“Your diagnosis was right on, Doc. I have a case of arrested development complicated by an overactive libido and a vivid imagination. I’m in a place I couldn’t have imagined with a woman I never knew existed. And you’re right, I don’t know the rules here. But you do. What do you recommend? Is there any hope for me? Is there a cure for what ails me?”
Her lips curved. A small dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It was a good thing he was sitting down because that smile robbed him of the strength he needed to stand up.
Expertly she stretched the dough into a large rectangle, spread it with butter, raisins and cinnamon and shaped it into individual rolls in a large pan. Then she covered it with a small dish towel. He watched, fascinated. She appeared to have forgotten his question. It was just as well. There was no good answer.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said.
“What, my making rolls? Come on. I guess you never watch the food channel or any cooking shows.”
“Hardly. I never watch anything at all. When I gethome from the hospital I fall asleep before I even get to my bedroom. On the couch, in a chair, wherever.”
She leaned back against the counter and met his gaze. “That kind of life can’t be good for you.”
“It won’t last forever, although…” Although his father’s life had always been work, work and more work ever since Matt could remember. Not that he didn’t enjoy it. He loved it. “What about that cure?” he reminded her.
“A cure for an overactive libido?” she said. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but wait for the symptoms to go away.”
“You read that in a book, didn’t you?” he asked. “Do you really think time will cure what ails me?” he asked. He hoped it would, but he’d never felt this way before. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to think he’d completely lost his head. He had a little pride left. Not much, but a little.
“I don’t know. Sometimes there are no cures. There are some things you just have to live with.”
“That’s not very hopeful,” he said.
She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the best I can do. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Tomorrow may look brighter for everyone, for Donny and the weather and you, too.”
“What about those cinnamon rolls?” he asked.
“They’ll rise overnight, then in the morning I’ll put them in the oven and they’ll be done in time for breakfast. I’m an early riser. I’ll be very quiet so as not to disturb you. Will you be all right on the couch?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”
They both knew her father’s room was unoccupied, but nobody said anything about his sleeping there. He knew he’d be much better off on the couch, even if his knees were permanently bent and the space was so narrow he might roll off from time to time. Anything was better than sleeping across the hall from her. He didn’t want to hear her tossing and turning. He didn’t want her to hear him pacing the floor.
He didn’t want to run into her in the hall. She’d be wearing a nightgown. But what kind? Something warm and practical, he supposed. Something large and flowing and buttoned up to the neck. Or something soft and clinging. He squeezed his eyes shut to block the mental image. It was no use. No matter how he warned himself not to go there, he couldn’t think of anything but her. His hands itched to touch that imaginary nightgown, to peel it off her.
He took a deep breath, vowed to take control of his hyperactive imagination and went back to the living room to put another log on the fire, then stood back to watch the flames. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight as long as he was anywhere in this house. How could he when his brain wouldn’t quit working overtime and every fiber of his body was alert. Force of habit, he told himself. Years of being on call, getting too little sleep and when he did sleep, it
Her lips curved. A small dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It was a good thing he was sitting down because that smile robbed him of the strength he needed to stand up.
Expertly she stretched the dough into a large rectangle, spread it with butter, raisins and cinnamon and shaped it into individual rolls in a large pan. Then she covered it with a small dish towel. He watched, fascinated. She appeared to have forgotten his question. It was just as well. There was no good answer.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said.
“What, my making rolls? Come on. I guess you never watch the food channel or any cooking shows.”
“Hardly. I never watch anything at all. When I gethome from the hospital I fall asleep before I even get to my bedroom. On the couch, in a chair, wherever.”
She leaned back against the counter and met his gaze. “That kind of life can’t be good for you.”
“It won’t last forever, although…” Although his father’s life had always been work, work and more work ever since Matt could remember. Not that he didn’t enjoy it. He loved it. “What about that cure?” he reminded her.
“A cure for an overactive libido?” she said. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but wait for the symptoms to go away.”
“You read that in a book, didn’t you?” he asked. “Do you really think time will cure what ails me?” he asked. He hoped it would, but he’d never felt this way before. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to think he’d completely lost his head. He had a little pride left. Not much, but a little.
“I don’t know. Sometimes there are no cures. There are some things you just have to live with.”
“That’s not very hopeful,” he said.
She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the best I can do. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Tomorrow may look brighter for everyone, for Donny and the weather and you, too.”
“What about those cinnamon rolls?” he asked.
“They’ll rise overnight, then in the morning I’ll put them in the oven and they’ll be done in time for breakfast. I’m an early riser. I’ll be very quiet so as not to disturb you. Will you be all right on the couch?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”
They both knew her father’s room was unoccupied, but nobody said anything about his sleeping there. He knew he’d be much better off on the couch, even if his knees were permanently bent and the space was so narrow he might roll off from time to time. Anything was better than sleeping across the hall from her. He didn’t want to hear her tossing and turning. He didn’t want her to hear him pacing the floor.
He didn’t want to run into her in the hall. She’d be wearing a nightgown. But what kind? Something warm and practical, he supposed. Something large and flowing and buttoned up to the neck. Or something soft and clinging. He squeezed his eyes shut to block the mental image. It was no use. No matter how he warned himself not to go there, he couldn’t think of anything but her. His hands itched to touch that imaginary nightgown, to peel it off her.
He took a deep breath, vowed to take control of his hyperactive imagination and went back to the living room to put another log on the fire, then stood back to watch the flames. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight as long as he was anywhere in this house. How could he when his brain wouldn’t quit working overtime and every fiber of his body was alert. Force of habit, he told himself. Years of being on call, getting too little sleep and when he did sleep, it
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