by Viragh, Brea
I somehow found my way to the front counter and managed to order a latte without stuttering.
This was me helping August, and maybe having a good conversation in the process. Remember that family sticks together, I reminded myself. This is for August and Isabel. Duncan is nothing more than a nice guy, and there are plenty of others waiting to be plucked.
“Everything is tasty here,” I told him, leaning against the counter. “You can’t go wrong, although I highly recommend the gazpacho. It’s delicious.”
Duncan didn’t bother looking at the menu, ordering the exact same thing I had without further ado. I appreciated his trust in me. I’d spent many an afternoon at the small coffee shop, trying each item on the menu, when I couldn’t stand my own company. There were times when a girl needed to get out of the house, to put on some makeup and one of her best outfits and go out to be noticed. Lately I hadn’t been in the mood.
The moment our mugs and bowls appeared on the counter, Duncan led the way to a table, holding the chair out. I accepted his gesture. And jumped when my hand touched his, warmth shooting from my fingertips through my chest and down to my toes.
I was surprised by the reaction. Why couldn’t I get a grip?
“You know,” I sputtered, looking for some way to distract myself from my emotions, “I’ve made brownies for them to sell here. Brownies and other cupcakes. They were some of my best sellers.”
“Oh? I’ll have to try some one day.”
“I’m a baker, and trying to foster connections in the community is a must. I’m hoping the manager will gamble on me again soon.” I was babbling. “I can’t let another opportunity pass me by.”
Duncan took a sip of his drink and the edges of his mouth curled up. “You were right. This is delicious. I needed it more than I can say.”
“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?” I retorted. “You may be Mr. Big Shot From California, but you should know, I can find a good cup of coffee wherever I am. It’s a singular talent of mine. Plus I have an amazing palate.”
The windows in the rear of the building afforded us a great view of the park. Tall, stately trees ringed the perimeter while grass spread out from a central swing set. Along one edge lay the community garden, kept well-manicured by the town matrons. Tiers of roses bloomed in profusion, along with tulips in the spring and hostas toward the end of summer. There were lilies and iris, narcissus and columbine—all manner of blooms along the green expanse.
“Tell me, Leda, what is there to do around here?” Duncan raised the spoon to his lips.
“They hold events in the park, like movie nights,” I told him. “And there are a few scattered music festivals in the area if you don’t mind a small drive into the mountains. The annual town flea market is a not-to-be-missed attraction. People drive into the county to see the spectacle of human greed.”
He nodded as I spoke. “I take it you don’t like flea markets?”
“I used to. I lost my taste for them once I hit adulthood. Now they don’t hold quite the same appeal they used to for me.”
I remembered the hours spent with my father, dragging me through row after row, bending to inspect price tags and haggling to the lowest nickel. Hudson had furnished the house with other people’s cast-off bargains. He’d had a great need to make every bit of his income count.
Flea markets and thrift stores became our go-to until the moment I had the wherewithal to take over the salon in Deborah’s absence. My first job. I still had the purse I’d bought retail after scrimping for months to afford the luxury. It was the only personal purchase I’d allowed myself because I desperately needed to save. Each dollar was essential when planning my escape.
The genetics of frugality ran through my veins.
“What other types of things do they do in this town? Something I need to put on my calendar?” Duncan asked. A spoonful of gazpacho made its way to his mouth and I watched the cool liquid slip through his lips, my gaze caught on each drop.
“Well, that depends on your hobbies and what you like to do.”
He looked damn good sitting there, I thought. The picture of a put-together man. The shirt emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders and the color accented his tan. Inner romantic likened him to heroes of old but in business attire, and I begged her to stop before I lost my train of thought. She, however, didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“If you haven’t already been, the Friday night jamboree is a sight to behold.” I ticked things off on my fingers. “I already said I would take you there if you have the inclination. And the town holds a movie night in the park on Thursdays. There are craft shows and hiking trails to explore. Once in a while, if we’re lucky, we get a swing band to play. Those nights always draw a crowd.”
Duncan leaned forward for a conspirator’s whisper. Our faces were inches apart. “Swing band, huh? You wouldn’t guess this about me, but I love jazz.”
The man was a master of casual conversation and a whiz at saving people money. “Do tell.”
“When I first moved to California, I was terrible at getting to know people.” He took another sip of cold soup before continuing. “I was too shy for my own good. So I did what any twenty-something would do to find friends. I went out to the clubs.”
I imagined the scene in my head. “I’m sure the ladies flocked to your side. You must have beat them away with a club.”
“More like gentlemen. I hit up what I thought was a jazz place called the Bear Claw by accident. Who knew there were so many gay clubs in Santa Barbara? I walked away with my pockets stuffed with numbers and glitter on every inch of my face.”
I gave him an odd look. “Why was there glitter on your face?”
“Believe it or not, there were a couple guys as tall if not taller than me. They, uh, liked to snuggle during sax solos.”
“You are too bad, Mr. Whitaker,” I replied, my cheeks aching from holding the wide smile. I couldn’t seem to wipe the thing off my face. “I had already pegged you for a risk-taker. You take it above and beyond.”
“Don’t judge me,” he warned with a waggle of his index finger. “I did make some friends there, and I still keep in touch with a few of them.”
Yes, he was a gentleman. I knew several fellows who wouldn’t have quite the sense of humor to roll with such a mistake, let alone have the good grace to stay. It spoke volumes toward his character.
“I like to think I’m good with taking risks, although nothing too extravagant,” I replied.
“Ah, you too?”
“Well...” I shifted. “I’ve done a few crazy things. Moving to Heartwood being at the top of my list. It takes guts to point out a place on the map and stay there.”
I hadn’t meant to twist the conversation into serious territory. Duncan watched me with his expressive face. He had compassionate eyes which never failed to suck me down into their depths. I let them, and appreciated knowing I’d made a conscious choice.
“What were you running from?” he asked, surprising me. “No sense in burying the truth. I can see the same thing in you I saw in myself when I moved from Alabama. You needed to get away, far and fast. Didn’t matter where, as long as you were gone.”
This was nothing like the discussion I’d pictured when he first asked me out to lunch. A little laughter, sure, and talk of his upcoming nuptials perhaps. Not introspection and bonding over lattes, maybe a little judgment thrown about. He didn’t really want to hear my story. Did he?
Trying hard not to scowl as I pushed my subconscious monologues away, I answered his question. “Mama left when I was eleven and my father ended up raising me alone. I grew up in South Carolina, and the minute I turned eighteen I decided I needed to get away. The map told me where to go, although I didn’t land far. I should have picked again but my bravery had exhausted itself.”
“If your thumb had hit Africa, would you have gone?” Duncan asked. He didn’t ask me why, why she disappeared or why I still felt the ripples from her decision. And most important,
why I still let them affect me.
“It was a pin, not my thumb, and damn right! You shouldn’t look so amazed. I needed a change. There were too many memories, too many people who knew my story. They couldn’t wait to put me in a box. ‘Oh, Leda Cox is just like her mama. Trailer trash without the trailer who will never be anything more than an at-home stylist.’ I decided I didn’t want to fit into their neat assumptions and left with the trunk of the car packed full, beauty license in hand.”
Duncan shook his head in wonder. He was steady to my fidgety, and relaxed to my tautness. “I can’t imagine the guts it takes for a single female to make a great leap like that, whether the states are in close proximity or not. What you did was right up there with the best, let me tell you.”
I nibbled my thumb. “I’d hoped the change would do me good.”
“I understand. I didn’t find California with luck and a pin, but I made the leap for similar reasons. It was different from anything, anyone, in Alabama.”
“At least you got to experience a different way of life,” I said, smoothing the silky folds of my dress. “I went from Southern scene to Southern scene. Nothing exciting about the move.”
“It still took guts,” Duncan insisted.
Keeping my hands on my lap and trying not to fidget, I responded with, “I appreciate your asking about me. Most guys who sit across the table ask which modeling agency represents me. And not in the genuine I-want-to-know tone of voice. It gets old after a while. I hate being lumped into a category because of how I look.” There was a prickle of warning starting to buzz along my spine. A stream of consciousness desperate for my attention, trying to let me know I was heading onto a path I could not turn from.
Duncan crossed his legs and leaned back. “My pleasure. Although I can understand why men react that way to you. It’s your eyes. Green like a cat’s. And mesmerizing.”
Think of something smart to say. Think of something smart to say before you blow it. “Thank you, Duncan. I’ve never met a man like you.”
I peered out the window while the sun continued its track across the sky, those buttery-colored beams reflecting off the simple chandelier in the center of the shop. “It’s interesting what you say about having guts. You moved across the country not once, but twice.”
“It was a big deal to consider.” Duncan turned his gaze toward the window as well, warmth evident in each syllable. “In the end it came down to whether or not I wanted to live my life alone or with someone I cared about. I guess you could say it made a complex decision rather simple.”
“I don’t know whether any decision is simple. More like a game where each layers on another, and if you pull one away they all come tumbling down.”
“Truer words...”
“I’m glad you came here. To Heartwood, I mean,” I said. My lips felt numb when hope blossomed in my chest. An aching intensity demanded my attention. Instead of listening to it, I made a show of reaching for my soup, until now untouched. “In the past I’ve been told everything happens for a reason, and I know once you get settled in, you’ll like it here well enough. This is a wonderful place to live.”
Duncan looked surprised at my statement. After taking a sip of coffee, his face broke open and I tried to hold out against the smile. “You know what I realized? You’re an optimist, kiddo,” he said. “Just like me. It’s nice to find another person willing to look on the bright side of life. I’m happy we have the opportunity to get to know each other.”
“Me too.” This time I did not stutter or blush. I was flattered.
Just like him. Yes, I liked the comparison.
A little too much.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I slammed open the door to Nell’s apartment with such force it cracked against the sheetrock and left a dent.
“I’m in trouble!” I blurted.
She glanced over from the stove, long brown hair curled in a messy bun on top of her head. “My brother is right. I do need to start locking the door to keep the riffraff out.”
“This is no time for jokes, Nell.” In light of my scuff on the wall, which would come out of her deposit, I closed the door with great care and flipped the lock. “I’m in terrible trouble here.”
I held the wall up and tried to get my bearings, heart racing, skin aching. It would be easier, so much easier, to catch the flu bug that was flying around and lay low for a while. What ailed me was much more treacherous. It snuck out of nowhere to snap me on the behind with an irrevocable bite.
“And I’m in the middle of a new recipe. Your trouble will have to wait,” she retorted, unwilling to turn her attention from the cherry-red burners. “Get something to drink and sit down.”
“Tequila?”
Nell grabbed a spoon from the counter and gave the dish a stir, steam rising from the pan. “You don’t need anything hard. It’s better for your girlish figure.”
“Sure, I’ll watch my intake right after I stop giving a damn.”
“Which will probably never happen. How about you grab some tongs and take the broccoli rabe out of the pot? Do something constructive instead of standing there destroying my property.”
Wringing my fingers, I crossed the small space as the scent of classic Italian cooking wound its way up my nose. “My stomach is all in knots.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting the crud too,” Nell commented. “It’s been going around and taking people out for days at a time. Some kind of summer flu sickness. You know the kind.”
I jumped up on the counter. “No, I’m not sick. I wish I was.” The answer was automatic. “It’s worse. So much worse.” With a groan, my head dropped into my hands and I knocked my elbows into the cabinets in the process. “I can’t even express how bad it is.”
“I guess I’ll get the veggies out by myself, since you don’t want to help. Thanks a bunch.” Nell shifted and her hips knocked against my legs.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Please tell me what you did before I go out of my mind. I’m dying over here.” Her wry tone indicated anything but.
My hands itched for something to hold. They grabbed the hem of my dress and clenched down. “You don’t have to be flippant.”
With a splat and a sizzle, Nell tossed some chicken over. She was an amateur chef at best, buying any cookbook she could get her hands on and devouring each page. The passion was there, but she fell short on the execution side of things. I’d been on the receiving end of one of her new recipes once. Once. I never wanted to taste her cooking again, as the last one left me with a rash and dry heaves for two days.
Whatever she was serving for dinner, I wanted no part of it.
I needed something good and strong to wipe away my afternoon. My perfect, amazing afternoon.
At my insistence, Nell handed me her glass of chardonnay and I downed it in one gulp. “You’ve finished my drink, now do me the courtesy of explaining yourself,” she scolded.
I used the back of my hand to wipe my mouth. “I got the tingle.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know—” I shook my arm in front of her. “The tingle. The one I said I was waiting for.”
Understanding dawned. “Oh, yes! How could I forget about your little warning sign?” She had sat through enough of what she called my romantic drivel to comprehend my meaning. And be aware of the implications.
Exasperation crept up and wrapped spidery fingers around my throat. “Yes, my little warning sign heralding the arrival of my own true love. There’s only one problem: He’s not single.”
One eyebrow rose individually of the other. “What do you mean, he’s not single? Who exactly did you meet?”
“It’s kind of complicated. Which is why I’m in trouble, Nell. This damn tingle shouldn’t be here and I need it to go away before I mess things up even more!”
Full to bursting with emotion, in any other circumstance I would have shouted from the rooftops and called my Papa. But the thought of that conversation had me shrinki
ng down and wanting to curl into a ball. One of those depressing fetal positions where you wished for a fuzzy blanket and tons of chocolate. Yikes...the reprimands would bruise me even through the phone receiver.
You don’t fall for a married man, Leda. What the hell are you thinking? Pack up the car and get out of there fast. Come home before you make the same mistake your mother did.
Nell groaned, removing a pan from the heat while she rubbed her forehead. “Please tell me it isn’t the guy.”
“I wish I could.”
“The guy who you are supposed to distract so August can convince the love of his life to accept her feelings for him. It’s not him. Right?”
My chin dropped to my chest and I spoke low in my best I’m-not-going-to-hyperventilate voice. “Yup, he’s the one. My one.”
“Oh my God.” Nell actually shuddered, the chill traveling down the length of her body from head to toe. “Tell your tingle it isn’t welcome here and to get the hell out before it does permanent damage. I knew you shouldn’t have agreed to help August,” she growled. “I could wring his neck.”
“You saw them together, Nell. He and Isabel...it’s love, and in this case, I know I’m doing the right thing.”
“You had a choice!” She pointed a finger in my direction. “You could have told August to hit the road and gone on about your business. There are plenty of men out there who would kill for a chance to date you. And you have to go and get tingles for a married man.”
“Soon-to-be-married man,” I corrected, scrambling to argue semantics. “Call it...a committed relationship.”
Nell and I exchanged a look. “Close enough for it to count. Leda, short of marriage, it doesn’t get any more committed than engaged.”
“I started this for August, and I’ll finish it for him, because he deserves happiness. When I first met Duncan, I was full of nerves and adrenaline. Today he found me a better deal on insurance and...we talked for hours.” I sighed. Craving to know I was doing the right thing by helping a friend in need. “I could talk to him forever.”