Rebuilding Faith Ch. 03

"And, Bev and Pete are gone now," Bill added.

"I don't want to talk about it." She stabbed a carrot. "They've won. I'm leaving."

The way she angrily chewed her food, Faith didn't look ready to quit.

Bill pulled out his wallet, removed a picture of his daughter, and slid it across the table. "This is Lisa, my daughter."

Faith glanced down at the picture and stopped chewing. Lisa was a lovely young woman, with soft curls, light brown eyes and caramel skin. Picking it up, she studied the photo, then looked questioningly at Bill.

"Her mother, Jennifer, was bi-racial." Finally, Bill was finally able to talk about it without emotion. "Jennifer's parents were artists who immigrated from South Africa, looking for a more tolerant culture. I met her in college. She was studying art and I was going to be an architect." Picking up his glass, he soothed his suddenly dry throat. "We married in our junior year. When my father died unexpectedly, I quit school to keep the family business going." Looking into the fireplace, he continued, "Jen and I just grew apart over the years. Mostly my fault for not being home much. She married an art professor a year after the divorce was final. She's happy now."

When he heard Faith say, "I've had enough to eat. How 'bout you?" he realized he'd been staring dismally into the fire far too long.

"Yeah, I've had enough. Thanks, it was delicious."

They cleared away the dishes in cozy companionship, smiling at each other in passing trips between the table and the kitchen. Bill brought in the last plate.

Faith handed him an open longneck beer. "Here, I'm going to start the dishwasher. Go relax in the living room."

Taking a swig, Bill stood in the doorway and watched her, until she gave him the "shoo" hand wave. He went to the living room, poked the fire, and sat on the rug. Hershey came over for some affection.

A few minutes later, the swishing sound of the dishwasher was silenced, as Faith closed the kitchen door behind her. She sat down on the couch, put her feet up on the coffee table and took a hit from her beer.

"Hershey has certainly taken to you."

The question, 'What about her owner?' popped into his head. "She's a sweet dog," he said, getting up to sit on the other end of the couch.

The conversation rolled along, from personal history to current events, until the mantel clock struck 10:00.

"You must be tired, Holder," said Faith, searching his face for evidence.

"I'm not really. I had a nap," he smiled, and then asked, "Are you?"

"Nope." She stood up. "Let me take Hershey out and put her to bed."

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Use the one at the top of the stairs."

The oak stairs squeaked under his weight. Sliding his hand along the banister, Bill stopped to appreciate the view into the living room. The country furnishings Faith decorated the old house with created a warm atmosphere. At the top of the stairs, he couldn't resist a peek inside her bedroom. A thick, blue quilt, adorned with a pink and white star pattern covered the four-poster bed. There was a rocking chair by the window and a plethora of photos and knick-knacks atop the Early American dresser.

Back in the living room, he waited only a few minutes, before Faith returned alone. "Hershey sleeps in the kitchen."

She grimaced, put her hands on her lower back and stretched sideways. "I think I strained something." She rubbed, and said, "I know what would make it feel better."

From the front closet, Faith pulled out an exercise mat, placed it in front of the fire, covered it with a blanket and lay on her stomach. "Holder, would you rub my back for me, please?"

The request surprised him and felt inappropriate. It wasn't that he didn't want to. The problem was that he wanted to very much. This situation might be hard to control.

"Of course," he said, and knelt beside her hip.

As he began massaging her lower back through the thick sweater, she turned her head to face his side. "Mmmm, that feels good." She smiled and closed her eyes.

Emboldened, Bill slid his hands underneath.

"Hold it, Holder."

"I'm sorry. I just thought it would feel better if--"

"Hush." Faith sat up, turned her back, pulled off the sweater and lay down again. "It will feel better. Go ahead. I'm ready."

Tenderly, he applied his hands, changing the rhythm, pressure and direction to keep the sensation fresh on her warm body. Fingering up her spine caused an outbreak of goose bumps and a shiver vibrated through her.

Another, "Mmmm," flowed from her grinning lips, while Bill fought a losing battle with arousal.

'She's testing me,' he thought, wanting to pass, wanting her to trust him implicitly and intimately. His hands traveled up one side then the other. She stretched her arms overhead, catlike, tightening the skin over her ribcage.

"Faith, are you eating enough?" he asked, making soft, probing touches along the parallel ridges.

No answer.

When his fingers worked under the bra's elastic, she said, "If it's in your way go ahead and unhook it."

So he did. "Lift up."

When she complied, Bill pulled the fabric up and off her arms.

"You have great hands, Holder. I have a thing for manual dexterity."

"Really? And to think I'm so out of practice."

Placing both hands along the edge of her left side just under her arm, he alternated compressions and light pulls, moving down to the hip, knowing this movement involved the breast and caused the nipple to rub against the blanket. When she wriggled pleasantly it excited him. His hands moved to the other side.

For no apparent reason, Faith asked, "Your family business has something to do with construction doesn't it?"

"Yes," he said, beginning to rub her neck and shoulders.

"From the way you spoke to Butch, I knew you were involved in the trade somehow." She sighed contentedly, and said, "Give me a working man any day."

"Why's that?"

Curling her arms under her head, she rested her cheek on her forearms, and continued, "When I was a senior in college, I used to walk into Greenwich Village occasionally for lunch. I always wore a baggy sweatshirt, to avoid attention from a construction site I had to walk past."

Faith's eyes opened and Bill realized she was staring at the taut outline between his legs.

She continued, "It didn't seem to help much. I still got my share of whistles and innuendos. They began calling me by the letters on my shirt, NYU. 'How's it going NYU?' 'Lookin' good honey,' it really bugged me for a while."

She closed her eyes again, seeming to visualize the past.

"Then something happened that changed my opinion of tradesmen forever. It happened on a Thursday. As I neared the construction site, there was a terrible car accident. Someone had run a red light and hit another car broadside. I stood by and watched these guys I thought were pigs, pour out from the building, carrying fire extinguishers, first aid kits, pry bars, ropes and sledgehammers. The car that was hit had a woman and infant inside. The mother became hysterical. A group of the men forced open the passenger door and an older, foreman type, slid in and talked softly to her, like she was his daughter. He said something to the men by the car and they all looked at me.

Someone yelled "NYU, get over here." So I did.

The woman's legs were trapped. She couldn't get out. But she insisted that her infant be removed. After ripping the back door open, they gently lifted out the child seat, and handed it to me, saying, "Stand over there, where the mother can see you." So I did. The woman calmed down. She rested her head on the seat and kept an eye on me and the baby."

Faith's shoulders tightened under his fingers as she relived some of the emotional trauma.

"The first officer on the scene was a rookie cop, and my future husband, Lou." A tear dripped from her eye and she finished with a prayer, "Please Lord, if I'm ever in trouble, make it near men like that."

Bill said, "Amen," and continued massaging through a prolonged silence, until Faith fell asleep. He continued touching her, mostly for his own pleasure.

The logs in the fireplace were reduced to glowing embers by the time Faith spoke again. "Bill?"

"Yes?"

"I think it's time for bed."

Looking at the clock, he said, "You were ready for bed thirty minutes ago."

"Mmm, I feel so relaxed... thanks to you."

Faith began to move. Bill sat back on his heels and looked away, not wanting to embarrass her as she dressed.

When she touched his arm, he turned and found her still semi-nude.

Faith's eyes were heavy lidded, as she leaned in to kiss his lips softly and then picked up her sweater.

Bill watched, unblinking.

She stood and held out her hand to him.

When he was on his feet, she hugged him and asked, "May I impose on your kindness a little longer, and ask a huge favor?"

"Well, as long as it's legal, I'll consider it," he said, smiling down at her upturned face.

"Oh, it's legal. It's just a little immoral. Would you sleep with me?" and then added in a rush to prevent any misunderstanding, "I mean just sleep. No sex." Her eyes searched his face for an answer before he spoke.

Bill kissed her forehead and said, "I can do that." Taking her hand, he led her upstairs.

After his turn in the bathroom, Bill returned to Faith's bedroom. All the lights were off except for the dim table lamp beside the bed. When he entered, she was seated on the edge of the mattress with her hair loose and flowing.

"Would you help me turn down the covers?"

They worked together, in an atmosphere charged with sensuality. Bill copied her movements, as they folded back the quilt to the foot of the bed. Next they folded back the blanket and sheet halfway. Faith handed him a pillow and Bill waited for a word or sign of what was next.

Facing him from the other side, without pretense, Faith pulled the sweater over her head and threw it on the rocking chair.

Obviously, this was not a time for modesty, so Bill let his eyes wander. The strength of her shoulders, unnoticed early, was evident in the pronounced ridge sloping gracefully from her neck to her arms. The clavicles created a shadowy line, sloping up to meet them. In the sensitive depression between bone and muscle at the base of her neck, Bill witnessed her pulse, fluttering under the skin, revealing an excitement her serene expression concealed. The desire to place his lips against that spot, and feel her heart rate increase, was powerful.

The red welts were gone and her breasts, well proportioned despite her thinness, flowed out from her chest as twin peaks of unblemished ivory, capped by erect nipples. A few faint stretch marks lined her flat stomach.

Her small hands trembled, as they unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans, and then pushed down the open waist, exposing white panties and creamy thighs. Her tan ended at the neck and wrists, evidence that work was performed in the sun, not play.

Bill was awakened from his trance, when Faith said, "Your turn, Holder."

While obliquely enjoying the spectacle before him, Bill disrobed down to his jockey shorts. He felt a twinge of embarrassment about the erection. "Faith, you're a beautiful woman," he said, in explanation.

Her eyes focused on his briefs, before trailing up to his face. "And you're a handsome man, Holder."

With that said, she scooted under the covers and turned off the light, leaving him standing in the dark, mystified.

"Holder, what are you doing?" said her voice from the blackness. "Just because you're hung like a horse doesn't mean you have to sleep standing up does it? Get in here and hold me."