A/N Thanks so much everyone! Don't you hate it when someone calls you out for reading a romance novel? Let's see how things go from there :)
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Her cheeks immediately turn bright pink and her eyes are the size of half-dollars when she nervously replies, "No. Oh my goodness no. It's an adventure story."
Things had been going along pretty well and now he feels like a jerk. He didn't mean to upset her; he was only teasing. Shit, but she looks so damn cute all flustered and he can't keep from smiling when he tries to assure her, "Hey, I's only jokin'."
She's still bright pink and still avoiding his gaze when she answers, "I see, well I'd better get these fish wrapped and stored in the refrigerator."
She still won't look at him, she must be really mad and now he's sure he fouled things up for good. How the hell is he going to make this right? "Nah, ya don't need to. Just show me where the paper is and I'll take care of it."
She's already tearing sheets of brown butcher paper from the roll when, still avoiding eye contact and sounding a little stubborn she insists, "No, it's fine thank you. I can do it." That's when he finally realizes it's not that she's mad at him, he embarrassed her.
It's not like him at all to try and flirt or tease with a woman, but that doesn't mean he doesn't try and do it now. He laughs a little and says, "How bout we don't argue about it? How bout we just do it together?"
She doesn't think she can speak again so she only nods, and he stands as close to her as he thinks she'll allow as they begin to wrap the fish. It's while they work he notices her hands. They're so red and chapped he's sure it must be painful. Chapping like that happened to him just last winter.
Pipes have a tendency to fail when the air gets its coldest. They crack and joints give out and it can be a real mess. It was especially bad just this past January. He was working non-stop on busted pipes and even his work gloves couldn't protect his hands from the wet and cold. The days on end spent out in the freezing weather took it's toll. His hands got so badly chapped his knuckles cracked and bled.
She's probably got her hands in and out of water most of the day with all the cooking and cleaning she has to do. He wonders if she's using any cream or ointment to try and heal them.
That's what he's thinking in that moment, but she's got something entirely different on her mind. She didn't mean to ask the question, she was only thinking it. Once the words are out of her mouth she's certain she'll never get over asking him, but it happens. "Didn't your wife want to keep any of these nice fish?"
His eyebrows furrow and he's looking at her like she's lost her mind when he questions, "My wife?"
Instantly her throat is as dry as the Sahara Desert and rather than color in her cheeks, she's certain that every bit of color has drained from them. She feels the need to sit down or she might fall down, but all she can do is tighten her grip on the sink, "I…I'm, I'm sorry. I…I have no business asking you personal questions. I just…well I was told not to set a place for you on weekends. I thought maybe you go home to a wife and children."
He's about to tell her that's not the case at all but he doesn't get the chance. They're interrupted when Mr. and Mrs. Horvath come walking in from their private sitting room. Mr. Horvath is all smiles when he asks, "What are you two so busy doing?"
Beth is relieved when it's Daryl who answers, "I caught a few fish this afternoon and I thought y'all could use em. Miss Beth here offered ta cook em up with breakfast."
Beth has gotten her voice back and adds, "I thought I'd better wrap them and get them in the refrigerator so they don't spoil. Mister Daryl has been kind enough to help."
The work is done and now that the proprietors have shown up Daryl's feeling uncomfortable. He nods his good-bye, "Well I think we got it all done here. It was nice ta see y'all. I best get upstairs n get a bath."
Miss Erma's been quietly observing it all. She's sure she sees a spark between the new boarder and her sweet helper. Oh dear. Even though he looks a bit rough the boarder seems nice enough. Still the fact remains, she doesn't know him or the type of fellow he might be, and she considers it her responsibility to watch over Beth.
There's also the firm rule she set, no keeping company with the boarders. It's simply not a good idea and would no-doubt lead to trouble.
She's not going to discuss her suspicions with Beth, not quite yet. She's sure for now that whatever is brewing between the pair is innocent, and it may turn out that it's nothing. She sees no reason to needlessly embarrass the young woman. She'll simply keep a close eye on the situation.
Beth puts the fish in the spare refrigerator on the back porch then goes to the kitchen to try and wash the smell off her hands. They hurt so badly she dreads putting them in water again, but what can she do?
When all is done she's glad to be back in her room, she needs time alone to think. She sets her book on the night table before collecting her gown and robe and making her way to the bathroom. She locks the door, slips on the gown, removes the pins from her hair and brushes it out, then finds herself wincing as she gets her hands wet while washing her face and brushing her teeth.
She puts a little of her bath lotion on the red cracked flesh, just like she does every evening, but it hasn't been helping. Earlier today, out of sheer desperation she even tried some of the lard in the kitchen. All that's left to do is hope and pray the chapped skin heals a bit overnight.
She takes a quick peek out the bathroom door into to the hall, making certain no one is there before scurrying back to her room. As she quietly shuts her door she breathes out a little sigh. It's been quite the day.
She picks up her journal to write all about how she accidentally asked the boarder if he's a married man. She may never recover from the mortification of doing such a thing. My goodness, she hasn't even gotten over the embarrassment of him asking her if she was reading a romance novel.
She's having a slight problem as she endeavors to express her feelings on paper, she can't seem to keep her mind on her writing when she can hear the subject of her thoughts rummaging around in the room above hers.
He gets his bath and trims up his facial hair and it's all so habitual he doesn't have to think about what he's doing. It's just as well because the only thing he seems capable of thinking about is her. Being so close to her like he was, standing side by side doing a small task, damn she's even prettier than he realized.
It's not just the beauty of her though, everything about her seems so soft and kind of gentle. And just what the hell is he going to do about that? He shakes his head in confusion and whispers to himself, "Nuthin' ya can do, least wise not tonight."
After the bath and the mustache and beard trimming, he does his best to comb his wet hair back off his face and out of his eyes, then brushes his teeth. He's uncertain what the rules are about attire in the upstairs hall, or even why there would be rules. They're all men up there. But he's just moved in and he doesn't want to take chances on offending anyone or doing the wrong thing. With that in mind he steps into his cotton boxers, slides them up and buttons them at the waist, then tugs the sleeveless undershirt over his head.
He steps in the chinos and pulls on his shirt, but he leaves the shirt open in the front. Hell, he's only walking a few feet down the hall.
Back in his room he stuffs his dirty clothes in a laundry bag he keeps in the closet, then goes to the bureau and retrieves his work diary. He's been keeping notes in it since he bought his place. He likes having an account of the work he's done on his land and house.
The first thing he does is jot down today's date, then he makes brief notes of what he accomplished over the weekend. He knows it'll never mean anything to anyone but him, and that doesn't matter. He just wants to have a record he can look back on years from now and remember how it all went.
When he's completed his notes he pulls the drawer open again to store the book, and something catches his eye. A jar of cream. The cream he used when his hands were so badly chapped. He'd swear the stuff is some kind of miracle cure. He thinks it over for a minute and decides yeah, he wants her to have it. That's not all though, he'd also like to make a couple of things clear to her.
He slips the jar in his pocket, buttons up his shirt, tucks it in and uses his fingers to once again push the hair back from his face. Then quietly heads down the backstairs.
When she's done pouring out her heart to it, and writing of her embarrassment in the journal, she returns the book to the bureau drawer and turns out the light. She has her beside lamp and it will provide enough light. She slides into bed, takes the book in her hands and smiles when she turns to the page where she left off. She's enjoying the story so much she wishes she could read all night but she only plans to read until eight p.m. Then she needs to get her rest.
Tomorrow is such a busy day. She'll be cleaning the upstairs bathroom while the men are at work, and vacuuming both the upstairs and downstairs. There's extra bread to bake for Monday dinner as well. Dinner is going to be a house favorite, chipped beef on toast. There will only be enough for each man to have one serving, and she knows once it's gone they'll want to fill up a little more with lots of bread with butter and jam.
She doesn't manage to make it through even three pages of the story before drifting off to sleep. She might have slept the whole night through laying there with the open book on her chest, if not for the light knock on her bedroom door that wakes her.
Her eyes open and she's a little disoriented, then realizes, oh my gosh she dozed off. She glances at the clock and it's already ten minutes before eight. She softly calls, "Just a moment," and then feels a nervousness. No one ever comes to her door at night. Is something wrong? Has something happened to Mr. or Mrs. Horvath? She grabs the afghan from the foot of her bed, drapes it across her shoulders and quietly pulls the door open.
When he sees her standing there in the doorway it happens again, she goes right to his heart and there's nothing he can do about that but smile. Her hair is hanging loose and it's a little messy and something about that fills him with longing. Her big blue eyes appear so sleepy and standing there like she is, barefoot and all, she looks even tinier.
What he'd like to do more than anything is wrap his arms around her, hold her close and steal a kiss.
She can feel her jaw drop at the sight of Daryl Dixon standing in her doorway, just as she can feel her heart begin to beat a little faster. He's so handsome, and with his hair pushed away from his face she has an excellent view of his blue eyes. He smells of Palmolive soap and his fresh clothes are clean and pressed. Everything about him fills her with a kind of longing she has never experienced and doesn't quite understand.
Then she comes to her senses, none of that matters. As good as he looks and smells, and as nice as it is to see him, it's also inappropriate for him to come to her door. She manages to ask, "Why are you here Mister Daryl?"
He seems nervous but his smile is soft as he holds out his hand, offering her a small jar, "It's cream for your hands, it works real good. Just rub a bunch on before ya go ta bed, if ya got some soft gloves put them on too. That'll help the chapping a lot. You'll see a difference by mornin'."
She's startled by the kindness, it's not at all what she expected when she opened the door, "Oh my, that's very thoughtful of you. Thank you so much."
"Welcome." He almost turns to go, but there's more he wants her to know. First, he confesses, "Hey, I's only jokin' bout the book. I know that story, I read it once a long time ago. It's a good one."
Then he does turn to leave, but he stops and turns back to look in her eyes when he tells her, "What ya asked me bout a wife? I ain't a married man. I got no wife and no children."
Her eyes are wide as she gives only a one word response, "Oh."
He never had any intention of asking her, but then the question came to him and he did, "You got a husband or sumthin'?"
"Oh, um, no."
He nods again and says, "Well g'nite Miss Beth," and just that fast he's gone.
She's filled with such warm feelings as she goes to the bureau and retrieves the white cotton gloves she wears to church. She sets the jar of cream and the gloves on her night table, crawls between the sheets and generously applies the lotion, rubbing it into her hands over and over before slipping on the gloves.
A smile is on her lips and Daryl Dixon is on her mind as she dozes off once more.
She finds herself waking a bit earlier than usual and the first thing she notices is how much better her hands look and feel. She's amazed, they don't hurt at all when she washes up and again she's touched by, and grateful for, his thoughtfulness.
She's glad she woke early, it's nice to have a bit of extra time to get ready for the day. She smiles as she pins her hair up and absentmindedly wonders if he would prefer it up or down. She's being so silly. Besides, there's really no choice but to wear it up when she serves food, and she's looking forward to this first time seeing Mister Daryl at a meal.
As she dresses her mind is still on him and not just his thoughtfulness, there's more to it. She's gained a little insight into the man he is. He was aware he embarrassed her with the story remark, and he wanted to make certain she knew he was only teasing. He's very kind.
Yes, very kind, but what has her smiling even wider is the knowledge that he also wanted her to know he's not married, and he inquired about her marital status. Then her heart grows heavy when she asks herself why any of those things could possibly matter. She's not allowed to get involved with the boarders and she can't jeopardize her job.
She breathes out a sad sigh, but still takes a little extra time with her appearance.
It's busy upstairs first thing in the morning. Eight men all getting ready for work at the same time, and its apparent right away there isn't one of them who worries about walking through the hallway in their boxers or briefs. No wonder Miss Beth isn't allowed upstairs while the men are home.
They traipse in and out of the bathroom doing what has to be done and he's glad to see there's a good amount of consideration for each other, no one takes too long.
As they began to emerge from their rooms again they stop to shake hands and introduce themselves to him. He's a little surprised by the wide variety of personalities and professions. The first two to shake his hand and introduce themselves are a guy named Aaron who says he's an accountant, and a fellow named Tobin. He's a floor manager at the big Sears & Roebuck store downtown.
There's a scientist named Eugene who acts as nervous as a cat and talks in an odd manner that Daryl finds confusing. It turns out the big redhead named Abraham is a football coach at the college and there's a young fellow named Alden who says he works as a blacksmith.
There's a doctor named Stevens who works at Grady hospital, and the last one he meets is a small quiet fellow named Eric. He works for a non-government charity helping hungry and displaced folks during these hard times.
They seem like a nice enough bunch. As time goes on he'll learn all of them, with the exception of Alden, lost everything they owned when the banks collapsed.
There's damn near a stampede going down the stairs for breakfast. It's served promptly at 6:30 a.m., but every seat at the table is filled by 6:20. There's a pitcher of orange juice at the center of the table and as they pass the juice around the men are all jabbering about what they have going that day. Daryl's relieved that no one seems to be putting on airs, like their job might be better than the another guy's.
He also notices that he's not alone, any time that Eugene fellow speaks everyone looks just as confused as Daryl feels.
She makes her appearance at 6:25 when she walks in the dining room carrying a large coffee pot. The men greet her with a chorus of, "Good morning Miss Beth," as Daryl tries his best not to stare at her.
She smiling that beautiful smile when she answers, "Good morning gentlemen. Here's your coffee and I've made it nice and strong, just like you like it." She sets it down saying, "Excuse me while I get your breakfast." She shyly glances over at him and he's looking at her, still trying not to be obvious in front of other folks. There's no point to worry though, she's gone again as she hurries back to the kitchen.
She returns a moment later pushing a double tiered wooden serving cart and begins to lift a large covered bowl. Abraham quickly stands and says, "Here, lemme get that for ya Miss Beth. It weighs more than you do." It causes her to laugh, and as much as he loves that sweet sound, it causes Daryl to feel a little twinge of jealousy and also some anger at himself. He should have been the one to offer her help.
The men waste no time, they're already dishing themselves up servings from the big bowl and he's happy to see it's grits. Grits always sound good to Daryl. Then comes two large platters of pancakes and she sets one at each end of the dining table, followed by a bowl of stewed fruit she sets in the center. She knows the men are always especially hungry on Monday mornings. No meal on Sunday evening makes for going to bed on an empty stomach.
Next she lifts a platter from the lower tier of the cart and smiles when she tells them, "We have a special treat this morning. Mister Daryl shared some fish with us he caught yesterday."
He sees she figured out how to make less appear to be more. The heads and tails have been removed and the fish cut in half so there's a piece for everyone. They're breaded and fried and although there's not a lot of food there, no one has to go without.
There's a lot of thanks as the men pass the platter around and then begin to eat heartily. There's jam and there's syrup, honey and butter and it all looks good to him, but he realizes what it is. It's like the army. There's plenty of the kind of food that's designed to fill men up, starchy food.
There's no breakfast meat and no eggs, but he doesn't have a complaint. They're feeding a lot of people in this house and times are tough. Maybe he'll be able to bring some meat back with him next Sunday.
She's having trouble taking her eyes off of him, but she has work to do. He's definitely a distraction though. She likes everything about the way he looks on a Monday morning. He's got his hair combed back out of his eyes and his strong masculine face is so handsome. She suspected he's a working man and the clothes he's wearing tell her she was right. He has on blue denim overalls with a patch that says, "City of Atlanta, Watershed," over the front pocket, and a blue chambray work shirt. She sees the cloth work cap stuffed in his back pocket and he's wearing brown leather work boots with thick rubber soles. They aren't worn out, just well worn.
What looks best of all is the smile he gives her just as he's about to take a bite of his fish.
He knows she's been up since just before five, he heard her. He knows she's been cooking all morning, all the food on the table is evidence of that. Yet even with the early hour and the work she's been doing already, she looks as fresh and pretty as anyone or anything he's ever seen.
She's got her hair all pinned up, but some of those blonde curls have found their way out of the hairpins. Some are now laying loosely against the pale skin of her slim neck, while others frame her pretty face. Her eyes shine as she tells the men about his fish, and he likes the way she smiles over at him as he puts a bite in his mouth. It's good too, cooked just right. Everything's good.
She's dressed simply in a blue cotton housedress with little flowers on it, low-heeled pumps and a white bibbed apron. He wonders at how she can work so hard and appear to be so happy about it, like it's a pleasure to do these things.
He hates to push back from the table and get on with his day, he could sit there and watch her forever. But he won't be late for work. Times are too tough and he won't do anything other than be the best employee a man can be. He's well aware that if he messes up there are at least two hundred men who would jump at the chance to take his job, even for half the wage.
There's just one thing he has to do before he goes. He waits until he can do it discreetly.
The men have left the table, everyone's full and ready to get started on the new week. She comes back in the dining room pushing the empty service cart, ready to begin clearing the table.
He's twisting the cap in his hands when he asks, "Are your hands feelin' any better?"
She smiles, "Oh yes, so much better." As she reaches out to show him the improvement the tips of her fingers brush against the back of his hand. She blushes and looks down for a moment, but then her blue eyes look up into his and she softly whispers, "Thank you again Mister Daryl."
He's pretty sure that light touch will be what gets him through the day, and it's also got him wanting just another few seconds with her, "Did ya get ta have any a that fish?"
"I did. I eat early before I serve the men. It was so delicious and I enjoyed it so much. Thank you again."
He's the embarrassed one now and again nervously twisting his cap, "You're welcome. Breakfast was real good. Best grits I ever ate. You have a nice day now."
"Thank you, you too."
He nods and turns toward the door while she seems to be stuck in place, just watching him. His hand is on the knob when he stops, looks over his shoulder at her and smiles, "I look forward ta seein' ya tonight Miss Beth."
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A/N Well, Well. Things seem to be moving right along. Please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts. The chapter photo - with their work attire - is on my tumblr blogs gneebee and bethylmethbrick. Please check it out. I'll be back next Friday with a new chapter of The Stranger Upstairs and I hope you'll be here too. In the meantime take care and remember, I love ya large! xo gneebee