She glanced around the large room. Had Mark been at the storefront? How else would these books be here? And they were obviously used, but well cared for. They must be important to him, so why were they on this shelf? She made her way to a chair and sat.
A sudden strong urge to question him filled her. He’d be home now, probably cooking for his parents. Unless he was on a date. She swallowed against a throb of stomach pain. Maybe she should ask Mickey or Rick who brought the books. No. They were busy. Besides, she wanted to talk to Mark. Needed to speak with him.
She issued her good-byes and rushed outside. Cold air hit her hot face as she hurried down the blocks toward Mark’s address. Didn’t he say he lived on the ground floor apartment? She gazed at the large stone house. The lights were on in the windows to her left. Slow, soft steps brought her to the nearest window.
Peering through a slight gap between the curtains, a t-shirted Mark came into view, moving around in a small kitchen area. His familiar agile motions sent an electric thrill through her. It might be a bad idea to go in. He still affected her too much.
Coward.
She steadied her breaths, squared her shoulders, and strode to the door. Muffled strains of classical tunes greeted her. So he listened to music when he cooked, too.
Stop.
She knocked. The music stopped. Mark opened the door and said, “Sorry, Joey.”
He stared a moment. “Oh…I thought you were my neighbor about to complain about the volume.”
She breathed in and steeled herself against how rumpled and attractive he looked. He stepped aside and gestured at his apartment. “Come on in, if you don’t mind a messy place.”
She entered, cooking aromas filling her nostrils while she kept her breathing steady. “No, not at all.”
She glanced around the room. Not so messy really, just cluttered. His coat and other clothes flung on a chair, pairs of sneakers and boots on the floor near the couch, and various items piled on surfaces. He stood watching her, hands in his jean pockets, looking much too approachable. Why couldn’t he put on the business-like face he’d worn the last two weeks?
He cleared his throat and gave her his signature grin. “So, what can I do for you?” He held up a hand. “Hold on.” He rushed to the stove and adjusted a burner. “There.”
He returned and smiled again. “So…have a seat.”
She perched on the couch, tucking her hands in her coat pockets. “I won’t stay long.”
“No hurry. How can I help?” He piled his coat and clothes on the back of the chair facing her and sat. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
This would be hard, but she needed to do it. “Mark, before I say anything else, can you tell me how cookbooks belonging to you are down at the gleaner’s storefront?”
He shifted back and the clothes behind him slid down a bit. He glanced back at them and then at her. “I told Rick you folks could borrow them for as long as you need to. He said some of the vegetables and herbs and things weren’t familiar to everyone, so I thought the books could help.”
“I didn’t see you talking to Rick whenever he’s stopped in.”
Mark fidgeted again sending the clothes sliding further. He stood, grabbed the wad of items and piled them on a nearby table. “There.”
He sat back down and breathed out, brow slightly furrowed. “I drove him home, and he wanted to show me the storefront. We had a good talk.” He ran a hand back through his hair and clasped it in his other one. “I want to apologize to you for being snobby about food gleaning. I was dead wrong, and I intend to help when I can.” He gave her a fond smile. “Friends?”
Friends? And he was apologizing to her? Remorse at all her judgments of him, her arrogance and coldness toward him since they met surged up and made her breathing short. When she looked at him now, she saw a kind, diligent man, a loving son.
Sure he made bad dating choices, and often joked at odd times, but his heart was softer, kinder than hers had been. Why hadn’t she let herself see him? But now, all he wished was to be friends. She’d ruined everything.
“I…I.” She took a breath. “I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
He raised a hand, and she said, “No, let me say this. I’ve misjudged you since we first met. You and the waitress…Brenda, that was her name, had just broken up and she came in to get her last paycheck and told me to look out because you were a skunk and had no heart.”
It hurt to keep holding his steady gaze. She glanced away. “Instead of being fair and giving you the benefit of the doubt, I saw you as someone to be wary of. So, when you’d joke and tease, I thought you meant to make me uncomfortable, so I judged you quietly and never treated you like a friend.”
The air grew heavy. He said nothing, and she couldn’t look at him. “We could have been friends all this time, and then…well, I ruined things and I’m sorry.”
She wouldn’t let herself cry. No. She didn’t deserve him to comfort her, say it was all right when it wasn’t. She focused on the sound of his breathing. Maybe he didn’t want to forgive her, couldn’t trust her. How could she blame him?
Please say something, Mark. She kept her eyes on the floor.
He cleared his throat and the weighty air in the room pressed upon her. Here it comes.
His voice came out low, soft. “What is it you think you ruined?”
This was too hard. But no, she needed to be honest, no matter what it cost. “I ruined you and me.”
She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but it caught halfway down. She listened as he rose and then settled on the couch next to her. “What is ‘you and me,’ Julie?”
His words and nearness weakened her muscles but her voice managed to breathe out. “I love you.”
A heartbeat later, he’d gathered her to him, his mouth taking hers in a kiss that soon moved from gentle to fiery. She clutched him as though she couldn’t exist without his closeness. Her hands traveled up the muscles of his arms, his shoulders and neck, before she burrowed her fingers in his hair. He caressed her jaw, then the side of her throat. Her head tilted back in bliss at his touch. He whispered in her ear, “I love you, Julie,” before he returned to begin a caress she hoped would never end.
Too soon, the oven timer sounded, and he drew back, eyes locked with hers. His grin captivated her. He rested his forehead against hers. “Want to help me finish cooking?”
“Anytime, anyplace.”
“You said it.” He stood, pulled her up to him, and they walked to the kitchen, hand in hand.
Please read on to learn more about the author, Nancy Shew Bolton, and to read a sample from another Prism Book Group Love Is title, Greener Grasses.
Please enjoy this sample from Greener Grasses by Julie B Cosgrove, another Love Is title available from Prism Book Group!
Church bells tolled their arrival. Already a stream of cars dotted the parking spaces like soldiers lined for battle. For Erin Ballinger Duncan it seemed appropriate. Today she’d combat an overwhelming struggle of the heart. Well, perhaps it could involve skirmish for territory as well—in a strange sort of way. But she pushed away the thought.
Erin stepped out of the mortuary’s limousine with her husband, John, and their two fifteen-year-old sons, Travis and Austin. She shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight, a total dichotomy from the darkness brewing in her emotions. She scanned the church driveway and scoffed. Yep, her sister emerged from the limo behind them. “The ‘perfect family’ has arrived. What no trumpets?”
John rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, Erin. Not now.”
“Whatever. She still makes me want to puke. Perfect life, perfect kids, perfect husband…”
“Stop, okay?” John spoke in her ear with a hiss. “Can’t you two get along for three hours? For your mom’s sake, and mine, by the way.”
A residual hurt sounded in his tone. Once again she’d compared him to her sister’s spouse. Erin bit her lip and turned away.
Her twin sister, Ellen, sauntered towards them in her black linen three-piece ensemble, which probably cost more than Erin’s monthly grocery bill. Not to mention the onyx and pearl earrings with matching necklace set against her country club tanned skin, or her perfectly curled coiffure. Erin ran a hand over her own short curls, still slightly warm from the hotel hairdryer. When did Ellen find the time to book a hairdresser? They only heard news of their mother’s death three days ago.
Ellen’s husband, Robert—never called Bob because that would be too gauche and informal—followed in what appeared to be a custom tailored suit accented by a designer tie. Their three girls, Brittany, Elena, and Jade, slithered out next, all without a wrinkle in their dresses. Miniatures of their mother. Each carried herself with shoulders back and spine straight as if the pavement to the sanctuary was a style show catwalk. Most likely the posh, private girls’ school they attended made them strut with rulers on their heads in order to maintain proper posture.
She felt John’s firm hand press the small of her back. She knew the gesture reiterated his demand she behave civilly today. He stood poised in case feminine claws emerged. Erin huffed through her cheeks. “Okay, John. I’ll try. But if one snarky remark escapes from her surgically sculptured ruby lips, it won’t end up pretty.”
Ellen brushed past them with a nod, her brood and hubby in tow like peacocks on parade. Erin stretched her mouth in a tight smile as the sisters made brief eye contact. Then, with a slam of the limo door, she gathered her boys around her and nudged them ahead. Friends, acquaintances, and distant family silently trudged up the steps to the sanctuary doors. Most dressed in black with heads down or glassy eyes set straight ahead above clenched jaws. Typical funeral protocol.
As the families mounted the concrete stairs to the entry, Erin’s gaze panned her sister’s slim-legged length that ended in a pair of five-inch stilettos, most likely Christian Louboutin. Yep, red soles. How much did those cost?
With each stride, Erin pressed her high-heeled sore feet to the pavement so she wouldn’t wobble. How did high society women wear these all day? Ballet flats or sneakers were more her style as a discount store floor manager.
A blast of too cold air conditioning and organ music hit her senses as the ushers opened the doors for the family to walk down a separate side aisle. Combatting tears, Erin sucked in a lungful of air and marched chin up—not so much in imitation of her twin but to refrain from noticing the sympathetic faces of those already seated. Her mother always told her daughters to never cry in public.
“Ellen. Robert.” John whispered their names and nodded for them and their girls to enter the reserved pew first. They shot him a terse half-smile and proceeded to herd their pristine princesses while John held his two slightly crumpled boys at bay with a firm grasp on their jacket collars.
The “perfect family” scooted sideways and sat down, which left Erin to sit in front of the post. She leaned into her husband to peer around to the altar. With a hiss she verbalized her complaint. “Thanks, John. Of course Ellen gets the aisle view. No matter.”
John pulled a deep breath through his nose and let it out in an elongated sigh as he snapped open the pew bulletin.
His irritation pierced Erin’s already punctured heart. John, whose best friends were also his brothers, never understood the strained relationship between the twin sisters. Actually, Erin didn’t either. Twins were supposed to have a special bond. Some even had a secret language they shared. Not her and Ellen. No way.
She blinked back dampness from her lashes, partially over the loss of her mother, but also because of the deep-seated anger and jealousy for Ellen who constantly claimed the limelight. She always had. Second-born by six minutes and seventeen seconds, Erin felt destined to follow her more successful, rich, and stylish sibling. Ellen had always commanded attention while Erin shrunk to the corners.
A booming voice echoed off the mahogany rafters of the two hundred-year-old nave. “I am the Resurrection and the Life…”
All heads turned as the pallbearers wheeled the draped casket down the center aisle, the minister following as he finished reading the passage from the Book of Revelation. A slight squeak emitted from one of the casters as the funeral procession passed. Travis spewed a nervous giggle. John gave him a brushing bop across his head. Ellen swirled her torso, raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and snarled to Erin. “For goodness sake. Can’t you teach your kids to behave in church?”
Can’t you guard your tongue in the House of the Lord? Erin bit hers to keep from replying out loud. Not that the occasion stopped her. She never could talk back to Ellen, especially when Ellen made her feel like scum on a frog’s underbelly—a skill her sister developed by their teenage years. It remained the main reason Erin avoided being with Ellen for more than one hour, even on holidays. She’d shared space with her for seventeen and a half years, and that had been enough for two lifetimes. Her mother hated when her daughters staggered their visits in order to avoid each other. Well, Mom finally got her wish. Today, they were together in the same place for at least three hours of funeral, gravesite committal, and reception.
Pastor Mike turned a soulful glance to the family. “On this day, let us not mourn the passing of our sister, Marilyn Edwards Ballinger, but celebrate her new life in Heaven at the side of Jesus.”
Erin muffled a cough into her hankie as she swallowed the tear-clogged boulder from her throat. Why can’t I cry over you, Mom? I miss you already. I wish I had been there. Oh, why didn’t we visit you more often?
John laid a hand on her shoulder, but Erin jerked it away. She eyed the creases of his off-the-rack jacket. How pitiful compared to Robert’s tailored one. But there weren’t funds in the account to buy him anything decent, much less her a nice dress. The credit cards were maxed out, used to pay for the kids’ orthodontics, the car repairs, and the fridge that conked out…
Erin sighed. How she despised money problems. Okay, maybe it wasn’t John’s fault that he never finished college. After all, she’d become pregnant within four months of their nuptials. He had to drop out to support his new family. If only they’d waited until they had their degrees. But one passionate night after three margaritas to celebrate midterms being over and, bam! Twin boys.
Still, deep down, Erin hated that John remained an underpaid blue collar worker subject to being laid off each time the economy turned. He’d lost the gumption to pursue his engineering degree a decade ago. Now he sloughed through life with no ambition or goals other than making enough to have one hundred and fifty dollars left over each month so they never wrote a hot check.
Ellen, on the other hand, a Phi Beta Kappa sorority girl, postponed marriage and family until she’d earned her master’s in English Literature. Then she snared a successful investment banker from a prominent family and didn’t have to work another day in her life. Their three girls had been strategically birthed four years apart to avoid double diaper duty in the beginning and, no doubt, dual college tuitions later on. Her elder sister never did anything without plotting it out first.
Hot tears dripped down Erin’s not-often rouged cheeks. Sorry, Mom. But I have a right to cry. It is your funeral, after all. She brushed them away with her fingers, checking for mascara smudges. Out of the corner of her vision she caught John’s stern glare. He nodded as the pastor continued.
“Marilyn’s legacy is witnessed by this fully packed church. Her Christian charity touched many lives, and for that we should praise God. She would not want us to be sorrowful, but to raise our hands in hallelujahs that she is finally walking the streets of gold, free of the pain, suffering, and heartaches of this dark and fallen world on which she once trod.”
Erin’s stomach felt as if Boy Scouts practiced their knotting skills in it. How could she rejoice? She and Ellen were now orphans. Dad had been killed in a car wreck five years prior. They had no other siblings. No more buffers lay between the twins’ tendency to squabble. How would she face Ellen the rest of the day with a plastered smile
? Could she survive the sharp verbal pricks and superior, disapproving glances unscathed? Deep down, she admitted to the ugly, forbidden thought. Erin not only hated her sister for being born first, she despised her mother for bearing twins.
The thought made her bite the inside of her lip. She bowed her head and prayed John wouldn’t make a social faux pas in conversation or her boys eat with the wrong fork at the reception. And Lord, please keep me from dribbling anything on this blouse. It’s the only good one I own.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Shew Bolton is a wife of 43 years, mother of five grown sons, and grandmother to a boy and girl. Ever since she learned to write, she would jot down her thoughts and impressions in little snippets of inspiration in the form of poetry, song lyrics, or short essays. About six years ago, she decided to try her hand at writing a full-length book. She’s since written five works of fiction, two non-fiction, and is working on an idea for a children’s book, as well as more fiction manuscripts. Writing a full-length work is much more challenging than she thought, and she has received so much valuable assistance from other writers, especially from the ACFW critique groups. Her husband has been supportive of her long hours spent at the keyboard. Many thanks to her beloved Johnny! She thanks God and His Son for her life, her loved ones and the spark of creativity inside every person. She believes each person is a unique creation, with their own special voice and place in this amazing universe. God’s handiwork amazes her every day!
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A Work in Progress Page 13