Amanda's Touch [D.A.R.E.ing Women] (Siren Publishing Allure) Read online

  “Ms. Hall, you’re the perfect fit for their restoration. I’m not sure I understand what the problem is…” his voice trailed off as he watched her run a shaky hand over her forehead as though to ease a headache.

  There was no way she could adequately explain to him how she’d come by the knowledge she’d gained that day. Not and deal with the vision she’d just had of the two them nakedly entwined. Wishful thinking on his part? On hers? Or a real vision of their future, she wondered? Her heart clenched and a heavy ache built there. No way! Not after losing David. There was simply no way…

  She waved a hand in the air distractedly, “Never mind. I’ll deal.” Turning on her heel she practically ran from Zachary’s office.

  * * * *

  Amanda released an exasperated sigh as she desperately twisted the key from side to side in the deadbolt lock of her front door. She wrestled with it impatiently, while firmly grasping the brass door handle and alternately pushing and pulling on the old oak door, trying to better align the locking mechanism. Like everything else in this old house, the deadbolt would need to be replaced or repaired, and soon.

  Finally! The lock gave way with a little snick and Amanda stumbled across the threshold, painfully ramming her left shoulder into the frame of the door while trying to juggle an armful of groceries. She swore as the sharp pain radiated through her shoulder and down her upper arm.

  “Ouch! Damn it! That’s going to leave a nice bruise,” she muttered to herself.

  Her lavender leather handbag slid off of her right shoulder, landing on the wrist she had brought down to support the weight of the groceries that her left arm held, and she grunted from the added strain, the nerve endings in her wrist complaining.

  Of course bruises were not uncommon to her. Graceful she was not. Her friends and family frequently joked about her clumsiness at her expense, often reminding her that her middle name certainly was not applicable to her, Amanda Grace Hall.

  What no one really understood was that she was frequently distracted by the sights and sounds of her own personal mental purgatory. This consisted of an overlapping space-time continuum which only added to her general level of klutziness. She sincerely wished she could explain to others how difficult it was to walk, talk, listen, and respond coherently with so much going on around her constantly. With the past, present, and future blurring together, it was no wonder she tripped, stumbled, dropped, or ran into people and inanimate objects several times on a daily basis.

  With great thankfulness that her day at work and her errands were done, she dropped, more than set down, the groceries and hung her dripping raincoat in the closet of the drafty front hall.

  She felt, and probably looked like, a drowned rat. She had forgotten her umbrella in her haste to leave the office and at this moment it sat in a desk drawer at work. Since there was a parking garage in the building where she worked, she hadn’t thought about the weather until she’d pulled out of the garage to find the rain alternating from blasts of cold drizzle to sheeting downpours.

  With her long chestnut hair dripping cold rainwater into her eyes and down her neck, she kicked off her soaked suede navy pumps leaving them on the mat at the front door. Reaching around to the back of her neck she dragged a tortoiseshell clip from her hair. She sighed in near ecstasy as she shook her head and the tangled sodden mass fell down her back, her scalp finally relaxing from the knot she’d twisted her hair into that morning.

  She took a moment to rub her sore shoulder. While rotating it to work out the remnants of the jarring pain she’d experienced upon her entry, she scowled, looking through the screen door at the nasty weather outside and longed for sunshine to help lift her dark and brooding mood of late. Not that fair weather would necessarily upgrade her mood, but it would certainly not make it any worse. She didn’t think she was asking for much, just one frigging sunny day! She groaned and slammed the door shut so she wouldn’t have to look at the torrent that poured from her porch roof.

  It had been raining for the past several days as passing systems of hot and cold air met and swirled around the Pittsburgh region, not quite moving on, just hovering over the tri-state area of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and West Virginia. She sure hoped it would clear soon. The Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio Rivers were rising and many of the surrounding areas were prone to flooding, the tip of Point State Park, the part containing the fountain, was already very nearly underwater. Fortunately, her home, atop Mt. Washington, was not one that was in jeopardy.

  From the vantage point of her wide and shady front porch, and the upstairs master bedroom balcony, the view was one she never tired of. She could see the joining of the three rivers at the Point, the Rivers Casino, Heinz Field, PNC Park, and downtown Pittsburgh. It almost felt like the world was at her doorstep. Whenever there was a celebration in town she, of course, got to watch the fireworks from a spectacular front row seat. With weather such as this, though, she had no desire to relax on the porch or balcony.

  Staring at the foodstuff she’d set down in the entryway she contemplated what to make for dinner. Chili sounded good, something hot and spicy to warm her insides, if only artificially. She’d accompany it with the leftover spinach salad from the night before, and perhaps indulge in a beer tonight as well. After the day she’d had, she deserved one! Perhaps she’d call her best friend, Diane, and ask her to come over for dinner, rather than eat alone as she normally did. She always felt better when they got to spend some time together.

  Suddenly realizing she was still standing in the foyer, woolgathering, Amanda grabbed the groceries and her purse from off the parquet floor, and headed down the long shotgun hall toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. The hall took her between the staircase to the second floor on her right, a large and comfortable living room decorated in rich earthy tones of camel, rust, and beige, and her formal dining room, both of which were on her left. Passing the small half bath, discreetly located under the stairs, she entered the recently modernized kitchen.

  After gratefully dumping her bags on the granite countertop, Amanda dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed her friend’s number. Waiting for Diane to pick up, she began running through a mental checklist and then gathering the ingredients necessary for her chili recipe.

  “Hey, lady!” a friendly voice answered in response to her caller ID.

  Amanda smiled warmly at her friend’s cheerful greeting. “Di! How are you? Are you busy for dinner? I know it’s kind of late to call you—”

  She was interrupted as Diane assured her the timing was perfect and she’d be happy to come over. Diane’s husband was out of town on a business trip so there was no one at home for her to worry about.

  “What can I bring?” she inquired. Upon being told just herself, she hung up with the promise to drive carefully in the foul weather and that she’d be over in about forty-five minutes.

  Relieved that she wouldn’t be alone on this particular Friday evening, especially following the day’s events, she began preparing the meal for herself and her friend. Carefully, touching only the newest kitchen implements she herself had purchased, she browned the meat, diced the peppers and onions, and mixed the chili sauce and seasonings. Once all the ingredients were ready she stirred it all into a large pot and set it to simmer. After a final check to ascertain her meal was in order she headed toward her room to change into her faded comfy jeans and a sweatshirt.

  Although only twenty-eight years old, she sometimes felt as decrepit as some of the historical homes she renovated and tonight she felt much older than her actual age. The weather was wreaking havoc on her joints, and she was sure her unending depression wasn’t helping a whole lot either. Ever since the accident she’d had problems with aches and pains when the weather changed or if she overdid it with exercise. She’d suffered from too many severe injuries. She had not walked away from them without permanent damage, both physically and psychologically.

  After grabbing her soggy shoes from the mat at the front door she slowly cli
mbed the carpeted stairs. Tripping over the top riser on the stairs, she grabbed for the banister and hooked around to her left, passing the upstairs bath located at the head of the stairs and the two neutrally decorated guest bedrooms which were located above the kitchen and formal dining room. Her master bedroom was at the end of the hall, in front of the house, and above the living room.

  Entering their bedroom, her bedroom, she mentally corrected herself, still gave her sense of heartache. God, how she missed him! Every day she felt his absence and longed for him to hold her again. Sometimes, she’d swear she could still hear his voice. Not that she would admit her apparent craziness to anyone, and not that she answered the voice she heard. Not often anyway.

  She missed their heated political debates, their married skirmishes, the day trips they used to take, the discussions of books they’d shared. She missed his friendship, his companionship, and the love they’d made. He’d been her soul mate, and she’d been so very lucky to have him.

  She shook her head, trying to eradicate her morbid musings. Wishing she could clear the ache in her heart, she blinked rapidly to chase the tears from her eyes. Amanda maintained a tight control over the tears. She didn’t allow herself to cry, not anymore. For a solid year now, she’d done a remarkably great job of locking the pain away inside. Again, she reminded herself that she was luckier than many people. At least she’d had him for a short while. Some people never found what she’d had.

  She was very good at hiding her depression in public. The mask she wore seldom slipped. At least, she didn’t think it did. She performed well on the job and was thankful that her clients and coworkers kept her focused on something other than David. But, once she was home it was a different story. It was incredibly difficult to shake it off at home, surrounded as she was by the memories. That was why she kept herself so busy, so that when she finally fell into bed at night she was exhausted enough to sleep, usually. Once the nightmares had passed, that was.

  Her friends and family couldn’t understand why she didn’t sell the house. It was a large Victorian structure, she had no children, and eighteen months ago she’d lost her husband in an automobile accident. This house had been their dream home. They’d put a lot of elbow grease, time, energy, and expense into its renovation. Her husband, David, had been killed when they’d been only about halfway through completion of their plans for the aging residence. She still felt a sense of duty, to David, to see to its complete restoration. Maybe once it was done she’d sell, or maybe not. An ache began in her chest at the thought of abandoning their home. This project had been her husband’s baby.

  After carelessly tossing her shoes into her walk-in closet, she hung up her gray suit jacket, unbuttoned her navy blue silk blouse, and slid it down her slender arms. Unzipping her skirt and stepping out of it she eased off the hose she hated to wear. She made a mental note to visit the dry cleaner the next day to drop off her work clothes. She had several outfits that needed some care. Another task to add to her to-do list, she thought grudgingly.

  Abruptly, her exhaustion caught up with her. Now clad in only a matching silvery-gray bra and lacey bikini cut panties, she sank down on the edge of the huge four-post bed and stared at the candid wedding photo of herself and David in the silver frame on her dresser.

  He had been in a black tuxedo, and she in an ivory vintage lace wedding gown. It had been taken five years ago, today. She could barely recognize herself in the photo, though her proudly smiling husband had not changed much in the three and half years between their marriage and his death.

  Now, he was forever frozen in this picture. His curly, longish blond hair had been tamed for once that day, and dark thick lashes framed his wide chocolate-brown eyes as he gazed adoringly down at his new wife from his height of six foot two inches to her much smaller stature of five-two. His face looked so excited at the thought of beginning their lives together. He held her tightly in his long arms while she reclined against him, her head tilted back against his shoulder. She smiled blissfully at him. Her long chestnut hair curled softly over her shoulders, and her deep green eyes reflected the joy of the day.

  She didn’t touch the photo frame tonight, for it was a family antique of David’s, and it held generations of memories. She didn’t have the energy left in her to block out the waves of impressions she’d receive if she picked it up.

  Her throat tightened and she felt the knot of misery she’d been fighting against all day rise up inside her once more. She’d only just adjusted to being called wife before being retitled a widow. This was a designation that didn’t conform with her still-youthful appearance. Grimacing, she thought, Hell, every so often I still get carded at a restaurant or bar. Not that she went out often anymore.

  She ruthlessly suppressed the fresh tears she could feel welling up in her eyes and ran the back of her hand over her cheek to catch an escaped crystal droplet, angry with herself that she’d allowed even one to break free.

  The wind gusted outside, blowing debris across her balcony and catching her attention. She watched the rain slam against, and then drizzle down, the window in rivulets and vowed to get hold of herself before her friend made an appearance.

  Diane would definitely understand. She had been the one to break the news to Amanda about her husband’s death. She’d had to be the bearer of bad news, the messenger who brought the end of Amanda’s happiness. Some people might think that that would have dissolved their friendship, or at least placed an added strain on it. That was not the case. Diane had been her support during the most horrible times of her life, and a participant during most of the happiest as well.

  They’d been friends for many years, beginning when they’d met as high school freshmen attending a private girls’ boarding academy in one of Pittsburgh’s upscale suburbs. They had roomed together on campus throughout their four years of school and until their graduation. Further, they had continued on as roommates in college, finding the thought of being separated intolerable.

  Theirs was truly a perfect friendship. They’d argued, laughed, and cried together over teenage hurts. What worked was their complete honesty with each other, and the strange feeling that each knew what the other was thinking and feeling. They were as close as two women could be and heavily relied on one another. It never occurred to either one of them to question why or how their relationship had developed, they were only grateful it had. Neither of them had any siblings, so Diane was as close to a sister as Amanda would ever come.

  Over the past year and a half she’d seen Amanda at her worst: unbelieving, broken and sobbing, then angry and bitter, and now most frequently depressed but accepting. Really though, she couldn’t take any more sympathy and understanding, not from anyone. So she’d need to gain some control before Di got there.

  She was tired of everyone tiptoeing around her feelings, trying to be helpful, being ever so watchful. Most everyone acted that way toward her now, as though she had the words fragile, handle with care stamped on her forehead. She just wanted everyone to treat her normally. People’s extended sympathy did not make living through the experience, getting through it, any easier. While their understanding was initially appreciated, now it seemed to only aid and abet her runaway melancholy.

  The only person who was an exception to this type of treatment of her was the new owner of the historical renovation firm she worked for. He had just a limited knowledge of her situation, and he was completely ignorant of her talents. She intended to keep it that way.

  Mr. Zachary Grayson had purchased Reynolds’ Renovations about ten months previously and renamed it after himself. He was focused on two things, profits and quality. He was polite, well-spoken, and firm in his vision of where the company should be headed. He treated everyone with respect, but typically maintained a safe social distance from his employees, humorously and tolerantly observing everyone with his deep-set dark blue eyes.

  He had kept a safe distance—until recently. For some unknown reason, unknown to her anyway, for the pas
t couple of months he had been making more and more frequent attempts to involve her in discussions both at work and at other get-togethers at their mutual friend’s home. Friendly overtures, nothing more. She didn’t feel pressured by him, or as though he wanted more from her than he should as her boss. It was hard to explain, precisely. It only seemed like he wanted to get to know her better, wanted to know what motivated her, she guessed.

  She had caught him watching her speculatively many times, but had no clue as to what his speculations were, and she made a great effort to avoid his company when possible. She didn’t avoid him due to how he treated her. She avoided him because of how he made her feel. It was as though her emotions had a mind of their own when she was near him. He made her feel distinctly uneasy although she didn’t know why… Hell, that wasn’t quite it, either.

  When she was near him her emotions sometimes seemed fuzzy or unclear. At other times her feelings would alter unexpectedly from one extreme to another, usually from dreadful to nearly sunny. She didn’t understand why they changed so drastically, only that when she was around him and feeling especially down that she’d suddenly find her darker emotions lightened.

  She never reacted as she expected herself to around him. Today’s events had proven that, she thought sardonically. Though to be honest, that was her fault, not his. He had tried to reach out to her today, just as he had on more than one occasion. She was the one to issue a rebuff. Just because he had denied her request didn’t mean that he was difficult or unfeeling, and she hadn’t exactly hung around to explain her dilemma. Not that she could explain it.