the kitchen,” he said, not waiting for her to follow. He was up the porch steps and into the house before she was even out of the truck. By the time she joined him in the kitchen, he had opened a cupboard and was emptying supplies onto the counter. “Just sit at the table, right there.”
She took a seat and waited tensely.
Tom filled a silver mixing bowl with warm, soapy water. He spread a towel over her lap, put the basin on her knees and said, “I know it stings, but I want you to soak your hands for a minute, get them very clean. Just grit your teeth and do it, please.”
She’d be damned if she’d let an ounce of discomfort show on her face. She plunged her hands into the water and bit her lower lip against a wince. She couldn’t keep her eyes from filling with tears from the sting. He didn’t notice; his back was turned while he put out his first-aid supplies. Then he began transferring the stuff to the table. There was an old-fashioned-looking tin can, a tube of something or other, some gauze, another towel, a small bowl and spoon, latex gloves. He scrubbed and dried his hands as if he’d be performing surgery. And then he pulled a chair toward her, his long legs spread so that her knees were between his.
“We don’t know each other, so let me explain a couple of things. I don’t have much use for excuses, but hiding real issues from me isn’t good. If you’re going to work for me, you have to be honest about stuff like this. Got that?”
“I don’t make excuses, I’m always honest and I need the job,” she said, insulted and defensive. “I have just as much of a family to support as the men.”
“Fair enough. But the men have been working in lumber and agriculture for a long time. Their hands are rough and callused. Tough as leather. And their muscles are strong now.” He showed her his own calluses but thankfully didn’t flex anything. Then he picked up a towel and gestured to the bowl. “Let me see the right hand.”
“They’re just blisters,” she said, not mentioning that the joints in her fingers were so stiff she hated to bend them.
“Left untended, they won’t heal for a long time. I can help with that.” He held out the towel. She lifted it and he very gently patted it dry. It wasn’t too bad—a couple of blisters and two cuts from the rough wooden edge of an apple crate. Then he asked for the left and she put that one in the towel. The basin went away when he placed it on the table.
“Let your hands dry a little more, palms up on the towel,” he instructed. Then he went about the business of mixing up some goop from the tin can and the tube. “This is bag balm and an ointment that vets use sometimes…” She visibly withdrew and he chuckled. “Maxie swears by it, especially for arthritis, and I’ve seen it work wonders.”
When his concoction was mixed, he gently smoothed some of the salve over the sore places on her palms. He dipped his fingertips into the mixture and his touch was so gentle, it sent shivers through her. She had expected it to hurt, but it was sweet and light; she let her eyes fall closed and just enjoyed his ministrations. He didn’t talk, thank God. She stayed quiet also. She hadn’t been touched in this way in so long, she couldn’t remember the last time. And how bizarre, it should come from someone she hated.
Well, maybe she didn’t hate him, but she didn’t like him much. He’d been either hostile or completely ignored her.
He wrapped gauze around her hands, then slid them into the latex gloves. Right about that moment, Maxie walked into the kitchen, the yellow dog at her side. She smiled as she obviously recognized the procedure. “Want me to take over, Tom?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. He shook a couple of pills into his palm and handed them to Nora. “You need to take this for muscle pain,” he said. “It’s just over-the-counter anti-inflammatory and pain relief, but I’m giving you a bottle to take home. I’m afraid you’re going to have to skip the overtime this weekend, you have to heal or you’ll make things worse. I’ll give you balm, salve, gauze, ice pack, extra latex gloves, analgesic, everything you need.