Mr. Wonderful Read Free

coming down that hill to rescue you.”
    “Sure you were.” I looked up at him and my heavy boot slid out of my hand and fell on his stockinged foot. He doubled up in pain.
    “I’m so sorry,” I said retrieving my boot.
     Leaning on my shoulder, he hobbled up to the deck. “I’m fine,” he assured me. As we waited for lunch, I massaged his foot and his ego, complimenting him on his form as he tore down the mountain.
    Then I told him about life in the slow lane at the college where I teach remedial English and I study beginning French.
    Big bowls of hearty chili arrived at our table smelling delicious.
    “Now it’s your turn to talk,” I said, digging into my food.
    “Thanks a lot,” he said, grinning. “I’m hungry too. But I get equal time after lunch. You’d better eat fast. I can feel all my muscles tightening up on me again.”
    “I’m just curious,” I said between bites, “how many other women have you wound around your finger and conned into giving you a foot massage?”
    “You’re the only one,” he said innocently.
    “How come?” I asked.
    “The others broke my heart, you’ve only broken my foot.”
    I shook my head and let him have the last word. We ate in comfortable silence. Afterwards we pushed our chairs back from the table, propped our feet up and took off our jackets to let the sun warm our aching bodies.
    Touching lightly, we shared an arm rest. His hand covered mine. I closed my eyes and felt sublimely happy, sore muscles and all.
    “It’s your turn,” I reminded him, “to tell me the story of your life.”
    “Not now.” His voice seemed to come from far away. “I can’t even remember where I was born.”
    “It’s probably the altitude. I’ve felt a little strange myself,” I confessed.
    “Weak in the knees and out of breath?” he asked.
    “You too?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Especially when I’m coming down a slope at fifty miles an hour.”
    I laughed. Suddenly, he let go of my hand. I sat up quickly and saw Phyllis and Roger coming toward us, giving each other I-told-you-so looks.
    “So here you are.” There was a note of triumph in my sister’s voice.
    “Just waiting for you,” Brandon said smoothly. “We thought you’d never get here.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Phyllis’s face fell. I was proud of Brandon for playing the game so well.
    “Roger,” I said, jumping up, “you should have seen me, I’m really learning to ski. At last. Finally.”
    “As long as you stay on the bunny slopes.” Brandon’s voice came from behind me.
    “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your boss ski,” I said loudly to Roger. “But maybe you heard him yelling ‘yahoo’ as he came crashing down the slopes.” When I turned around Brandon raised his hand to me in a touché gesture. Phyllis started biting her lip and hustled us into the car. At least the smug smile was gone from her face. I did feel a little guilty knowing how much she wanted to pull off this arranged match between Roger and me. I was sure in was in for a little sister talking-to when she got me by myself. But who knew how it would turn out? A nice weekend and that’s all, probably, with my luck. 
    When we got back, my sister prepared her beef bourguignon, and I made the salad dressing. While we were in the kitchen, she threw me a few penetrating looks, but she refrained from asking any questions. We talked about the food, that was all. We were all ravenous.
    After we’d mopped up the last of the sauce with our rolls, emptied the bottle of red wine and sat back, I said, “I’ll do the dishes. Any volunteers?” The silence was deafening: Phyllis looked at Roger, but he shook his head slightly. Brandon looked up at me inquiringly, and I stared back, silently willing him to offer. I didn’t care what they thought anymore.
    He got up slowly. “I’m even better at dishes than skiing,” he said, carrying a stack of plates into the kitchen.
    Brandon washed and I dried. There