Emma felt she couldn’t leave her friend with that impression. Phoebe might say something to Walt, and Oliver and Walt were pals. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge her feelings for Oliver, wasn’t even sure those feelings would last long enough to be worth acknowledging.
“I think Oliver’s a good pilot,” she said, carefully weighing her words. “We’ve each made an effort to make the best of an uncomfortable situation.”
Phoebe ignored her.
“You’re right….” Emma admitted reluctantly, walking over to her friend’s desk. She folded her arms and spoke casually. “There was a slight attraction in the beginning. We even joked about it.” Well…Oliver had joked.
Phoebe turned and looked up at Emma. “Did he or did he not kiss you?”
“He…ah, okay, yes, there were a couple of times when I…that happened. So technically, yes, he did kiss me.” This was all she was willing to say on the subject.
“So there was more than the one time?” Phoebe probed.
“There might have been.” Emma wanted her friend to stop studying her with that appraising light in her eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“But you said Oliver’s your romantic hero.”
“No. I said it looked like Oliver was just proving a point.” She wished he wouldn’t try so hard, but she didn’t know how to make him stop. The entire conversation about romantic heroes had come about by chance. But now he seemed to be going out of his way to prove that he was every bit as romantic as Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant.
Emma sat at her desk, hardly able to concentrate. She’d be leaving the office in a few minutes to drum up advertisements for the newspaper. During the fruitcake interviews, Walt had excused her from that responsibility. Apparently his arrangement with Oliver had sparked an idea, and Walt was now willing to trade newspaper space for goods and services. Rumor had it that the Subway Express down the street would be catering the company Christmas lunch. Talk around the water cooler was that Walt had worked out some sort of deal with the owner—three weekly ads in exchange for thirty turkey sandwiches, pickles and coleslaw on the side. Thankfully, he hadn’t been negotiating with the Mexican restaurant/sushi bar. Cross-cultural restaurants weren’t so rare in small towns, but this was a combination Emma found a little bizarre.
“How are things going with you and Walt?” Emma asked, deciding it was her turn to ask personal questions.
Phoebe glowed. “Fabulous.”
“Define fabulous.”
“He asked me to have Christmas dinner with his family.”
This was big, and Emma released a low whistle.
“We’re having two dinners that day,” Phoebe went on to explain. “First with my mom and dad, and then later with his.”
“I hope you like turkey.”
“I do,” Phoebe assured her. “But my mom’s serving prime rib and I don’t know about his mother. What are you doing for Christmas?”
Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, and Emma wouldn’t be doing anything special. She’d probably do what she had the year before—attend a movie and have buttered popcorn for dinner. It would be a day like any other.
“Emma?”
“I have plans.” She hated to lie, so she remained vague. If she mentioned going to a movie, Phoebe would feel sorry for her and then find a way to include her. Emma didn’t want to intrude on Phoebe and her family, or on Walt and his.
“What sort of plans?” Phoebe pressed.
Emma didn’t want to be rude or arouse her suspicions, so she played it coy. “Private plans,” she said, dropping her voice until it was almost a purr.
This was a mistake because Phoebe’s curiosity was certainly piqued now. “They involve Oliver, don’t they?”
“They could.” Emma reached for her coat and purse, anxious to leave.
“You’ll tell me later?”
Emma sighed deeply. “Yes, but only if you torture it out of me.”
“That could be arranged,” a gruff male voice said from behind her.
Both Phoebe and Emma gasped as Walt stepped between their desks. “I should come downstairs more often to see how the two of you spend your time.” He frowned at Emma and handed her a sheet of paper printed with a list of businesses. The highlighted ones were the companies he wanted her to approach. Oh joy, The Taco Stand and California Rock & Roll were on the list, the combination ethnic restaurant so recently in her thoughts.
Emma stared at the paper and squelched a groan. She did not consider ad sales her forte.
Half an hour later, Emma was sitting with Mr. Garcia of The Taco Stand and his wife, Suki, who operated the other half of the restaurant. There weren’t any lunch customers yet, and they’d chosen a booth on the Mexican side of the building with its strings of red chili pepper lights proclaiming Christmas cheer. Emma carefully reviewed the newspaper’s advertising rates. Suki, whose English was poor, looked to her Hispanic husband to explain what Emma had suggested. Emma glanced from one to the other and realized they had a language all their own.
“Is it for newspaper?” Suki wanted to know for the third time.
Emma smiled and nodded. “Yes,” she said. She found herself speaking slowly and deliberately. “Advertise your good food to all the people in Puyallup so they will come in and place many orders.” After five minutes of talking to the young Asian woman, Emma sounded as if she were the one struggling with English. It embarrassed her; she didn’t want to offend the gentle young woman, but in her effort to make herself understood, she was overemphasizing each word.
Carlos, Suki’s husband, nodded. “Very good for business.”
Suki brightened. “We talk,” she said and smiled softly at her husband.
A bell tinkled in the Japanese half of the restaurant, separated by a doorway. “Suki, where are you?”
Emma would recognize that voice anywhere.
Suki’s eyes widened with pleasure. “Mr. Oliver,” she said and immediately scooted out of the booth.
Carlos laughed. “She has a big crush on the pilot. It’s a good thing she met me first.”
Emma didn’t doubt Oliver’s appeal to the opposite sex for a moment. He had that effect on women; she knew from her own experience.
“Leave the information with me,” Carlos said. “I’ll call Mr. Walt later.”
“So you think you’ll buy an ad?” Emma asked hopefully.
Carlos hemmed and hawed. “Maybe. I’ll talk it over with Suki.”
It happened like this every time. She nearly had a commitment, and then the business owner would back off. She had no idea what she needed to do in order to get businesses to advertise in their local paper. Some of the businesspeople she talked to practically gave her the impression that they were afraid of attracting more customers. She didn’t know how else to explain it. Fortunately, she’d had one success—Badda Bing, Badda Boom Pizza. They’d seen an increase in pizza sales and had happily signed a new contract.
She couldn’t resist. After thanking Carlos, Emma walked over to the other half of the restaurant. Sure enough, Oliver sat on a stool with his back to her, while Suki worked behind the counter, assembling his order.
“I would never have taken you for someone who enjoys sushi,” she said, and slid onto the stool beside him.
Oliver didn’t look surprised to see her. “Really? I love it. My guess is you’ve never tried it.”
He was beginning to know her. Then again, he seemed to have that ability from the moment they met. “You’re right, I haven’t.”
“California rolls for the lady,” Oliver told Suki.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” she said, which wasn’t true.
Oliver didn’t allow her to protest. “At least give it a try.”
She’d been saying the same thing all afternoon. The least she could do was follow her own advice. “All right, I will.”
Oliver gave her a warm smile, and she couldn’t help basking in his approval. “See?” he said. “You didn’t like fruitcake but you were willing to t
ry it. And look how well that worked out.” Emma could have stared into this man’s eyes forever; instead, she quickly glanced away.
“I wondered where the name California Rock and Roll came from,” she said casually. “Now I know.”
Suki placed both orders on the counter and Emma examined hers. On a rectangular plate, Suki had arranged four California rolls. They seemed to be rolled logs of rice around a thin sheet of processed seaweed, with strips of avocado and various vegetables tucked in the center. On the same plate were two small bowls. One held soy sauce and the other was filled with a thin guacamole. Apparently Carlos and Suki had found a way to cross their foods culturally. Emma was intrigued. While Oliver reached for his chopsticks, she spread a liberal portion of the guacamole across the top of one California roll.
Oliver watched her with raised eyebrows.
Emma was about to take her first bite when he stopped her.
“You might want to scrape off some of the wasabi.”
“The what?”
“Wasabi.”
She must have looked confused, because he dipped the end of his chopstick in her guacamole and offered her a taste. The minute her lips touched it, her mouth was on fire. She grabbed her cup of tea and swallowed the entire contents. Waving her hand in front of her mouth, all she could do was feel grateful for Oliver’s intervention.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped.
“You thought that was guacamole?”
She nodded. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
His eyes crinkled with a smile as he returned to his sushi.
Once Emma had tasted her first real bite, sans wasabi, she was surprised by how delicious the California roll was. “Hey, this is good.”
“Told you.”
She merely smiled.
They sat in companionable silence, and Emma had to admit she was thrilled to see him. She wanted to explain why she’d reacted the way she had to his gift of a Christmas tree, but was afraid any attempt would destroy this fragile peace.
“You came here for an early lunch?” Oliver asked.
“No, I was on another of my advertising treks for Walt.”
“How’s it going?”
She hated to admit how unsuccessful she was at this selling business. It was so much harder than she would’ve expected. Oliver listened and nodded. Then he told her, “You’re doing it all wrong.”
“What do you mean, I’m doing it wrong?” He wasn’t the one hoofing it from business to business, putting on a smile and talking his heart out, only to be shown the door.
“Emma, listen to me. You’re an attractive, charming young woman and it should be difficult for people to tell you no.”
She scoffed, although she took note of the “attractive” and “charming.” “That hasn’t been a problem today.”
“You’ve gotten nothing but no?” He seemed astonished by that.
She wasn’t proud of it, but that was exactly what had happened. If she didn’t get a flat rejection, it was “we’ll think it over” or “later, maybe.”
“Like I said, you must be doing it wrong.”
That annoyed her. “You turned me down,” she reminded him, allowing her temper to flare just a bit.
“I most certainly did not. I couldn’t afford you, but I wanted you.”
“It was the advertising you wanted, not me,” she told him, stiffening at the implication.
“Whatever. I got you in my plane, didn’t I? And I got advertising in the paper.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll concede the point.” She reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. “If you think it’s so easy, you try.”
“All right. I’ll bet I can prove to you that people can be talked into anything. What do you want me to do?”
Another man had entered the restaurant and sat at a table by the window. Emma pointed at him. “Ask that man to pay for your meal and watch how fast he tells you no.”
“Okay, you’re on.” Oliver slid off the stool and walked toward the gentleman dining alone. He looked like a midlevel bank employee. Possibly a loan officer, judging by the fact that he was smartly but conservatively dressed.
Oliver didn’t hesitate. He strolled over to the other man and when he spoke, he made sure it was just loud enough for Emma to overhear the conversation.
“Excuse me,” he said in a friendly way.
The other man glanced up from his menu. “Yes?”
“I just ordered lunch for my girlfriend and me, and I’ve discovered I left my wallet at home. Would you mind paying for our meal? I’ll repay you, of course.”
The other man didn’t say anything for a long moment. “How much is it?”
Emma was shocked he hadn’t immediately laughed in Oliver’s face and told him to get lost.
In a display of false humility, Oliver shook his head. “I haven’t got the bill yet, but I’d guess around ten dollars.” He shrugged. “I just assumed I had my wallet.”
“You didn’t think of that before you ordered?” the man asked.
Oliver gave him a look that said he was absolutely right. “I know I should’ve but…I didn’t.”
“You seem like a decent sort,” the other man said slowly.
Emma couldn’t stand it. She climbed off the stool and hurried to Oliver’s side. “You can tell him no,” she said eagerly. She’d hate it if Oliver won this bet so easily. Besides, they hadn’t decided what the winner would get.
“Now, Emma.” Oliver frowned at her. “This is man to man. Don’t you worry about it.”
Emma wasn’t going to let him win this bet without a struggle. “My friend is being irresponsible. It certainly isn’t up to you to pay for his mistake. All you have to do is say no.”
The gentleman nodded. “True, but it is the holiday season, and ten dollars won’t break me.”
Oliver grinned triumphantly. He stretched out his hand to the other man. “Thank you very much. I’m Oliver Hamilton, by the way.”
“Gary Sullivan. Nice to meet you.” Gary stood and reached for his wallet.
“No,” Oliver said, refusing the money. “I was just proving a point to my girlfriend. This is Emma Collins, of The Puyallup Examiner.”
“I’m not his girlfriend.” Emma felt it was important to clarify that. “We’re friends….” She let the rest fade, embarrassed to have said anything.
Gary looked confused.
“You could’ve just said no,” Emma repeated, unable to understand why it had been so easy for Oliver and so difficult for her.
“I didn’t mind. Like I said, this is Christmas, I could afford it and your boyfriend—Oliver—is very persuasive. The idea of paying for your meal actually made me feel good. Christmas spirit and all.”
Emma gave up then and walked back to the counter.
“See,” Oliver said as he returned to his stool. “People want to help and it’s the same in sales. If you just remember that, and remember to show them what they’ll get out of it, then you’ll have a better chance of selling advertising for Walt.”
She sighed loudly. “Okay, you win.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You win,” she said a little louder this time, although she nearly choked on the words.
“Good. I’ll be by for dinner around seven.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes. Didn’t I mention my prize?”
“I’m afraid you didn’t.”
“You’re going to make me dinner.” He grinned. “I hope it’s all right if Oscar comes, too.”
Chapter Seventeen
As children growing up in Ireland, we would watch our grandmother make fruitcake and she would always let us lick the bowl afterward. I liked fruitcake simply because of the association with Christmas and spending time in the kitchen with my grandmother. However, it always seemed that the cake lasted until the next century and there was always the possibility of broken bones if the cake accidentally fell on you!
—Frank McMahon, executive chef at
Hank’
s Seafood in Charleston, South Carolina
Oliver was pleased with himself. His spur-of-the-moment experiment couldn’t have gone any better. Later, as they left the restaurant, Emma seemed to think she’d been tricked. She claimed Oliver must have known Gary beforehand. He didn’t, and she’d eventually believed him.
He hoped his little lesson in sales would help—and not just with her ad quota. The fact was, you had to persuade people that they were going to get something out of the deal. It was more of an emotional thing than it was a practical or financial one. Look at Gary for instance—he felt good about helping someone out. Oliver wanted to convince Emma that there’d be an emotional payoff for her, too, if she bought his sales pitch. Only what he was selling was himself.
She’d described them as friends, but he was interested in more than friendship, and if his intuition was right, so was Emma. The problem, and he considered it a minor one, was that she hadn’t acknowledged it yet.
After his lunch, Oliver returned to the airfield, did some paperwork and then drove home. Emma had called to say dinner would be ready around seven-thirty and he took that to mean she had some grocery shopping to do before he came by. He was thinking a big, juicy T-bone steak would suit him just fine.
On his way home, Oliver bought a bottle of his favorite merlot. Humming a Christmas carol, he hopped back inside his pickup. Oscar, waiting for him in the passenger seat, yawned ostentatiously.
“So how’s it going with you and Boots?” Oliver asked his terrier. “You looking forward to having dinner with her?”
Oscar cocked his head to one side.
His cell rang and when he checked caller ID, he saw that it was his mother. He picked up on the third ring, and they discussed Christmas Day and the dinner she had planned. “Hey, Mom,” he said, glancing in his side-view mirror before he changed lanes. “Would it be all right if I brought a guest?”
“For Christmas?”
“Yeah. A…friend of mine.” The word friend made him feel self-conscious. He hoped that by Christmas Day their relationship would have progressed to something a little more exciting.
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