"So what do you think about drywall?" Matt asked. "Is this intellectually stimulating, or what?"

Lizabeth smiled. Four hours of slathering white goop over nails was not intellectually stimulating, but it was just fine for her purposes. It gave her a lot of time to think about other things. Not the least of which was the flasher. Ridiculous as it seemed, she felt sorry for him. Undoubtedly, flashing was some form of aggression, just as rape was, and she had to always keep that in mind, she told herself. And this wasn't a random flashing. That made it all the more frightening. So why wasn't she afraid? Why did she feel like a crumb for turning the lights on him? And then there was Matt. Thinking about Matt had become a full-time job. She thought about him at night when she was alone in bed, and she thought about him first thing in the morning when she brushed her teeth. Lizabeth burst out laughing, because in a moment of insight she realized she was much more frightened of Matt than she was of the flasher.

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"I was thinking of the flasher," Lizabeth said. "And it occurred to me that I'm much more frightened of you than I am of him."

Matt stomped the lid down on the can of joint compound. "There's all kinds of fear," he said. "Some kinds of fear are much more fun than others."

It was true, Lizabeth thought. Matt was a ride down a white-water canyon. He could make her stomach drop with a sideways glance or a small, knowing smile. Danger had its up side, she decided. There was nothing like an occasional shot of adrenaline to spice up your life. Lizabeth, Lizabeth, Lizabeth, a small voice whispered, those are fairy thoughts. Better watch out, the voice continued; before you know it you'll be eating Swiss chocolates for breakfast and wearing silk underpants. Hah! Lizabeth answered. Fat chance, on her salary.

Matt reached out for her, but she slipped away. "So, why are you afraid of me?"

"First of all, there's sex. It makes me nervous."

"Everyone's a little nervous in the beginning." He grinned.

"No," Lizabeth said, "you don't understand. I mean really nervous. The truth is, I'm not especially good at it past a certain point." She rolled her eyes and groaned.

The grin widened. "Bet I could fix that."

Lizabeth didn't doubt it for a second. "Maybe we should continue this conversation some other time."

Matt looped an arm around her. "How about I take you home and check on the roof to make sure there are no leaks. Then I can say hello to the kids and investigate the contents of the oven to see if I want to stay for supper."

"You think you can get an invitation?"

"Elsie likes me. She growls a lot, but she's a sweet old broad."

Lizabeth giggled. "I'm going to tell her you said that."

"You wouldn't dare! Ill give you five dollars not to tell her."

They both stopped at the door and looked out at the rain. Boards had been laid, from the small cement front porch, across the quagmire that would one day be a lawn, to the curb where Matt's truck was parked. Matt walked across without thinking, as surefooted as a mountain goat, and Lizabeth tiptoed behind him, using her arms for balance, feeling like a high-wire act, wondering at what point in her life she'd lost her sense of daring and balance. When she got to the end of the board Matt was waiting for her with his hands on his hips. "Lizzy," he said, "you walk like a sissy."

"I know," Lizabeth wailed. "I'm not good at this."

"You lack confidence. You have to grab life by the throat. Be a fairy! Besides, what's the worst thing that could happen? You could fall off into the mud. It's not like it's life-threatening."

Rain was beginning to soak into the back of her shirt. "I'm getting wet!"

"Ignore it. Go back and walk on the board like a fairy."

Lizabeth swiped at the water that was dripping from her nose. "A fairy wouldn't walk. A fairy would fly."

"Fairies can't fly in the rain. It's not good for their wings."

"Get out of my way," Lizabeth said. "You don't know squat about fairies, and I don't want to walk on this dumb board anymore."

Matt flapped his arms and made chicken sounds.

Lizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. "Uh! Okay, okay. I'll do it."

"Now skip," Matt yelled when she was halfway back to the house. "Jump up and down. Let's see you run!"

Lizabeth giggled and jumped up and down. She was soaked through, and she felt ridiculous. "There," she said, "but I'm not going to run. The board is too slippery. Ill fall."

"I'll catch you."

He was crazy, she thought. And she loved him. And he was right. All she needed was confidence. "This is kinda fun," she yelled to him. "You look awful. You're all wet."

"I know," he yelled back. "You look great."

Lizabeth jumped onto the board with both feet and ran flat out into his arms. The momentum knocked them back into the truck, where they clung together, laughing. "You were wonderful," Matt said. "You had real style out there."

Lizabeth wriggled against him. "I know. I'm a class act."

Their eyes held and his mouth very deliberately settled on hers. It was warm and wet with the rain, and his hands possessively moved across her water-slicked back. In all her years of marriage to Paul, nothing had ever felt this intimate, this loving. If nothing more comes of this relationship, Lizabeth thought, at least I'll have had this afternoon. She couldn't imagine it getting any better. It was already perfect.

"I hate to put a damper on things," Matt said, "but you're breaking out in goose bumps. I think I should get you into some dry clothes."

Lizabeth swung into the truck cab and shook the rain from her hair. She waited until Matt settled behind the wheel before talking. "I suppose, since you're going home with me, and you're going to find out anyway… I suppose I should tell you the flasher stopped by last night."

Matt turned in her direction, one arm over the back of the bench seat. "He stopped by?"

"Yeah, you know, out in the yard, just like always."

"In the rain?" There was a note of disbelief in his voice.

"It was kind of sad. He was all wet. His tie was soaked, and his bag got soggy."

Matt pressed his lips together. "What about the lights?"

"We turned them on, and he ran away."

"Did you recognize him?"

She shook her head. "No. But I have a much better idea what he looks like. I got to see a lot more of him."

"Wonderful." He put the truck in gear, turned the heater on full blast to warm Lizabeth, and pulled out of the cul-de-sac. "The man is a fruitcake, Lizabeth. Normal people do not go flashing in the rain."

"Yes, but I think he's a harmless fruitcake. Where are we going? My house is in the opposite direction."

"We're going to my town house. We're going to get some of my clothes, and then we're going back to your place. This guy's flashing career is coming to an end."

"Just exactly what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to spend the night with you. I'm going to wait for the flasher to appear. Then I'm going to break every bone in his body."

"No! You can't do that. He's not a violent person. He's just a little misguided. I think you should talk to him."

"Talk to him?" Was she kidding? "Fine, if that's what you want, I'll talk to him. First I'll rip the bag off his head, then I'll grab him by his lousy tie, and then I'll talk to him. I'll tell him if he ever comes within a quarter of a mile of you, I'll break every bone in his body."

Lizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and slunk down in the seat. She made a disgusted sound with her tongue and stonily stared out the truck window.

"Now what?" Matt asked. "I agreed to talk to him. Now what's wrong?"

"Threatening to break every bone in his body isn't talking to him. It's macho garbage."

"Macho garbage?" His face creased into a broad grin.

"Unh!" Lizabeth rolled her eyes. "You know what you are? You're a… a carpenter!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Big shoulders, nifty butt, no brains. It means you have to prove your manhood with a display of muscle."

"You think I have a nifty butt?" He sounded pleased.

"Have you been listening?" Lizabeth shouted.

"Yup. The part about the no brains isn't true. I may not have a fancy education, but I'm not stupid. The rest of it I suppose is okay." He parked in a numbered space and pointed to a brick-front town house. "That's mine. Number twenty-two." The rain had slackened off to a fine drizzle. Matt went around the truck and opened the door for Lizabeth. "Come on. This is your big opportunity to see what sort of house a macho garbage man lives in."

"I'm sorry about the macho garbage part. I got carried away. Are you insulted?"

"No. You're probably right. Sometimes I definitely have macho garbage tendencies." He unlocked the front door and followed Lizabeth into the small foyer.

Lizabeth looked into an empty living room. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains. Just a motorcycle. "There's a motorcycle in your living room."

"I don't have a garage."

"Ah-hah," she said, trying to sound as if his explanation was perfectly ordinary and logical. But her mind was in total chaos. My lord, she thought, he owns a motorcycle. A big, black, shiny motorcycle. She'd never actually known anyone who owned a motorcycle, and she equated this sort of motorcycle with men who drank motor oil and robbed convenience stores. She was in love with a man who had a tattoo and owned a motorcycle! A man who wanted to beat up on an innocent flasher. Of course, he was also the man who set her on fire with his kisses and encouraged her to run and jump in the rain. A man who bought sticky buns for her dog and played soccer with her kids. She chewed on her lower lip and stared at him. "Do you belong to one of those gangs?"