Out of the Blue Bouquet (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  “Oma-what?”

  “Omakase.” Calla said, carefully pronouncing the Japanese and bowing slightly. “It’s, like, the most expensive shellfish dish on earth. You can only get it in this one place in Tokyo… you know what? Chef joke. Never mind. No shellfish. Got it.”

  She hadn’t thought his smile could get bigger, but somehow it did. He had very straight, very white teeth. He glanced at his watch and took a step back. “Can’t stay and chat. Gotta run by the print department and pick up some plans for a meeting I’m nearly late for. I’ll see you tomorrow, though. We can talk more then?”

  “Sure,” she said weakly, “tomorrow. Dinner. My place. Looking forward to it.”

  As soon as she was sure he wasn’t going to return, she rushed out of the row and told her supervisor she was taking a late lunch. Forget that hour of overtime she’d planned on, she needed to talk to someone!

  In no time, she found herself on the eighth floor ensconced in Sami’s little office outside Brad Dixon’s office door. The big boss was with his dad in New Orleans, so she felt safe sitting down across from her desk. “You’ll never believe what just happened.”

  Sami rolled her chair closer to the edge of her desk and leaned forward. Her bright green eyes shone out from under a metallic green gypsy scarf that she’d tied around her head. “Spill.”

  “So, yesterday I called in and won flowers from Q103.”

  Sami’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Cool! I won a gift card, once.”

  “Yeah? Anyway, perfect timing because you’d just called me, offered to buy me dinner, and arranged for my car to be towed to the junkyard. You totally saved my life last night. Really. And I knew you would. So, I preemptively sent you a thank you bouquet.”

  “Me?” Sami grinned. “Wow! Thanks! I hope I get them today!”

  “That’s the thing. They were already delivered.” Nervous and edgy again, she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “To Sam Jones.”

  A frown appeared between Sami’s eyes. “Sam Jones? Sam?”

  “Yeah. Sam. Samuel Ian Jones.”

  With wide eyes, Sami said, “Ian? The hot guy on seventh you’ve had a slightly obvious crush on since you started working here three years ago?”

  Mouth dry, she cleared her throat. “Yeah. That Ian.”

  Sami threw her head back and laughed. “So, he got your flowers. What happened next?”

  “You mean after he read the card thanking ‘him’ for his help yesterday and demanding that ‘he’ come to dinner at my place tomorrow so I could thank him properly?” Calla used air quotes for the him and he. “Why, he came down to my little forest of metal filing cabinets to ask me for my address so he could come have dinner and get properly thanked.”

  Sami’s mouth opened and closed twice before she said, “Seriously? Calla!” she said her name on a gasp. “Isn’t God good? That is amazing!”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “What do you mean, what are you going to do? You’re going to do what you do in the kitchen and make something amazing. I have no doubt.”

  “Yeah. Sure. In my dinky one-bedroom apartment that doesn’t even have a table! I was planning on making you spaghetti and garlic bread. Cheap. Easy. Filled with love and gratitude that you would have understood. Him? He wears a watch that cost more than my car is worth! How am I supposed to cook for him?”

  Sami started to answer, but her phone rang. She held up a finger and answered the call. She scribbled a few notes and said, “Yes, Mr. Dixon,” she paused, “right. Give me five minutes.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to her computer, bringing it out of hibernation. “I can’t think right now, Calla, but I have a table you can borrow. We’ll cover it with a beautiful cloth, and you’ll do something amazing. I’ll be over at ten in the morning.”

  “Sami!” Calla pleaded.

  Sami shook her head. “Honey, this is a good thing. A very good thing. Stop worrying. It’ll be fine. Now shoo. Let me work.”

  Calla stood as Sami began maneuvering through the files on her computer. She lifted a hand to wave goodbye as she left the office.

  Ian shifted under the weight of his end of the dresser and waited for Al to guide the way. His feet remained steady on the gold-colored shag carpet as they maneuvered the massive chest through the little World War II era cottage.

  “Step at the door,” Al announced, and Ian started expecting the feel of the metal threshold that would clue him to take a step down. As soon as they cleared the doorway, they turned sideways and moved with more precision and speed, soon setting the dresser into the moving van.

  Al, a well-muscled six-five electrical engineer who dedicated four mornings a week to the gym, looked like he’d barely broken a sweat. Four inches shorter and a good thirty pounds lighter, Ian felt the strain in his arms as he rolled his head on his shoulders.

  “Bedroom’s done,” he said to Daniel, the leader of his church’s men’s ministry. “Are the guys ready to start loading the kitchen boxes?”

  “Pretty sure,” Daniel said, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat at his white hairline. “Let me go check with Marlene and I’ll let you know. Why don’t you two get some water and take five?”

  Ian wouldn’t admit to how relieved he felt at the suggestion. He followed Al over to Daniel’s truck and grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler in the back. As he twisted the cap open, he sat on the open tailgate. He looked up through the branches of the live oak tree and saw the vivid blue of the Atlanta sky. The dry seventy-degree temperature made it a really lovely November day.

  “Want to grab a pizza after?” Al asked. “Georgia’s playing at seven, and that place in Decatur’s going to show it on every screen.”

  Fast friends since the first day of engineering school at Georgia Tech, Ian and Al spent most weekends doing something together, either sharing a meal or two, catching a movie or a football game, or something casual and relaxing of the sort. However, right now Miss Calla Vaughn dancing to the tune in her ears floated across his mind. “Actually, I have a date.”

  “A date?” Al’s teeth looked bright white against his chocolate colored skin as he grinned at his friend. “Well, well, well. About time. With whom, may I ask?”

  “Calla Vaughn. From work.”

  Al frowned and muttered, “Calla Vaughn? Is she in the architectural division?”

  “No. She’s one of the file clerks down on the second floor.” He took a long pull of water. “I helped Jon push her dead car out of the way of the gate reader Thursday afternoon. She’s cooking me dinner to thank me all proper like.”

  Al threw his head back and laughed. “Your grandma would love that one.”

  Ian pressed his lips together as his rather blue blood heated. His grandmother, old member of Atlanta high society, would certainly not find amusement at Ian’s dating anyone other than a crowned princess, perhaps. Or maybe a president’s daughter. Depending, of course, on whether said president drank red or blue Kool-Aid.

  “It’s not that bad,” he lied.

  “Oh, please,” Al said, “she’s the reason you don’t ever date.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t deny it. It was just easier not to date than to try to find someone who would pass inspection and gain the reluctant approval of the family matriarch. “Yeah? What’s your excuse, then?”

  Al’s face sobered, and he cleared his throat. “Like you don’t know.”

  Feeling like a cad, especially as the brother of the woman who so thoroughly broke his best friend’s heart two years ago, he immediately apologized. “Dude, sorry.”

  “No sweat.” Al looked up when the door to the house opened, and a very small, frail woman carefully maneuvered her doorway with her walker. “Need help Mrs. Manchester?” The church men’s group had volunteered to help move Mrs. Manchester’s belongings into storage while her son got her settled into his spare bedroom.

  “You boys get on in here and get yourselves a sandwich,” she ordered. “I made egg sala
d. Even managed to toast the bread before the toaster got packed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ian replied, standing.

  “Did you make some of your sweet tea?” Al asked, a hopeful sound in his voice.

  “You better believe it.” She turned and carefully lifted her walker back into the house. “Ain’t nothing like egg salad and sweet tea.”

  “No, ma’am,” Al agreed. Ian laughed while he followed them slowly into the house.

  “Beautiful,” Sami assured, surveying the rust-colored tablecloth covering the little square table, the short round vase filled with bright sunflowers, and the white plates perched atop gold chargers. She arranged one of the rust-colored napkins more carefully in the sunflower napkin ring and stepped back, putting her hand on the back of the folding chair. “Thank goodness for the dollar store. Who knew, huh?”

  “You did,” Calla smiled, looking at her living room transformed into a very welcoming dining room. “You do so well with this kind of thing.”

  “It’s not hard. You just find a theme or a color scheme and go with it.” She turned and looked around the room, nodding at the throw pillows she’d tossed onto the worn brown couch. Their colors perfectly matched the tablecloth and napkins. “I’ll pick the card table and pillows up tomorrow after church,” she said, “where I intend to get the full scoop about every word that gets spoken tonight.”

  Calla’s stomach dropped in a nervous flutter that had grown in intensity since waking up this morning. “Maybe he won’t show,” her voice sounded weak. “He’s a gentleman, after all. So polite all the time. Maybe he’ll spare me the humiliation of acting like a total idiot tonight.”

  “Nonsense,” Sami replied. She followed Calla into the kitchen. As Calla pulled an onion out of the grocery bag on the counter, Sami rummaged in the refrigerator then shut the door and looked at her. “Okay, bread is rising, I see chicken and spinach in the fridge. What else is on the menu?”

  Calla looked at her watch and calculated the time she had left in the day. “Chicken Florentine served on a bed of wild rice and some fresh green beans.” She lifted the towel covering the loaf of bread and pressed into it lightly with a knuckle of her little finger, deciding to preheat the oven. As she turned the dial to the right temperature, she added, “I’m just doing some fresh berries and whipped cream for dessert.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Sami picked up her purse and pulled her car key out of the side pocket. “I can’t wait to consume leftovers after church tomorrow.”

  Calla walked over to her and hugged her. “Thank you for your help. You have calmed me considerably.”

  “I loved the project. I especially loved the project on such a budget. It was a challenge and kind of exciting.”

  After she left, Calla went back into the kitchen and pulled a skillet out of her cabinet. She ran her finger over the ceramic coating on the inside of it and felt a small smile. Her couch might have seen better days ten years ago, and her car might have died completely, but no one looking at her kitchen accouterments would ever think that she bought anything but the very best for herself. She thought about the three semesters of culinary school she’d attended, where she had never felt so alive and free in her life. One day she would go back. As soon as she got everything in order in her life, she’d have the freedom to walk back into the school and don her apron.

  She heated some olive oil in the skillet while she quickly sliced an onion and some garlic. When she heard the oven signal that it had reached the desired temperature, she slid the bread inside and set the timer. As she did, she marked the time and knew everything was right on schedule.

  Ian approached the apartment, looking around as he walked along the concrete breezeway. From the second floor, he could glance down over the metal railing and see the dirty swimming pool with a few faded plastic chairs scattered around it. He passed apartment 2C taking in the broken blinds hanging crooked in the window. He reached 2D, Calla’s apartment according to the address she gave him. Light cotton curtains adorned her windows.

  The area in front of her door looked swept clean, and a mat bid a “Welcome Friends” greeting. On either side of the door, pots filled with fresh herbs covered tiered plant stands. Some he recognized, like the massive bush of rosemary. He smelled mint and parsley among other scents he could only guess at. Oregano, maybe. All of the scents mingled and filled his senses with such a pleasant aroma that he wanted to just stand there and breathe it in deeply. He held his finger over the doorbell and hesitated only slightly before pressing it. Within seconds, Calla opened the door, and the first impression he had was the tantalizing smells coming from the apartment that even overpowered the scent of the herbs.

  Then he took in the sight of her. Calla wore an oversized rust-colored shirt that buttoned with brass buttons all the way down to her thighs, dark leggings in a geometric design with rust, mustard yellow, and forest green colors, and knee-high brown leather boots. Yesterday, she’d worn her sleek black hair down, swinging to her shoulders. Today, she had it pulled back in a ponytail, which made those rich brown eyes behind those large black framed lenses stand out even more.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling, “welcome. You’re exactly on time.”

  She opened the door wider, and he stepped in, quickly surveying the room. Bright pillows on the couch and the small table covered with an autumn flare gave the room a happy, homey feel. He spotted a little desk in the corner with a laptop, lid closed, sitting on top. With the flustered way she’d acted when her car broke down and the way she floundered and fumbled when he went to see her in her department yesterday, he halfway expected a little bit of chaos in her environment. Not so. Even the desk looked neat and ordered.

  “Part of me wondered if you would even come.” She shut the door behind him, and he noticed that she almost absently locked the deadbolt.

  “I thought about it. It’s not every day I’m invited in such a fashion.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “The table’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She touched the back of a chair. “My friend Sami came over and helped. She has an eye I don’t have. I’m better in the kitchen than in the drawing room, I’m afraid.”

  His stomach gave a slight rumble of hunger and his mouth watered at the thought of the heavenly smells. “I can’t wait to compare.”

  She walked into the kitchen, but it didn’t place her out of his sight or hearing. He moved to the small bar that separated the two rooms and watched her use a kitchen towel to pull a pan out of the oven. He saw roasted chicken breasts bulging with a spinach stuffing. “That looks amazing,” he said.

  “I hope you like spinach. I probably should have checked.” She took two plates out of her cupboard and set them side-by-side on the counter. After lifting the lid of a pot on the stove, he watched as she scooped wild rice onto each plate, then placed one of the chicken breasts on top of the rice. Using tongs, she artfully arranged green beans alongside the chicken. He couldn’t help but notice the confidence and smoothness with which she moved while she handled the food. She picked up each plate and walked back into the room, setting them on the little table. “I hope water’s okay. It’s really all I drink after six,” she said, picking up a clear pitcher of ice water off of the bar. “I can make coffee or tea? I have decaf.”

  He shook his head. “Ice water’s perfect.”

  Where did these nerves come from? He was twenty-eight years old. It’s not like he’d never had dinner with a beautiful woman before. But suddenly, he found himself anxious, worried he’d say the wrong thing, move the wrong way. He suddenly longed for that moment when the initial awkwardness passed, and he’d relax around her.

  She gestured toward the chair nearest him, and he waited for her to settle into her chair before taking his. Following her lead, he pulled the napkin out of the flowered napkin ring and laid the cotton cloth across his lap, setting the ring to the side of his silverware. She started to pick up her fork then set it back down. “I’m sorry. I feel wrong eating withou
t praying. Do you mind if we pray first?”

  He smiled in reaction to the question, a smile that revealed his straight white teeth. “I’m actually relieved to hear you say that.” Automatically, he held out his hand to her, palm up. She didn’t so much as hesitate as she lay her hand in his and bowed her head. His fingers enveloped her slim hand gently, and she gave his hand a little prompting squeeze. Waiting for half a second to make sure she didn’t intend to lead the blessing, he spoke, listening to his voice fill the otherwise silent room. “Father, we thank You for this food. We ask that You bless it, bless the hands that made it, and let our fellowship be pleasing to You. Amen.”

  As soon as they lifted their heads, he felt himself relax, somewhat surprised that his initial attraction to this woman just increased with her desire to pray before the meal. “This looks really good,” he said, slicing into the bird with his knife. The aroma and the juicy tenderness of the perfectly prepared and well-portioned entree compared to the finest meals he had ever enjoyed. “I could smell it as soon as you opened the door.”

  She smiled, conspicuously pleased with the compliment. “I’m glad. This is a favorite dish of mine.” Her eyes widened, and she tossed her napkin atop the table and quickly stood. “Bread!”

  She rushed into the kitchen and returned with a basket that she set on the table in front of him. When he opened the napkin on top, he revealed a pile of steaming hot sliced homemade bread. He selected a piece and smiled. “Bread is a good thing.”

  “It felt good to knead it this morning. It’s one of the ways I like to relax. Is it good?”

  Amazed that she’d made her own bread, he took a bite and almost closed his eyes in wonder. As he savored the light yet hearty perfection of the bread, he shook his head slowly from side to side. Finally, he swallowed and answered, “No.” Calla looked slightly panicked until he said, “No, I would describe it as excellent. Not just good.”

  Relief washed over her expression, and her shoulders relaxed as she reached for a slice of bread for herself. “This is a really good whole grain flour. It’s better with fresh ground flour, but I don’t have my own grain mill yet. Saving up for it, though. There’s a wonderful place to get grain over on the west side of town.”