Hotter than Helen (The Bobby's Diner Series)

by Wingate, Susan

  “Seattle, although beautiful, Hawthorne, just didn’t suit me.”

  “But, it’s the literary capital of the U.S., isn’t it? Timothy Egan once said of the area that it is ‘militantly literary.’” Hawthorne always enjoyed showing people how much he knew about different subjects. “Or something to that effect.”

  “Now, Hawthorne. Don’t pry. It’s rude.”

  “But, I would think a writer like yourself would prefer it there. That’s all.”

  “Yes. Yours are good points.” She picked up her wine glass and sipped. Her brown eyes dimmed and doubt coursed over her forehead. By the time she swallowed she had recovered. The same strand of hair had loosened again and fallen by her cheek, framing her petite face, giving her normal proper look a sexy quality. “I guess, Hawthorne, I just like the dry weather.” She smiled in a way that ended the discussion.

  Georgette had forgotten how good Helen was under pressure. She remembered her calmness when they spoke the night the mayor got into that fatal automobile accident. Even the mayor’s death turned out to be something designed by Zach Pinzer.

  “Well, good. That’s good, Helen. You’ll get lots of dry weather now.”

  “Helen? Don’t listen to him. He’s been nosy since the day we met. Always asking about things. At first, it bothered me, but then I realized he’s just a sponge. Likes to know all sorts of things. For what? Who knows. Maybe he’s thinking of writing a book too.” Georgette glared at her fíancé.

  “Now, there’s an idea! Honey, it would be a love story … about you and me. Oh and Helen. You too. I hate to leave people out.”

  “I bet you do.” Helen was no amateur. She could dish it like a pro.

  “Oh ho ho! That’s good, Helen.”

  “You two are horrible. Am I gonna have to separate you?”

  “You just might, honey.” He tipped his glass toward Georgette. They clinked rims. Then he turned to Helen with his glass raised still. “Right, Helen? We’ll need to be separated, right?”

  Helen looked at Georgette like Hawthorne was nuts, but she picked up her glass anyway. “You’re seriously marrying this guy, huh, Georgette?”

  Her comment buckled Hawthorne. “Well, we already have our engagement party set for this coming weekend. A chance to kick up our heels, right, honey?”

  The two women chuckled at how much fun he was having. He took a big gulp of wine then dug at the last couple of bites on his plate. “I’m almost ready for dessert! I bet it’s ready too. I’m guessin’ it’s blueberry brickle! I can smell it baking in the oven.”

  Georgette pushed away from the table. “You’re guessin’, Hawthorne. He knows it’s blueberry brickle. It’s his favorite, Helen.” She grabbed his empty plate and moved toward Helen who was holding hers up. “He asked me to make it.”

  “Do you need some help, Georgette?” Helen’s voice sounded strained and she began to stand. As Georgette was about to answer, to tell her she didn’t need any help, Hawthorne butted in.

  “Helen, you’re our guest! You keep your fanny in that seat. I hate being all alone at the table. Georgette can handle this anyway. Right, honey.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t look up at Georgette for an answer but, instead, placed his hand on Helen’s arm pressing her down. When she sat again, he rubbed it gently.

  “That’s right, Helen. Hawthorne is right. Sit. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  7

  Looking inside a glass door, Helen stood chilling in the frozen food section of Sunnydale’s corner market, the Sunnydale Food Center. She felt a blast of frosty air hit her nose. The scent of the cold gust reminded her of someone’s dirty freezer. That’s when she heard him.

  “You want some Jell-O with that wiggle?”

  The voice behind her made Helen turn around slowly, not sure if the comment was meant for her but still recognizing the deep bluster of his voice.

  “Oh, Hawthorne.” She stood up quickly and pawed at her hair. Her hands swept over her head down to the ends of her hair and finally, pulling at the ends, she made a long tress hang over the curve of her right shoulder. “You’re so bad.”

  She hadn’t brushed her hair after jogging this morning nor had she changed out of her clothes but instead went straight to the store in her tee-shirt and sweats. Now, she wished she hadn’t. Hawthorne had an indigo cardigan that matched his eyes slung over his broad shoulders like a college boy with the arms tied in front of his chest. The sweater’s color set off his salt and pepper hair. His steely eyes disabled her. They didn’t exude tenderness but rather intensity.

  “Hello, Helen.” Only one side of his mouth curved up.

  “What are you doing here?” She continued to pat at her hair, trying to smooth it down.

  “Picking up a couple things, you know. I still have my place.” He bobbled his eyebrows up and down.

  Helen leaned with one hand on the shopping cart as she spoke with him. Cold air gushed out and spilled around her ankles when the door fell closed.

  “You’re moving in soon with Georgette, right?”

  “You’re cold.” He looked squarely at her breasts then up to her face.

  She looked down. Her nipples had gone stiff. She slapped her arms in front of her chest.

  “Here, take my sweater.” He began untying the sleeves around his neck.

  Wrapping both arms tight around her she refused, “It’s okay. I’d swim in that thing. I just need to get out of this aisle. I’m freezing. It’s the desert and I’m freezing. Doesn’t make sense, does it?” She looked away, turning to see if anyone else was near, then to the shelves across from the bank of freezers where they stood, then back at Hawthorne.

  Seeing him there now, she understood how Georgette had fallen for this guy.

  “You have fun the other night?” He was grinning at her the same way he had at dinner.

  “At dinner?”

  “Uh huh, at dinner.”

  She nodded fast, exuding nerves, then pulled her shirt together at the collar making a tent in front of her and away from her chest to hide her breasts. Then she tried to angle her cart to the left, circling out from the area, turning out of the aisle but missing the turn, she clipped the corner of Hawthorne’s cart.

  He didn’t adjust for it, didn’t budge. Pulling back again and finally maneuvering the metal shopping cart in a semi-circle, she headed out.

  Helen continued to talk with him as she pushed her cart away. “Oh, yes. Georgette and I always have a good time.”

  “You like her a lot, do you, Helen?”

  “Of course. What an odd question, Hawthorne.” Helen squinted at him. “She’s my friend. Of course I do,” she repeated.

  At the end of the aisle she looked both ways as if in traffic. Seeing it clear, she continued left to the next bank of aisles. Hawthorne sped up to her and they walked together with their carts side-by-side as they spoke.

  “The only reason I’m sayin’ is because maybe you’d like to stand for her. You know, at the wedding.” The question stopped her. She looked up at him quickly to check his face for sincerity and found something in his eyes that looked more like teasing. His look didn’t fit the question. She looked back in front of her and her face flushed red. Went hot.

  Being around him, this morning and the other night, made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t gauge him. Then, a thought occurred to her, sending her mind whirling. Maybe he was flirting with her. It was just like Hawthorne, from what she knew of him anyway, to set people on a curve, make them feel unbalanced. It felt bad but at the same time titillated her. She kept looking at items on shelves as if she were still shopping.

  “So, what do you say, Helen?”

  “Well, only if she asks me.” She paused. “What about Roberta?”

  “Roberta has already agreed, but who says there can’t be two standing for Georgie?”

  “Well, no one, I guess. I mean, sure, yes, if she wants me to, I’ll stand for her. Sure.”

  “Good, then. We’ll see that it happens.”

&nb
sp; “Well, I need to get back. I need to find a few more things and get back.” She angled her head down toward another aisle as they walked, as they talked. “See you, Hawthorne.”

  “Soon. Helen.” He nodded and stopped following her.

  She pushed away, leaving him behind, then turned down the nearest aisle. She started to breathe hard like a delayed hyperventilation or something. She looked at her breasts. With each emphasized breath, she could clearly see her nipples through the tee shirt. She pressed the palms of her hands down on them, trying to flatten them, soften, make them behave. However, sensing someone was watching her, she looked back. There he was. Hawthorne had both elbows resting on the handle bar of the cart, his chin perching on his hands. He was turned in her direction, just watching. When their eyes connected, he tipped his head, flickered a smile at her, making his lips twitch. She turned back fast grabbing her shirt tightly bunching it in front of her.

  When she looked back again he was pushing his cart past the end cap and out of sight.

  Helen felt a warm tug in her crotch. She tightened her thighs, twisting one gently over the other, trying to make the warm sensation subside.

  She couldn’t believe what she was thinking. She couldn’t believe she was feeling that way about Hawthorne.

  8

  “He keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.” Georgette had dragged the girls into the kitchen with her to talk about him. A blast of toasted nutty fragrance filled the room when she lifted open the tin of Folgers.

  “Folgers. Good lord, Georgie.” Roberta said.

  “Hush. When will you stop about Folgers?”

  Roberta smiled and let her talk.

  “He likes to surprise me.” Georgette continued. “I heard him the other day on the phone telling Martin it would be a huge shock for me. Maybe he sold his home at the golf course. He’s just that way. Always something up his sleeve.”

  “I’m still not sure about him, Georgie.”

  “Oh lord, Roberta.” Helen interjected. “That’s how you acted with Georgette. You’ve never been one to accept people readily. I think he’s delicious.” Helen stepped in closer to Georgette, reaching into a cupboard as she spoke to Roberta. She pulled out a bottle of Tums.

  “Now, that’s not true, Helen. And, even if I am a little guarded, well, I need to be.” All the women stopped talking and Helen and Georgette exchanged looks with each other.

  “Rick is leaving.”

  “What!”

  “Oh not that way. He’s leaving for Laughlin, some consulting thing, next week I think, maybe after that. I don’t know.”

  “Okay, girls. This is the deal. I brought you in here to talk about me and Hawthorne, not this.” She paused at the sink while filling the glass coffee pot with water. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” She giggled like a teenager.

  “He is gorgeous, Georgette. I’m so jealous.” Helen patted Georgette on the back.

  “He’s okay. Too old for me.” Roberta joked.

  “Oh, you stop, now.”

  “I’m next.” Helen dropped her arms. “It’s my turn. I deserve a break, a go at the brass ring. I deserve a man like Hawthorne too, Georgette.”

  She seemed almost mad, but Georgette felt it was just Helen acting.

  “He’s simply adorable,” she added, which made Georgette smile.

  Georgette turned her back on them, poured the water into the coffee maker, closed the lid, pressed it on and turned to them both. “I know. I look at him and get, you know, aroused.”

  “Oh, gack, Georgie.” Roberta put a finger in each ear.

  “La, la la … I can’t hear you.”

  “You’re such a baby.” Georgette smiled and hugged her step-daughter. “Come on. The boys are probably getting restless. That Martin sure is cute.” She nudged Helen.

  “He’s okay. Kind of thin. I don’t like thin much anymore.” She looked down, acting embarrassed about how she may have sounded.

  Georgette and Roberta both understood the reference to Helen’s late husband, the mayor.

  “Come on. Let’s get back in there.” Georgette avoided the subject and headed out of the kitchen.

  As the women walked in, Rick walked up to Roberta quickly. “Rob, I was just about ready to come and get you.”

  Speaking to the small crowd she said, “He can’t live without me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, Rick. It’s true. I remember you coming to the house once …”

  “Okay, ladies. It’s true. I’m nothing without her. Just a lousy piece of flesh.”

  “A nice piece of flesh, Rick.” Roberta kissed his cheek and before she could fight him he flipped her around in a dip and kissed her hard on the neck. The theatrics made the group roar with laughter, especially Hawthorne.

  “Oh, whoa there, stallion. Hold up now. Before you know it, this party will have turned into an orgy.”

  “Lord, Hawthorne. You’re terrible.” Georgette giggled and snuck under his arm, giving him a hug on her way to the couch. She pushed the cat off and sat down. “Come sit by me, you gorgeous hunk of man.”

  “Oh my, dear girl. I do think you want a little action.”

  “Ick.” Helen got out through a tumble of giggles. “He’s so, so,”

  “So amorous, Helen?” Hawthorne interjected on his own account.

  “No, I was going to say, gross.” She busted out laughing. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any stinking coffee. What I’d really like is another glass of champagne!”

  “Oh, I was just dying for somebody to say that. Me too.” Georgette jumped up from the couch, but Hawthorne pulled her down. She screamed and laughed. “Let me go, you big lug. You big, gorgeous lug.” He kissed her to shut her up. She seemed to melt.

  “Oh. Please.” Helen made a face like she’d eaten a worm.

  “Helen. If you want someone to kiss you, I can certainly help you out.” When Martin Tanner spoke the words, the room hushed for a second. Roberta’s hand covered her mouth. Hawthorne and Helen went quiet. Helen blushed. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to feel left out.” His last words crushed everybody. With everyone laughing at once, no one could tell who laughed first.

  “Oh my.” Helen held her hand to her chest. “Well, maybe we could talk a little first.” Her comment made Hawthorne burst out laughing even harder, so hard he started to cough.

  “How about some music?” Martin suggested. “We can talk while we dance.”

  Hawthorne continued to cough, making him jump up from the couch, worrying Georgette.

  “Honey, you okay?”

  “Oh, good gravy, George.” He laughed through his coughing spell. “I’m dying.” He raced toward the kitchen. “The cure? …Champagne!” He disappeared but continued to entertain the rest of them by laughing so hard. “Honey. Oh. Jeez, honey. Turn up the music, for Chrissake!”

  9

  As the four of them drove up and parked, the twinkling chili pepper lights trimming the eave, lining the doors and wrapping around two saguaro cacti like candy canes gave Chavelo’s a Christmas-y feel amid the vast barren desert that now was turning dark around the restaurant. All four of them jumped out of Hawthorne’s big black truck, with custom license plates still from Nevada that read BIGGS.

  A distilled breeze skipped through the evening. A rare rain had been forecast and sure smelled like it. The air had cooled from the day by twenty-five degrees and Georgette buttoned her thin olive cotton cardigan. Seeing the buttons stressed across her chest, she tried to stretch out the sweater to hide the gaps between each button. She looked over at the others to see if they had noticed. They hadn’t. Hawthorne and Martin Tanner seemed utterly consumed by Helen, thin, fragile Helen.

  “This is new, isn’t it, Georgette?”

  “Brand spanking, Helen.”

  “I hope my stomach can handle Mexican food.”

  “Oh no, Helen. Should we go somewhere else?”

  “Heavens no. I’ll just be careful.” She held one hand on her stomach. “It’s
beautiful, isn’t it? I love the landscaping. It fits in perfectly with the desert, doesn’t it?”

  “Nearly disappears,” Georgette agreed, keeping her arms folded as she walked.

  “It reminds me of yours and Bobby’s house.” Catching herself, seeing how the others quieted upon her comment, she said, “Oh, I mean, your place, Georgette. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Helen. Bobby was a big part of that house. Hawthorne understands.”

  “Helen, I’m a big boy.” Hawthorne smiled hard at her. “We’re all adults. I honor Georgette’s past, her husband, rest his soul.” He turned to Tanner who nodded.

  “Thank you, honey.”

  “Of course.” But when Hawthorne responded to Georgette, he looked at Helen.

  The restaurant door swung open and a man stood there, lean and tall, keeping it open with his body. His shoulders took up most of the width of the door. It was Willard Cleary, with his signature pencil wedged between his temple and his ear. A look he took on after he gave up smoking four years ago. For a while he used the pencil like a pacifier for the real thing. Twiddling it between his fingers, placing it in his mouth, a nervous habit he’d long since forgotten about, she guessed.

  Georgette and he locked eyes in a gaze that lasted longer than she had hoped, but Willy’s eyes, she’d always believed, were magnet eyes. In unison, the other three all seemed to say, “Evening Police Chief,” to him. Thankfully no one noticed Willy’s and Georgette’s connection. It was one thing she hadn’t felt the need to tell Hawthorne. It was just that one date so keeping it under wraps didn’t seem like dishonesty.

  “Allow me, ladies, Biggs.” Martin leaned in and grabbed the door from Willy with all the flourish of the Marquis de Sade. Willard stepped out of the way, catching one last glance at Georgette then walked off without speaking.

  “Well, thank you, Martin.” Helen tipped her head at him and flashed a smile. She raised her shoulders and wiggled through the door.

  “You’re welcome, you lovely piece of art.”