Free Mermaid by Judy Griffith Gill Page A

previous Saturday when she had expected—no, had yearned for—a note from him. Even while she knew she should turn, say good-night, and go inside, she said, “I was going scramble some eggs myself. Would you like to join me?”
    His wide grin was her reward as he took her land and walked with her on tiptoe up the creaking steps to the even creakier porch. In the kitchen they whispered and laughed like giddy children as she made coffee, scrambled eggs, and buttered toast. Then, with their midnight feast piled on a tray, they went downstairs into a finished basement, “my cave” as Jillian referred to it. The room was straight out of a movie set depicting the 1960s, complete with fake wood paneling on the lower two-thirds of the walls, cork on the upper third, and vinyl furniture under a low ceiling with acoustic tiling between darkened beams. Indirect lighting gave off a soft glow.
    Mark laughed as he set the tray down on the table beside the coffeepot Jillian had put there. He laughed in delight. “I love this room! It makes me feel like boy in high school again, visiting a girlfriend and sneaking around hoping her father won’t come down and order me out because it’s past his daughter’s bedtime.”
    Jillian put a tape in the cassette player, keeping the volume low so as not to disturb her mother and Amber, who were asleep upstairs. She smiled as she passed him a plate of eggs and toast and poured the coffee.
    “Did you do a lot of that as a teenager?”
    “What? Keep girls up past their bedtime?” He grinned, creases bracketing his mouth, fanning out from his eyes. “I guess I did my share of it. What about you? Did you ever have to have your boyfriend kicked out because it was too late?”
    “Oh, frequently, at least until my dad came home one night when I thought he was already in and caught me on the living room sofa with a boy he didn’t like. After that, I was a lot more careful, and besides, soon after I went away to college.”
    She didn’t add that her father had died of a massive and unexpected heart attack that same year. Seated side by side on the couch, they ate until their plates were empty.
    Sensing Mark’s gaze on her, Jillian looked at him, trying to read what was in his eyes. Whatever it was, it spoke to something vital far down inside her soul, and it was asking questions for which she didn’t think she had any answers.
    When his hand reached out, large and capable, to cover hers, she turned hers under it and clasped her fingers around his. She turned his hand over and traced the hard calluses there with one fingertip.
    “What do you do to get these?” she asked.
    His glance flicked over her face almost shyly. “I build trucks.”
    “Really? What kind of trucks?”
    “Logging trucks,” he said.
    “You own the company that builds them? You don’t do it yourself, personally, do you?” she asked, thinking again of his “weekend cottage” and wondering what kind of house he had in the city. Mark Forsythe was no factory employee.
    “Me, personally,” he assured her, smiling. “I even provide the logs. I build fire trucks, too, with ladders and hoses and firemen, and pickup trucks with campers on the back, or canoes or dirt bikes. I build moving vans with loads of assorted furniture in them, and houses to put the furniture into once it’s delivered. Right now I’m working with a designer toward moving out into the world of boats. Ever heard of Elfshop Toys?”
    “Elfshop Toys!” Of course she had heard of them. Everyone had. “You make those? Why, they’re wonderful!”
    “Do you think so?” He looked at her as if he thought she was wonderful, and the world slipped into slow gear for several minutes while she wondered again whether he was going to lean forward kiss her.
    He didn’t.
    She swallowed hard and said, “I really think so. I bought Amber one of the logging trucks for Christmas last year. She loves to spill the logs off and then scramble around finding them,