Cracked Foundations

"What does that mean?" she asked as her fingers played with the hair on my chest.

"It's from Matthew.13:55. 'Is this not the Carpenter’s son?'" I said the words, feeling the bitter burn of old hurt and pain. "I got it right after my dad died. So I wouldn't forget him."

Looking down when her head moved, I saw the questions in her eyes. I pushed myself up higher and sat up in the bed, my back against the headboard.. She sat up and pulled the sheet up under her arms so her breasts were hidden.

"Tell me about him," she said after a moment. "Tell me about your father."

I took a deep breath. The old depressions and self-loathing came to rest in the pit of my stomach chasing out the recent pleasures.

"My father's name was Mike. He was a cabinet maker by trade. Did beautiful work, the ones in the kitchen are his work. He was a very religious man. No one touched a bite of food on our table till he had said the blessing over it. We went to church every Sunday morning; be there till noon then come back for the Sunday night service as well. We would go to church every Wednesday night too. He sang in the choir, was a deacon for awhile. Led Bible studies on Sunday morning for the teenaged boys."

"That's almost obsessive," Natalie said but I could tell as soon as she spoke the words she regretted them. When she went to apologize I waved it off.

"Oh, he was that. Devout man of God." I grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind my back. The carved headboard was beginning to dig into my back, as if the wood didn’t like the artwork pressed against it. "I was an only child. Spent most of it on the bank of a river fishing. Alone. I would beg my father to come fishing with me, but he was always too busy. Either with work, or with something going on at the church."

The sheet rustled and I looked up to see her getting more comfortable. That lovely body, draped with the sheet, drew my eyes and my desire. She smiled, recognizing the look.

"Go on, please."

"Well, I got a very bad case of unnoticed-child syndrome. I would do things to get into trouble just so he would have to pay me some attention. I finally got a lecture about how a good Christian boy wouldn't do such evil things, that it must be the Devil getting inside me because I didn't pray enough at night.

"That set me off. I don't remember everything I screamed at him that afternoon, but I know I told him I wasn't a Christian, that I hated God and everything to do with Him because He had stolen my father from me. That I didn't want to be a good Christian. That all I wanted was a dad to take me fishing, to help me work on my bike. To just be there for me."

Chuckling to keep from crying, I ran both hands over my head and held the back of my neck, my fingers laced. I realized even as the old memories came back that it was the arrest position. I moved my hands before I felt phantom cuffs.

Natalie rubbed her hand over my chest, back and forth, a motion that soothed instead of aroused. It calmed me. I didn't look at her face, afraid of what I might see there.

"That was when I ran away. I stormed out the living room, slammed my bedroom door and locked it. I screamed at him that I was never going to go to church again, even as I was packing a bag. I opened the window, cut the screen, and jumped. I ran off in the darkness, never intending to come back."

I fell silent as I remember the cold of that night. The damp drizzle that had bathed my face as I ran.

"Did you come back?" Natalie asked softly.

"Yes, but not willingly; the police picked me up. About . . . six weeks later, I think. I was four states away, asleep in a train boxcar. One of the railroad guys found me and called the law."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen. Same age as Rowena now. It gives me chills to think of her out on those streets. Sleeping in the woods, under bridges the way I did at that age." I took a deep breath.

"She's not that much her father’s daughter, I don’t think." Natalie ran a hand over my arm and took my hand. "She has a good head on her shoulders. Even if her mother's head is full of fluff."

I smiled and tightened my fingers in hers.

"What happened when you came back? Another lecture?"

"Nope. Dad came and picked me up. He never said a word to me the whole way home. When we got home it was Sunday afternoon. He told me to go get changed. I told him I wasn't going to church. He said not for church, for fishing."

"Fishing?"

"Yeah. He took me fishing. We camped out at a lake for a week together, just him and me. He took off work that whole week to be with me. He didn't mention the Lord or Church or anything. He never once the whole time had so much as a harsh word for me."

"Well, that's good," she said.

"No. No, it wasn't. Although I didn't see it till years later. You see, my dad loved me. He loved me so much he gave up God for me. He never went to church again. Not until his dying day did he step foot into one." My fingers took up their habit of smoothing down my goatee. I'd given up trying to make myself stop in front of her. "He didn't pray over dinner, or before bed. He was a totally different man. I was young and stupid enough to not see just how terrible that change in him must have affected him."

"What happened?" Her fingers tightened on mine in comfort.

"Nothing. Not right at first. I suddenly had the best friend in the world. We did everything together. He taught me how to do carpentry. We worked in his shop for hours together." I tapped the headboard. "We made this bed. He taught me how to turn a spindle on a lathe, how to carve with chisels, all of it. It was the happiest time in my life." I felt a tear roll down my cheek and brushed it over into my beard. Part of it hit my lip and I tasted the salt. As bitter as the memories that followed.

"Stan?"

"My dad was a Vietnam vet. I had always been so proud of that fact that when I hit eighteen and the first Gulf War was getting going I went and volunteered. Did two years over there in the desert." I clenched my hand in the sheet, fighting the pain.

"I didn't know. I didn’t know it was what my dad had gone through over there that made him turn to God. I made him give up what he had been using to keep himself together. Then I went and joined a war. Mom told me later, after he died, that he would wake up screaming my name, tangled in the sheets. He was trying to save me. Mom tried to get him to go back to church with her but he wouldn't. Said if he did he would be going back on his word to me."

Reaching over to the night stand I picked up a warm bottle of water from the night before and drank the last dregs. Natalie waited quietly for me to continue. I wasn't sure I could until I did.

"He started to drink. He had been sober nearly twenty years and picked it back up because of me. He drank to forget the dreams, the nightmares, the memories. He drank to forget that his son was in the middle of a war. He drank and drank and when I came home, he was no long the man I had known. He was a surly drunk who hated me because of the pain I had caused him." I threw the empty plastic bottle across the room. I wished it had been glass. Something breaking would have been satisfying at least.

"I was angry at him. How could he be so selfish. I had just spent two years being shot at! I needed my friend. I needed my dad. I was angry, so I did what I had always done. I ran away. Again. I left him to his bottle and I said to hell with him. His selfish—"

The tears nearly overwhelmed me but I fought them back. Natalie held tight to my hand with both of hers.

I cleared my throat. "Anyway, I married, and started my own life. About the time that Rowena was born I got a call from mom. Dad was sick, really sick. She begged me to come home. So I came home, but was too late by about an hour. The coroner's ambulance was here when I pulled up. Mom was a mess, so I handled it all, the arrangements for the funeral, all of that. I felt so detached from it. I hadn't cared for him in years, after all. Then after the funeral mom sat down with me, in there at the kitchen table and told me everything."

I sniffed to clear my nose but that didn't help. Leaning over to the night stand, I grabbed a dusty tissue from the box. Natalie took it from me, climbed over my legs, and pulled out a few more till she got a clean one. As I sat there with my eyes streaming, this lovely lady I had just bared my soul to cleaned my face. Her eyes held sympathy, not judgment, as she brushed away the tears.

"I listened to her, my mom, and came to realize I had never know the man that was my father." Reaching over my shoulder I felt the raised edge of the inked scar. "I got the tattoo just after that."

"Thank you," Natalie said, "for telling me that." Her eyes were wet with tears. I took the tissue from her and brushed a few of hers away. I leaned in and kissed her. She broke away when I couldn't help but chuckle.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"Not funny, just ironic. This tattoo was the beginning of the end for Shelly and me. She was mad that I had left her to cope with our newborn daughter alone. Then I got this done. Well, started. It was a long process." I looked over my shoulder. "She said I should have asked her first. Then when my Mom passed she was mad that I wanted to move back here."

I shook my head and looked down at the wad of twisted sheet in my fingers. I let it go, feeling the ache as blood returned to my fingers.

"Stan."

Natalie's face held a sexy smile. She shook her head. "Your ex-wife is a total bitch."

Laughing, I pulled her into my arms. The silky sheet fell away and her smooth skin caressed mine as we kissed.

Natalie

When I woke up the next morning, I felt better than I had in ages. Telling Stan about what Norman had said and knowing he was on my side had lifted a weight off my shoulders. When Stan opened up to me about his father, I was happy to be there for him, grateful that he trusted me.

I loved him. There was no question of that, and at the moment, that was enough. I wanted him to love me, but I couldn't make him do that, so I'd enjoy what we had for now.

He was already up, no surprise even on a weekend, and I could smell coffee. He had tried to get me to like it, insisting that I simply hadn't had a cup properly prepared, but nothing had worked. No amount of sugar, cream or god forbid, flavoring, could make me like it. But I didn't mind the smell.

"Good morning." He stood at the doorway, handsome and sexy in sweatpants but no shirt. Each hand held a mug.

"Good morning." I sat up and smiled, holding the sheet over me.

"Darn, you're blocking the view." He grinned and came over to the bed. "Here, it's not breakfast in bed, but it's close."

I took one of the mugs from him. "Stan, I think you need to give it up. I'm never going to like coffee."

"I know. That's tea."

I sipped at it and sighed. "Yes, it is. Thank you."

He sat on the bed and we were quiet, each lost in our own thoughts. Stan broke the quiet first.

"Natalie, I just want to tell you that I'm . . . I'm glad you were here last night. I'm glad I told you about my father. I don't talk about it much. Hell, I don't usually think about it too much."

I covered one of his hands with one of mine. "I'm glad you did, too. I appreciate your trusting me."

"I know it couldn't have been easy to tell me about what Bill Norman did, or what happened in New York, either. So the trust goes both ways." He squeezed my hand.

"I guess it does." I smiled.

"Move over," he said.

I slid over a little on the bed while he got back in, sweatpants and all. He gestured for me to come next to him, and he put his free arm around my shoulders. I snuggled up to him and laid my head on his chest.

"This is the way to start a weekend," I said.

"I think it might be the way to spend the weekend." He leaned down and kissed me.

"Isn't Rowena coming?"

"No, she has some kind of school thing to do, volunteering somewhere." He kissed me again. "So I'm free. How about you?"

I smiled. "I don't think I had any firm plans."

"Well then." He put his coffee down, took my mug and did the same, then pulled me on top of him. "I suggest we stay here and get to know each other a little better."

"Sounds good to me."

So we did. We spent most of the weekend in bed, getting to know each other in all kinds of ways, and we didn't leave the physical out. Stan made me feel things I hadn't in years, and I did my best to reciprocate.

Monday rolled around and we had to go back to the house. I dreaded it in some ways, expecting that Norman would come back and demand the money back. I'd give it to him, because I had been serious; I would sell the house before giving into his blackmail.

Stan said there was no hurry, so I went back to my apartment to get some clothes. The phone rang while I was there.

I didn't quite recognize the number, but it seemed like I should, so I answered it. It was one of the many lawyers from New York. I was tempted to hang up on them, but resigned myself to listening another pitch on the settlement and sat on the couch.

After I hung up, I stayed on the couch pondering what they'd told me. I was there so long Stan came to make sure I was all right. I assured him I was, got my things, and left for the house. On the way over, we held hands, which relaxed me and I told him about the phone call. He said it sounded good, but it was up to me, and he'd support me, whatever my decision.

"What if Norman shows up today?" I asked Stan.

He snorted. "I'll teach him about sledgehammers, up close and personal."

"Only if I get to watch."

"I'll sell tickets." He shook his head. "But I will tell you this, if he does pull the money, I will help you finish the house. I have some savings and things."

"No, Stan, I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking, I'm offering." He interrupted gently as we pulled into the driveway. Instead of getting out, he turned to face me. "Look, Natalie, you're not the only one invested in this house, not anymore. Working on it, working with you—it's helped me, a lot. Helped me work through things about my father. I think working with you helped me talk to you about it."

"I know what you mean." I leaned back in the seat. "Working on this, doing things by myself and for myself, it's helped me, too. My self-confidence took a beating at my old job, all the things they did to me and said about me. But I've learned a lot, accomplished a lot." With a smile, I leaned in and kissed him. "Because I had a good teacher, of course."

We got out and walked towards the house. It looked so much better than when I'd first arrived. It still needed work, but it was getting there.

Andy was already there, waiting for us, and we discussed where things stood with the foundation. Tom was coming to check the plumbing progress later that day, and the electrician was coming for a consultation. It was going to be a busy day.

Busy it was, but in a good way, and I had time to think despite the work. As I was getting a drink, I saw Bill Norman's gray Nissan pull up. Stan came over to me and frowned. "Damn, I was hoping he wouldn't show up."

"He's probably itching to revoke the loan," I said. I put the water bottle down and wiped my hands. "Where's that sledgehammer?"

"Natalie, I can handle him, if you want." Stan put his hands on my shoulders. "He's wrong, I know it, and I can back it up. I don't want him to upset you again."

"You're sweet." I reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "I'd like you with me, but I know what I'm going to say."

"Oh yeah?" Stan raised an eyebrow and stroked his goatee. "Does it involve anatomically impossible acts?"

I laughed. "It might. We'll see."

"Miss Reynolds." Bill Norman stood in the kitchen doorway, a haughty frown on his face.

"Mr. Norman." I nodded at him.

"I'm afraid that the Historic Society has no choice but to call back the loan," he said. "This work is simply unacceptable and—" He gave Stan a disdainful look. "—we cannot continue to fund it."

"This work is top quality, and you know it," Stan said, his voice even. "I have worked with the Historic Society before, and I can back it up, that everything we're doing is permitted and up to standard."

"Well, Miss Reynolds, I do hate to stop work on a house with so much history behind it." Norman ignored Stan and ogled my breasts. "I gather you were busy before, but I would still be open to discussing your case. At dinner this evening, perhaps?"

"You can take your dinner and—" Stan began to say, but I put a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Norman, I believe what my contractor is saying is that you can take your dinner, and your money, and stick it up your ass." God, it felt so good to say that and to see Norman's expression.

"Ex—Excuse me?" He stammered.

"I don't need your money," I said. Stan looked at me and grinned.

Norman scoffed. "Ridiculous. I know what the estimate was and how much work needed to be done here. Without our money you'll have to stop midway. You wouldn't be able to sell this place for ten dollars."

"I don't care, I'm not looking to sell the place." I walked up to Norman, forcing him to look me in the eye. "If you ever thought I was going to let you put your sweaty little paws on me, you were delusional. I'll repeat: I do not need your money. Let me know who to make the check out to, and you will have it shortly. Now, get the hell out of my house."

"You think you can come down here, an upstart from somewhere up north, and do this without help?" Norman grunted a laugh. "You'll be wishing you had let me put my hands on you, Miss Reynolds."

"I suggest you do what she says," Stan told him. "And if you try to put a hand on her, you better be ready to lose it."

Norman looked like he wanted bluster his way out, but quailed under Stan's stare. He took his clipboard and left.

Stan turned and kissed me, deep and hard. "You were fantastic."

I laughed. "You weren't so bad yourself." I kissed him back.

"So," he said, keeping his arms around me, "you're going to take the settlement?"

"I am. Why not?" I grinned. "They're going to fire the assholes that tried to blame me, and the asshole that propositioned me, and it'll be on record. I can't really ask for more than that. The money will let me—us—finish the house, with some left over for a cushion."

"Let 'us' finish, huh?" Stan said.

"I can't do it without you." Sappy as it sounded, it was true. I decided to go for broke. "You've put as much of yourself into this house as I have, and I need you to finish it. And I love you. So there's that."

He looked surprised, which made me feel a little embarrassed. Then he grinned. "Damn, I think I lucked out. I got to tell off that S.O.B. from the society, I get to keep working on this house, and I got the girl."

"You've had me for a while," I admitted. "I just wasn't sure whether to say anything."

"How about I say I love you, too, and we kiss some more?"

I laughed. "Sounds like a plan."

"It does." He kissed me once more and I melted into it. He was warm and solid in all the right places; we fit together better than anyone I'd ever been with.

"You know, we make a good team," I said after we broke the kiss.

"Yes, we do," he agreed. "And I think this team will be together for a long time."