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“Talk to me,” I tell her when I see the worry lines in her forehead.
She helps me remove my overcoat and hangs it on a coatrack by the door. Something about this gives me a tight feeling in my chest. This simple, domestic gesture—removing coats and shoes by the front door, asking about her day—is the sort of everyday homey ritual that I never witnessed between my parents growing up. That I never realized I wanted until I met Martha. I want all of these simple things with her, and these simple things seem more urgent now, given that our age difference matters not at all now.
“Let me grab the wine and we’ll talk in there,” she replies, gesturing with her chin into the living room. Instead, I insist she sit down and let me serve her.
I retrieve a bottle and two glasses from the kitchen and bring all of it to the living room. I sit close to her on the sofa and pour the wine, handing her a glass. “Tell me everything.”
She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes, exhaling a heavy sigh. “The Chamberlains are trolling the PTA and getting to my staff. They’re trying to make my job even harder.”
Martha tells me about her staff meeting, and about the puzzling discussion at PTA, and all about the school board meeting.
“At least the board of trustees has some common sense,” I say when she tells me about her attorney.
“I don’t know how to fix this, Miles. I have an answer for everything but not this. I don’t know how to simply let things play out without trying to fix it.”
Her feet are moving back and forth across the floor, and that’s when I notice she’s using a cylindrical foot massager.
I tell her, “You don't have to fix everything.”
She shakes her head, my stubborn girl. “But that’s my job. It’s my whole life. I don’t know what I’ll do without it.”
“You won’t do without it,” I tell her. “And you have me.”
Martha slouches down into the sofa and sips her wine, turning her face to me. Not saying anything, just looking.
“May I?” My hand hovers above her free hand, and she nods, perhaps too tired to object.
I take her hand in both of mine.
“What about you, Miles? You’re risking everything to help me. You could be disbarred or something for what you’re doing, couldn’t you?”
I shrug and grin at her impishly. “I don’t know; maybe I should look that up.”
She shakes her head and downs more wine. “I’m serious.”
“What can I say? I’ve always been a bit of a risk taker.”
“But this is huge,” she replies.
I nod in agreement. “I was raised by some very permissive nannies. I never was admonished for changing my mind or changing directions. If this law thing doesn’t pan out, I’ll go do something else. Maybe I’ll be the guy who sweeps up. That might be okay.”
Martha smirks. “Must be nice to be a trust fund baby.”
This doesn’t bother me. She’s absolutely correct. “It is, I’m not going to lie. But also you gotta sit back and breathe for a minute, Martha.”
She closes her eyes as if to avoid the truth of what I’m saying. “I know, everyone says that. But I don’t have time.”
I sigh in empathy. I know that feeling. I’ll have to take the direct approach to helping her relax. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
She blinks at me. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No, I’m not sure. I’m out of good ideas and full of bad ones. Personally, this is my favorite bad idea in a long time.”
She crinkles her eyes at me in a shy smile. “You’re nothing but trouble, Mr. McCrae.”
I lean in. “And you’re everything and a bag of chips.”
Our lips meet in the middle; hers are even softer and sweeter than I remember. I’ve relived that moment in the back seat of her car every night in my dreams. Her plump, soft lips brush against mine in a delicious, tempting dance that dares me to take it to another level. I swipe my tongue across her bottom lip, and in the next moment our tongues tangle eagerly.
