Can't Hurry Love

by Melinda Curtis

  It was just like something Jane would do.

  Drew flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Lola wasn’t home. Her impractical red Fiat wasn’t in the driveway, which was filled with boxes and black trash bags, a mounted deer head, and various items of furniture.

  “I’ll have a talk with her,” Drew promised Ramona, turning the cruiser lights off.

  “Make sure you do.” Ramona clasped her hands piously. “This isn’t New York City.”

  No. It wasn’t. No one would look twice at Lola’s window in New York City, other than to take a selfie in front of it.

  Drew pulled away at a much slower pace, wondering where Lola had gone. Gas? Grocery store? Greeley? He kept his eyes open on the way to pick up his daughter.

  Mia Hampton lived in the newer part of town. Houses here were finished in stucco and were cookie-cutter, affordable but lacking the character of the farmhouse or Lola’s hundred-year-old Craftsman.

  “Dad! Daddy! Papa! Padre! Did you get married?” Becky bolted down the front walk in red cowboy boots, a Denver Broncos jersey, and a pink tutu. Her fashion choices may have been eclectic, but her long brown hair was in a neat French braid that he’d had no hand in creating. Without waiting for an answer to the question of marriage, Becky shouted, “We had waffles!”

  Drew swept Becky into his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of her, enjoying the tight loop of skinny arms around his neck, forgetting about French-braid fails, sisters who might have slept with married men, and the threat of Jane.

  “Did you arrest anybody last night, Daddy?” Becky craned her neck to see whether there was anyone in the back of the cruiser. At the shake of his head, she added, “Shoot. Nothing exciting ever happens here.”

  “You’re exciting,” Drew argued with a gentle tug on her braid.

  It was true. As much as he’d wished for a quiet, sweet daughter who wore pretty dresses and was happy playing jacks and hopscotch, he loved Becky’s exuberance. Until today, he’d been convinced that the older Becky got, the more conformist she’d become, especially with Mia as her best friend. Mia was the girl in Becky’s class who wore pretty dresses and was enrolled in ballet.

  “Let’s go.” Becky wiggled in his arms.

  “You need to thank Ms. Hampton properly.” He set her down. He needed to thank Mia’s mother too and collect Becky’s things.

  Becky ran ahead, tutu bouncing with each step. She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Come on, Daddy.”

  An image of Lola came to mind, walking her blow-up husband home, staring back at Drew with a challenge in her eye. What had she been like as a kid? Wilder than Becky, he’d bet. Maybe as wild as Jane.

  Drew picked up Becky’s sleeping bag and backpack from the porch and thanked the Hamptons for their hospitality, promising a sleepover at his place soon.

  Duty done, Becky ran toward the cruiser without looking back. Like any kid, she had a jumble of interests, all of which Drew encouraged. Lately, she’d been talking about wanting to play the guitar or the piano. His mind blended an image of Becky with a childhood memory of Jane. His ex-wife had always had eclectic interests and her own fashion sense. Did that mean there was nothing he could do to keep Becky in Sunshine, where he could ensure she was safe and happy?

  He stowed Becky’s things in the trunk, trying to reassure himself that his daughter was nothing like Jane.

  “Ten-four, Flo.” Becky returned the handset to its cradle as Drew leaned in the open driver’s door.

  “Rebecca Maureen Taylor.” Drew used the drill sergeant voice he reserved for Paul when he was drunk and his deputy Gary when he was overzealous in his enforcement of justice. “Are you supposed to use my radio?”

  “No, but Flo—” At his hard stare, Becky started again. “Ms. Carlisle asked for a status update on your whereabouts. Didn’t you hear her?”

  He hadn’t. He’d turned off his mobile radio when he’d been talking to Lola in the garage apartment. Drew turned on the handset clipped to his shirt, and then pointed to the back seat and Becky’s booster. Driving around with his kid in the back seat, where criminals were supposed to sit, probably wouldn’t look good in family court, but the cruiser was easier for her to get in and out of than the department’s SUV. And it wasn’t practical to switch out department vehicles with a personal car when he was on call 24/7.

  At this rate, he’d second-guess himself into a mental breakdown. He inhaled deeply, trying to find balance. “Were you a good girl last night?”

  “Yes, sir.” Becky scampered out the car door and to the back, climbing into her booster behind the driver’s seat. “Where are we going, Daddy-O?”

  “Home.” Drew buckled her in.

  “But Daddy, it’s Sunday.” Becky made her sad eyes, pouting and blinking in the universal language of the hopeful. “Can’t we go to the Saddle Horn?”

  Drew waited to answer until he was behind the wheel and pulling away. “Didn’t you just say you had waffles at the Hamptons’?”

  “Waffles, not hot chocolate.” Becky found his gaze in the rearview mirror and gave him her sweetest smile.

  If Jane hadn’t texted, if Drew hadn’t been realizing his parental weaknesses, he might have held firm. Instead, he turned down Main Street.

  A bright-yellow SUV approached. It had something large inside, something nearly as tall as the cab interior.

  Drew raised a hand in greeting as they passed.

  The driver, his sister Eileen, didn’t turn her head or acknowledge Drew, but her vehicle swerved slightly, as if his gesture startled her.

  “You shoulda honked,” Becky said. “Aunt Eileen didn’t see me. And I waved.”

  Eileen was still peeved about her so-called boyfriend being arrested for grand theft auto. She’d insisted on dropping the charges and blamed Drew when Tyrell hadn’t returned to Sunshine along with her vehicle. That had been weeks ago. Drew needed to clear the air.

  Plus do a million other things, like broach the subject of infidelity with Pris and advise Lola to close her drapes and give up the mistress search.

  But first, he needed to treat his daughter to hot chocolate, solidifying the father-daughter bond and the hope that Becky would never leave Sunshine.

  * * *

  If Mims had been Catholic, she might have gone to confession this morning.

  Guilt kept trying to weigh her down. Guilt was undoubtedly why Mims felt as if she saw the world differently than Bitsy or Clarice lately. The three women never used to argue about whom to match.

  Drat that Edith. She wanted to get revenge on the woman who’d cheated with Charlie. She wanted to hang her up by her toenails! She wouldn’t understand that Mims hadn’t cheated with Charlie. Not in the biblical sense. She and Hamm, Edith and Charlie. They’d been friends. And friends didn’t cheat on friends. Not in Mims’s book.

  I’m not that kind of woman.

  Which was why Mims was convinced confession wouldn’t help save her soul. Her conscience would be eased only if she found Edith a new man and got her mind off her loss. And if Edith’s enthusiasm for the Widows Club waned while she was in the process of falling in love again, why, that would be a bonus.

  So Mims had fidgeted through Pastor Mike’s services as he’d talked about loving thy neighbor. (The minister always was a mind reader.) And when he was finally done, she’d headed straight for the Saddle Horn for a board meeting of the Sunshine Valley Matchmakers Club.

  The Saddle Horn coffee shop had been in existence since before Mims was born. It was named after a snowy peak that sat high above Sunshine Valley in the Rockies. On Sundays, it served hot chocolate with mile-high whip. You weren’t supposed to eat the whipped cream with a spoon. You were supposed to dive in with your face. It was an institution and guaranteed a constant stream of families on Sundays.

  Mims pushed through the front door, ringing the bell overhead. Customers looked up, nodding and calling out greetings. She walked past the counter with its red seats and silver swivel stools. Her lo
w heels rang out on the green-and-white checked linoleum until she reached the corner.

  She eased her way to the back of the red vinyl circular booth the board always occupied on Sundays. The cushion had an airflow problem. If someone sat down with too much gusto, the rest of the occupants bounced, as if sharing an air mattress. It could be an annoyance, but from the corner booth, the Matchmakers Club could see everyone coming and going.

  The moment Mims’s purse was tucked on the seat, Pearl slid a coffee mug in front of her. Pearl was Bitsy’s mother and as much a fixture at the Saddle Horn as Sunday-morning hot chocolate. The wiry old waitress would probably die with a coffeepot clutched in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other.

  Bitsy arrived next, sitting so primly the air beneath the cushion barely moved. In no time, Pearl had a small pot with tea steeping and an empty cup before her.

  “Thank you, Mama,” Bitsy said absently. She wore a pink twinset and a pair of white wool slacks. Her blond bob was held back with a white velvet hair band.

  There might have been a time when Mims was envious of Bitsy’s slender sophistication but at her age Mims had accepted she’d never be a size eight or be the type to buy clothes that needed the delicate cycle, much less dry cleaning.

  “How was your husband?” Mims cradled her still-hot coffee mug.

  “Which one?” Bitsy frowned.

  Mims paused. When Bitsy visited her husbands’ graves, at least one of them had something to say about Bitsy’s life or the world at large.

  Bitsy stared at the door so intently that Mims looked to see who’d come in. The bell hadn’t rung. The door stood closed. No one was on the other side.

  “No one talked to me today,” Bitsy admitted with a sigh.

  “Oh.” Mims sat back. The last time that had happened, Bitsy had begun dating someone. Soon after, she’d gotten married, dropping out of the Widows Club for several years.

  “Oh?” Bitsy echoed, fingering the pearls at her throat. “We need to talk about Lola and Drew.”

  Mims held up a hand. “I’m going to keep my eye on Drew and Wendy. You can keep looking for someone for Lola if you’d like, but she’s not ready.”

  Bitsy’s blue gaze sharpened.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Clarice took the seat on the other side of Mims with a plop that gave Mims a little air bump. She set her walking stick against the wall and adjusted her hearing aids. In a tribute to her hippie roots, she wore a blue peasant blouse with white embroidered flowers and faded blue jeans. “I was setting out the bird feeders and spilled all my seed. The squirrels are going to get fat.”

  Pearl appeared with a hot chocolate topped with frothy whipped cream and a stack of napkins.

  “When are you going to grow up and give up hot chocolate, Clarice?” Bitsy rarely snapped at anyone. She was friendlier than the doormat at Pastor Mike’s office, the one that read, Hug a stranger and love your fellow man.

  Mims began to seriously worry about her friend.

  “Grow up?” Clarice said, unfazed by Bitsy’s derision. She tossed her gray braids over her shoulders and bobbed like a bird, pressing her face into the swirl of whipped cream. She straightened and smiled at Bitsy, wearing a lopsided white beard. “I’ll give up Saddle Horn hot chocolate when I’m dead.”

  “I’m guessing that’s a long time from now.” A familiar sparkle returned to Bitsy’s gaze as she said this, easing Mims’s concern about losing Bitsy from the Widows Club.

  “Dead is a long way off.” Clarice wiped away her melting beard and prepared to start over. “Matchmaker business first?”

  “Yes.” Mims wasted no time. The second church service of the day would be getting out soon, and the coffee shop would begin to fill, eroding any hope of privacy. “I have some candidates I think would be perfect for Edith.”

  Clarice dipped her chin in the whip, creating a pointed beard. “Give us the list.”

  So Mims did. “Bart Umberland. He’s divorced and lives alone in a cabin on the mountain.” A forty-five-minute drive from Sunshine in good weather.

  “The mountain is a deal-breaker.” Bitsy poured her tea. “Edith enjoys life in town.”

  “Agreed.” Clarice dabbed her creamy whiskers away with a napkin. “Next.”

  Drat. Mims’s list went downhill from there. “Darryl Woolsey. He’s a retired mechanic and can fix anything.”

  “Hmm.” Clarice’s gaze grew distant as she considered Darryl. “I heard Edith complain about a persnickety dishwasher last night.”

  “That won’t work either.” Bitsy added a dollop of cream to her tea. “Darryl can’t get the grease out from under his fingertips, and Edith is a bit OCD.”

  Mims had been afraid of this. There wasn’t a big pool of eligible men over the age of sixty in town.

  “Well…” Clarice spun her hot chocolate slowly, examining what was left of the froth the way Mims studied deer tracks in the snow during hunting season. “Maybe we should let Edith into the club.”

  “No.” Mims almost added, Never. She fell back against the banquette, which forced the air in it to either side, giving Clarice and Bitsy a gentle ride on a wave of air. “We have rules in the club for a reason.”

  Bitsy gave Mims a hard look. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “When it comes to the club, we don’t keep secrets.” Clarice wiped her mouth with a fresh napkin. “That’s a board rule.”

  The need to tell them she and Charlie had been hunting and fishing buddies for more than a decade weighed heavily upon Mims. They’d take it wrong. They’d think…They’d think she was the worst sort of person. When really, she’d done nothing wrong.

  Mims drew herself up. “I—”

  “I was so excited.” Edith plunked down next to Clarice, sending a wave of air around the booth cushion and squishing the air from Mims’s lungs. “I rushed out of church without getting into the fellowship line and came in the coffee shop back door.” Edith elbowed Clarice deeper into the booth. She wore a pink flowered dress that had seen better days and a smile like a schoolgirl with a full box of valentines. “Get me up to speed. What are we doing?”

  Mims felt trapped in the back of the booth.

  Pearl set plates down in front of the board. Scrambled egg whites for Bitsy. Hash browns and sausage for Clarice. A western omelet for Mims.

  “We’re eating?” Edith smiled as if she’d won the annual trout-fishing contest. Which was ridiculous, because she never fished. “Pearl, have Alsace make me a special.” Edith grabbed Pearl’s apron before the waitress could turn to go. “Only tell Alsace to hold the potatoes, the onions, and the cheese. Oh, and the tomatoes.”

  Pearl frowned. She was pricklier than a porcupine if people didn’t say what they meant. “You want scrambled eggs with bacon.”

  “Yes.” Edith put roll-your-eyes punch into the word. “But the special is two dollars less.”

  Pearl’s steel-gray eyes narrowed.

  Mims held her breath with barely contained glee, waiting for Pearl to put Edith in her place.

  “Mama…” Bitsy saved Edith from certain censure. “Are you coming to my house for Sunday dinner?”

  Without turning her head, Pearl angled her narrowed gaze toward her daughter. “Don’t I always?” She tugged her apron free of Edith’s grip and headed toward the order counter.

  “Don’t forget my special,” Edith sing-songed. She smiled at them all, as clueless as she’d been back in high school to the emotional tone of those around her.

  Had Mims been worried Edith would figure out she and Charlie had been pals? She shouldn’t have been. Edith couldn’t detect a ripple in a still pond.

  “Thank you for the reminder about the board meeting, Clarice.” Edith beamed at the traitor and her latest whipped cream beard. “I’m ready to serve. Swear me in.” Edith looked better today. She’d combed her hair but lines emanating from her eyes hinted at despondency.

  “We’re discussing the upcoming fashion show benefiting the Holly Scouts,” Mims lied,
glancing up from sprinkling her omelet with Tabasco to give Clarice a stern look.

  What had Clarice thought inviting Edith would accomplish?

  “I’ve always wanted to walk the runway.” Edith craned her neck to look around the coffee shop. “Where did Pearl go? I’d like coffee.”

  Bitsy scooted out of the booth, darted behind the counter, and returned with a cup and a coffeepot. She’d worked at the Saddle Horn through her teenage years, before she’d found higher-paying work at the cable company in Greeley.

  “Thank you,” Edith said with that all-is-right-with-my-world smile of hers, adding before Bitsy could sit, “and could you get me some creamers? The ones with the flavors, not half-and-half.” She aimed that smile at Clarice next. “I guess Bitsy won’t be joining us for the meeting, since she’s working.”

  Bitsy frowned, not that Edith noticed. And then Bitsy pivoted gracefully in her black ballet flats to do Edith’s bidding.

  Mims stabbed her omelet as if it needed a death blow.

  “My, but you’re particular, Edith.” Clarice had demolished her whip. She sighed and slurped hot chocolate from her mug.

  “I don’t get out much, and when I do, I like to enjoy the good life.” Edith gave Clarice’s hot chocolate a deprecating glance. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand that, living as simply as you do.”

  Clarice set her mug on the table with a thud. She adjusted her hearing aids as if she couldn’t believe she’d just been insulted.

  Mims waited for Clarice to snap back but nothing happened. Nothing. And postmenopausal Mims couldn’t think of a thing to say to defend her friend.

  Bitsy placed two capsules of French-vanilla creamer in front of Edith and slid gracefully into the booth without so much as a poof of air.

  “Thank you.” Edith flashed that smile Bitsy’s way. She’d perfected the art of getting people to do her bidding. “But I’d like two more creamers. The coffee here is always bitter.”

  Mims shoved a bite of omelet into her mouth to keep from telling Edith to make do.

  Almost without looking, Bitsy’s hand darted out and found Pearl’s arm as she passed. “Two more flavored creamers, please, Mama.”