The office phone rang.
Adam held his paint-filled hands out, clearly deliberating.
Another ring.
“Do you mind hitting that speaker button?” he asked. She expected him to be irritated, but he wasn’t. He nodded toward the phone as it rang a third time. She hit the button. “Adam Fletcher,” he said before putting a finger to his lips to remind the children to be quiet. When he did, it put a smudge of red paint above his lip. Olivia giggled.
A man’s voice came over the speaker. “Hi, Adam. It’s Robert. I’ve got the numbers for you.”
Carrie ushered the children to the door. “I’ll be right back,” she mouthed to Adam. Then, she took the kids downstairs to the kitchen to get some more towels so Adam could clean his hands.
When they got there, Joyce was having a cup of coffee at the table next to Bruce who was reading the paper. “You are a brave woman,” she said as Carrie neared the table. Olivia went around the other side and crawled onto Bruce’s lap, rustling his paper. “I saw you and the children with Adam. I don’t think anyone’s ever pulled him away from his work before.”
Carrie scooted a chair out for David, and he sat down, his feet dangling above the ground. He was watching Carrie, and she wondered if he thought the same thing. At four, did he realize the moment he’d just had with his father, or did he think that they were intruding? “I just wanted him to do an art project with the kids. It didn’t take very long. I hope I didn’t bother him too much.”
“I think he needs to be bothered sometimes.”
“Do you mind if I go and clean up? The kids can go into the playroom if you’re busy.” She grabbed a few towels and ran them under the water, ringing them out.
“They’ll be fine here with us. Sharon’s just getting a shower, and they’ll be down in a few. Then maybe we can all play,” she smiled at the children.
“Thank you.”
Carrie walked back up to the office and had to hold back her grin as she saw Adam writing, the pen and paper smeared with red paint. He had a little more on his forehead, and he still had some on his top lip. Seeing him like that made her want to giggle, but at the same time, she loved the sight of it. He needed to loosen up, she felt, and that made it seem like he had. She imagined that grin of his, what it felt like when it was directed at her, but she quickly pushed the thought away when she heard him mention Andy’s name. Every time she heard it, it brought her crashing down to reality. She was willing to bet that they had conversations in which she’d never be able to participate because she didn’t know his business—the business that he loved so much. She could never compete with that.
Carrie walked over to the desk and held up a towel to gesture for him to wipe his hands. He set down the pen, still talking, and reached out for it. His hands were much bigger than hers; his fingers could wrap around her entire fist. He wiped to get the paint off the creases where his knuckles bent, and she thought about what those hands would feel like on her face or stroking down her arm. He looked over at her, making her knees wobbly.
The only sound in the room was the unfamiliar voice on the speakerphone and the pulse in her ears. She tried to get herself together. She was being silly again. She was so clearly not practiced with adult relationships that she found herself feeling like a schoolgirl around him. The problem was, even though she knew it was crazy, she loved the way it felt to be with him.
He spun around in his chair, away from his desk and her, talking about some sort of report Andy had prepared. Carrie looked at his smudged paper and the painted pen and smiled to herself. Then, she piled the art supplies into her hands and carried them out of the room.
As she walked down the hallway to the playroom to put the supplies away, she wondered what it would be like to know him better. She looked down at the extra rags and pondered again what it would feel like to have his fingers touch her. The more she allowed herself to think about these things, the more the sinking feeling returned. With a shake of her head, she went into the playroom and put the art project items away.
When she returned to the office to check that Adam had everything he needed to clean up, one of the wet rags he’d been using was in a heap on the floor by the desk. He looked up to greet her, the receiver now pressed against his ear, and she had to hide her smile. The red paint was still on his forehead and lip. She took a tissue from the box on his desk and motioned for him to wipe his forehead.
“You have paint on your forehead,” she mouthed. His brows creased, he looked down, wrote something else, and then looked back at her. She pointed to her head. “You have paint on your forehead,” she mouthed again, tapping her own head. He took the tissue and rubbed, but he kept missing, the red mark still on his forehead and lips. She couldn’t help it, a giggle escaped, and he scolded her with his eyes. It didn’t matter; she realized what she’d accomplished. He wasn’t angry, she could tell. He’d enjoyed being with the kids. She left the office and retrieved her mirror from her room. When she returned, she handed it to him.