Читать книгу Ryan's Renovation - Marin Thomas - Страница 7

“TGIF!” Eryk hollered over his shoulder.

Following at a distance, Ryan noted that Leon waited in the driver’s seat of the dump truck. Why the hurry to return to the station for lunch?

Ryan hopped into the truck, his lower-back muscles protesting—one too many swings with a sledgehammer. He’d reconciled himself to remaining in a state of perpetual exhaustion for the duration of the week. Add in the mental and emotional stress of Ms. Happy Chatty’s isn’t-the-world-a-beautiful-place smile, and then expending precious energy avoiding her nonstop attempts to drag him into discussions with the men, was it any wonder he teetered on the verge of collapse?

“What do you guess she made for the potluck?” Eryk grabbed the dashboard when Leon veered right out of the south Queens neighborhood of Lindenwood.

Potluck. Ryan shuddered. Anna had informed him several times about the once-a-month potluck. When he’d discovered the teddy-bear-shaped sticky note on his locker reminding him to bring cookies, he’d suffered a full-blown panic attack. Feeling like the potluck grinch, he’d brought a sack lunch and intended to eat outside on the stoop alone—the same as every other day this week.

Until Eryk had knocked on the Porta Potti yesterday while Ryan had been inside, Ryan hadn’t considered how much he appreciated working in his office isolated from his employees. Over the past six years his direct contact with people had decreased, until weeks passed before he spoke face-to-face with another human.

“Maybe Anna brought Blair’s famous spicy sausage-stuffed mushrooms,” Leon said, answering Eryk’s earlier question. A minute later, Leon steered the truck into the station garage and cut the engine.

Ryan didn’t care who Blair was. They piled out of the truck, and the scent of garlic bread overpowered the usual smell of diesel fuel and engine grease. He followed the others to the break room, his stomach rumbling at the mouthwatering aroma.

“’Bout time you fellas showed up.” Patrick scooped spoonfuls of Italian casserole onto a plastic plate. Antonio, Joe and the company boss, Bobby, stuffed their faces at the table covered with an American-flag cloth.

“Everything looks real nice, Anna,” Eryk complimented her, then moved to the sink to wash up.

Nice? The Fourth of July had exploded in the room. Coordinated red-white-and-blue plates and utensils rested on the counter. Two pitchers of lemonade with real lemon slices floating on the top occupied the middle of the table. Anna had tied red-and-blue balloons to the chairs and stuck American-flag toothpicks in the brownies stacked on a plate. The one thing missing—real fireworks.

“I wanted to use the leftover party supplies from our Fourth of July picnic.” Anna glanced at Ryan, but he ducked his head, grabbed his lunch from the fridge and slipped through the door that led to the lockers, where Leon was changing into a clean T-shirt. When he noticed Ryan’s sack lunch, he frowned.

“Don’t have much of an appetite,” Ryan mumbled, attempting to escape.

Leon blocked his path. “You just unfriendly or has one of us offended?”

Well, hell. He should have assumed sneaking off wouldn’t be easy. “I’m not feeling well and I was searching for peace and quiet.” The fib wasn’t far from the truth. People made his stomach queasy.

“Anna’s got over-the-counter medicine—”

“No, thanks.”

The skin on the top of Leon’s bald head wrinkled.

Before the other man had the chance to argue further, Ryan hustled out of the locker room, cut through the garage and managed to scamper up the steps to the office door without being stopped. Appetite gone, he tossed the lunch bag aside, collapsed on the cold concrete stoop, rested his arms on his knees and buried his head in his hands.

When had his desire to be alone changed from a preference to a gut-gnawing need? Had his grandfather noticed Ryan’s obsession with isolation had evolved into a phobia? Had Ryan tricked himself into believing he could manage the bouts of panic he experienced around other people?

Just how screwed up am I?

The muted sounds of male laughter echoed through the garage. A fierce, steal-his-breath pang of loneliness seized him. The worker’s camaraderie conjured up memories of his brothers and him at their grandfather’s home on Martha’s Vineyard. Afternoons filled with laughter and arguments. But always togetherness.

Even after Ryan had married he’d managed to hang out with his brothers a few times a year. After 9/11, he’d forced himself to visit Aaron and Nelson, but not as often, and their relationship had never been the same.

Who’s fault is that?

What did it matter? Both his brothers were happily married, busy with their families. Ryan missed them. Missed his old life. Missed his old self. Plain damn missed.

“I brought you dessert.” Anna stood at the bottom of the steps holding a napkin-wrapped brownie—not smiling.

Her solemn gaze bore into him. Could she see into his soul? Smell his fear? As much as he hated her constant smile, he didn’t wish to be the reason for her frown.

“Thanks,” he managed, accepting the treat.

She eyed his lunch sack. “Leon said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Queasy stomach.” Embarrassed at the raspy note in his voice, he pretended interest in the line of cars waiting for a green light a block away.

“Mind if I join you?” In Anna-like fashion she didn’t wait for an invitation. She claimed the third step, her shoulder even with his knee.

Ryan braced himself for the surge of panic he anticipated at her closeness. Seconds ticked by and…nothing. He studied her profile—the bump along the bridge of her nose barely visible from this angle. Her pale skin—poreless smooth porcelain. Flawless. His fingers ached to touch the unblemished perfection.

A scent—sweet and fruity—drifted up his nostrils. He breathed deeply, this time detecting a hint of Anna’s unique feminine scent. The sudden twitch in his pants caught him by surprise and he shifted away.

“The first aid kit contains—”

“I’m fine.” He cursed himself for lying to Leon. Fibbing had become an integral part of his everyday life. I’m fine. No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great. Untruths that allowed him to keep others at a distance. Hell, he even lied to himself so he wouldn’t analyze his every thought and emotion. Believing he was empty inside made life bearable.

ANNA TWISTED on the step in order to make eye contact. Growing up in foster care had taught her to read other people. In some cases it had been a matter of survival—hers. Her intuition insisted the pain reflected on Ryan’s face went deeper than a sour stomach. “If you didn’t want to participate in the potluck, all you had to do was say so.”

His stony face reminded her of a solemn boy in one of her foster homes. With haunted eyes, the silent six-year-old had spied on the foster parents from corners and stairwells—never speaking. His moodiness had frightened the adults and they’d exchanged him for a child who worked.

Troubled by her foster parents’ actions, eight-year-old Anna had transformed herself into a cheery, happy, never-complaining child. In the end her efforts had fallen short. Without understanding why, she’d been removed from the home and placed elsewhere. She’d tried harder…and harder and harder each time she’d landed in a new home. Years of cheerful conditioning had had a lasting effect on her. It simply took too much effort to be a grump. Nevertheless, Ryan’s perpetually ornery mood had taken a toll on her internal happy meter.

Anna wasn’t sure why Ryan’s moodiness bothered her. Or why it mattered that he preferred to be left alone. She thought of her daughter, Tina. Almost eighteen years had passed since she had allowed her baby to be adopted. Anna’s heart ached at the possibility her daughter had grown up to be a Ryan Jones—a solitary soul surrounded by people but alone in the world.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, interrupting her contemplation.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry I didn’t bring cookies for the potluck.”

His hangdog expression made her smile.

“What’s so funny?” he grumbled.

“Nothing.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I came out here to tell you that after our potluck lunches, I give haircuts to the guys.”

“Haircuts?”

One would think an uptown guy would be able to articulate more than one-word utterances. “I was a hairdresser before I hired on here.”

“What do you charge?”

Wow, a full sentence. “Whatever you can afford to put in the tip jar. I donate the money to a children’s after-school program in the neighborhood.” When Ryan didn’t respond, she hinted, “You could use a trim.” Anna wondered if her interest in him was motivated by concern or attraction. A little of both, she suspected. She stood and brushed off the seat of her jeans, aware his eyes followed the swish-swash of her fingers against her bottom.

Ryan Jones was a sexy, attractive, edgy guy. A man she definitely wanted to learn more about. “I’ll be in the locker room if you change your mind about a haircut….” Or me.

“WALK THE LOT and search for any surprises left overnight,” Bobby Parnell instructed Ryan as he parked the company vehicle on a side street in the Elmhurst area of Queens. “I’ll help the guys unload the excavator.” The boss slid from the driver’s seat and headed for Antonio’s Ford F-250, which had been used to tow the miniexcavator.

Ryan went in the opposite direction. The cleanup project he’d been assigned his second week on the job consisted of three lots sandwiched between two apartment buildings. Monday, they’d gotten rid of old appliances, tires, trash and broken furniture. Tuesday, they’d demolished the remainder of a crumbling brick mom-and-pop grocery that had been vacant for years. Wednesday—today—would be spent transporting debris to the dump, then using the excavator to break up the old concrete. Tomorrow, Leon and Eryk would join the group with the second dump truck and haul away the rubble.

As he canvassed the area, Ryan struggled to envision the final transformation—a neighborhood community center.

“Find anything?” Joe joined Ryan in the far corner of the lot.

“Nope.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Joe pointed to the apartments across the street. “Damn gangs.”

Earlier in the week Ryan had noticed the colorful images painted on the west side of the building. He didn’t condone defacing property, but the mural was a nice piece of work. The punk artist should put his talent to better use. “I heard your brother’s involved in a gang.”

“You heard about Willie?” Before Ryan answered, Joe added, “Anna told you.”

“She mentioned you were concerned about your brother.”

“He’s fifteen and full of himself. Thinks he can walk away from the gang anytime he wants.”

After following in his elder brother, Nelson’s, footsteps and graduating from Harvard, Ryan had moved to New York City and had lived there ever since, but he confessed he was ignorant of the struggles facing the four boroughs outside Manhattan. “Are you implying the group won’t let him leave?”

The hollow sound of Joe’s laugh drifted across the lot. “The only way out of a gang is in a body bag.”

“What kind of trouble does the gang cause?” Ryan chose to believe his inquisitiveness was the result of his acclimation to interacting with the guys and not because of a sense of connection he’d developed with them.

“The gang’s idea of fun is to barge into baptisms and weddings, threaten the guests, then steal the alcohol.” Joe rolled a chunk of concrete under his work boot.

“Fun at the expense of others.”

“Yep. The group thrives on shoplifting, selling fake green cards, dealing drugs and extorting small-business owners. You know what pisses me off most?” The younger man vented as if he believed his coworker cared.

And surprisingly, Ryan did. “What?”

“Willie’s got people who care about him. A decent home. Parents who love him. He doesn’t fit the profile of a gangbanger. He’s not a runaway and he hasn’t been abandoned or abused by his parents.”

The next time Ryan spoke with his grandfather he’d remind the old man how fortunate he was that none of his grandsons had taken to a life of crime. Although he suspected his grandfather might argue that he’d have preferred managing a recalcitrant teenager than doling out life lessons to grown men. “If your brother has a lot of time on his hands, what about encouraging him to get a job?”

Joe gaped. “He can make more money protecting prostitutes than flipping burgers.” With a snort of disgust, he added, “It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?”

“If Willie leaves the gang, they’ll put a bounty on his head.”

A bounty? The scenario had the makings of a Hollywood movie. “What about asking the police for protection?”

“They’d don’t care. They’d just as soon let all the gangs kill each other off and be rid of the problem.”

Frustration steamed from the top of Joe’s head. Had Ryan’s grandfather experienced this same helplessness when Ryan had determinedly walled himself off from the family after 9/11?

“All we can do is wait,” Joe mumbled. “Wait for my brother’s luck to run out.”

An image of the man’s family, gathered around a headstone in a cemetery, swept through Ryan’s mind. He had to help. This is none of your business. Keep your mouth shut. “Maybe I—”

“C’mon,” Joe interrupted. “The boss is waving us over.”

What had gotten into Ryan? If not for the boss’s timely interruption he’d have…What? Offered to save Willie? Hadn’t 9/11 taught him the danger of rescuing people? He’d tossed out his superhero duds a long time ago. No more surrendering himself for someone else—besides, he didn’t have anything left to sacrifice. He had enough of his own problems—mainly why he had no trouble conversing with the guys, but when it came to talking with Anna, he froze inside.

That’s because she unnerves you.

At times Ryan suspected her blue eyes could see his deepest secrets. Deepest fears. After his near slipup with Joe a few moments ago, he’d best keep his distance from Anna. That shouldn’t be difficult.

She was a female. And females were so far down on his list they weren’t even on the paper.

“HI, EVERYONE!” Anna waved as she shut the door of the boss’s pickup she’d driven to the work site. Since the men were stuck in Elmhurst, she decided to bring Ryan’s birthday party to the crew. Leaving the cake on the front seat, she approached Bobby, who watched Joe break up concrete with the bulldozer. Antonio, Ryan and Eryk were tossing debris into the dump trucks, while Leon used a minibackhoe to deposit the larger chunks. “Can you take a break?” she shouted above the grinding gears of machines.

“What for?” Bobby hollered.

“Birthday cake.”

“Well, heck, Anna. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Bobby possessed a mean sweet tooth.

The chugging noise of motors filled the air as she rested the two-tiered confection on the hood of the truck. She removed the plastic wrap protecting the white-frosting swirls. Her roommate, Blair, had baked the chocolate cake, but she’d stayed up half the night decorating the layers.

“Hey, whose birthday is it?” Antonio peered over Anna’s shoulder.

Smile in place, she faced the men assembled around her. “Ryan’s.” As was his custom, the birthday boy remained a respectable distance from the group. She looked him in the eye and he took her by surprise when he didn’t glance away. She wished he had. His glower insisted he wasn’t pleased with the surprise party. Oh dear.

Pasting on a happy face, she spouted, “Ryan’s thirty-seven today.”

A barrage of old-age jokes followed her pronouncement, none of which made a crack in Ryan’s stone face. Anna glanced longingly at the box of candles on the front seat. By the time they coaxed Ryan to blow them out, the cake would catch fire.

She reached for the knife, but Joe cried, “Wait. We have to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“Maybe Patrick would lead us?” Anna offered the shy man an encouraging smile. After a few seconds, raucous male bellowing drowned out Patrick’s beautiful voice. To keep from bursting into laughter at Ryan’s horrified expression, Anna locked her gaze on the bulldozer.

As the last notes of the song faded, she clapped her hands. Then, amid murmurs of appreciation, she served the cake, handing Ryan the largest piece. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.” As if a pistol were being held to his head, he shoveled a bite into his mouth.

“Good, huh?” Antonio mumbled, cheeks bulging.

“Yeah, great.” Ryan’s glare pierced Anna.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what she’d done to annoy him. There was only one explanation for his pathetic lack of appreciation for her thoughtfulness—he didn’t care for her. And that hurt.

Everyone was fond of her. She worked darn hard to guarantee no one found fault with her. Ticked, she said, “Seconds, Ryan?”

He shook his head, then placed the remainder of his cake—the entire piece minus one bite—on the hood.

“I’ll wrap the cake for you to take home.”

“No,” he blurted, then lowered his voice. “I’m not fond of sweets. The guys can share the rest of it.”

Anna couldn’t explain what sparked her anger—the fact that Ryan didn’t appreciate her attempt to make his birthday special or that she’d permitted his rudeness to hurt her. And the reason his rudeness could hurt her, she decided, was that she’d allowed herself to care about him.

Stupid, Anna. Ever since you offered your baby up for adoption, you’ve tried to mother everyone and anyone. Well, Ryan Jones doesn’t need or want a mother. She lifted the entire cake from the hood and held it out to him. “Take it. After all, it’s your birthday.”

He raised his hands. “I don’t want it.”

Uncaring that the rest of the guys had stopped eating to gawk at her and Ryan, she stepped closer and insisted, “You’re being too generous.”

“No, I’m not.” He retreated.

Anna advanced a step. “Yes.” And another. “You.” Another. “Are.”

Hell. Anastazia Nowakowski didn’t recognize when to give up. Backed into a corner, Ryan decided he’d better accept the cake before the happy-birthday-girl shoved it in his face.

Anna’s blue eyes sparkled with…Tears? “You’re welcome.” She spun away.

While the guys thanked her, Ryan stood aside cursing himself for being such a bastard and wounding her feelings.

How could Anna have known he’d stopped celebrating birthdays and holidays the moment he learned his ex-wife had miscarried their child?