Breva laughed. "You may have a point."
"So, back to my problem. What, exactly, do you think I should do about Brooke?"
"Write her back," she said after a moment's thought. "You two need to work some things out before you dive into a relationship. Learn about each other a little bit first." Breva dabbed another lotion on her hand, then looked up at Morgan with a dreamy expression on her face. "Actually, I think this whole note idea sounds rather romantic. You've told me before that you have a difficult time expressing your emotions. Maybe this is a good way to do it." She shooed him away. "Go try it. Write something about yourself that's meaningful."
He'd been hoping for easier advice. "Is this how Aaron courted you?" he asked.
"No, but Aaron's a real man. He didn't need notes to express his feelings," she said with a wink.
"Hey," Morgan objected, more than a little put out. "Just because I don't work outside on bridges and tall buildings doesn't mean I'm not a real man."
Breva's eyes sparkled in amusement. "Gotcha."
Morgan glared at her. She loved getting a rise out of him. His mind back on Brooke, he knew he hadn't meant any of the things he'd said to Breva earlier. He'd simply wanted to see her again, had been looking forward to it. To hide his disappointment, he'd lashed out at Brooke instead of admitting that he felt angry at himself for falling asleep.
Maybe this note idea had merit. He could try to explain to her why relationships were so hard for him. Shoot, expressing how he felt in writing had to be less difficult than doing it face to face.
But he still needed a little more help. "How long do you think this note should be?"
Only Breva would know he was being completely serious. "Ten sentences. Even you can do that."
"Thanks," he said dryly.
"It's worth a shot. After all, it's pretty obvious she doesn't want to talk to you until you make amends."
He pondered that for a while as he dutifully sniffed Breva's proffered wrist and shrugged at the smell. Seemed okay to him. Motioning to her to add the lotion to the baskets, he said, "So what is she going to do if I ever find her? Ignore me in person?"
"Maybe."
"She's going to bite my head off, isn't she?" he said, still feeling pretty guilty about his behavior at the party.
"It deserves to be bitten, or at least a little chewed on." Breva began sorting a pile of bath gels. "When I saw you together at the party, Brooke seemed really happy. She was glowing by your side."
The description gave him comfort. "You thought so?"
"I did. Her eyes sparkled and she had this dreamy look on her face - almost like my Diane on her wedding day." Breva glanced at him. "Have I ever described her wedding dress to you?"
Two stories in ten minutes was two stories too many. "Yes," he responded quickly.
Breva smiled to herself. "Well, I have a feeling you two are meant to be together. You've just hit a little snag in your relationship."
"A snag," he repeated. Then her words registered. "Wait a minute. Relationship? Does one date and a couple of notes count as a relationship?"
Breva handed him a set of washcloths to fold. "Of course you have a relationship. My goodness, why are you even asking such a thing?"
"I don't know," he muttered. He hated it when she made him feel like he was back in tenth grade.
"Don't you like her? She's awfully cute."
"She is, but I don't think we have all that much in common," Morgan replied as he concentrated on making neat squares out of the washcloths.
"It looked as if you two had a lot to talk about that night," Breva countered. "You chatted the whole time Aaron and I were with you. What more do you want?"
"We have completely different backgrounds," he hedged. "At least, I think we do."
"But you don't really know, do you?"
Breva had no idea that Brooke was the company's janitor, but Brooke's job wasn't something that he, himself, had been able to ignore. To be honest, he didn't know what to make of it. He was raised to be proud of his family's social standing, of the privileges that came with it. Of his expensive education. "Even if we did find out that we're still attracted to each other, I doubt we'd have a future together. Everyone knows that common bonds are really important in a relationship."
"You sound like you're on a talk show."
Did he dare admit that he'd read more than one book about relationships? Not in this lifetime. "I'm a pretty astute guy."
But Breva kept talking as if he wasn't astute at all. "I thought her family sounded nice."
"I thought so, too."
"And I thought you told me the other day that you both like games and puzzles."
"She does. We do." Finally he decided to tell Breva everything he knew. "It's just that... she's a janitor, Brev." He bit his lip to keep from saying more. Why had he felt compelled to bring it up, anyway? Was he that shallow? Did her occupation bother him that much?
Breva's eyes widened. "Really? How'd you meet her?"
"She cleans our building. I met her here the evening Sheri canceled on me."
Breva gave a low whistle. "Really? After Sheri hung up on you, you turned to Brooke and asked her out?"
Morgan frowned. "Actually, I don't know if Sheri hung up on me. It was more like the conversation came to a mutual end."
"Morgan."
"All right. Yeah, I started talking to Brooke then. She was dusting in the conference room when I got off the phone with Sheri. We chatted for a while."
"And?"
"I was explaining to her about our dance classes, and how I doubted anybody else in Cincinnati knew how to ballroom dance, and then she told me that she could. Then..." Morgan's voice drifted off.
Breva clasped her hands together. "Then you asked her to the gala," she finished, her voice dreamy.
"I did. Well, it was sort of a business proposition. I think she said yes because I offered her money."
A slow smile crept across Breva's face. "Wow, who'd have thought?" she mumbled as she handed him a box of travel-size shampoo bottles to add to the baskets. "She doesn't look like any janitor I've ever seen."
"I know. She's as cute as can be. And bright and cheerful. And she's got a good heart. But don't you think she and I are kind of a strange combination?"
"Because you're a junior executive and she's a building custodian? Do you have a problem with people who work with their hands for a living?"
He glanced at her in shock, and Breva softened her tone. "Your differences shouldn't change how well you two get along with each other. What matters is what you both agree upon."
He felt his cheeks burn at her chiding tone. "Do I sound that full of myself?"
She brought her thumb and forefinger close together. "Only a little bit."
"I'm just trying to deal with realities here. I don't know if she'd fit in with my crowd. Or me with hers. I mean, what do you think she and Caroline would possibly find to talk about?"
"First of all, Caroline could have a conversation with an inchworm, and you know it." Breva shrugged. "And secondly, does it matter? I mean, you and your mother are cut from the same cloth, and you hate talking to her."
Breva had a point. "I'm getting a headache."
Breva looked as if she was about to hit him in the head. "Come on now, M.C. What do you think? That Brooke hangs out with other custodians all day, discussing mops and toilet cleaners? You two got along just fine at the Christmas party. And I think that says it all. If she can mix well with most of the people there, she can fit in anywhere. And you...you could use some diversity in your life."
"Thanks. I think."
Breva nodded smugly. "Anytime."
He had no excuse to delay the inevitable any longer. "I guess I'll go write that letter now. Ten sentences."
"That sounds like a fantastic idea."
"She won't think I'm being pushy?" he asked, stalling.
"No. Remember, she wrote you a note on your whiteboard. She's reaching out." Just then the phone rang.
Breva hopped up from her position on the floor and raced to answer it in her Birkenstocks. "Go, M.C. You'll do just fine. I have faith in you."
I have faith in you. Her words echoed in his head as he pulled out another page of monogrammed stationery. Glancing at the whiteboard, he wondered what Brooke would be interested in knowing about him.
He tallied the things she already knew. His name. His job. His go-cart experiences.
She knew who his friends at work were. She knew about Sheri, the ex-girlfriend.
Puzzles. College. He paused. Tried to dig a little deeper, open his heart a bit more. Tried to rediscover what made him tick.
Finally, after chewing on the end of his pen for a while - something he hadn't done since fourth grade - he wrote:
Brooke,
I like the stars, too. They make me think of the broad Texas skies and fireflies in the summer.
I haven't done any decorating for the holidays yet. Growing up, my mother had to have the decorations just so...and my sister decorates enough for the whole city of Cincinnati. I always figured it wasn't worth it to try and hang my own. But maybe I will this year.
When I was sixteen I used to drive down empty country highways too fast, listening to loud music and dreaming about being a man.
I miss those days.
I still have your shoes. Maybe one day soon we can actually meet.
Morgan
There. Ten sentences, some of them even more than four words long. Breva would be proud.
Carefully, he folded the paper into thirds, tucked it neatly into a crisp envelope, then took the letter to the front reception desk and asked the guard on duty to give it to Brooke...or Tomasina.
Surely there weren't any other Brooke Annes who worked in the building. After walking back to his office, Morgan steeled himself for another four hours of work. And wondered what Brooke would say when she received the letter.
*****
Chapter Eighteen
Brooke Anne sat at her makeshift desk at the Jovial Janitors headquarters and laughed at the banter among the three other women in the room. Yes, they were her employees, but they were her friends, too. They were also all slightly older than she was, had husbands and families and shared an outlook on life that was at once jaded and amusing. Currently they were discussing the things that were on many a woman's mind in the middle of December: Christmas gifts and holiday dinners.
"Sweet potatoes have to be mashed. With marshmallows on top," Vivian stated in a tone that dared anyone to disagree.
Karen wrinkled her nose. "No way will I ever have those slimy orange things at my dinner table."
"They're having a sale at Carson's," Monique, her newest employee, said. "Towels and home accessories are forty percent off."
Brooke Anne smiled to herself as she glanced around the room that housed her business. A large bulletin board outlined everyone's duties for the week. Closets neatly shelved a variety of cleaning supplies.
A few old chairs and an extremely worn coffee table served as their meeting place and rec spot, and the three other women in the room, along with Tomasina, comprised her employee roster. As they chatted away, she worked on the schedule, which was an increasingly difficult task this time of year, due to all the holiday parties at both corporate and residential locations.
"Anyone want to go to the Kelsos' and clean tomorrow morning?" she called out.
"Who are they?" Karen asked, flipping through an old Red-book magazine. "Are they the ones with the two yappy dogs? I hate those dogs."
Brooke Anne had no idea, but she had a pretty good feeling that Karen wouldn't volunteer to put up with them if she didn't have to. She was all business when it came to cleaning houses. Dealing with annoying dogs wasn't something she did well. Scanning her file, Brooke Anne said, "Let's see here. They have five bedrooms. Oh, and a grand piano. Mrs. Kelso's message was really panicked. I guess her mother-in-law is coming to town and her house is a mess."
Vivian piped up. "I know them. They do have dogs," she said. "Poodles. And kids. A ton of them."
Brooke Anne glanced around. "Anyone?"
"Oh, heck, I'll do it," Karen replied. "I've got a mother-in-law, too. Vivian, want to come with me? We could knock it off in a few hours."
"Sure," Vivian replied, after quickly consulting the scheduling board.
Brooke Anne heaved a sigh of relief. "Great. I'll call her back and tell her it's a go." Eyeing the clock, she added, "Speaking of which, y'all better get a move on."
The women stood up and set about gathering their supplies, notes and cell phones from the supply closet. It was customary for Brooke to ask them to call her cell phone when they arrived and left each location.
Vivian spoke up. "Tomasina working tonight?"
"Yes. She decided to go straight from choir practice to the Royal Hotels building, though. Busy night."
After a few more instructions and goodbyes, Brooke Anne was finally alone, anxious to finish up her paperwork and go home for the night. She picked up the stack of mail from the corner of her desk and quickly began sorting it into piles, wincing at the number of bills the mail carrier had dropped off.
Then, one letter caught her eye. As soon as she saw it, addressed merely to Brooke Anne, her hands started to shake. A pink Post-it note from Tomasina was stuck on the envelope.
"I picked this up for you. And this is ABSOLUTELY the last time I deliver mail!"
Even though she was by herself, Brooke Anne glanced around warily. For some reason, she felt nervous that someone would see her handling the letter.
What could Morgan want?
There was only one way to find out. Opening the envelope, she pulled out a crisply folded piece of paper, and was amazed to see a handwritten note. Somehow she'd assumed all of Morgan's correspondence would be typed.
She read it quickly. Then read it again. Stars. Fireflies. Decorations. Driving fast on empty country highways.
Without knowing why she cared, she counted the sentences. Ten. The letter sounded especially chatty for Morgan. He hadn't seemed the type to convey so much about himself so readily. His printing was cute, too - a combination of upper and lowercase letters were arranged in a way that would make a first-grade teacher groan. Or Brooke Anne sigh.
Just the thought of him going to so much effort left her mouth dry and her heart beating fast. She stared at the letter again. So he liked watching the stars, as well.
Closing her eyes, she imagined Morgan doing all the things he'd described. She thought about him decorating his house just so...and how she would teach him that things didn't always have to be perfect.
One day she'd love to be by his side, riding in a convertible down a wide-open road, going nowhere fast. She pictured what he would be wearing. Worn jeans and a soft button-down, the cuffs frayed from multiple washings. There would be excitement in his eyes, and he'd turn to her and smile, the wind ruffling his short hair.
"I'm so glad you're here with me, Brooke Anne," he'd say.
"I am, too. You need to relax more. Enjoy life."
"I enjoy life with you. I need you, Brooke Anne."
"I need you, too, Morgan. Pull over and kiss me."
And he would. He'd pull over to the side of the road on that lonesome highway and kiss her thoroughly, and she'd melt into his arms, the way she had at the ball. His lips would tease hers, then explore her mouth gently and the hard planes of his body would leave her breathless, as would the sure movements of his hands.
She'd curse the bucket seats in his sporty convertible, wishing they had more room to explore each other intimately. More room to get to know the corded muscles of his stomach, the feel of his lips on her breasts, the satisfaction of arching against him in complete ecstasy. She'd run her hands along his hips, down his thighs, memorizing every intimate detail through touch. She'd feel his hardness against her--and she'd be ready for him, not caring when a car whizzed past them on the road, only thinking of his body, his hands....
The fantasy was interru
pted by the shrill ring of her cell phone.
Still in a dreamy state, she reached for the phone and winced as her hand slipped, sending it clattering to the ground. Finally, she grasped it securely and spoke. "Hello?"
"Brooke Anne? You okay? You sound kind of raspy," Tomasina said from her end.
Shoot. "Hold on one sec," she said, then pressed the phone to her chest and willed herself to get under control. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten fast. Tried to think of cleaning toilets in sports arenas - anything to counter the pulsating of her body. After a few deep breaths, she placed the phone back to her ear. "Sorry about that. I'm okay. Just, uh, moving boxes around."
"Oh. Well, I'm over at the Hendersons'."
Brooke Anne sluggishly turned her attention to the board. "Great. That's your last job for tonight, right?"
"Bingo."
"How was choir practice?"
"Good. Can't wait for the concert."
"Me neither," Brooke said, now that her mind was firmly ensconced in the real world. "Have a good night. Tell Ronnie and Vanessa hi."
"Sure thing. You ought to go home, girl. You sound tired."
She was a lot of things. "I think I will, Tomi. And thanks for delivering Morgan's note."
Tomi grunted. "Did you read my Post-it?"
"I did."
"So, no more deliveries, right?"
"If I do write more letters, I promise you won't have to deliver them."
"Good. 'Night."
Hanging up, Brooke Anne folded Morgan's note and placed it carefully in her purse. She didn't know what to do next. Should she write back? Give him a call? Stop by Royal Hotels tomorrow?
And do what? Announce to the receptionist that she had a crush on a guy who owed her money?
The situation was enough to make her groan in exasperation.
Two days had passed and Morgan hadn't heard a thing yet from Brooke. He wasn't happy about it. It made him uneasy. He hated feeling so out of control in their relationship--such as it was. He wanted to see her again, give her back her shoes, pay her the money.
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