Barbara Dunlop - Overheated

Nash gave a barrel laugh. “Grab a set of cutters. We’re going to strap three two-by-fours together and brace the frame.” He pointed. “Then you can start cutting out the dry rot.”

“Got it,” said Larry, happy to have the advice.

“Don’t you want to know how long?” asked Nash.

“How long what?”

“How long to make the straps?”

Larry gave Nash a look of disbelief. “It’s three two-by-fours. Are you seriously asking if I’ll have trouble with the math?”

“My mistake,” said Nash.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Larry. “I’m still getting over the fact that Fibonacci seemed to have no role in the development of standard building materials.”

“Maybe not. But the golden ratio is everywhere in architecture.”

“Not in this house,” said Larry. Damn shame, that. From the Parthenon to Notre Dame to the United Nations Building, the ratio of 1.618 had been used to provide beauty and balance.

Then, Larry had an idea. A fabulous, exciting idea. “At least, not yet,” he added.

Nash glanced around. “We’re going to rebuild your house using Fibonacci numbers?”

“Why not?” The more Larry thought about it, the more he liked it. It would help him engage in the project in a more meaningful way. He could work on the plans while he was back in Charlotte, making his time at Myrtle Pond more efficient.

“Sounds like fun,” said Nash. “But first, can we make sure the wall doesn’t fall down?”

TALKING WITH NASH TODAY about the golden ratio had Larry analyzing Crystal’s face across the candlelit table at Rouladen’s. He could easily see why she had been picked as a model. Beauty and balance. Her lips, her nose, her chin her forehead. He was willing to bet she was a collection of one-point-six-one-eights.

He smiled.

“What?” she asked, pausing, her wineglass poised in midair.

“I was thinking you have phi all over your face.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Math humor,” he confessed.

“You think my face is funny?”

“I think your face is perfect. Mathematically speaking. The ratio of your nose to your lips, and your eyes to your chin, your pupils to your eyelashes, and the spiral of your ears.”

“My ears?”

“Yes.” He let his gaze rest on her perfect ears.

“This is a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing. It means that not only me, but everybody in the world thinks you’re beautiful.”

She set down the glass of merlot, lips thinning, and a line forming between her eyebrows. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

It was his turn to squint in confusion.

“A mathematically perfect woman?” she asked.

“I’m not looking for anything,” he answered honestly. And he wasn’t. Crystal had breezed into his life that morning in the garage, and their connection was something he wanted to explore. But, beyond that, he had no expectations whatsoever.

“Maybe to give you mathematically perfect children?” she continued.

“Huh?” Larry had already raised his son. Grandchildren might be nice at some point, but they’d have nothing to do with mathematics-except that one and one sometimes made three.

“They talked about the golden ratio and perfect beauty, while I was modeling.”

“And you have it.” It was a simple fact.

“I don’t want it,” she responded sharply.

“If it helps, balanced facial features also tend to denote good health.”

“Lucky me.”

“Is there some reason you don’t want to be beautiful?” It hardly struck him as a severe handicap.

She gave a frustrated sigh. “It gets in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Of people, men in particular, having any interest in anything else.”

“We can talk about your IQ for a while. Or your cookbook. Or your niece and nephew. Or your dog. How is Rufus, anyway?”

She didn’t smile.

“Seriously,” said Larry. “How is he?”

She finally seemed to relax. “I think he’s still waiting for his owner to show up. But he was great last night. He woke me up when David was having a nightmare.”

Larry was assailed by memories of Steven as a little boy. His bad dreams were few and far between. But every once in a while, he’d show up in their bedroom, his scruffy, brown teddy bear dangling from one hand.

“Is David okay now?” Larry asked.

“He seemed fine this morning. But I’m a little worried…”

Larry waited, while Crystal focused on the tiny, yellow flame flickering between them. The soft sounds of a string quartet and muted conversation floated around the high-ceilinged room.

“I’m afraid the monster in his dreams might be Zane.”

Larry drew back. “Do you think Zane might harm the kids?”

“I asked Jennifer this morning, in an oblique sort of way. She said Zane yells a lot, but he doesn’t throw things and he’s never hurt David.”

“Do you believe her?”

Crystal nodded. “But he’s a loose cannon. He’s all sweetness and light when he wants something. But once he wrings Amber dry, he can get mean.”

“Did you talk to your sister about it?” Larry asked softly.

“She’s on the manic high of Zane being back in her life.”

“Anything I can do?”

Crystal shook her head. “I wish there was.”

Larry felt a strong urge to take the worry out of her eyes, even if it was only temporarily. “In that case,” he said, pulling his chair back and coming to his feet. “Would you like to dance?” He nodded to where a few other couples were swaying to the string quartet.

Crystal had worn her red dress, and she looked stunning. Even if she was shy of her beauty, Larry admitted he’d like nothing better than to hold her in his arms and be the envy of every man in the room.

She nodded and set her linen napkin on the table.

Larry moved forward to pull out her upholstered chair, watching with appreciation as she came to her feet.

“This music’s slower than I’m used to,” she told him, as he took her hand in his, leading her in a snaking pattern past a few occupied tables.

“Life’s an adventure,” he pointed out, taking her into his arms. She fit absolutely perfectly.

And she was a wonderful dancer, light on her feet, responsive, graceful. He caught the eyes of one gentleman watching from the sidelines, then another and another.

He couldn’t help but smile to himself and pull her that little bit closer, molding her curves to his body.

“You’re a great dancer,” she whispered.

“So are you.”

“I mean, really good,” she insisted. “I’m just following along.”

“Music is all math,” he told her. “It’s patterns and fractions, sound waves and Hertz frequencies. Ever wonder why C and G are consonant, while C and F sharp are discordant?”

“No,” she answered.

“Really?”

“Do you ever just listen?”

“To what?”

He felt more than heard her soft chuckle.

“Do you ever simply think a piece of music sounds nice, or a flower is pretty?”

“Would you like to know why flowers are pleasing to our eyes?”

“No,” she said again.

He drew back to look into her face. “You’re not curious?”

“The world is not simply a living, breathing mathematical equation.”

“Actually, it is.”

“Larry,” she warned.

“Your dress is beautiful,” he told her.

A grin grew on her face. “Full stop?”

He matched her teasing smile. “I could tell you mathematically why, but I won’t.”

They gazed at each other for a few moments, still swaying to the soft music. He felt his heart beat deepen, and prickles of desire pop out on his skin.

“Tell me why you want to kiss me,” she teased.

“There’s a theorem involving pheromones and evolutionary computing, first postulated by Smythe and Heinz in the 1990s. But it gets complicated.”

“You mean this can’t be explained by simple mathematics?”

“Simple?” he scoffed. “I’m sure if we brought in enough variables, I could eventually come up with an algorithm for our specific-”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

That was exactly what he should do. He should stop doing calculations, forget about the age difference, forget about everything but the magic he was feeling.

Larry stroked his palm over her impossibly soft cheek. He gazed into her jade green eyes, then stroked the pad of his thumb over her red lips.

He wanted this, wanted it so bad. But he forced himself to go slow, forced himself to keep it appropriate to the dance floor. Which proved more difficult than he’d imagined.

Her lips were sweet and soft, moist and tender. They parted ever so slightly, and his arm instantly tightened around her waist. She tipped her head, and he followed suit, fitting their mouths more firmly together.

His blood sang; the world blurred. It had been so long-so long since he’d held a woman in his arms, inhaled sweet perfume, tasted satin skin, felt soft curves pressed against his hard body.

The violin hit a high C, jolting him back to reality.

He forced himself to break the kiss, drawing back to the puff of her sigh.

“Sorry,” he whispered, taking up the dance again.

“I’m not,” she breathed back, falling into step.

Neither was he.

He wasn’t sorry he kissed her. He was only sorry he’d had to stop. And he was already wondering when he’d get a chance to do it again.

THE MEMORY OF THEIR KISS fresh in her mind, Crystal skipped up her apartment stairs in front of Larry. Rufus would be anxious to get out. But it could be a short walk. And then, as long as Larry was willing, and if there wasn’t any mathematical law against it, they could try that kiss all over again. This time, there wouldn’t be an audience, and there’d be no reason to cut it short.

“Crystal?”

She cringed at the sound of her mother’s voice, followed by the slamming of a car door at the far side of the parking lot. She stopped midway up the staircase, turning around.

“Hi, Mom. You working late?” It wasn’t unusual for her parents to be at the shop any hour of the day or night.

Larry followed Crystal’s lead, walking back down the stairs as Stella crossed the parking lot under the bright overhead lights.

“Have you been out?” asked Stella, a critical eye going to Larry where the nearest light pooled around him.

“Mom, this is Larry Grosso,” Crystal explained. “Dean Grosso’s brother. We met at the track this weekend.”

Stella’s expression and demeanor instantly changed.

“Larry, this is my mother, Stella Hayes.”

Stella eagerly held out her hand. “I believe we may have met a few years back. I know your brother, of course. And Kent is your nephew, then?”

Larry smiled and shook her hand. “He is.”

Stella glanced back and forth between the two. “Is there something I can help you with? Does one of the teams have a problem?”

Larry glanced to Crystal, obviously leaving the choice of an explanation to her. After a lightning fast debate inside her head, she decided to downplay the evening.

“Larry and I stopped for dinner,” she told her mother, trying to make it sound casual, thankful she had a light, neutral wrap covering her red dress. “He’s a mathematician.” Okay, where to go from there? “We were talking about my cookbook.” Not a complete lie, since the topic had come up at one point.

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “There’s math in your cookbook?”

“Anthropology,” said Crystal, her mind beginning to scramble.

Thankfully, Larry picked up the ball. “There’s a growing interest in abstract algebra,” he said. “In conjunction with probability and statistics, of course. And particularly with an emphasis on derivation of pattern in the study of interinformant reliability, general interaction theory and systemic cultural continuity.”

Stella blinked. “It’s a cookbook.”

“It’s much more than just a cookbook,” said Larry.

“There’s math in everything,” Crystal offered, and she could almost feel Larry’s triumphant grin next to her.

Then Rufus, obviously hearing their voices, barked to be let out.

The shock was obvious on Stella’s face. “Why do I hear a dog?” she demanded.

Crystal was momentarily speechless. She’d planned to tell her parents about Rufus, of course. Well, only if she didn’t hear from the police or the old man’s relatives soon. But she was hoping to find the right moment. She didn’t relish the idea of a lecture on the impracticality of pets when a person had a career to think about and didn’t even have a permanent address.

“His name’s Rufus,” said Larry. “I’m doing some home renovations, and Crystal offered to keep him for a little while.”

Crystal sent Larry a fleeting look of gratitude.

“Oh.” Stella’s expression mellowed.

Clearly, a Grosso dog was an entirely different matter.