She thought about that at the top of the stairs while waiting for him. Ringo had wriggled to get down and Aaron was now helping him climb one laborious step at a time.
“If you’re so philosophical about relationships,” she asked, “why aren’t you in one?”
“Takes a lot of time and energy from business,” he said with a frankness she appreciated even as it horrified her. “And I haven’t found anyone who’d make me want to do that.”
“But…” She watched him supporting Ringo’s valiant struggles up the steps and found it paradoxical.
“Do you want your life to be just about business? I mean, I know you have an active social life, but if it’s all just superficial, is there any satisfaction in that? Any fulfillment?”
At the second step from the top he lifted Ringo by his hands and deposited him on the landing. Ringo giggled triumphantly.
“I get those from my work,” he insisted.
She looked up at him in disbelief. “But they’re not the same.
“Fulfillment from success tells you that you’re good at what you do. Personal fulfillment tells you that you have value whatever you do.”
“How do you know that?” he challenged with a grin. “You said you didn’t have a relationship.”
“I’ve observed others. Dave and Becky, for instance.”
He nodded a little grimly. “Yeah, well, Dave and Becky were pretty unique. And I’ll only believe you when you can tell me that from firsthand experience.”
“Susan!” A loud desperate scream came from the direction of John’s and Paul’s room.
Susan ran the short distance to find that someone had opened all the drawers in the highboy dresser, and it was tilting forward, threatening to fall onto the boys, who pushed hard against it.
She shot both hands out to help just as a toy dump truck on the top slid off and hit her in the head.
She struggled to maintain her balance while seeing stars.
“Got it.” Aaron pushed the top two drawers closed and held them while giving the dresser a solid shove that righted it again. John pushed the other drawers closed.
“Wow!” the boy said excitedly. “I didn’t know that would happen.”
“Hey!” Paul held up the truck. The scoop had snapped off. “Susan’s head broke your truck!”
“What did the truck do to you?” Aaron pulled her hand away from the top of her head and a trickle of blood fell onto her forehead and the skin in the V of her blouse.
“She’s bleedy!” George, reported the obvious.
All six of them crowded into the small bathroom while Aaron wet a washcloth and dabbed at the wound. “You have a cut about an inch long,” he said. “But it’s not very deep. I think all it needs is a little antiseptic.”
The boys crowded around Susan, who sat on the edge of the bathtub. She felt like a subject in an operating theater.
“Can you take your hair down?” Aaron asked, turning to the medicine cabinet. “Your hair’s pulled tight and covering part of the cut.”
Susan removed the pins that held her hair up and handed them to Paul, who put them on the counter.
Then Aaron was hovering over her again. He reapplied the washcloth, then put it aside and ran his fingers through the back of her hair, probably to move the strands that covered the cut.
But it had the most surprising effect on her.
It felt wonderful. As though it were happening in an elongated moment, she felt the palm of his hand brush the nape of her neck and the back of her scalp, then his finger burrowing into her hair and threading through it to the ends.
She felt the contact in every root. Sensation rippled over her scalp.
“Does that hurt?” Aaron asked.
“Just…a little,” she said breathlessly.
“Sorry. Here comes the antiseptic. Guys, turn around so you don’t inhale the spray.”
The boys dutifully turned around and Susan covered Ringo’s face with her hand.
“Hold your breath,” Aaron directed, shielding her eyes with his free hand.
He sprayed, the spot stung for moment, and then it was over.
But she retained the memory of his hand in her hair.
Chapter Two
Aaron helped John and Paul pack their clothes and toys, while Susan worked in the younger boys’ room. George was helping Susan, and Ringo was down for a nap.
Though Aaron handled denim and fleece, chambray, woolens, cotton and corduroy, he could still feel the silk of Susan’s hair on the back of his hand.
This is not good, he told himself.
He didn’t know why he’d done it, except that he’d wanted to touch her hair since the first moment he’d seen her in front of the church. The bump to the head had provided him with a good excuse.
He usually allowed himself to have what he wanted because, generally, he didn’t want much. He worked hard, gave himself wholeheartedly to his projects and had discovered early on that giving his employees whatever it took to make them comfortable and happy in their work was ultimately best for all of them.
He’d been terrified all the way over here that he’d hate Becky’s cousin and wouldn’t be willing to leave the boys in her care, despite the will.
But the situation was perfect for him. She was everything the mother of four boys should be. And he thought the fact that she could admit she was a little bit afraid of the future made her seem that much more sane and capable.
All he had to do was see to it that she had everything she and the boys needed materially, and she would do the rest.
This…tug toward her, this fascination with the children he was experiencing were just complex manifestations of grief and guilt.
They didn’t really need him, and he had a new product line coming out in four months. He had a lot of sleepless nights and working weekends ahead of him.
He reasoned with himself all afternoon and had himself convinced by dinnertime.
When he went downstairs with the just-awakened Ringo, he was surprised to find Susan in the kitchen making mashed potatoes. The boys watched television in the living room. Crumbled hamburger meat fried in a pan and smelled wonderful. A can of corn waited on the counter.
“You cook, too?” he asked in surprise.
“Nothing gourmet,” she replied “but yes, a little. Though seldom for myself. Why?”
“I thought maybe a woman who was into power tools wasn’t interested in cooking.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Cooking is just construction with food.” She dipped a spoon into the mashed potatoes and offered it to him. “Enough salt?”
He tasted. “Perfect.”
“It’s just shepherd’s pie, but the boys like it. I made it the night I got here.”
“I opened an account for you at a Princeton bank,” he said abruptly, stepping out of the way as she took an oblong pan from a bottom cabinet.
She put the pan on the counter and turned off the heat under the burners. “What? Why?”
He’d suspected he’d be in for objections. “It gave me something to do in San Francisco while I was waiting for the fog to lift. I took care of it