“What are you always telling me, Kate?” Joe grinned. “Maybe you should pray about it.”
He grinned, jogging backward. “Gotta run. I have a one-thirty appointment.” He jogged off in the direction of the Kibbie Dome—the indoor sports stadium, which looked like a giant soda can turned on its side.
Joe was right; she needed to pray about it.
“Dear Lord, be with Joe. Open his heart up to You. Help me with my studies. And about Benton, and what happened today in his office, I keep making messes. Can You somehow wipe the slate clean? And take the attraction away. It’s not within my mental jurisdiction. Amen.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Katherine, dinner’s ready,” Grandma called up the stairwell. The door clicked closed.
It was the perfect time for a study break—three times in a row she’d lost her place in the middle of the Battle of Fredericksburg. Katherine yawned and swung her legs off the bed. From Grandma’s opening and closing of the door, the delicious, earthy aroma of meatloaf had climbed its way up the stairwell.
Barefoot, Katherine jogged down to the main floor. Curious if Hannah still had her little lemonade stand set up next door, she peeked through the front lace curtains. Sure enough, Hannah sat, knees swinging beneath the folding card table as she read a book.
“I’ll just be a second, Grandma.” Katherine grabbed two quarters from her stash on the windowsill and pulled the front door closed behind her. The little girl sat in the dappled shade and held a hand over her eyes as Katherine approached.
“What do you think of a Norwich terrier?” Hannah asked. She held out her hand palm up, keeping her cute little freckled nose behind the paperback.
“I know very little about dogs. The only one we had growing up was a lab.”
“I don’t want another Scottie.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “After Fritz, Mom says we can’t have a dog with a nose for trouble. He’s always digging.”
The Kings knew well Fritz’s love for digging. Katherine set the quarters in Hannah’s open palm. “Grandma has dinner on the table, so I better get back. Thanks, Hannah.” She picked up two Dixie cups of lemonade and hip bumped the open gate. Closing Grandma’s front door behind her, she giggled.
“Sounds like Mrs. Hamilton doesn’t want another Scottish terrier, Grandma,” she said loudly as she crossed the shag carpeting into the kitchen. “Hannah said their next dog can’t have a nose for trouble. She is just the cutest little—” Quinn Benton, of all people, was seated at Grandma’s Formica-and-chrome table. She set the cups down near Grandma’s elbow and, making an abrupt 180-degree turn, strode out of the kitchen and back to the stairwell door.
“Katherine . . .” Grandma’s voice trailed after her. “Kath . . . rine.”
With her heart in her throat, Katherine set her hand on the knob. Quinn Benton was sitting at their table. Why in the world? Grandma! Her hair was down. She was wearing cut-off plaid pajama pants and an oversized gray T-shirt with a coffee spot near her belly button. She was in her relaxed study attire for when no one, especially a professor, was expected to see her.
Grandma had been giggly all afternoon, but other than that she’d provided no clues or warning.
“Katherine, Professor B. stopped by for dinner,” Grandma said.
Katherine leaned her forehead against the white-painted door and closed her eyes. This was not happening.
“I made meatloaf,” Grandma said.
Yellow. She’d seen yellow. There had been something yellow on the kitchen counter. When she’d been in his office, he’d known. They’d conspired against her, formed an alliance. He knew she lived here in this house.
She inhaled and headed back into the kitchen. The yellow gerbera daisies were indeed on the counter.
Grandma was Miss Moscow!
Katherine sat down and clasped the traitor’s outstretched hand. Across the length of the table, Professor Benton did the same. They bowed their heads for prayer.
“Our dear Heavenly Father, thank You for this meal, for our new friend and neighbor, for second chances, for little Hannah, and for Moscow, our wonderful little town, population eighteen and some thousand, can You believe it? And, for Your Son Jesus, who died on the cross for us and rose again on the third day. Thank You. Amen.”
Katherine unfolded a yellow paper napkin over her lap and glanced in Benton’s direction. “You knew you were coming here. The flowers are for Grandma.” When she visited his office, did he think she was flirting? Was that why he was here now? No, he already knew he’d be here for meatloaf; that’s why he’d bought the daisies.
“I kept the flowers in my office today,” he informed Grandma. “I was afraid they’d wilt in my car. When Katherine visited my office to apologize, she saw them. She’s under the impression they’re for a Miss Moscow.”
“Am I Miss Moscow?” Grandma’s eyes and voice sparkled.
“Yes,” Katherine said. Avoiding the gleam in Benton’s eyes, she studied the white cook stove to the left of the doorway. “I should have asked who was coming to dinner, Grandma. You only make meatloaf when we’re having company.”
Grandma had just taken a bite and pointed to her mouth.
“Your grandmother flagged me down yesterday,” Benton said.
“No.” Grandma shook her head and finished chewing. “Don’t you remember, Quinn? You saw me first, and rolled your Buick to a stop beside the gate.”
“Volvo, Grandma. The paperboy has a Buick. It’s dark blue,” she informed Benton.
Grandma nodded.
“You’re right, Ethel, I saw your straw hat.”
“I was deadheading flowers,” Grandma said.
During his drive home, he’d seen Grandma. As of yesterday, he knew that Katherine had lied. He officially knew that she didn’t live at the neighbors’, which also meant he was aware that she was capable of lying to keep Grandma and him apart.
“I just read in the newspaper this morning that our little old Moscow is not so little.” Grandma patted Benton’s arm.
“In a recent men’s magazine, it was ranked as one of America’s top ten college towns to live in,” Benton said.
“Probably because there are so many beautiful female grad students,” Grandma said, suppressing a smile.
“I’m sure the magazine was referring to the locale—fishing, boating, skiing, plus the Snake River is only thirty miles away.” Katherine wanted to take her plate into Grandma’s sewing room, wrap herself in quilts, and never come out.
“It sounds like Katherine’s also read the article,” Benton studied her.
For Grandma’s sake, he was, at least, trying to be civil.
“I hope that magazine doesn’t have a very wide circulation. Katherine and I like our towns small.” Grandma patted his arm. The two were getting along like two elderly coots on a park bench.
“How was your senior luncheon today, Grandma?” Katherine interrupted their festivities.
“Good. Carol brought her raspberry Jell-O salad recipe that I’ve been after for weeks. I made one and have it setting in the fridge for dessert. I made it when I was on the phone to your mother. She called to check in, and see how your classes are going and—” Grandma adjusted her glasses—“if any men were calling here for you yet.”
Katherine had just taken a swig of milk, and of course, it went down the wrong pipe. She darted to the sink and hoped to die.
Why in the world did Grandma bring it up now? Couldn’t she have waited?
“I told her that there have been several men calling.”
“You didn’t!” While Katherine rinsed her face and hands, Benton’s chuckle was steady behind her.
“Didn’t you see the sticky note on the mirror? The one from Carl is only a few hours old.” Grandma sounded delighted. “Carl had such a nice-sounding voice that at first, I thought he was a solicitor.”
“He’s from the professors’ group, Grandma.” Katherine strode to the curio cabinet. There on the mirror were two separate sticky notes, and of co
urse, Joe’s message was in much smaller print than her new admirer’s.
“A professor?” Grandma’s voice rose octaves.
“Yes, Grandma, but no one to call home about. Did Joe say why he’d called?”
“No, not that I remember.”
Why had Carl called? The man was most definitely a time monster.
She glanced at her reflection in the curio cabinet’s square-framed mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her hair loose about her shoulders; from the spot on her T-shirt up, she looked pleasant enough.
Why was Benton here? Was it purely on account of Grandma? It must be. For one, he was not going to date students, his or anyone else’s—God forbid—and two, she and Benton couldn’t stand each other.
She returned to the table and quietly finished the remainder of her meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. A large glass pan of raspberry-studded Jell-O now graced the table.
“I couldn’t wait.” Grandma cut the Jell-O into squares. “There’s a secret ingredient in it, but you have to guess what it is before you taste it.”
“I won’t know without tasting.” Holding the dessert plate at eye level, Katherine studied the multi-textured concoction. “Looks like there’s crushed pineapple.”
“There is.” Grandma nodded.
“Red Jell-O,” Benton said.
“Yes, that too.” She giggled.
“Cool Whip,” he said, referring to the middle layer of white.
“Noooo. Give up?”
“And you read the recipe through twice?” Katherine asked. For some reason, Grandma liked to wing things in the kitchen, a seat-of-the-pants type of cook.
Grandma rolled her eyes. “Carol walked me through her recipe, step-by-step. Her handwriting nowadays leaves a lot to be desired. The white stuff is sour cream. I couldn’t believe it.”
“It’s delicious, Ethel.” Benton studied his second spoonful.
The Jell-O was fruity and delicious.
“Katherine, do you think you sleepwalk?” he asked out of nowhere.
“What do you mean?” She frowned.
“Do you think you sleepwalk?” He lifted his brows. “It’s not a crime. I’ve recently read that four percent of adults sleepwalk. It often has to do with stress.”
What was he getting at? He hadn’t seen her sleepwalk, had he?
“The other night when I dropped you off, I could’ve sworn you opened the neighbor’s gate and walked through their backyard.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Katherine does sleepwalk,” Grandma said, wide-eyed. “There have been several occasions when I’ve been up in the middle of the night for something and had several conversations with you that you do not remember in the morning.”
“That’s called talking in your sleep,” Katherine corrected her.
“Sleepwalking, sleep talking, they go together.” Grandma was more feisty with Benton here. “You also sleep eat.” Her forehead wrinkles deepened. “Remember that time I told you that you mumbled something about being a cheese whiz.”
“Grandma!” She wished she’d explain something right for once.
Benton’s face reddened and his cheek muscles bunched.
There had been a fund-raiser for the McConnell Mansion in Moscow, and she’d done surprisingly well at naming samples of cheese. Much of it had been luck.
“Don’t you remember?” Grandma covered her mouth with a yellow napkin while she spoke. “You’d gone to that cheese-tasting party and amazed everyone.”
“You know very well I wasn’t sleepwalking.” Katherine addressed Benton. “I purposefully wanted you to believe I live at the neighbors’.”
Grandma’s jaw dropped. “Why in the world?”
“I don’t understand either.” Above a spoonful of red Jell-O, Benton’s dark brows gathered.
“Because . . .” Several reasons came to mind. He was her professor, and a bachelor, at that. They already saw each other at Evans’s on Fridays. “I knew there was a mutual heart tug between you and Grandma, and you’re still the only professor who’s ever given me a B.”
Chapter Fourteen
Friday evening, while Katherine’s history girls watched the second half of the Doctor Zhivago movie, Ethel sat at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle.
The girls appeared to be having such a good time in the living room that Ethel couldn’t help feeling a bit left out. Didn’t Katherine trust her? She’d sworn she wouldn’t say a thing about the time Quinn Benton had dined at their home, or that the yellow daisies on the living room side table were from him.
Ethel sighed and focused on the crossword. What’s a four-letter word for food for the computer? She tapped her forehead with her pencil. How was an elderly woman without a computer supposed to know what they ate? She glanced toward the living room. Would the girls mind if she interrupted their Zhivago staring for one little word?
The phone rang. She set the puzzle aside and hoped it was Pattie; often her daughter-in-law could just rattle off the word.
“Hello.” The movie was just loud enough that she covered her free ear with one hand.
“Hello, Ethel, it’s Quinn Benton.” He had such a deep, masculine voice. She giggled and, stepping into the kitchen, pulled the pocket door closed behind her.
“Hello.” She looked out the window above the kitchen sink toward the empty, lamp-lit street.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m great.” His timing was perfect. “I’m in the middle of doing a crossword puzzle and . . .”
“Would you like me to let you go?”
“No, hold on a second . . .” She set the receiver on the counter and hurried to the table for her book. “You don’t happen to know a four-letter word for food for the computer? Katherine usually helps me when I’m stumped, but she’s . . . busy.”
“Hmm . . .”
“I’m very computer illiterate,” she confessed.
“Data.”
“Data,” she repeated, scanning the little boxes. “There is a T in the row. You may be right. Thank you, Quinn.” She giggled at her good fortune, pulled the pocket door open, and returned the receiver. At the table, she filled in two more words. Why had he called? He’d asked her if she had time to talk, but then he hadn’t said a word. How peculiar. Tonight was Friday; wasn’t he on his blind date with . . . Ethel peered at the Latah County Credit Union calendar that she’d thumb-tacked near Katherine’s side of the table. Tonight was Miss Pullman. She was so glad she’d written it in. The man’s social life was like a crossword puzzle—tricky to keep track of.
Halfway through a new puzzle, the phone rang again. The poor girls. Ethel hurried to answer it.
“Hello.” Orchestra music blared behind her.
“Hi, Ethel, it’s Quinn Benton again.”
Entering the kitchen, she pulled the pocket door closed. “Hello.” He’d just called no more than thirty minutes ago; maybe he had early Alzheimer’s. “Aren’t you on your blind date now?”
“I was wondering if you’d mind if I dropped by? I have a whole nacho from Alex’s Restaurant in Pullman, and they’re never as good the next day.”
No wonder Katherine had gotten a B; the man was hard to follow.
“Drop by?”
“Yes, I thought we could share the nacho.”
“Oh . . .” She giggled. “I already had dinner.”
“So have I.”
Was he simply saying that he just wanted to get together? She hated being alone, too.
“Come over, then, and park in back.”
Ethel hung up the phone and recalled the spot on her lime-green T-shirt. A red Gatorade dribble stained the front. Trying to be as quiet as a mouse, she scurried to her room. She changed into the coral-colored T-shirt, the one on which Sharon had puff painted a row of sunflowers across the chest area. Headlights spanned the windows on the west side of her home as Quinn’s car pulled into the gravel drive. He was quick. He must have been at the light at the Troy hi
ghway when he’d called.
“Is everything okay, Grandma?” Katherine asked as Ethel ambled through the living room toward the kitchen.
She gulped. If the girls found Quinn in their kitchen, Katherine would never forgive her. “Yes, honey. Make sure the girls use the front door when they leave.” Ethel waited for Katherine’s nod before she pulled the pocket door closed.
She patted at her short hair on her way toward the back door. Professor B. stood on the middle step, wearing a royal-blue polo and holding a white Styrofoam container.
“My blind date in Pullman didn’t go very well.” The lack of light in his dark eyes meant he was disappointed, tired, or maybe both. “By tomorrow, the chips will be soft. They’re never as good the next day.”
“What a wonderful man you are. I’ve been so bored.” She waved him inside. Quinn brushed past her into the kitchen and set the container on the table.
“Looks like you’re cooped up in the kitchen.” He nodded toward the pocket door.
“Yes, Katherine and some of her girlfriends are watching a movie.” Ethel took a glass down from the cupboard. “Would you like some pink lemonade?” She opened the refrigerator.
“That sounds great.” He sat down in the chair nearest the back door, the one that neither Katherine nor Ethel usually occupied.
“So your blind date didn’t go very well.” She set a glass of yellow lemonade in front of him. Would he notice it wasn’t pink?
“No. If we’d both been blind, it still wouldn’t have gone well.” His near smile didn’t begin to reach his eyes. “Our personalities clashed, I’m afraid.”
“Sometimes that happens.” Ethel sat down in her usual chair, kitty-corner to him. “I’ve been a widow for almost ten years, and I was married for forty-two. We were both young when we married, but I still remember dating and clashing.”
Quinn nodded. “I was engaged two years ago—a year and ten months, to be exact.” He flipped back the lid on the container, exposing a beautiful layered nacho. Melted cheddar cheese covered beans and chips, garnished with olives, tomatoes, green onions, and a dollop of sour cream. “I started dating again a few months ago; it’s been difficult.”
Sticky Notes - A clean romance (Ethel King Series Book 1) Page 9