A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

‘Mixing things up a little. Keeping it fresh so you’re not bored. A woman like you deserves to be challenged.’

‘A woman like me?’ Given what was going on at home, she didn’t know if she should be flattered or offended. ‘What does that mean?’

He shrugged, the action bringing his tribal tattoo to life. ‘Most of my clients hate exercising. They do it to control their weight or to keep themselves moving. But you’re different—more like me. You get off on the rush.’

She always had. Jon had been amazed at how high she’d been after each birth. He’d teased her that he was more wrung out than her.

‘Gotta love those endorphins,’ she said.

‘Yeah, the happy hormones, right?’

And right now, she was taking happy wherever she could find it. ‘So how are you going to challenge me, Zac?’

‘I think you should train for something specific.’

‘Like what?’

‘A marathon.’

She laughed but Zac didn’t. ‘You’re serious? But a marathon … that’s huge. And the time commitment …’

‘It’s very doable if you start early, break it down into achievable goals and have a training partner.’

She thought about her friends and acquaintances. None of them would want to run a marathon. In fact most of them seemed confused and offended by her need to exercise.

‘Finding a partner might be difficult,’ she said.

‘We could train together.’

‘I pay you to train me and you get to train at the same time? I always knew you were a clever businessman.’

A flicker of emotion passed across his face so quickly she couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed she’d called him on his blatant hawking or if he was affronted.

‘I meant outside of our current arrangement. No charge.’

She stared at him. ‘You’d do that?’

‘Sure. You’ll push me as hard as I push you.’ He nudged her shoulder with his. ‘Besides, your testimonials and having my flyers at the store have brought me eight new clients.’

‘You really think I can run a marathon?’

‘I really do. So are you in?’

Yes! Yes! So in. ‘I want to say yes …’

‘So just say it. Do something for yourself.’

But that was the problem. She wasn’t just Tara, possible marathon runner with the freedom to dedicate herself to training. She was Jon’s wife and Flynn and Clementine’s mother, not to mention the store’s giftware buyer, classroom helper, domestic controller and a gazillion other things.

‘Can you send me the training program so I know exactly what I’m in for?’

The light in his eyes dimmed. ‘You can just say no.’

She touched his arm lightly, needing him to understand. ‘Zac, this is me trying to say yes.’

His smile radiated sunshine, warming her from the inside out. The feeling stayed with her while she showered and floated out to her car.

On the drive home, Zac’s compliments and the very tempting idea of spending months training with him dominated her thoughts. Not wanting any of her happiness to drain away, she deliberately avoided looking at the property next door to Tingledale when she slowed to turn into her driveway.

Tara considered the proximity of the ‘orange eyesore’ to the gracious elegance of Tingledale a travesty. But apparently its orange bricks, diamond-patterned veranda rail, the name Shangrila written in white wrought iron beside the front door and its large airy rooms made it the pinnacle of 1960s’ modern design. According to Fran at the library, Doctor Tingle’s grandson had sold off forty-five acres to create a small housing estate and had built the orange eyesore for his son, positioning it close to the boundary so the grandchildren could run back and forth between the two houses.

Those familial days were long gone and the once-coveted modern home was shabby after more than a decade of being rented. It was a thorn in Tara’s side. Some tenants were better than others, but as the house aged and the current owners refused to spend any money on it, the calibre of the tenants dropped. The garden, if you could call it that, was now a rambling and weed-infested mess that dispatched thriving runners of the thick, green and tenacious spiderwort and threw out oxalis seeds that dug in deep, producing green clusters that taunted her with their cheery yellow flowers.

When the grass grew too long and became a fire and snake hazard, Tara rang the managing real estate agent. Although they responded to the requests to mow, they never did more than the bare minimum of maintenance on the property. Tara had started buying Powerball tickets in the vain hope of winning and making the absent and uncaring owners an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Jon’s car was in the garage and she wondered if he’d come home for lunch to extend some warmth into the frosty détente that had hardened to ice since the weekend. On Sunday morning, she’d expected him to apologise for the disaster that had been Saturday night, but almost a week had passed and he hadn’t said a word.

To head off any questions about why she’d been at an unscheduled gym session, Tara hid her bag inside the washing machine before walking into the kitchen. Jon was standing at the bench, which was covered by so many different sandwich fixings it gave Subway a run for its money.

‘Hi,’ she said.

He glanced up from the roll he was buttering and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Hi.’

‘Did I forget you were coming home for lunch?’

‘No. I’d planned to take you to Bert & Bears, but when you didn’t come into work I thought I’d bring lunch to you.’

She checked his expression—no sign of criticism that she hadn’t been at the store. Her heart rolled at his thoughtfulness and she almost moved in to kiss him when the memory of Saturday’s rebuff slammed into her, staying her feet.

‘No onion, please.’

‘I know.’ He squirted Dijon mustard onto the bread. ‘Did you see the car in the drive of the orange eyesore?’

‘No.’ She poured herself a glass of water. ‘Do we have new neighbours?’

‘Not sure. But if we do, the good news is the car’s not a