Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

trying to repress the urge since day one. So while she rolled faux Farrow & Ball on the larger of the two bedrooms, she allowed herself to daydream.

The room had two decent-sized windows that looked out to that big, deep backyard.

If I lived here, I’d replace those windows with a pair of French doors and build a big, wide stoop that ended in a little patio made of old mellow bricks. Maybe I’d have some kind of trellis partially enclosing it for privacy. I’d plant a pink climbing rose on the trellis, and I’d have a pair of lounge chairs out here. Or maybe I’d even have a fabulous outdoor shower, with one of those giant rain-shower heads.

The closet in the bedroom was nowhere near big enough to be a real master-bedroom-sized closet. The closet in the house on Sand Dollar Lane was bigger than this bedroom.

But if I lived here, I wouldn’t need a huge closet. I don’t need a lot of clothes anymore, so that’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe I’d look for a big old armoire or a chifforobe, or even one of those oversized entertainment cupboards that are a dime a dozen now that everybody has a flat-screen. I’d paint it a dusty, weathered gray-blue, and I could look for old leather suitcases at estate sales and thrift shops, and I could store my extra clothes there and stack them on top of the armoire. And I’d find a great bed, maybe use a pair of twin headboards, something rattan or tropical? This house seems to scream for that Old Florida/British Colonial look.

Grace dragged the drop cloth over to a new section of wall. She didn’t really know why she even bothered using one. The wood floors were already spattered with old paint and pockmarked with nail and tack holes from the wall-to-wall carpet she’d ripped up. She’d meant to check on the price of renting a floor sander at the hardware store, but she’d been distracted by figuring out the paint situation.

If I lived here, I’d stain the floors two shades darker, and I’d use a matte-finish poly. With the soft white walls and the sunlight coming in through the French doors, they’d have a deep, natural glow. No carpets underfoot, just maybe a striped cotton runner, or possibly a worn old Oriental in pale, faded greens, blues, and browns.

Planning it all out in her head, listening to the music, Grace found her painting groove again. She was dripping with sweat and spattered head to toe with paint, but it didn’t matter. She was doing just what she wanted to do, how she wanted to do it, with no interference from anyone. It was a very good day.

She was just starting to move into the second bedroom when she heard the screened door open. “Hellllooo?” A male voice echoed.

“Wyatt?” She stripped the bandanna off her head and ducked into the bathroom to survey her appearance. Disastrous. Epic, Titanic-level disastrous. Her face was flecked with white paint, her arms and legs were flecked with white paint, and she had a giant smear of dirt on her right boob.

“Grace?” His footsteps echoed in the living room. “Are you in here?”

“Be right out,” she called, pulling the bathroom door shut. She found an old washcloth in the linen closet, ran the water in the bathroom sink until all traces of rust were gone, and scrubbed her face and arms with it. She sighed. It was the best she could do. Anyway, who was she trying to impress?

*   *   *

When she got out to the living room, Wyatt was walking around, checking her handiwork. And there was a little freckle-faced boy rolling around on the floor with Sweetie, who was engaged in a spirited tug-of-war over what looked like a rag of some sort. Until she got a closer look, and realized they were actually using her discarded bra.

“Sweetie,” Grace called, her face in flames. The dog looked up, with a bra strap clenched between her teeth. Grace scooped her up, disengaged the bra, and stuffed it into the back pocket of her cutoffs.

She cut her eyes over to Wyatt, whose chest was heaving with barely suppressed laughter. He was studiously avoiding meeting her eyes.

“Well, hello,” Grace said, sitting down on the floor next to the child. Sweetie jumped out of her arms and began sniffing the little boy’s shoes. “I bet you’re Bo.”

The child ducked his head. “Yes ma’am.” Sweetie put her front paws on the child’s chest and sniffed his neck, wedging her head under his hand until he was forced to scratch the dog’s head.

“My name’s Grace,” she said, extending her hand. “I hear you’re going to be helping take care of Sweetie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said. “Does she do any tricks?”

“I don’t know, Bo. I’ve only had her a few days. But I think she’s a pretty smart little thing. Maybe you could teach her some tricks?”

Bo flopped onto his back and Sweetie dutifully stepped onto his chest and began licking his neck and face, which prompted a huge fit of giggles from the child.

Finally, he sat back up and cradled the dog in his arms. “My dad taught Cookie to ride a bike and talk. Maybe we could teach Sweetie to do that.”

Wyatt laughed. “Thanks for that vote of confidence, son, but even though Sweetie is really, really smart and cool, I think bike riding and talking is probably not in her future. How about if we just work on teaching her how to fetch a stick and sit up and bark on command?”

“Cool,” Bo said, tickling Sweetie’s belly. “Can we start tonight?”

“In the morning, maybe,” Wyatt said. He touched a fingertip to one of the newly painted walls. “Man, you work fast. I can’t believe you got this whole place painted in one day.”

“Not all of it,” Grace said. “I was just starting on the second bedroom when you guys showed up. I’ve still got the bathroom and the kitchen to do, not to mention