Читать книгу The Measure of a Man - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 11

Some twenty minutes after she’d put in a call to Thom Dolan in the maintenance department, requesting that he send Smith Parker up to her office, there was a quick, sharp rap on her door.

Before she could say, “Come in,” he did.

Looking, Jane thought, not unlike a thundercloud casting ominous shadows over the western plains. There were even some drops of rain clinging to his hair, as the rain had just let up.

It was obvious that Smith didn’t care for being summoned, but that couldn’t be helped. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting until their paths crossed again, especially since they did so seldomly.

Smith moved closer to her desk, his very presence making the room feel even smaller than it was. The man had muscles, she thought absently.

“What’s the emergency?” he all but growled.

Without intending to, she pushed her chair back a little. “No emergency,” Jane answered. “I just needed to talk to you.”

Wheat-colored eyebrows pulled together over the bridge of his finely shaped nose. Smith looked at her very skeptically, as if waiting for a punch line. “You called me in here to talk?”

Now that Smith was actually here, she wasn’t sure just how to proceed, how to phrase her request. Except for today outside the professor’s office, whenever they did run into one another, the most she’d say was hello because she didn’t know whether or not he wanted her to acknowledge the fact that they knew one another.

When she’d first seen him wearing the navy-blue jumpsuit with the university’s logo across the back and the title of Maintenance Engineer finely stitched across his breast pocket, she had been completely dumbstruck. She remembered thinking that there had to be some mistake, or maybe even some kind of a joke. Either that, or the maintenance man was a dead ringer for the student who had sat two rows away from her. They couldn’t possibly be one and the same.

The Smith Parker she was acquainted with had been very bright. When he’d abruptly left Saunders shortly after those accusations had been brought against him, she’d just assumed that Smith had gone on to attend another college. And a man with a college degree didn’t concern himself with clogged pipes unless they were in his own house.

But then she’d heard him say something to one of the teachers and she knew it had to be Smith. His voice, low in timbre, sensual even if he were merely reciting the alphabet, was unmistakable. With every syllable he uttered, his voice seemed to undulate right under her skin.

Just the way it seemed to do now.

Feeling suddenly nervous, Jane cleared her throat. “Actually, I wanted to see you because I need a favor from you.”

Smith put down the toolbox he’d brought with him and looked at her as if she was speaking in riddles.

“A favor,” he echoed slowly, taking the word apart letter by letter, as if that would reveal something beneath it. When she nodded and he was no closer to an answer than before, Smith prodded, “What kind of favor?”

As he asked, he glanced around the office. The size of a broom closet on steroids, it still managed to be cheery because of the few personal touches she had added to it. On the wall directly behind her was a poster of a kitten, its front paws wrapped around a tree branch as its back legs dangled in midair. The animal looked precariously close to falling. For some reason that eluded him, the kitten made him think of her.

Beneath it, in white script, was the slogan “Hang in There.” He wondered how many times a day Jane said that to herself. Subconsciously he’d been saying something along those lines to himself for some time now. Of late, he’d had this feeling that something better was going to be coming his way if he was just patient enough to wait it out.

He guessed that maybe his spirit wasn’t entirely dead the way he’d once believed it to be.

Aside from the poster, Jane had left the walls un-adorned. Looking at them now, he could see that they could stand a fresh coat of paint.

He made a judgment call as to the nature of her as yet unspoken request. “Would that favor have anything to do with giving this room a makeover?”

About to cautiously put her case before him, Smith’s words threw her. She looked at him quizzically. Where would he have gotten that idea from? She’d never complained to anyone about her office. After being part of a large collective over in the administration building, she valued this little bit of turf that was her own—for as long as she had her job.

“Excuse me?”

Confusion made her look adorable.

The observation had slipped in out of nowhere, surprising him. Smith sent it packing back to the same place.

Waving his hand around the space around him, he elaborated, “The room, it could stand a paint job. Is that the reason you sent for me?” he asked, enunciating each word slowly because she looked as if he’d lapsed into a foreign tongue.

Jane could almost feel every single word moving along her body before it faded away.

Nerves, just nerves, she told herself. She wasn’t accustomed to asking for favors, even if it wasn’t for herself. It made her uncomfortable.

But this wasn’t about her, Jane reminded herself. It was about the professor. Who had been there for her when she’d needed someone.

She shook her head dismissively. “Maybe someday, but no, that wasn’t what I meant.”

Smith didn’t appear to hear her. His attention had obviously wandered and so had he. Over to the weeping fig tree she’d bought a month ago. It had been on sale, standing in front of a local florist shop. Passing it, the tree had caught her eye and she could envision it brightening up the dark corner of her office. Ficus benjamina was its botanical name. She called it “Benny” for short.

Right now, tall, thin and pale, Benny looked as if he needed to be placed on a respirator. His grasp on life appeared a little tenuous.

Smith touched one of the wispy branches. Two leaves immediately fell off. It felt as if he’d just raised the limb of a terminal patient. Why did people buy plants only to neglect them? he wondered.

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You’re killing this, you know.”

God, he was a strange man. “No, I’m not,” she retorted defensively. “Benny’s just adjusting to his surroundings.”

“Benny?” He raised his head and looked at her just as she’d rounded her desk and walked over to him. She was wearing a skirt whose hem was even with the tips of her fingers when her hands were at her sides. He tried not to stare at her legs.

“That’s what I call him. And I’m not killing him,” she repeated.

He loved plants, had an affinity for them, but he’d never named one. That she did seemed more than a little odd to him.

“Yes,” he replied firmly, “you are.” Stooping, he took the side of the wicker pot she’d placed the fig tree in and slowly turned it around. The slight movement caused more leaves to come raining down. There were less than two dozen left on the sapling. “It’s not supposed to look like Greta Garbo in Camille.”

She bent beside him, completely lost. “Who?”

Feeling suddenly hemmed in by her presence, Smith rose to his feet. “Greta Garbo.” Her face remained blank and he shrugged. “Never mind.” It didn’t matter if Jane didn’t understand his comparison. What did matter, though, was that the plant was dying. And it didn’t have to be. “The point is, this plant is going to die unless you do something.”

She’d followed the instructions on the little card that had been attached to one of its branches. There hadn’t been many, but the shop owner had assured her that the tree was hardy and once it adjusted to its new surroundings, it would thrive.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Like what?”

Because of its location, the room saw very little sun, getting its illumination, instead, from the overhead lighting. He pointed toward the lone window in the office, even though it was still overcast outside.

“Give it sun, fresh air, a chance to breathe, introduce vitamins into its water, get some fertilizer for it.” It might not be too late, he judged, studying the plant’s pale color. Here and there were a few new green shoots trying to push through. “Otherwise, its chances of surviving are next to none.”

She had no idea having a plant was so complicated. To her, plants were to be watered and, for the most part, ignored. “You sound like a doctor talking about a patient in the E.R.”

“Plants are living things and should be accorded respect.” Putting his finger into the soil, he found it was bone-dry. Smith saw the large empty soda container she’d thrown out. Taking it from the wastebasket, he walked out without saying another word, leaving her flabbergasted. But he was back in a few minutes, the cup now filled with water. He poured the contents into the pot. “This should be outdoors.”

He made it sound like an accusation. And that she had broken some cardinal rule. Jane bristled before she could rein herself in. “It’s an indoor tree.”

The look he gave her all but asked if she believed in the tooth fairy, as well. “There’s no such thing as an indoor tree, unless it’s a treehouse and you happen to be Tarzan. That’s just a ploy to help sell this to people with no gardens.”

She decided to do an about-face and put the ball in his court. “Okay, since you know so much, can you ‘save’ Benny for me, Smith?”

He looked at her sharply. Not because of what she’d asked him to do, but because she’d used his name. It was the first time he’d heard her say it. Since she hadn’t said anything up to this point, he’d just assumed she hadn’t recognized him.

“You know my name?”

Jane stared at him incredulously for a second. “Of course I know your name. How do you think I asked for you?”

For a second he’d forgotten that she’d put in a request for him. They’d come almost full circle. Smith glanced down at his uniform. His name was supposed to be embroidered over his pocket, just beneath the politically correct jog title. Wanting to be as anonymous as possible, he’d opted to leave the space blank.

“I’ll bite. How?”

Something inside her began to falter again. Life with Drew had sapped her of her self-esteem and made her doubt her every move. It took effort to conquer her uncertainty, but she had a feeling that Smith didn’t suffer cowards well.

It gave them something in common. Neither did she. Especially when that coward was her.

“You were in my English class.” And then, even as she said it, another more personal memory came back to her. “You were also the guy who collided with me on the steps of the library that time, knocking all my books out of my arms.”

He remembered that. Vividly. Remembered how soft she’d felt against him, despite the momentary collision. Remembered catching her in his arms before she fell. The books had gone flying, but she hadn’t. It had taken him a second longer to release her than it should have.

“Yeah, it was raining.” His eyes met hers. “And the pages got all wet.”

“Not all of them,” she allowed, a soft smile taking possession of her mouth.

The incident, during midterm week, had occurred shortly before he’d abruptly dropped out of sight.

Something very personal, almost tangible, hung between them for a moment, making time stand still.

But there was something larger than her own insignificant feelings at stake here. There was the professor to think of. She blew out a breath, searching for the right way to begin again.

Smith was still looking at her, making her skin feel as if it was alive. “I didn’t think you recognized me.”

She drew conclusions from his tone. “But you recognized me?”

What could have passed as a small smile faintly graced his lips. “Hard not to. You haven’t changed much.”

That wasn’t strictly true, he decided silently. She had. The pretty girl she’d been had blossomed and matured into a woman who was more than lovely. A woman with a subtle beauty that easily turned a man’s head when she passed by.

But saying so might give her the wrong idea. Might make her think he thought things he didn’t. He just noticed things, that was all. He always had.

She laughed softly at the notion that she hadn’t changed. “A lot you know.”