Time and Again

slenderness and made a man imagine all the curves and angles beneath the material. He liked the way she'd pushed the sleeves of the bulky red sweater up past her elbows. She had very sensitive elbows, he recalled, and felt his stomach knot again.
    He wasn't going to think of her that way. He'd promised himself. "Hi."
    This time she was expecting him, and she didn't jump. "Hi. Sit down. You can eat before I check your bandage. I hope you like French toast." She turned, holding a plate heaped with it. When their eyes met, her fingers curled tight around the edges. She recognized the sweater, but it didn't remind her of her father when it was tugged over Cal's long, limber torso. "You didn't shave."
    "I forgot." He didn't want to admit he'd been afraid to try his skill at it. "It stopped raining."
    "I know. The sun's supposed to come out this afternoon." She set the platter down, then tried not to react when he leaned over her to sniff at the food.
    "Did you really make that?"
    "Breakfast is my best meal." She sat down, breathing a little sigh of relief when he took the seat across from her.
    "I could get used to this."
    "Eating?"
    He took his first bite and let his eyes close with a sigh of pure pleasure. "Eating like this."
    She watched him plow through the first stack. "How did you eat before?"
    "Packaged stuff, mostly." He'd seen ads for complete meals in packages in the newspaper. At least there was some hope for civilization.
    "I live like that myself most of the time. When I come here I get the urge to cook, stack wood, grow herbs. The kind of things we did when I was a kid." And though she'd come here for solitude, she'd discovered she enjoyed his company. He seemed safe this morning, despite her initial reaction to the way he looked in the black sweater and trim jeans. She could almost believe she'd imagined the tense and unexpected little scene by the fire the night before.
    "What do you do when you're not crashing planes?"
    "I fly." He'd already thought his answer through and had decided it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
    "Then you are in the service."
    "Not anymore." He picked up his coffee and smoothly changed the subject. "I don't know if I've really thanked you properly for everything you've done. I'd like to pay you back for all this, Libby. Do you need anything done around here?"
    "I don't think you're up to manual labor at this point."
    "If I stay in bed all day again I'll go crazy."
    She took a good look at his face, trying not to be distracted by the shape of his mouth. It was impossible to forget how close she'd come to feeling it on hers. "Your color's good. No dizziness?"
    "No."
    "You can help me wash the dishes."
    "Sure." He took his first good look at the kitchen. Like the bath, it distracted and fascinated him. The west wall was stone, with a little hearth cut into it. There was a hammered copper urn on the ledge stuffed with tall dried flowers and weeds. The wide window over the sink opened onto a view of mountains and pine. The sky was gray and clear of traffic. He identified the refrigerator and the stove, both a glossy white. The wide planked-wood floor shone with a polished luster. It felt cool and smooth under his bare feet.
    "Looking for something?"
    With a little shake of his head, he glanced back at her. "Sorry?"
    "The way you were staring out the window, it seemed you were expecting to see something that wasn't there."
    "Just, ah- taking in the view."
    Satisfied, she gestured toward his plate. "Are you finished?"
    "Yeah. This is a great room."
    "I've always liked it. Of course, it's a lot more convenient with the new range. You wouldn't believe the old museum piece we used to cook on."
    He couldn't keep from grinning. "I'm sure I wouldn't."
    "Why do I get the feeling there's a joke and it's two inches above my head?"
    "I couldn't say." After picking up his plate, he moved to the sink and began to open cupboards.
    "If you're looking for a dishwasher, you're out of luck." Libby stacked the rest of the breakfast dishes in the sink. "My parents would never bend their sixties values that far. No dishwasher, no microwave, no satellite dish." She plugged the sink, then reached in front of Caleb for the bottle of dish detergent. "You want to wash or dry?"
    "I'll dry."
    He watched, delighted, as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to scrub. Even the smell was nice, he thought, resisting the urge to bend down and sniff at the lemony bubbles.
    Libby rubbed