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ld get there he touched her arm. “Francie? The thing of it is, it's my house, and we can't fight in it.”
His expression was as serious as she had ever seen it. “What makes you think I want to fight?” she inquired.
“I guess it's pretty much in your nature.”
“My nature! First you kidnap my son, then you kidnap me, and now you have the nerve to say that I want to fight!”
“Call me a pessimist.” He sat down on the top step.
Francesca clutched her arms, uncomfortably aware that he'd gotten the best of her on that exchange. And then she shivered. He'd carried her out of the house without her jacket, and it couldn't be much more than forty degrees. “What are you doing? Why are you sitting down?”
“If we're going to have it out, let's do it right here, because once we go inside that house, we have to be real polite to each other. I mean it, Francie, that house is my retreat, and I'm not going to have it spoiled by the two of us going after each other.”
“That's ridiculous.” Her teeth began to chatter. “We have things to talk about, and I don't think we're going to be able to do it without getting upset.”
He patted the step next to him.
“I'm freezing,” she said, thumping down at his side, but even as she complained, she found herself secretly pleased by the idea of a house where no arguments were allowed. What would happen to human relationships if there were more houses like this one? Only Dallie could have thought of something so interesting. Surreptitiously, she moved closer to his warmth. She'd forgotten how good he always smelled—like soap and clean clothes. “Why don't we sit in the car?” she suggested. “You only have on a flannel shirt. You can't be all that warm yourself.”
“If we stay here, we'll get done quicker.” He cleared his throat. “First of all, I apologize for making that smarmy remark about your career being more important to you than Teddy. I never said I was perfect, but still, that was a low blow and I'm ashamed of myself.”
She pulled her knees closer to her chest and hunched into them. “Do you have any idea what it does to a working mother to hear something like that?”
“I wasn't thinking,” he mumbled. Then he added defensively, “But damn, Francie, I wish you wouldn't fly off the handle every time I say the slightest little thing wrong. You get too emotional.”
She dug her fingers into her arms in frustration. Why did men always do this? What made them think they could say the most outrageous—the most painful—things to a woman”, and then expect her to keep silent? She thought of a number of pointed comments she wanted to make, but bit them back in the interest of getting into the house. “Teddy marches to the beat of his own drummer,” she said firmly. “He's not like me and he's not like you. He's completely himself.”
“I can see that.” His knees were spread. He propped his forearms on them and stared down at the step for a few moments. “It's just that he's not like a regular kid.”
All her maternal insecurities jangled like bad music. Because Teddy wasn't athletic, Dallie didn't approve of him. “What do you want him to do?” she countered angrily. “Go out and beat up some women?” He stiffened beside her, and she wished she'd kept her mouth shut.
“How are we going to work this out?” he asked quietly. “We fight like cats and dogs the minute we get within sniffing distance of each other. Maybe we'd be better off if we turned this over to the bloodsuckers.”
“Is that really what you want to do?”
“All I know is that I'm getting tired of fighting with you, and we haven't even been together for a whole day.”
Her teeth had begun to chatter in earnest. “Teddy doesn't like you, Dallie. I'm not going to force him to spend time with you.”
“Teddy and I just rub each other the wrong way is all. We'll have to work it out.”
“It won't be that easy.”
“Lots of things aren't easy.”
She looked hopefully toward the front door. “Let's stop talking about Teddy and go inside for a few minutes. Then after we get warmed up we can come back out and finish.”
Dallie nodded his head, then stood and offered his hand. She accepted it, but the contact felt much too good, so she let go as quickly as she could, determined to keep the pressing of flesh between them to a minimum. For a moment he looked as if he'd read her thoughts, and then he turned to unlock the door. “You got a real challenge for yourself with that Doralee,” he remarked. Stepping aside, he gestured her into a terra-cotta hallway lit by an arched window. “How many strays you figure you picked up in the last ten years?”
“Animal or human?”
He chuckled, and as she walked into the living room, she remembered what a wonderful sense of humor Dallie had. The living room held a faded Oriental rug, a collection of brass lamps, and some overstuffed chairs. Everything was comfortable and nondescript—everything except the wonderful paintings on the walls. “Dallie, where did you get these?” she asked, walking over to an original oil depicting stark mountains and bleached bones.
“Here and there,” he said, as if he wasn't quite sure.
“They're wonderful!” She moved on to study a large canvas splashed with exotic abstract flowers. “I didn't know you collected art.”
“I don't collect it so much as just nail up a few things I like.”
