’d told herself all last night that when she came in to work for him today she would keep the talk strictly focused on the job at hand.

      Dillon was only too happy to forget the job at hand. “In the movies, it’s always hurry up and wait. You can wait hours, days, for the weather to clear. Or for a shot to be set up. I learned to carry a book along with me all the time. Then when it came time to wait, I had something to occupy my mind.”

      Another question she had no business asking found its way out of her mouth. “Did you ever go any farther in school?”

      He bent, a little stiffly as always since his return home, and snared a book from one of the boxes. He looked at the title on the binding, then gently opened it to the first page. “Nah. Never got around to it—not that any reputable college would take me.” He glanced up from the book. “What about you? Did you ever get to college?”

      “No,” she said quickly, wondering why in heaven’s name she’d asked him that question about going farther in school.

      “Why not? I seem to remember that you were a real brain. There was even a scholarship, wasn’t there?”

      Cat stuck her hands into her pockets and looked out the window at the trees and the ever-present winter mist. “Yes.”

      “What school was it? I forget.”

      She wanted to tell him she didn’t wish to discuss this with him, but that would be making a big deal out of it. And if she made a big deal out of it, he would sense that she often regretted missing her chance for a college education. She didn’t want him to know of her regret. It was too personal. And she was being careful to avoid anything personal with him.