The 6'2'', 200 Lb. Challenge. Vivian Leiber

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      You’re losing it, Gibson, he thought sourly.

      “What did you say you were doing here?”

      “I’m not a reporter, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’m not trying to sell you anything.”

      “You’re not from the Wisconsin Guaranteed Life, Home and Casualty Insurance Company?”

      “No.”

      “And you’re not asking me to be the spokesman for anything, especially insurance?”

      “No.”

      He narrowed his eyes.

      “Are you from the governor’s office?”

      “Why would anybody from the governor’s office be bothering you?”

      “They wanted to give me a medal,” he said flatly.

      “That’s great!” she cried out, turning to bless him with a brief smile before returning to her sorting of the mail.

      A man could die happy with that smile as the last image he saw.

      Gibson looked away abruptly.

      “I don’t want it,” he growled.

      “Well, aren’t you the huffy one!”

      She brought him a stack of magazines and catalogs. He noticed she smelled of vanilla and talc. A clean scent. But somehow more provocative than the perfumes worn by the bar girls in the honky-tonks up near the highway. Not that he’d ever liked their heavy, musky perfumes.

      “Figure out what you want to toss and what you want to keep,” she said briskly.

      He looked at the pile and shook his head. “You’ve got to leave.”

      “Fine,” she said. And for a moment, briefly, he thought she might go. “If you won’t do it yourself, we’ll do it together. Keep or toss?”

      She held up an old issue of Esquire.

      “Keep or toss?” she repeated.

      “Toss,” he said, sighing miserably. “So why are you here?”

      She dropped the Esquire on the floor and held up a mail-order catalog.

      “I want to be a firefighter,” she said. “Keep or toss?”

      “Toss. So why did the chief send you here? I’m the last person to talk to about being a firefighter.”

      She dropped the catalog on top of the Esquire.

      “I failed the physical exam,” she explained. “And so the chief made me a deal. I drag you back into the station house and I get a second chance at the exam.”

      “I resigned.”

      “He doesn’t seem to care about that. Keep or toss?”

      He looked at the catalog for gardening supplies. He wouldn’t be doing much bulb-planting in the fall since he couldn’t even get up from his chair. And he felt somehow sickened at the thought of new life, of the garish colors of spring’s floral renewal.

      “Toss. You don’t look like a firefighting kind of woman to me.”

      “And just what’s a firefighting kind of woman supposed to look like?”

      He regarded her briefly, top to bottom. Then a little more slowly, his eyes instinctively lingering at all the curves.

      Then a sly, lazy smile spread across his face.

      “Wait a minute. You say the chief sent you?”

      “Yes. Keep or toss the sports magazine?”

      “Toss. In fact, uh, what did you say your name was?”

      “Mimi. Mimi Pickford.”

      “Okay, Mimi. That’s a nice name. You can put all that stuff down now.”

      “Why? We’re just getting started.”

      “I guess we are. I’ve finally figured out why the chief sent you. It took me a few minutes.”

      “Good. Because I’ve been explaining it to you since I walked in the door.”

      “Well, I got the message and you can pass along my thanks to the chief.”

      “So you’ll help me out?” Mimi asked, in an innocent kind of way that made him doubt his conclusion for just an instant.

      The instant passed as he took in her curves.

      Those curves were made for a man.

      It might be what he needed.

      It might be exactly what he needed.

      And so, like a man who has almost given himself up for dead and found an instant’s hope, he smiled.

      “Sure, I’ll help you out.”

      He stretched leisurely and mused that, although he’d never exactly done this kind of thing before, Mimi Pickford might be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

      “Do you need music?” he asked. “I mean, do you need music to get started?”

      “No, but would you like some?”

      “Do you usually work with music?”

      She scrunched up her face.

      “Well, Boris sometimes plays tapes of folk music from his homeland. He’s from Macedonia.”

      “Is that around here?”

      “It’s right next to Greece.”

      “And you use a tape of Macedonian music?” Gibson considered this, wondering briefly who Boris was. “What’s the music like?”

      “It’s got lots of clapping and chanting and drums,” she added. “Very primitive and evocative and kind of catchy in a bizarre kind of way.”

      “Hmm. I suppose that’s okay. But I’m more of a simple rock ‘n’ roll man myself. Why don’t you just do this without any music?”

      “Okay.”

      “You can get started now.”

      “I am started. Keep or toss last week’s News-week?”

      He shook his head.

      “No, Mimi, this is all very amusing, this part about cleaning my house,” he said, chuckling. “But just put down those magazines and take your clothes off.”

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