Drive Me Wild

by Melanie Harlow

  “Want the rest of this?” Blair held up the scone. “I’ll wrap it up for you. You can finish it later.”

  “Sure.” I watched her carefully wrap it in a white napkin, a stack of which sat next to the tray. “Can you set it aside for me? I’ll finish it when I break for lunch.”

  She nodded. “Speaking of lunch, just let me know when you’re ready. I can run down to the deli again.”

  Dodson headed for the door. “Guess I better get home for lunch too. Edna gets cranky if I’m more than five minutes late.” He turned back. “But I’m going to tell her to come in and try one of those things. Her car needs an oil change anyway. Think you can fit her in this afternoon?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But have her come before four o’clock.”

  “Will do.”

  Once he was gone, I turned to Blair. “Nice work.”

  She blushed. “Thanks. It’s a start, anyway.”

  I moved toward the door and pulled it open. “Come on, you guys. Back to work.”

  “Don’t I get to try one of those things?” McIntyre whined.

  “Later,” I said. “We’ve got things to do, and we’re knocking off early tonight for the game.”

  But Blair quickly wrapped one up for McIntyre anyway and handed it to him with a finger over her lips. He took it and ducked into the bay, flashing me a triumphant expression.

  I was following right behind him when I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Hello, darlings!” she called as she came hobbling through the open door behind a walker, as if she hadn’t been getting around just fine on her own yesterday. “My lands, something smells delightful!”

  I turned around and sighed. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  “I came to see what all the fuss was about! It’s all over town that Blair is the new Betty.”

  I shook my head. “Jesus Christ.”

  My sister strolled in, sipping a cold coffee drink through a straw. “Hey, big brother. How’s married life?”

  “Will you stop with that?”

  “No. I like the way it bugs you.”

  “What’d I ever do to you?” I asked her.

  “Ha! You want the list I started at age seven, beginning with ripping the heads off all my Barbies and burying them around the yard?”

  “The other day you said I was the best big brother ever.”

  She shrugged. “I needed something from you. That’s how it works.”

  I looked at my mother. “This is why I’m not having kids.”

  Then I ushered the guys back into the garage, letting the door slam shut behind me.

  Ten

  Blair

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Did he really do that?” I asked Cheyenne. “Bury your Barbie heads in the backyard?”

  She nodded. “That and a hundred other mean things. He was the worst. We fought constantly.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Blair,” said Darlene, lowering herself into a chair. “Having children is a wonderful, beautiful thing.”

  I smiled at her. “I’d like them someday.”

  “Really?” Darlene gave her daughter a look. “Did you hear that Cheyenne? Blair wants children.”

  Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you a million times, Mom. It’s not that I don’t want kids. I do, I just don’t think there’s a deadline. I have plenty of time to find the right person to have them with.”

  Darlene glanced at the ceiling. “You hear that, Hank? She thinks she has plenty of time.” Then she pointed a finger at us. “I’m telling you girls, the biological clock is a real thing, and you won’t even hear the slowing of the tick-tock until it’s too late. And then there’s nothing but sad, lonely silence where the potential for hope and joy once lived.” She put a hand on her chest. “Just like in my heart.”

  I watched Cheyenne take a deep breath, as if trying to keep her composure, and decided to change the subject.

  “Would either of you like to try a scone?” I picked up the tray and carried it around the desk.

  “Of course.” Darlene perked up. She chose one from the tray and took a bite, chewing slowly. Then she put a hand over her heart and explained, “Well, no wonder! These are exquisite! Cheyenne, try one.”

  Griffin’s sister looked at me. “Is it okay?”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  She tasted one, and her reaction was the same as her mom’s. “Oh my God, so good,” she mumbled, her mouth full.

  “And not dry at all,” added Darlene.

  “A scone should never be dry, just sort of crumbly,” I said. “But also, they’re meant to be eaten with a hot beverage. Can I get either of you some coffee? I’d be glad to make a fresh pot.”

  “I’m good,” said Cheyenne, taking another bite. “I should get going anyway. I have an appointment at the salon. Mom wanted to pop in here in case you have any questions about the desk.”

  “Maybe how to order supplies?” I suggested, glancing at the desk behind me. “Griffin showed me how to schedule appointments yesterday, and the guys have been writing up the estimates and invoices, so . . .” I shrugged. “I’ve just sort of been chatting with people who call or wander in.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Darlene nodded enthusiastically. “The whole town is buzzing with excitement.”

  “It’s just some scones,” I said sheepishly, setting the tray back on the counter.

  “It’s fresh gossip, is what it is.” Cheyenne popped the last of her scone in her mouth and brushed off her hands. “You’re giving all the old biddies in this town something to talk about.”

  “Cheyenne Dempsey, you hush up. Go to the salon now.” Darlene shooed her toward the door. “I need to talk to Blair.”

  “I’m going. Thanks for the scone, Blair—and let me know if you want to go to the baseball game tonight. I’d be glad to pick you up so you don’t have to go early with Griff.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks, I’d really like that.”

  “Get my number from him and shoot me a text later?”

  “Perfect.”

  “So,” Darlene said, looking pleased. “You and Griffin seem to be getting along well.”

  An image of him naked beneath me flashed through my mind. “Um, yes. I think we are.”

  “Wonderful. Wonderful.” She nodded happily. “I’m so tickled, because I’m afraid it’s going to be a little bit longer until you can move into his room at my house.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, you see, I’ve been using it as a storage and craft room, and it’s just full of things I can’t get into the basement or attic in my condition.” She looked pitifully at her legs. “So I was thinking that maybe you could stay with Griffin a couple more days. Give me a bit more time to get the room ready for guests.”

  “I understand.” I smiled at her. “I’ll talk to Griffin, but I think a couple more days should be fine.”

  “Really?” She looked delighted. “Well, that was even easier than I thought. You’re so much more pleasant to deal with than my son. Are you sure you can’t stay forever?”

  I laughed politely. “I’m sure.”

  “Because I looked up Cloverleigh Farms, and did you know they had a tornado touch down there a few years back? We’ve never had a tornado touch down here. They’re so rare in northern Michigan as it is—that’s some bad luck,” she said, her tone grave. “And you don’t want to move to a place that has a big black cloud hanging over it, do you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

  Her face fell. “Too bad. I’d hoped . . .” She sighed heavily. “But I suppose it’s a good sign that Griffin’s even showing an interest in someone. It’s been so long. I worry about him, you know? I don’t want him to end up alone.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the door to the garage. “I think he likes being alone.”

  “I think it’s all an act,” she huffed.

  “He told me just last night that he likes his freedom.”

  Darlene looked at the ceiling.
“You hear that one, Hank? Freedom!” she harrumphed. “I’m not trying to put him in jail, for goodness sake. I just want him to settle down and start a family. He’s thirty-two already! He’s going to run out of sap!”

  I tried not to laugh. “I think he enjoys his independence, that’s all.”

  “He’s too independent for his own good,” she scoffed, eyeing me critically. “I must say, I’m a little disappointed, Blair. I thought you’d be on my side.”

  I held up my palms. “I’m not taking sides. I just know that Griffin has very definite opinions on this subject, and he’s never going to do anything just because someone else wants him to.”

  “Oh, he’s a stubborn one, that’s for sure.” She softened her tone. “Don’t you think he’d make a good husband, though? And a great dad? He’s very loyal. And underneath all that bluster, he’s really sweet. He likes taking care of people. He’s very protective.”

  “I agree.” I smiled, thinking of the way he’d taken care of me last night—actually since the moment he’d caught me on the sidewalk. “But I kind of like the bluster too, you know? There’s something endearing about it.”

  “I suppose there is. His father was the same way, God rest his soul, and we were together for almost forty years.” She sighed. “So maybe there’s still hope.”

  Griffin and I had a quick working lunch together, during which we discussed a few more ideas for the Labor Day weekend event—he liked my idea for a raffle and gave me several good suggestions for prizes—a budget for some new lobby furniture, and the name of a reporter at the local newspaper who was a good customer and might be willing to give us some press.

  “Great,” I said, writing down the name and making a note to get an email address or phone number. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and stuffed it into the empty brown deli bag. “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I looked up and saw his brow knitted in concern. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You seem a little distracted.”

  “Sorry. A lot on my mind.”

  He tipped up the last of his iced tea. “My mother say something to upset you?”

  “No.” I shrugged and looked at my half-eaten sandwich. “Just the thing about the spare room not being ready. You’re sure it’s okay I crash with you until it is?”

  “I’m completely, one hundred percent sure, and you know it. I want my bedtime story. And I have plans for you.”

  I met his eyes as warmth crept into my face. “You do?”

  “Yes. But they have to wait until after the game.”

  I smiled, perking up again. “I’m looking forward to watching.”

  “Good. But are you changing the subject because you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you? You’ve hardly touched your lunch.”

  Sighing, I set my pen down and sat back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Okay. I got another message from my mother this morning asking me to please call and let her know I’m not dead or kidnapped.”

  “You haven’t called her since you left?”

  “No! I’m mad at her. I wanted her support to live my life the way I want to live it, and she wouldn’t give it to me.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Mothers can be tough.”

  “But I did call her back to let her know I was safe.”

  “Good.”

  “Of course, once she heard what happened with my car she gave me a big fat I told you so lecture. She said it was clearly a sign that I’m not cut out for independence and I should come home immediately before I get myself abducted by sex traffickers on the side of the road.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to her.”

  “I didn’t. I’m not. It’s just . . .” I took a deep, shaky breath. “Hard.”

  “That’s life.”

  “She said I was abandoning my family.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Griffin stood up and came around to my side of the table, dropping into the chair next to me. “Listen. It’s good that you called her and told her you’re safe, but you don’t owe her any more than that. Just like I don’t owe my mother grandchildren.”

  “I guess.”

  “Come on.” He chucked me gently beneath the chin. “She obviously raised you to have the backbone and guts to go after your dream, right? She should be proud of you. You should be proud of you.”

  “But I haven’t done anything yet.”

  He took my chin in his hand this time, forcing me to look at him. “You will. Don’t quit.”

  His blue eyes were full of sincerity—he believed in me. It made all the difference. I smiled. “Okay.”

  After lunch, I went back into the bay and asked Andy for his girlfriend’s contact information so I could get in touch regarding a new logo and website design. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon at the desk, dedicating every spare moment I had to the renovation and the grand reopening event. Several people came in inquiring about the scones, and I had to tell them we were all out but to please come back tomorrow—I was planning to make lemon lavender shortbread. At the market this morning, I’d purchased lavender from the local farm, and I couldn’t wait to use it.

  But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about the encouragement Griffin had given me, and it warmed my heart every time.

  Darlene was right—Griffin would have made an excellent husband and dad. Oh sure, that temper would get the better of him when his sixteen-year-old daughter broke curfew or his seventeen-year-old son tried refusing to stack the tires, but at heart he was kind and patient. He was generous. He didn’t like relying on other people, but he knew how to put them first.

  Why was he so determined to be alone?

  The question grabbed ahold of me and refused to let go.

  Around quarter to seven, Cheyenne texted that she’d pulled up in front. Grabbing my bag, I called au revoir to Bisou and hurried out to meet her.

  “Hi,” I said breathlessly after jumping into her car. “Thanks so much for picking me up.”

  “No problem!” She gave me a grin. “I figured you wouldn’t want to spend two hours at the field watching a bunch of old men play catch and thump their chests.”

  I laughed. “I appreciate it. I love your hair, by the way. It’s so cute.”

  “Thanks. I was in desperate need of a trim. And you gotta love a good blowout.”

  “I hear you. In my old life, I used to get my hair blown out like twice a week.” I shook my head. “Now it seems like such an extravagance.”

  “Wow. Twice a week?”

  “Yeah.” I was kind of embarrassed to admit it now. “Wish I could get that money back.”

  “So you’re saving to open a bakery?”

  “Eventually. That’s my ultimate goal.”

  “And my mom said you’re moving up near Cloverleigh Farms? That is, if she can’t convince you that the entire Leelenau Peninsula is plagued by murder hornets, hurricanes, and malaria—and oh, it’s going to sink into Lake Michigan any day now. Don’t you think you’d be better off right here in Bellamy Creek? Married to her son and giving her grandchildren?”

  I laughed. “I think that’s what she has in mind, yes.”

  Cheyenne sighed as she turned into the Bellamy Creek High School parking lot. “I love her to death and she’s my mom, but she can drive a person plumb crazy. Just ignore her.”

  “It’s okay. She makes me laugh, and she’s been really kind to me. Your whole family has. The whole town has, actually. I can’t tell you how many people came in to introduce themselves today.”

  Cheyenne pulled into an empty spot. “Bellamy Creek is a friendly town, but you’ve also sparked a lot of curiosity. We’re used to the same people in the same places, or tourists coming through. We’re not used to beautiful, mysterious women in wedding dresses who charm one of the town’s most stubborn bachelors and bake like dear, departed Betty Frankel.”

  “God, that dress.” I laughed ruefully as I unbuckled my seatbelt. “I
thought it would bring me good luck in my new life. So far it’s been nothing but disaster!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Cheyenne said as we walked toward the field. “I mean, things could have been worse, right? You could have blown that tire on the highway outside town.”

  “True.”

  “What were you doing in Bellamy Creek, anyway, if you were trying to get to Cloverleigh Farms?”

  “I saw the billboard on the highway about the best apple pie in the Midwest since 1957,” I told her, shaking my head. “Of course, now I know that pie doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s what made me turn off the road and come here.”

  “So it was fate!”

  I laughed as we climbed the bleachers. “You sound like your mom. It was more my sweet tooth—I love me some apple pie. I’m not even sure I believe in fate.”

  “Why not?” she asked as we found seats about four rows up. The stands were surprisingly crowded—with families, couples, groups of friends. Attending old man baseball games was obviously a popular thing to do on a summer night around here.

  “I like to believe we have the power to make our own destiny,” I said, tucking my dress under my thighs so it didn’t blow up in the breeze. “Otherwise, we’re just at the mercy of the stars, right? Everything decided for us? That’s no fun.”

  “I guess. Oh, by the way, I was going to tell you that I know someone at Cloverleigh Farms.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Frannie Sawyer—although she got married recently, so her last name is MacAllister now—but anyway, she’s my age and I met her when I was student teaching in Traverse City a few years ago. Her family owns Cloverleigh Farms, and she owns a coffee shop downtown. Maybe she’s hiring or something? I’d be glad to pass along her contact info.”

  I grabbed her arm. “Are you serious? I’d love that! Thank you so much!”