Forsaking All Others

  “Hey, your nose is dripping,” he informed her merrily.

  She sniffed loudly, leaned farther back, purposely exaggerating her snot-nosed, childish appearance, swiped at her nose with the back of her gloved hand and pouted, “Well, I don’t have a tissue, smarty! And if you were any kind of a gentleman whatsoever, you would politely refrain from mentioning it!”

  He chuckled and dropped one brick. “It’s rather hard to pretend when it’s running right down.” Leaning sideways, he fished in a hind pocket and came up with a crumpled white hanky. “It looks like it’s been used, but it hasn’t,” he informed Allison. “I do my own laundry and ironing isn’t really one of my favorite pastimes.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she returned, yanking off a glove and turning her back while she buried her nose in his hanky and honked. To the best of her knowledge it was the first time she’d ever used a man’s hanky.

  “How come in the movies when this happens to girls they are somehow always daintily indisposed, with clinging tendrils of hair coming seductively loose from their topknot?” she grumbled.

  “I think I see one now.” Behind her she felt a tug as he lightly pulled a frowsy chunk of hair that must have been hanging from beneath her cap.

  Never in her life had Allison felt more like an unfeminine klutz!

  Rick Lang didn’t mind one bit. He thought she looked delightful, bundled up in that ugly war-surplus parka, red nose running, scarcely an eyelash visible underneath that unflattering bobcap. She finished blowing her nose, turned, offered him the hanky, realized her mistake, and withdrew it with a snap. “Oh, I’ll wash it first.”

  He unceremoniously yanked it out of her hand and buried it in his pocket. “Don’t be silly. Let’s load bricks.”

  He set to work with a refreshing vigor, unlike what she might have expected from a man with a cushy job like modeling. Somehow, when she’d first laid eyes on his snapshot, she’d visualized a self-pampering hedonist, but she was learning he was no such thing.

  They had little breath for talking while they transferred the bricks from van to dolly. Their breath formed white puffs in the air as they worked. When they were finished, he ordered, “Toss me the keys. I’ll pull the van in the lot, but wait for me. We’ll take that dolly up together. Don’t try to push it yourself.”

  He disappeared around the front of the van, and Allison lowered the big overhead door, evaluating Rick Lang anew. It was wonderful to have a man offering to help with the heavy work. She had done it alone for so many years, she never thought much about it anymore. But a warm glow spread through her at his admonition to wait for him.

  He came back in, handed her the keys, and took up his place at the far end of the dolly, gesturing toward the other end. “You steer, I’ll push.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” she replied with a grin.

  The dolly filled almost the entire area of the freight elevator. When they’d eased it on, Rick sat down on top of the bricks and indicated a place beside him. “Your chariot awaits,” he quipped.

  Allison laughed and plopped herself down beside him, Indian fashion, for the ride up to the sixth floor. From the corner of her eye she saw him turn his gaze from the floor indicator to her. Self-consciously she realized she was wearing the most ridiculously ugly pac boots ever manufactured. Resolutely she kept her head tilted back, eyes trained on the numbers above the door.

  “That’s a damn nice cap,” he teased.

  Without taking her eyes off the numbers, she pulled the disreputable hat even farther down over her forehead, until only a slit of eyes remained visible beneath the turned-back brim.

  “For a stupid South Dakota girl who doesn’t know how to dress for the weather, it ain’t too bad.” She flashed him a smart smirk and a brief glimpse of the corner of one eye as it angled his way.

  “I’ll take that back when I see a beach, a lake, and a bonfire on the sixth floor.”

  “Doubting Thomas,” she scoffed, and grinned.

  They arrived at the sixth floor, and she leaped off the dolly and opened the clanking brass gate, then together they worked the ungainly vehicle into the hall. Wouldn’t you know, the night watchman had just come on duty. He rounded a corner of the hall and saw the two of them maneuvering a load of bricks off the elevator.

  Rick raised a hand in greeting and informed the wide-eyed fellow, “Just takin’ my girl for a ride is all.” He swept a theatrical bow toward the bricks, and Allison played along, clambering on board to again sit Indian fashion in snow boots, parka, and bobcap, while Rick pushed her down the hall to the studio door.

  When they got inside they closed the door, looked at each other, and burst into laughter, as it seemed they were doing with increasing regularity. Rick dropped down onto the dolly. Allison leaned against the door, holding her sides, filled with rich amusement such as she hadn’t shared with anyone in years.

  “Oh, you were so glib, I think he believed you!” she managed to get out, quite weak now, reaching a tired hand to doff the cap from her head, leaving behind a mop of hair as disheveled as a serving of spaghetti.

  “So were you—climbing on, sitting there like some Indian princess on her way to a fertility rite. You were superb!”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” she preened.

  Immediately he reconsidered, scanning her from head to foot. He shook his head in mock despair. “I think I take that back. You’re the biggest mess I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “How would you like a brick implanted in the middle of your forehead?” She picked one up and threatened him with it.

  “Hey, come on.” He raised his arms protectively above his head. “Take a look in the mirror.”

  “You take a look in the mirror! Your hair looks like somebody styled it with a cattle prod, so don’t point fingers at me.” She deposited the brick and turned toward the doorway, across the room. Rick saw a light come on as she moved inside, and the next minute he heard a blood-curdling shriek.

  He got up off the dolly and ambled over to the doorway, where he stood smiling. The well-lit room was apparently a dressing room, and Allison stood in front of a mirror, sticking her tongue out at herself.

  “See? I told you,” he nettled.

  “Yep,” she agreed dryly. She found a comb in a nearby drawer and dragged it unceremoniously through her hair.

  He stood watching, noting the way the winter air had tinted her nose a becoming pink, the way her feminine shape was lost inside the enormous parka, which now hung unzipped, dwarfing her shoulders.

  At that moment a furious pounding sounded on the studio door, followed by the concerned voice of the night watchman. “Hey, you all right in there, miss?”

  Allison’s and Rick’s eyes met in the mirror, and they giggled.

  “The night watchman. Thinks you’re being assaulted in here.”

  “You’d better stop making fun of my appearance or I’ll tell him it’s true.” She gave him a warning glance.

  “Hello in there!” came another shout from the hall.

  Allison hotfooted it around Rick Lang, opened the hall door, and confronted the frowning, grandfatherly man who peered past her to the pallet of bricks, the log at the far end of the room, and Rick lounging against the doorway of the dressing room. “Everything all right in here?” he asked. “Thought I heard somebody screamin’.”

  “Oh, that was me.” She pointed over her shoulder. “He tried to get fresh, but I’ve got a black belt in karate. Thanks for inquiring, but I can take care of myself.”

  The watchman turned away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  In the studio, Rick threatened, “If he sics the law on me, I’ll tell ’em about the log you stole from a public park.”

  “I didn’t steal that log, you did!”

  “Oh yeah? Then what’s it doing in your studio?”

  She shrugged innocently. “Don’t know. It just showed up here uninvited, like you.”

  Rick lazily pulled his shoulder away from the door frame, pul
ling on his gloves while he sauntered to the dolly and ordered, “Get your butt over here and help me unload these bricks, lady, before I take offense and leave you to do it yourself.”

  They worked companionably for the next two hours, placing the bricks in two roughly concentric circles on the floor at the far end of the studio. While Rick returned the dolly to the loading area, Allison unrolled the black plastic and sliced off an enormous piece to act as their lake bottom. When Rick came back, the two of them arranged the plastic, draping it over the inner circle of bricks, then weighing it with the outer circle. They crawled back and forth on their hands and knees in their stocking feet so they would not puncture the plastic, taking up slack, gauging how big the makeshift puddle of water had to be to produce an adequate reflection from the fill light that would simulate the moon shimmering upon the lake.

  Next they worked with the sand. Allison was grateful to have Rick there to lug the clumsy sacks around the edge of the “lake.” As they emptied them one by one, covering the brickwork, the setting slowly took shape, appearing less and less artificial. The last item to be positioned was the log. Together they hefted it, placed it in the foreground where Allison indicated, then stood back while she formed a square with her palms to confine the view the camera would see and to judge the results of their labor. She hadn’t yet set up a camera on the tripod, but she asked Rick, “Will you sit on the log for a minute so I can get a general idea of how we did?”

  “That’s what I’m being paid for.” Obligingly he sat on the log, his arms draped loosely over his knees while she studied the composition as best she could without everything in it.

  He watched her kneel, her face serious now as she peered at him from about hip level, where the camera would be come Thursday night. Again she was all brisk self-assurance, a studious expression on her face as she did what she loved doing best. She had removed the army parka a while ago and now wore a white sweatshirt and blue jeans. As she bent forward, her hair fell across her cheek, but she seemed totally unaware of it, of anything but her work.

  Suddenly she stood up, biting her upper lip while deep in thought. She glanced at the darkened strobes standing around the edges of the room, thought for a moment longer, abruptly smiled, clapped her hands, and declared, “Yup! It’ll work just fine.”

  “Good,” he returned, then sighed. He looked at his watch and reminded her, “Do you know what time it is? It’s eight-thirty, and I haven’t had any supper. Neither have you.” He heaved himself to his feet, gestured with a sideward quirk of the head as he passed her, and led the way to the front door. “Come on, let me buy you a hamburger.”

  Walking toward their jackets piled on her desk, she scolded, “Oh no, not after all the help you’ve given me. It’s me who’ll do the buying.”

  He automatically picked up her parka first and held it, waiting for her arms to slip in. “I asked first.”

  “I buy or I’m not going,” she declared stubbornly. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Are you always this obstinate?”

  “Nope. Only when guys come along and save my discs.”

  “All right, you win.” He shook the jacket slightly. “Come on, get in, I’m starved.”

  At last she complied, buttoning up, retrieving her bobcap, and pulling it clownishly low over her forehead again while he slid his arms into his jacket and snapped it up.

  “My car or yours?” he asked as they walked toward the elevator.

  “How ’bout both of ours, then we can just hit home after we eat.”

  “Right.”

  On the first floor he turned toward the front of the building, she toward the rear, having agreed upon where to meet. But when Allison got to her van she realized, chagrined, that she was almost flat out of cash. She counted the money in her billfold and her loose change. She had a single one-dollar bill and hardly enough change to make up the price of two hamburgers, much less drinks to go with them.

  God, how embarrassing, she thought, and frantically started the van, thinking of her checkbook at home on the kitchen cabinet. The city streets were almost deserted. She had no idea what Rick’s car looked like, so she had no recourse but to drive to the appointed restaurant and wait in the parking lot for him to arrive.

  When she saw his face behind the window of a Ford sedan, she jumped from the van, left it idling, and was waiting when he came to a stop. She tapped on the window, and he rolled it down. She plunged her hands into her jacket pockets and looked up sheepishly.

  “I feel like a real dope, but I haven’t got enough money with me after all, so would you settle for an omelette at my place?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “It’s not far. I live on Lake of the Isles.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  She shivered, ran back to her van, and twenty minutes later the headlights of his car followed hers into the driveway between the high snowbanks.

  When she emerged from the depths of the dark garage, he was waiting to lower the door for her, and once again Allison was struck by his unfailing good manners. He performed each courtesy with a naturalness that most men seemed to have long forgotten in this day of women’s independence. Allison felt special when he treated her in this gentlemanly way. Inwardly she chuckled as she led the way up the stairway to her apartment, realizing she was dressed more like a combat soldier than a lady. Yet he still afforded her chivalry at every opportunity. And he did it in so offhand a manner as to make her feel foolish for giving it a second thought.

  They stamped the snow off their boots and walked into her gaily decorated apartment. He was already pulling off his boots before she could turn around to protest, “Oh, you don’t have to.”

  But he tugged them off anyway, then stood looking around the room while she removed her jacket and waited for his.

  “Hey, this is like a touch of summer. You do all this yourself?” he asked.

  “Yes. I like green, as you can see.”

  “Me too.” His eyes scanned the room, moving from item to item while he shrugged from his jacket and absently handed it to her. “You have a nice touch. Looks to me like if you ever wanted to give up photography, you could take up interior decorating.”

  “Thank you, but you’re making me blush. Please, just . . . just sit down and make yourself at home.”

  One brow raised, he glanced back over his shoulder with a grin to see if she was really blushing, but she was busy hanging up their jackets in a small closet behind the door.

  She turned, caught him grinning at her, and gave him a little shove toward the living room. “Go . . . sit down or something. I’ll be right back.”

  While she was gone, he walked around the room, noticing the tape player, the healthy plants, the daybed out on the closed-off sun porch. The main room was marvelous, full of light and color, its rich wood floor gleaming, tasteful art prints in chrome frames hanging on the walls. A decorator easel stood in one corner, and he wondered why it was empty. Hands in pockets, he ambled over to the opposite corner and was gazing at the ceiling hook that held up the suspended chair when she returned to the room.

  “Doubting Thomas?” she inquired archly.

  He glanced over his shoulder. She had put on some lip gloss and combed her hair. On her feet were huge, blue fuzzy slippers. “You read my mind so easily, do you?”

  “Everybody who comes in here goes over to that chair, looks up, and asks ‘Will this thing really hold me?’ ”

  “Not me. I didn’t ask.”

  “No, but you were about to.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  She went to the kitchen end of the room and opened the refrigerator, in search of eggs. Funny, she had an inkling he’d ask it, even before he asked it.

  “Hey, will this thing hold me?”

  But he was already inserting himself into the almost circular basket, but very, very gingerly, as if it were going to drop him the moment he settled his full weight in it.

  “Nope!” she answered.

&n
bsp; He laughed, crossed his hands over his belly, pushed gently with his heel, and called across the room, “Hey, I want an under-duck.”

  “A what?” she asked, popping her head up from the depths of the cabinet where she was searching for a bowl.

  “An under-duck. You know . . . when you were a little kid and you got pushed on a swing, didn’t you call it an under-duck when they’d go running right under you?”

  “Oh, that!” She laughed, cracked the eggs into the bowl, and remembered back. “No, I think we used to call it . . .” She screwed up her face, trying to remember. “Would you believe I can’t think of what we used to call it.”

  “Shame on you. How will you teach your kids those all-important things if you forget them yourself?”

  “Haven’t got any kids.”

  From the depths of the basket chair Rick studied her while she beat the eggs with a wire whisk. The movement made her shining hair bounce at the ends, and inside her baggy sweatshirt he could make out the outline of her breasts bouncing, too. He let his glance rove down to her derrière—tiny, shapely buns . . . trim hips . . . long, supple legs.

  You will have kids, he decided, admiring what he saw. “Do you plan to have kids?” he asked.

  “Not for a while. I’ve got a career to establish first. I’m just getting up a good head of steam.”

  He liked the way she moved, brisk and sure, taking a moment to wipe her palms on her thighs before reaching into the cabinet for a salt shaker.

  Allison was conscious of his eyes following her, though she wasn’t even facing him. It was disconcerting, yet welcome in a way, too. She was standing uncertainly, gazing into an open cabinet as she admitted, “This is awful, but all I have to put in an omelette is tuna fish.”

  She turned apologetically to find him six inches behind her. Startled, she drew back a step.

  “Tuna-fish omelette?” he repeated, grimacing. “You lured me up here for a tuna-fish omelette?”