The Making Of A Gigolo 4 Prudence HarrisChapter 3
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The Making Of A Gigolo (4) - Prudence HarrisChapter 2 free porn video
Bobby told her that the paint would have to dry before they could assemble everything into the door opening and suggested that, if she had anything else to do, that would be a good time to do it.
She decided on getting lunch started, and began peeling potatoes. While she did so, her mind whirled. She had never thought about things like Bobby had laid them out. Being honest with herself she admitted that, back then, she’d known, or at least hoped she was good looking. Harry had swept her off her feet when she was in her last year of school, and was finally allowed to date. He’d been her only real boyfriend, all things considered. Now that she thought about it, other boys had tried to get her attention, but she’d ignored them. She had Harry, and he was all she needed. Then they’d gotten married, and she’d been so happy she was sure nothing could be better. The birth of Constance had disabused her of that notion, and, again, she was quite sure that nothing could make her life better.
They hadn’t gone to parties. They’d been invited lots of times, but Harry had never wanted to go, so they stayed at home. She hadn’t thought anything of it ... until Bobby had said what he’d said. Her mind whirled harder at the thought that men might have wished they were in Harry’s place. She’d never seen that, but if Bobby could see it ... Harry could too. She felt the pang of his loss again. If only he’d said something to her. She was sure she could have convinced him she wanted no other man. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed silent, keeping her away from other men ... men he saw as opponents for her affections. He’d been so wrong! She remembered the shock as he yelled at her, calling her a slut. She’d done nothing to earn that name - nothing!
For the first time in her life, Prudence began to examine the events of that fateful night from a different perspective. Bobby was right. Relatives were supposed to be hugged. And that’s all she’d done. She’d hugged her brother-in-law, and only because he’d made her laugh. Harry had seen something that just wasn’t there. Then she had turned that hug into something that it wasn’t, because she believed that hug had killed her husband. Now that she was able to look at it from a different direction, the knot of hurt and self loathing began to loosen inside her. She’d felt guilty for fifteen years. She’d remained in mourning for fifteen years. And, now that she thought about it, her own guilt had bled over to Constance. Her own daughter was so unnerved by a simple compliment that she couldn’t face the man who had paid it.
She called Constance into the kitchen to help her. Her daughter walked in, her eyes down, like they usually were. Something tore at Prudence’s gut. Constance was pretty ... or could be ... if she’d do something with her hair. They couldn’t afford braces, but she was still a beautiful young woman. It wasn’t fair that she was so subdued and lifeless, all because her mother was subdued and lifeless.
“He’s right, you know,” she said, suddenly.
Constance looked up, a question in her eyes.
“Bobby,” said Prudence. “He said you were pretty, like his sister. He’s right.”
“No he’s not, Mamma,” whispered Constance.
Prudence reached for her daughter’s chin, and forced the girl to face her.
“Yes, he is,” said Prudence, heavily. “I want to show you something.”
She got the book that she had brought in with her and put on the side board. She opened it to the photo she had shown Bobby, and then showed it to her daughter.
“That’s me, on our wedding day,” she said. She had never showed these pictures to her daughter. They had been hidden away in the back of a closet for fifteen years.
“You were beautiful, Mamma,” gasped Constance.
“You look just like I did in that photograph,” said Prudence.
“No I don’t!” said Constance, staring at the picture.
“You could,” said Prudence, admitting that, at present, Constance didn’t look quite like that. “If we did your hair, and you put on a little makeup ... you’d be the spitting image of that picture.”
“My teeth,” moaned Constance.
“You have two crooked teeth,” agreed her mother. “The fact is that that young man out there thinks you’re pretty, crooked teeth or not, and there are lots of other young men around who will agree with him. I should have told you that years ago, but all I could think about was myself. Well, that’s going to change. We’re going to work on being a lot happier around here!”
“I’m happy, Mamma,” said the girl.
“Thank you, darling,” said her mother. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better. You’ve always tried to make me feel better, but I wouldn’t let you. That’s going to change too. We can’t change the past, but that’s no reason to be sad forever. Now, let’s get lunch ready. I’m going to invite him to eat with us.”
“Ohhhh Mamma,” moaned the girl, darting a look at the open back doorway. “I feel so nervous around him.”
“He’s just a man,” said Prudence. “A man who thinks you’re pretty. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, he thinks I’m pretty too!”
“He said that?” Constance’s voice rose an octave.
“He did, indeed!” said her mother, almost smiling.
“You are pretty, Mamma,” said Constance, her eyes round.
“Thank you,” said Prudence, squaring her shoulders. “Now, what shall we feed a man who thinks we’re both pretty?”
Once preparations for lunch were under way, Prudence returned to see if the paint had dried enough that they could continue. Flies were coming in the open doorway, and that made her unhappy. She wasn’t worried about lunch. The two women who lived in this house, for lack of anything else to do, cooked a lot. Constance was at least as good a cook as Prudence was, if not better in some ways.
“How are things?” she asked, seeing Bobby handling one of the boards she had painted.
“We can probably start, but our hands will get a little painted up,” said Bobby. “Once it’s installed, we’ll give it another coat or two.”
“Fine,” said Prudence. “I can live with paint on my hands. Flies are coming into my house.”
“Well, we don’t want that!” said Bobby, laughing. “Can you pound a nail?”
“I have no idea,” said Prudence, feeling suddenly lighter on her feet than she had in years. “I’ve never tried.”
“Well, then,” said the man. “You hold, and I’ll pound.”
Prudence thought he was taking forever, as he had her hold a board up, and then made what seemed like a dozen measurements, before pounding a nail through it. He didn’t pound the nail completely in, and when she asked about that, he explained that there would have to be tiny adjustments made, to make the door fit the frame perfectly. She didn’t understand until the whole frame was in, and he took a dozen more measurements, of both the new frame, and the door, which was still leaning up against the wall. He got slim wedges of wood from his tool bag and started pounding them inbetween the new frame and the old hole, taking more measurements, until he was finally satisfied. Then he pounded all the nails home, with the exception of one.
He handed her the hammer. “That one is for you,” he said.
She was elated when she hit the head of the nail on the very first swing. Then she was deflated, as she missed twice. He took her hand in his, and helped her hit it properly. In the days and even months afterward, she would think about that a lot, because she had no recollection of that nail going into the wood.
All she could remember was the feel of his hand, holding hers, and his strong, young body, pressed to her back, as he helped her.
Then there was a delay as he took a wood chisel, and cut into the wood of the door and jamb for the hinges to sink into. She held the door steady, as he put in the screws, and watched as he installed the door knob from the old door.
“Ready?” he asked, looking a little nervous. He was obviously about to try closing the door.
“You’ve tried it a dozen times,” she chided him. “It fits perfectly. You know it does.”
“That was without the latch,” he said. “You never know.”
“I know,” she said. She pushed the door out of his hand, and it closed with a thump.
“Perfect!” said Prudence, feeling inordinately proud that she had helped do this thing.
“You’re a pretty good woodworker,” said Bobby, grinning at the woman.
“You did it!” she blurted. “All I did was paint.”
“You were my inspiration,” he said, bowing from the waist.
“You’re flirting with me,” she said.
He looked up at her.
“I reckon I am, at that,” he said softly.
“You’ll stay for lunch?” she asked, feeling much younger than she was. She hadn’t had this feeling in her body ... the hope that he’d say yes ... for as long as she could remember.
“I’d be honored,” he said, standing back up.
“We’d be honored to have you,” she said, feeling silly for curtsying in sweat pants. “Come on. I’ll show you where to wash up.”
She felt peculiar about taking him to the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom, so she took him to the one in the hall that Constance used. She saw right away that there were no fresh towels, and turned to go get them from the linen closet. She was only gone for a minute or less, and didn’t think anything of walking back in with the towels.
Bobby had stripped his shirt off, and was bent over washing his face and hair, trying to get the sweat out of it, and making sure he didn’t have any paint spatters on his face. He stood up just as Prudence re-entered the room.
He turned to her and saw the towel in her hand.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling.
He was completely comfortable, standing in front of her. That was obvious to her. What was also obvious to her was that it had been a very long time indeed, since she had seen a man’s bare chest, drops of water falling over muscles that bulged in a way that made her stomach do flip flops.
He reached for the towel and put it over his head, rubbing industriously. Prudence stood, frozen, watching those muscles ripple across his chest.
“I won’t be a minute,” came his muffled voice, from under the towel.
Her eyes went to his stomach, which seemed to have been broken into six distinct squares of muscle, with lines between them. His jeans hung low on his hips ... low enough that she should see underwear ... if he was wearing it. Three or four tiny wisps of black hair were poking out of the waistband of his jeans, just where the button was. Prudence backed up a step, as her eyes dipped lower, to fix on the bulge, behind his zipper.
She closed her eyes in shame when she realized what she was doing, and backed up another step as he brought the towel down across his chest, and under each arm.
“That’s better,” he announced, shaking his head. He reached into a back pocket and produced a comb, dragging it through his black locks. Then he shrugged into his shirt again, buttoning it as he stepped toward a still immobile Prudence.
“You’ve got a spot of paint right ... there,” he said, reaching to her neck. She leaned backwards as she felt his fingernail scrape across her skin, and then he brushed past her, and it was over. She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out in a whoosh. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him walking toward the kitchen, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
On weak knees, she moved to look in the mirror. She could see the spot of paint he had scraped off, hanging loosely from her skin, and reached up with numb fingers to pick it off. She stared into the mirror, looking for the smiling woman in the picture she had showed Bobby and Constance. She looked at the tight, pale skin of her face and neck ... the bun wound up tightly on top of her head. She hadn’t cut her hair since Harry died and, when she let it down, it reached to her buttocks. No one saw it down, not even Constance. It had been that long when she’d married, and she’d cut it only after having a baby, when it was too much trouble to deal with.
Her eyes dropped to her sweat suit. It was a mess too, with paint smears on both pieces. She backed up, and looked at herself in the mirror. That paint was a badge of honor, she decided. She’d done man’s work, helping install a new door! She could be proud of those smears. She took the time to mourn for her lost youth, staring at herself just a little longer, and then washed her hands quickly. She couldn’t get all the paint off of them, but she didn’t care. The man who had said she was pretty ... who had touched her, and hadn’t drawn back, disgusted ... the man who had been comfortable baring his chest to her, as if they were equals ... that man had said things that made her feel much better about things.
He was staying for lunch.
She hurried to the kitchen.
Prudence had no silly dreams about Bobby falling in love with her. She had no dreams about love at all. She just felt better. And, because she felt better, she wanted to be around the man who had helped her feel better. When she breezed into the kitchen Constance was flushing bright red, and her eyes were everywhere in the room except on Bobby, who, apparently, was trying to talk to her.
“Did you cook all this?” he asked, his voice full of appreciation. There was fried chicken, and biscuits, and a bowl of snap beans from the garden. She’d boiled potatoes and mashed them, using the drippings from the chicken pan to make gravy. She’d cut up a cantaloupe, and had made coleslaw too.
“Yes,” she said, shyly, fiddling with her apron strings.
“I haven’t seen a spread like this since the 4th of July!” sighed Bobby, sitting down.
“Mamma taught me to cook,” said Constance, her voice strained as she tried to make conversation.
“Beautiful, and can cook too,” said Bobby. “I wish I was three or four years younger!” he said, grinning.
“Ohhhhh,” moaned Constance, twisting at the apron strings until they came undone.
“It looks wonderful,” said Prudence. “I’m proud of you, darling.”
“It’s just lunch,” said the girl, smiling.
Bobby saw the teeth she was so worried about. Each of her two front teeth dipped inward, where they touched each other, making a shallow vee between them. It was noticeable, but it wasn’t ugly.
“Well, if this is just lunch, I can tell you right now, I’m going to have to check that door at least a dozen times, to make sure the fit is right. I’ll have to come over around noon time to do that.” He grinned again.
“Well, eat then!” said Prudence, as she sat down.
“Can’t,” said Bobby, sitting calmly. “You and Constance aren’t ready yet.”
“You needn’t wait for us,” said Prudence.
“My Mamma would tan my hide if she found out I ate before everybody else was seated,” he said. “Smells good, though, so please hurry.”
They settled in and Bobby laid his hands, palms up on the table at each side of him. Prudence stared at him and he actually blushed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Habit. We hold hands for grace at our house.”
Prudence felt a stab of guilt. She hadn’t said grace for years ... hadn’t been grateful for much during that time.
“That sounds like a wonderful tradition,” she said, reaching her own hands out. Constance stared at her mother, who lifted her hand insistently, until the girl reached to grasp it. As that happened she felt Bobby take her other hand. His hand felt warm and strong. She watched as she saw Constance struggling with the discomfort of holding this strange man’s hand, and breathed a sigh of relief when she finally edged it close enough that Bobby could gently lay his hand in hers.
Simply giving thanks was difficult for Prudence, mostly because she felt so rusty at it, but she managed. For a few minutes after that, there was only silence, as plates were filled. Slowly, though, Bobby drew them both out in simple conversation, asking about this, or that, and telling them about things at home. He told Constance stories about Beverly, and how she got in trouble for this or that thing, though he swore her to secrecy before saying anything. With Prudence he talked about how good the door looked, and how, since she helped him, he wouldn’t have to charge her as much. It turned out she and his mother were the same age, and had gone to school together, though they hadn’t had the same group of friends. Both had gotten married right out of high school, and had never tried to forge a bond of friendship.
“That’s too bad,” said Prudence, at one point. “If she raised a son as nice as you, I imagine she’s a much better woman than I thought.”
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