“Here!” He set his ice cream sandwich on the backrest of the bench. Really, this woman was either the most clumsy or least lucky female in the city. A trailing corner of that banner had blown up in the wind and wound around one ankle. As she was busy pulling her other ankle free of another corner, this nearly sent her facefirst onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you!” Breathless, she tried to help by pulling free, setting a foot down on the cloth…and his fingers. ”I…why does it keep doing that?”
“Just being contrary,” he said, maintaining his smile as he blew on his bruised fingers.
He was no fool. He could read what was on the banner. This woman was another of the troublemakers, trying to rally a few more. Nonetheless, he patiently unwound the fabric. If he was helpful and pleasant, he might be able to lure her away from the chief Luddite, one Peter Abbott who disapproved of quiet, tidy parks and kept mailing out huge registered envelopes filled with poorly spelled petitions. It would be fun to try, at least.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t wear heels.” He just missed a corner of fabric as the wind whipped it around; the banner did seem to be tangling the woman’s feet. Still, he should have expected every facet of this anti-park crusade to be disagreeable.
She leaned over to grab part of the disobedient banner. “Oh, I never wear heels to the park.”
You could, if it were the proper sort of park, he thought, but it was too soon to say something like that. “Look nice, though,” he said, leaning closer to the banner so she wouldn’t catch his expression.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t amuse himself at the expense of a stranger, but not only was she one of the enemy, he had to pass the time somehow. His designs could go no further until he knew the project was on, and what would be his part in it. He had produced forty-three separate designs for their consideration, not including dozens of alternate fieldhouses, all of which would be pointless if the project was abandoned. One more sketch of this little patch of grass, and his brain would be stuck on it, like the old computer monitors with no screen saver. Decades from now, he’d be hunched over a drawing board, cackling over his one millionth distribution of wrought iron benches.
A chortle came from deep inside her: a warm sound. “Oh, I don’t need heels. Even with these, I have men at my feet.”
He thought this an old joke, but he chuckled in reply. “Well, I can’t complain about anything in your wardrobe except this cape. This is a style that won’t catch on.’
“It seems to be catching on everything.” She twisted and tugged ineffectually at a part of the banner she was sitting on. Her face suddenly hardened; she’d seen where his eyes were pointed. Her knees slapped together, which made the banner snap up at his nose.
She was instantly contrite. “Did that hit you?” She tried to rise for a better look, which tightened the banner at her calves and made her sit down hard.
“It’s nothing.” Keping his eyes on the cloth, he set one hand firmly on a seam: there had to be a scientific answer to this. Her clothes were encouraging, though, and his eyes kept moving away from the job at hand. So many women who went everywhere in sweatpants had soft round bottoms. Hardhipped people favored shorts. Anyway, that was his theory. He never had time to research these topics. Not with so many more fieldhouses to design.
And there was a practical side to this new project: anyone he could win over to a sensible view of this park would make the world a better place. His duty, really. “Didn’t I see you wearing this cape earlier today?”
She was still a little flushed, and strove to keep her tone businesslike. But she was simply not that kind of person. “I’ve seen you here before, too. Did you know this park is in danger of being ruined for the people who use it?” Her voice squeaked on the last two words, defusing her dramatic flourish.
He fought to keep his smile from becoming smug. “Well, it is hard to get people to listen to reason when it comes to real estate.”
She nodded violently. “That’s what we said when someone tried to turn that old cemetery outside of town into an industrial park.”
“Ph, well.” He shrugged. “Same as a park, really, only the people stay overnight.”
She thought he sounded very level-headed. Peter had noticed at once how he adjusted at once when she let him know his gaze was getting too personal. He might make a good recruit for the movement: he seemed to visit the park often enough.
His hand unavoidably slid along her right thigh as he struggled with the banner. She licked her lips and looked away across the scraggly grass. “They want to take away all this and put in flower gardens where people can’t walk or play.”
“Well, I suppose all things have t change.”
She’d heard THAT often enough; her answer was ready. “Nothing has to change for the worse if we can help it.”
Even if things did have to change, she thought, we can still have little spots for illusions of permanence. She did not say this; it seemed to shock people more than anything else she said. “Change is good,” they told her, and they seemed to believe it. She’d need to know this man better before she moved on to THAT discussion. Contests were won a step at a time.
“I like flower gardens,” he said, meekly enough.
“They have their place,” Peter informed him. “And so do grand sidewalks and so do fountains. But this isn’t one of those places. This is a park where people can stretch out for a nap, or play Frisbee, or eat lunch, without a lot of warning signs.” She was aware that a sign just behind her warned dog owners to observe the civilities. Impossible, she supposed, to have a public park with no signs at all. To say so would weaken her point, of course. That this was a park where life was unstructured: “DO NOT WALK ON GRASS” was silly where the grass was this intermittent, and no one put up “DO NOT PICK FLOWERS” signs where only dandelions flourished.
“And where they can toss their hamburger wrappers,” he grunted, tugging at a length of banner which had somehow gotten tied into a knot.
“That’s the price of letting people use their own park.” Her voice was curt; she preferred to keep his mind off fast food. The rumor that she was being sponsored by Booty Burger had led to a lot of predictable jokes about her shape. To be sure, from the look of him, he was probably tidy and thoroughly scheduled. What would that be like? The opposite was tedious: she had no idea where she’d put the check from the Armstrongs, and she really needed to sit down and fill in her amended tax forms. (So many lines and blanks: how did anyone get it right the first time?) Maybe she should ask this guy what he did for a living. He LOOKED like an accountant.
“I wouldn’t for the world tell you what to do n YOUR park,” he growled, a hand snapping out to grab a corner of the banner as it was jerked away by the wind. “But no one’s going to approve of these weird banner bondage games I public.”
AND he had a sense of humor. She laughed, but nearly fell off the bench as she pulled away from his hands. “Now what are you doing?”
“Well, I ALMOST had that unwound.” He rocked back and grimaced at the tangle of banner still cluttering her lower limbs. “Did you HAVE to use that much Velcro?”
“The banner’s heavy.” He wasn’t groping; she was imagining things? She was so sensitive nowadays: back in the Peace Corps she had worked as nearly naked as was prudent for someone who burned as readily as she did. Then she’d used outdoor showers and field toilets, and now she was wondering if her blouse—UNDER her jacket—was too thin.
Every time he looked up, he found her face freezing. If he didn’t get this banner sorted out soon, she would assume he was doing it slowly on purpose. “If I can get this….”
She squeaked. Some of that Velcro was still attached, and the tug had brought her sweatpants down half an inch. She grabbed the waistband.
He knew better than to try to help, and rocked back, keeping his hands in view. “I’ve always been one for progress, and adults know nothing comes without a price.”
“Are you referring to the park?” She nearly said something more, but clamped her mouth shut. She would in no way change the remark around by mentioning her pants. She threw an arm down over her bellybutton, and tried to remember whether today’s underpants still had elastic left in THEIR waist.
“No. I meant this Velcro.” He set his hands on his knees. “Tell you what: if you just wear this thing as a sash, you won’t need to put it up anywhere.”
“It keeps coming down.” She pulled the sweatpants up farther than they’d been to start with. “The banner, that is. I mean, I need lots of Velcro.”
His eyes SEEMED to be on the banner as he replied, “I suppose you would.”
An image jumped into her mind of herself dressed as the Baby New Year wearing nothing but this sash. She shoved both hands hard against the uppermost level of the laminated fabric. “And the wind…I mean, I don’t know….”
“Stop! Don’t move! Don’t breathe!”
She froze. In that moment, he shoved one hand under one buttock and gave her a quick lift. His other hand performed some act of magic by her ankles and, magically, the banner was all over the ground at her feet.
“Yay!”
They might cheer together, but all the while, she was angling so that when she got up, her butt would be pointing anywhere besides at him. “Well,” she said, rolling toward the bedraggled fabric, “That makes this a banner week.” She could still feel the warmth of his hand. He had a firm touch and…long fingers.
He rocked back on his haunches again, sighing. “Banner year. Well, getting it loose of your heels makes it quite a feat.”
“You have the healing touch.” Getting her feet under her, she reached down to roll up the banner. This was slow going, as the waists of her jacket and blouse somehow kept getting mingled with the top of the fabric, and when they caught, they pulled down.
She cleared her throat. “Er, you wouldn’t want to come to our next rally, would you? Just to see how the banner behaves?”
He blinked, wondering if she knew that kneeling on the ground to roll the fabric pulled those sweatpants really tight. Oh, he wished she wasn’t part of that gang. That one shove had demonstrated that her bottom had exactly the consistency he’d suspected. Shaking his head, he recalled her eyes were on him and said, “er. What?”
Oh Lord, she had big eyes this close. “Oh, well, you know: we’re having another rally for the park. I could make you Vice President for Banner Control.”
He laughed, without feeling especially entertained. Of course, she DID need somebody to take charge of that banner. She wasn’t even rolling it right: instead of a tight, compact roll she was turning it at an angle, producing what would be a long, draggy bundle. It would be falling apart again before she walked another block. But he had a feeling if he reached out to help her, he was lost forever. “Um, when is it?”
“Um.” It was the first excuse she’d thought of; she hadn’t really though about that bit. Rough if she just named a date and the rally was a washout like today’s. Although the thought of a private rally for two, just herself and this…promising new recruit for the cause….
“I’d, uh, have to see what the museum….” Damn! Looking down, she found she’d rolled the banner into a long thin cigarette. Well, she could act like she’d meant to do it. Pulling the loose coil into one arm, she rose and shoved her free hand through her hair. “You never know when to hold these things, meetings I mean, without….” Wow, he was tall! “We try to pick a day when somebody from the developer’s office might attend. He never sends anyone, though.”
He wondered if she knew what her nose did when she said “developer”. He also wondered whether she knew how many times she had licked her lips during the last few sentences.
“Of course he’d never come himself,” she went on, setting indignant fists against magnificent hips and nearly losing the banner in the process.
“Of course?” he inquired.
Her hair snapped at him as she tossed her head. “He told the City our petitions were meaningless, not that he ever looked at them. He’s never even replied to our invitations.”
So eyes could genuinely flash! Really, there had to be a way to win this woman over to the side of civic improvements. “Maybe he would come, if he thought he’d get a chance to talk.”
She stared, her mouth dropping open. Round lips snapped shut, opened again, shut once more, and then demanded. “Why shouldn’t he talk? Everybody talks at those meetings!”
He spread out his hands, palm up. “Yes, but he’d be on enemy territory. I doubt he’d get two sentences together before somebody interrupted.”
Neither of them noticed that the lower end of the banner seemed to be loosening, letting fabric curl to the ground. She shrugged. “Yes, but everybody interrupts, too. And we….”
“But in his case they’d be correcting, or objecting. Or just shouting anti-development slogans.” He took a step forward. “I know how these things work, especially if they’re orchestrated by that evil genius of theirs…yours. That Peter Abbott.”
Her eyes came level with his for a moment, and then dropped to one shoe, kicking dirt at the edge of the sidewalk.
“Actually,” she murmured, “I’m Peter Abbott.”
“I beg your pardon?” He took a step back and lowered his head to peer into her face.
Her eyes came to his again. “That’s my name. Peter Abbott.”
He looked her up and down from razzled hair to sensible shoes, pausing only briefly at her hips. All he could say was “WHY?”
One shoulder bounced. “My parents were part of that whole creative baby name generation. They named me after their favorite book.”
He frowned. “Their…I see. Peter Abbott. Peter Rabbit.”
“Well, no.” She had explained this so many times it hardly even bothered her any more, much. But she wanted him to know. “It was Peter Churchmouse. My full name is Peter Churchmouse Abbott.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m Peter Abbott.” She reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a card. She blushed to see one corner was bent: real business card people wouldn’t have used that one. But she handed it to him, leaving that hand extended to shake his.
He didn’t take her hand. His face was utterly blank as he looked at the little bent cardboard ad. She understood when he reached into his own jacket pocket. Modern business didn’t involve handshakes but little cards.
She smiled and glanced at what was in her hand. People were always giving her cards, and somehow, she never…. She looked at the name again.
“But that’s…you’re…you’re the….”
“Evil force of blind heedless change, I think it was.” He kept his eyes on her face, after a quick glance at her hands. Whether it was because he was honestly afraid they might become fists again, or because one was still close to that hip, he couldn’t say.
“What….” She continued to stare at the card for a moment and then threw that hand up in the air and letting it slap down hard on the other hip. “I thought you were the fat one! The one with the beard and the cold, little eyes!”
Her gaze made him take another step backward, nearly sending him off the pavement. “Oh. At those meetings. No, that’s our chief legal counsel. They all have eyes like that. Wait!”
She had swung those hips toward him and turned to march away. He had already decided that if she did that, he would let her go. But he couldn’t help himself. He took three steps without any idea of what he was going to say if he caught up.
He didn’t have to say a thing. Her turn had been too violent; the loose and dripping coil of fabric sprang entirely free. His third step brought a foot down on the corner of the radical battlebanner. His fourth had him firmly on the fabric just as she noticed she was losing it. Clutching it to her, she yanked hard. He was too heavy for this to do her any good. Now she turned, not looking up, got both hands firmly on each side of the fabric and pulled as hard as she could. She did this a split second after he realized where his feet were, and stepped away.
“Oh, help!” was what she seemed to be saying as she went down, twisting to avoid concrete. It looked painful, her landing, and the banner perversely swirled up over her.
Kneeling to pull the cloth away, he found a foot coming at his face. He had just time to turn and take it on the cheek.
“Oh!” she tried to sit up, but the banner wouldn’t give her that. She flailed backward agauin, calling, “I’m sorry. I was trying…I didn’t see you there!”
“Nothing broken,” he assured her, but it had hurt, so he was not so gentle with the banner this time. One yank pulled it free of her but sent her rolling down the sidewalk and nearly tore her jacket off in the process.
They rose, both of them kicking the banner impartially. She had her hands in the jacket pockets, pulling it back on as well as pulling it tight against her posterior. Her expression was one of deep humiliation, more, he thought, than was necessary for that accidental kick. Whether she was ashamed of starting to run away, or of not running away now, he couldn’t guess.
Fortunately, the banner gave them something to talk about. “It’s quiet now.” He set a foot down hard on one end. “But maybe you’d better shoot it behind one ear to pay it safe.”
“I’ll have to wash it.” She looked over all the muddy footprints across the lettering. “It’s all we can afford. We’re not as rich as…oh, developers.”
He like that look of challenge on her face. It meant she had accepted what he did for a living and was testing his sense of humor. On reflection, though, he decided he did NOT like her expression. She’d be so much easier to deal with if she just hated him.
What answer, though, would leave him with the most options? “I don’t work at the same level as some of the big name developers on the Coasts. I believe I could afford dinner for two.”
“What does THAT mean?” She knew what it meant. She had to play for time. How could yu consider serious issues with your mind busy imagining your fingers running along a man’s collarbone? And if they meandered down the sternum, would she find hair? Her whole face pulled in: will you wait for the wretched developer to offend you and not do it yourself?
He didn’t seem to have noticed. “We could talk about things and maybe come to some…understanding. You wanted to curse out the evil developer and I, well, I wanted to poison that Peter Rabbit. But if you promise not to kick me in the face again, I promise not to slip cyanide into your soup.”
She had to smile; her neck and shoulders lost their tightness as she realized he was laughing at himself, at them both. Pleasant to find he was huma, and unpleasant too. It had been easier to snarl about mindless developers when she didn’t know they could grin.
“I never liked cyanide.”
“Arsenic is more my style, anyhow,” he told her. he bent to pick up a corner of the banner. “You know…one of those trace elements heedless developers always leave in the soil.”
She chortled, and choked. This was wrong: all wrong. He was too NICE to be one of those park-killers! She’d never hold out through dinner. He was too…she’d been attracted to men before, by a smile, a set of freckles, a nice backside. But this was the first one she’d imagined taking home to that old footed bathtub and getting him into deep sudsy….
What had he said NOW? Arsenic? Her face was redder than ever: something was making her angry. “Of course, we don’t have to talk about the park,” he said, mending roads he couldn’t see. “It would be nice if we found some common….”
Her face went as pale as it had been red. She grabbed up as muc of the banner as she could and turned to run again.
Blogsy Babbles 