Only Her Naked Courage

Holy Macro! Books

She sat at an angle to the doorway, her feet propped up on the desk. Her chair was tilted precariously like a ship on the high seas. A sandwich hung suspended from her right hand. Her left hand clutched a paperback. Her whole body was absorbed totally in whatever she was reading.

Standing in the doorway, watching her, Greg felt like a voyeur. He hadn't tried to sneak up on her. He simply walked in the unlocked door and saw her feet. Her office was behind the large reception area and, to be perfectly honest, he may have walked quietly once he saw she was at her desk. He always looked for her. Some of the other women in the office were friendlier; that tall brunette was much more of a knockout; the boss was the one he really had to deal with; but this woman, sitting so unselfconsciously....

What was that thing she was holding in her hand? It looked like two bread crusts with something orange in the middle. And then his eyes skimmed her body, from her disarranged blonde curls to the jutting chin, over her rosy sweater, down her long tan khakis. His survey came to rest on the hole in her hose that exposed her right big toe, the bright pink polish so unexpected and sassy.

The feeling of being a Peeping Tom intensified. He had to say something.

"Good book?" he croaked, not sounding his usual suave self. Thank God, he didn't take his eyes off her, because at least he was able to react quickly when the chair, from her startled response, went backwards instead of upright, and the sandwich and book went flying, too, as her hands grabbed for the desk. He somehow got behind her, and his right knee, which would be black and blue for weeks, wedged itself between the chair and the floor. But, the quick movement on his part threw him off balance. When she jumped out of the chair, nearly catapulted out from his efforts to get it upright, the change in weight landed him on his butt. There he sat in his immaculate gray suit and starched white shirt on the ancient, stained floor of the Northampton County Human Services Office, and, towering over him, stocking feet spread wide for balance, hands groping the desk behind her for support, was a woman wearing the most astonished expression he had ever seen.

It had all happened so fast. He didn't know whether to laugh or swear. His knee was throbbing, and he really would have liked to have stood up and rubbed his rear end, which had landed pretty soundly on the linoleum. She made up his mind for him with her words.

"Have we met?"

"Have we met?" He allowed his voice to rise for the effect. "I'm sitting on my can on your office floor having just kept you from bashing your head, and you want to know, "Have we met?"

She giggled and blushed. And then another thought chased its way across her expressive face, and she said, "Wait a minute. I was," she pointed at her book, "getting my," her face turned a darker red, and her arms came up to cover her chest.

Something with her breasts, he thought, and she liked it — or maybe loved it. What an astonishing piece of information.

Her chin came up, and he could see her shoulders straighten as if she were giving herself a shot of assertiveness. "... when you came barging into my office, interrupting my lunch, scaring...."

"You were getting what ...?" he interrupted the tirade.

She could see the teasing in his eyes — such friendly eyes. She laughed.

"You're shameless."

"Me?" he laughed back at her.

She reached out her hand. "Would you like to get up?"

He grasped her hand. "Would you like to get down?"

There was a seriousness and a quietness in his voice that took her breath away. The floodgates of awareness and attraction burst open, and he saw her lips part. He tugged on her hand, and she squatted on her haunches as a primitive woman might while giving birth.

She smiled, sweetly. "It would probably be better if you got up."

"I don't think I can right now."

And once again he watched the thoughts dancing across her face as it dawned on her what he meant. Her eyes widened, as if she were amazed at her own powers, and then she sort of squinted at him. "Who are you, and what are you doing here, and have we met?"

"Sara," he said, sounding so heartbroken.

She giggled again. He was quite good-looking and seemingly very confident and clearly not at all accustomed to being forgotten. "Oh," she said on a sharp intake of breath, "you're the computer person."

"The computer person?" he asked. "What do I do? Do I teach computers, or do I repair them, or do I program them ...?"

"I think you sold us the new computer system," she felt very proud of herself for having remembered, and he squeezed her hand. She really needed to pull her hand away, but he was rubbing his thumb over her skin, and it felt good. Except for her daughters' sticky fingers, she couldn't remember the last time she had been touched.

The sound of footsteps and voices shattered their mood, and Sara scrambled to her feet, yanking her hand away, rushing to get her shoes on and straightening her hair as if the two of them had been tumbling around.

"Better brush the hay off," he whispered conspiratorially.

It took her a minute to get it. When she did, she snorted, trying to keep herself from laughing out loud, and then she punched him in the chest.

He'd gotten the look of guilt off her face and was standing once again himself, albeit with his briefcase in front of his pants, when Jane, the boss, stuck her head in the door, obviously starting to say to Sara, "We're back." Spotting him, she said instead, "Greg. Hi. You brought the accounting software yourself. You didn't have to do that, but thanks.

Come on into my office."

"Jane. Good to see you."

His voice sounded different. This must be his salesman voice.

"I'll be right there. I'll just give you a minute to catch your breath. I want to finish telling Sara about the home computer we're bringing out."

Jane gave him sort of a strange, put out look, shrugged and walked away.

"She knows you made that up," Sara whispered. "Everybody around here knows I don't have enough money to buy a home computer. I don't even go out to lunch with them."

"Come with me," he whispered back.

"Where?"

He just smiled.

She couldn't get any words out.

"It'll take me about ten minutes with her. Meet me at the McDonald's on Third Street."

"I work here. They pay me to work. I have paperwork and appointments...."

He spun her around and pointed to the two pieces of crust and something now recognizable as a slice of cheese lying on the floor. "See what I did? How do you expect me to live with myself if you don't let me make it right? You have children, don't you? You know how important it is to pay your debts and make amends and make up for the wrongs you do...."

"Okay, okay," she was laughing at his serious silliness. "Just something really quick. Go ahead and order me something. Wait. I don't have any money."

"Sara. This is a date."

"I don't date."

He looked into her eyes, and then he whispered, "You still have some hay in your hair," and he walked away.

Sara could hear his voice, his salesman voice, coming from Jane's office as she picked up her purse and walked to the bathroom. She was grateful the room was small; she could lock the door and be alone. She stopped at the sink and peered at herself in the mirror. If she didn't know it was her, she wouldn't have recognized herself, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes — she looked alive. She couldn't help checking her hair for hay. Then she splashed cold water on her face until she felt her common sense returning.

What a man! She'd stand him up. She couldn't afford him. She was a single mom. She didn't run in his circles. His suit cost more than everything in her closet.

Mind made up, she went back to her desk to get to work. The minute she sat down, her stomach growled. She remembered the sandwich and reached down to pick it up and throw it in the trash and stash the novel back into her purse.

She was hungry. And he was fun. She didn't know when she'd laughed like that. What could it hurt? McDonald's, for heaven's sake. How indebted could you be for a value meal? Which was what she intended to have. Something greasy with French fries and a regular pop. Maybe she'd get a kid's meal. Nah. With two little girls, you couldn't go home with one toy. Unless she could talk him into getting one, too.

She grabbed her purse and walked out before she could change her mind again.

When she drove into the McDonald's parking lot, he was leaning against the fender of his car waiting for her. He pretended to look at his watch. He saw her lock her car, and he opened the passenger door of his car and motioned her in.

"I'm not going somewhere in your car. I don't know you. You could have bad intentions."

"Fine." He punched the lock button, closed the passenger door and grabbed her hand. "We'll walk."

"It's raining," Sara noticed.

"This wasn't my idea. I wanted to drive." He sounded rather self-righteous.

"Where are we going?" Sara wanted to know.

"Just across the street to the Sheraton."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

He stopped and looked at her as though she might have some learning problems. He spoke very slowly. "I would like to take you to the Sheraton for lunch. In the dining room. The one that overlooks the river. I think it's attractive. And they usually have good food. Do you want to stand here on the corner in the rain and think about it?"

She had been watching his mouth. He had the most perfect white teeth. And she could smell his breath as he leaned toward her. He smelled like cinnamon.

When she didn't do anything other than look at him, he yanked on her hand to get her walking again.

"So, what I want to know is, why bother locking that car?"

"My car?" She was appalled and words returned to her. "Do you know what the insurance company would give me for that car if it was stolen? I went on this call last year, a rape call, and the girl was hiding out, and I had to park a couple blocks away, and I thought I remembered where the car was, except I made a wrong turn, so I couldn't find it, so I reported it stolen, except the police found it the next afternoon, right where I had left it, how embarrassing, and the insurance company said...."

He was chuckling that she could get so many words out in one breath. "It's an '83 Chevy Impala. How many miles?"

"137,000."

"Wow. I'll bet they'll give you $700."

"Three. Can you believe it? I started locking the car. I couldn't get a good bicycle for $300."

They were ushered to a table, and when he let go of her hand to pull out the chair for her, she realized that they had held hands for the last ten minutes.

She smiled at him.

He kicked her under the table.

She looked puzzled.

When the hostess left, he said under his voice, "You flash that smile at me, and you're going to get what you thought you were going to get at the Sheraton."

"Weren't we talking about cars?"

"Right."

The waitress approached and said hi, and Greg said, "We'll take two glasses of Chardonnay, two iced teas, a shrimp cocktail, an order of sauerkraut balls, some hot wings, two salads with Italian and whatever kind of bread you serve." He handed her the unopened menus.

"What if I don't like any of that stuff?" Sara thought his wings needed clipped. This guy was too big for his britches. But then he answered her.

"You were sitting at your desk eating two bread crusts with a slice of processed cheese in the middle. I figure you like anything."

"Shrimp? Sauerkraut?"

"I know you like shrimp and sauerkraut."

"How?" She was quite suspicious.

"Hand me one of your shoes," he instructed, without missing a beat.

"You're kidding," she dead-panned.

He held out his hand. "Better make it the left one."

She kicked her left shoe over to her right hand and reached down to pick it up. "Oh, my gosh."

"What?"

Tears came to her eyes. "I am going to be so upset when these shoes wear out. They're real leather — so soft — the last thing my mom bought me before they were killed."

"Your mom was killed?"

"And my dad. Remember that big plane crash in Scotland? My dad always wanted to see Scotland. You know the only thing that makes me feel better?"

He shook his head no.

"The plane crashed when they were on their way home. At least he got to see Scotland first." She wiped at her eyes. "I think I can't possibly have any more tears left for them — for me, really — they're fine — they're together. I've cried so much." She took another swipe at her eyes. "All that over a shoe. Sorry. I know how guys hate tears."

"I'm not your typical guy, but," he grinned a crooked Harrison Ford grin, "I do hate tears. Every time the woman you're with starts crying, you imagine every eye in the place is on you deciding you're the jerk who's causing the tears."

"Oh," she answered, and then she tried to distract herself by getting back to where they were. "So, why are you holding my shoe?"

"That's how I know you like shrimp and sauerkraut balls and are willing to taste anything."

She smiled sort of sheepishly. "That's true. But how can you tell from the shoe?"

"See this shoe?" he asked like a college professor.

"Yes," she answered seriously.

"This is the shoe of a woman who isn't afraid to step out in life, to walk through some mud puddles. And the woman of this shoe isn't some prissy little thing who eats carrot sticks. If she were, she wouldn't have a hole in the toe of her pantyhose."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly handed back her shoe and moved his eyes to indicate the waitress was coming. After she set down their wine, Greg proposed a toast.

"Here's to you, Sara. I think I'd like to make a habit of rescuing you — even if it does cause me some discomfort. Actually, my knee is killing me." He sounded like a little boy.

"And even if you have been watching me when I'm unaware of it."

"I think I'd like to make a habit of that, too."

That reminded her: "How'd you get in?"

"The door was open — unlocked."

"Jeez. We're usually so careful about that. When you work in human services you can't afford to take your own safety for granted. You work with too many victims and too many perpetrators."

The waitress appeared with bread and salads and one shrimp cocktail, which she placed ceremoniously in the middle of the table, obviously enjoying this unusual meal.

"Where are you from?" Sara asked.

"Barrington."

"New Jersey?"

He nodded. "I have New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania for IBM. I sell to, in your case, the Pennsylvania Department of Human Services. I have no explanation for coming to Easton. I almost never call on sub-accounts. But Easton is on my way between a number of big accounts and on the way home."

"You're married."

"Never." He sounded adamant. "I never have been." He toned it down. "I would like to be someday. Living in an over-priced apartment in New York City is not the sophisticated, bachelor, social life it's portrayed to be. I'm on the road all week. I've met a few neighbors. But mostly on weekends I sleep, do laundry, walk the streets, take in a Nicks game or watch the Rangers."

"Are your parents alive?"

"My dad. My mom died of cancer last fall."

"Brothers? Sisters?"

"Two brothers. I'm the middle child — that most sensitive and loving of all children."

"So you took a psychology course?"

"Two," he said proudly, "if you count the psychology of advertising."

She grinned. "Where'd you go to school?"

"B.A. from Rutgers. Two classes left on an M.B.A. from N.Y.U."

"Sorry," the waitress said, putting down a fancy little plate of sauerkraut balls and a larger plate of chicken wings and celery sticks. "Do you still want these? I think maybe I got them out of order." She looked around the table. "If there is an order to this meal."

"If they're good we want them," he replied, giving her a charming smile.

The waitress laughed and walked away.

"Is this what you do? Go through life getting people laughing?" Sara wanted to know.

"Nah. You just put me in a good mood. That crazy sandwich and the hole in your pantyhose and locking the car...."

"That's all poverty. I don't think that's particularly funny." She was thinking about working herself up into a real snit.

"No, Sara," Greg said, looking at her very sincerely. "You may not have much money. You may not even have enough money. But you are definitely not someone who believes herself to be living in poverty." He held her eyes. "I bet you consider yourself to be rich. And I bet you have everything you consider to be important."

"Almost," she admitted. "You have a great deal of insight."