“Then what is this about?” I swear, this conversation is making me need a nap.
“Karen.” Fire flashes in her eyes.
“Karen?”
“Yeah, as in, if I see you sniffing around her while she’s here, you’ll be praying to deal with Todd and Dad, got it? You fucked her over once and guess who got to put Humpty Dumpty back together again? Me. And if I see you so much as smiling at her while she’s back in town, you”—she points directly at me—“and me are gonna have real problems. And, I don’t know about you, but I think you’ve got problems with enough Bakers, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess I do.” I look down at my hands. I want to tell Rebecca to fuck off. To get out of my office and take her tough-girl bullshit act with her. I want to flip my lid and flip books off this desk and generally just lose my shit, but I sit still and grind my teeth together. Because … she’s right. I did break Karen’s heart. Rebecca is probably the one who had to help her through that. I did it for her own good, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did it.
“So, we have an understanding then. Great!” Her face suddenly brightens, and she smiles. “I don’t think we’ll need to have any more chats then. Thanks, Luke.” She turns and opens the door, slipping through it before I can say another word.
Well, I guess that clears that up. I mean it should. I should know better than to be trying to work out how I can see Karen. I definitely shouldn’t be trying to work out what I would say to her if I could just have ten seconds to explain. And there’s no way I should be thinking about how I would cup her face and cover her soft lips in tender kisses if she would only give me another chance.
So, yeah, all cleared up. Clear as mud.
17
Karen
Is there anything better than Oregon in May? I lazily lumber down the sidewalk, soaking in the lush green plants with their new spring growth teasing the bees with promises of summer blossoms. The oppressive, slate gray fog that seems to cling to the town in winter is gone. Now it’s just tiny puffs of white punctuating a Robin’s egg blue sky. As much as I love the hustle and bustle of New York, I’ve missed this. I fill my lungs with the fresh air and soak in all the ways this town has changed since I moved away.
Wow, how are there so many more shops than four years ago? I must look like one of those silly dashboard bobblehead dolls as I swivel my face from side to side and try to spot all the differences. There’s a yoga studio now? I stop and gaze in through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the small class of seniors with their rumps in the air for downward dog and smile. I notice Mildred Cantor wiggling her bum at the sexy guy running the class and shake my head, walking away.
I guess there are some things in this town that will never change. That woman is something else.
There’s a trendy flower shop with a vintage Harley Davidson parked outside. Across the way there’s an old-fashioned style diner. And, well, I’ll be! I stop dead in my tracks and stare with surprise at the marijuana dispensary I never knew about.
Pine Grove always had a small but mighty group of artists who lived out this way. However, it was mostly farming families and blue-collar types who kept this town alive. From the looks of it, my little village out in the sticks has evolved into a trendy, hipster joint. Even as I soak in the people walking around, I see a huge difference. Instead of old dairy farmers walking around with dusty ball caps resting on their heads, there are men who look like thin, stylish lumberjacks. If lumberjacks wore fancy scarves around their necks.
How did this place change so much without me noticing? I head toward my old favorite bakery and mull it over. I guess I’ve only been back here twice since I left. Both times were at Christmas and I never left Mom and Dad’s place. I told myself it was because my focus was on family, but the truth was, I was living like Pine Grove’s infamous recluse, Myra. The same way that she’s famously hidden herself inside her homemade compound, I hid in my parents’ scrapyard. Where Myra has a brick wall surrounding her home, my parents have crushed heaps of discarded metal. Both of us have tried to barricade our hearts from the pain we’ve suffered here. But barricading a broken heart won’t heal it.
The door creaks and I walk into the place where I used to get the best tasting muffins in the world. It’s funny. I spent all my years at college constantly looking for a replacement for the orange cranberry muffins that used to lure me in here like Toucan Sam in those old Froot Loops commercials. I rode miles on subways and buses and walked hundreds of marathons worth of steps all over that city and never did find a muffin that came close.
I can see the orange deliciousness in my mind. A perfect combination of spongy, melt-in-your-mouth softness, sweet orange and tart punctuations of cranberry. It almost floats out like a mirage in front of my face, like a hologram or a hallucination.
“What are you doin’ here?”
Pop!
The heavenly muffin disappears from my daydream as my attention turns to Cara’s sour face. They say there’s a lid for every pot and Cara proves that theory true. My brother Todd is a jerk with a heart of coal and a fiery red mullet to match his hot temper and Cara is his surly bride. Together they could be the king and queen of misery.
I had heard from Mom that Cara took over this shop a couple years back, but I didn’t realize that meant she destroyed it. My lips twist down as I search the selection of grayish looking pastries and cakes behind the counter.
“Oh, just out for a walk, that’s all.” I give a tight-lipped smile.
“You want anything?” Cara jerks her thumb at the display.
“No, no. I’m completely full,” I fib. My stomach gives a little growl, making my lie even more obvious.
“Sounds it.” She lifts an eyebrow.
“Anyway, you have a good day, Cara.” I hold up my hand in a frozen wave and walk backward toward the door. Dust is coating every surface in here, the floors look like they haven’t had a proper scrub in months, and there’s a disturbing amount of house flies buzzing around the windows.
“Sure, whatever,” she says, and I hurry out.
I power walk some distance between myself and the shop Cara ruined forever. I know she’s my sister-in-law and I should support her business, but I can’t bring myself to buy baked goods that look like they’ve been rolled in an ashtray.
Squinting down the road, I see a cute, bright-colored sign for another bakery. I look over my shoulder like a kid trying to sneak out after curfew and see that Cara isn’t out watching me from the front step or anything. I guess she has better things to do than worry about my muffin crisis. Still, I feel like I have to be inconspicuous as I sneak over to the new shop. If I had a trench coat on, I’d pop the collar and duck my head behind it like some kind of Russian spy.
One whiff of the sweet cinnamon and glazed apples and my cool guy act bursts. I’m practically licking the glass barrier as my mouth waters and I drool like a hungry hound over the donuts and muffins. This must be a bakery of the angels. Where Cara’s place was dirty, this one is spic and span. Instead of drab, dreary decor, every wall has bright, vibrant paintings featuring local artists. It’s like Cara’s bakery was an old black and white television set with the rabbit ears on top, and this one is most definitely technicolor.
“Anything looking good to you in there?” A beautiful woman with shimmering, clove-colored skin smiles at me, revealing a slight gap between her top front teeth.
“Oh my God, it all looks amazing.” I manage not to drool on myself as I answer.
“Well, let me know when you decide. I’ll be right over here.” She points to the coffee station behind the counter.
“Oh, you don’t need to go. I know exactly what I want.” I point excitedly at my favorite muffins. “I’ll take one—no, I think I’m gonna take two of those ones right there.” I arch my trembling finger at them.
“You got it.” She beams at me and leans over to grab me a paper bag.
“Hey, hey, Naomi! You got any of those orange cranberry muffins
left?”
A chill runs down my spine and I freeze to the spot as a man’s voice fills the room. But it’s not any man’s voice. It’s Luke’s.
Shit. I quickly scan the room and lunge toward a shelf stacked with day olds that have been discounted. Falling to my knees, I try to hide behind the stale breads and sticky buns, hoping they’ll camouflage me from him.
“Hmm?” Naomi pops her head up and searches for me. “Where did she go?”
“Where did who go?” Luke tilts his head.
From where I’m sitting on the floor, I can see up his body. He looks so much stronger and fuller now that he’s grown up a bit. My eyes travel down over features that once looked like they were formed from soft clay, now chiseled into granite. His shoulders look wider than they did at eighteen. His once soft stomach looks rock-hard under his firefighting T-shirt. Wow, it’s like every single part of him has gotten longer, thicker, and stronger. I don’t mean to check out that distinctive bulge behind his zipper. But I can’t help it.
“There was a lady here. She wanted these muffins.” She holds up the bag and my stomach gnaws at me.
“Well, if she took off, I’ll take them.” He holds out his hand and she shrugs it off, handing over my precious muffins.
Luke leans over the counter, and I have no idea what this noise is coming out of my throat, but I sound like a cat in heat as I soak in his tight, perfectly round ass in his uniform pants.
“What was that?” He turns around quickly and I fall back on my ass in a sad attempt to crawl away. I knock over some of the bags and the next thing I know, baked goods fall from the shelf around me.
“There she is.” Naomi points at me and it’s a good thing someone from the fire department is here because my face is blazing.
“Karen?” Luke spots me and walks over.
I pop up out of the breads and start jamming them back on the shelf two at a time, frantically trying to clean up my mess and wishing I could somehow disappear at the same time.
“What are you doing?” He leans over and helps me scoop up the products.
“I was, uh, tying my shoes,” I badly lie, “and, um, I fell.” Pinocchio had less of a tell than me as my face burns bright.
“Okay.” Luke clearly doesn't believe me. And from that stupid sparkle in his bright blue eyes, I can tell he thinks this is funny.
“It’s true.”
“Uh, ma’am? Did you still want those muffins?” the lady behind the counter calls out to me.
“Yeah, they’re all yours if you want them. I knew a smart girl who told me there wasn’t much in the world an orange cranberry muffin couldn’t fix.” His eyes twinkle as he holds the bag out to me.
Who does he think he is, just casually bringing up things I used to say to him when he was … when we were … when I still …
Who does he think he is?
The nostalgia of a simpler time almost knocks me back down to my knees. Emotions I thought I had long since gotten over wash over me. And then, in a flash, they’re quickly killed by the painful reality that came after all that love and all that happiness. The pain of Luke casting me away like a sack of trash on collection day. After he took my virginity, he sent me packing. He was done with me. He told me I meant nothing to him.
My lungs burn as I stumble out of the shop like a drunk from a bar after last call. Tears blur my vision and I make my way out into the street, trying to make the squeezing pain in my chest go away.
“Karen, don’t run away from me again.” Luke chases me out of the bakery.
I rush down the street, desperately needing to put space between me and the guy I wish I could hate. If I could hate him, maybe I could finally get over him.
“Go away.” I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand.
“No, Karen, stop. I said stop!” His hand circles my wrist and he holds me in his strong grip. I try to pull my arm away, but I can’t. Instead, I face him, my face contorted with anger.
“What, Luke? Huh? You want me to stop and talk to you? Well, you got me. Now, what do you want?” I yell, my voice warbling.
“I want to explain.” He breathes in hard, his hand still gripping me tightly.
I don’t mean to look into his eyes. I try to frown. To scowl. To keep my tough mask on, but it slips away. The tension in my face melts as my eyes lock on his. All the anger, the anguish, it transforms into curiosity.
“Explain what?” I step toward him and he drops his hand from my arm, but I’m still locked into place beside him. He doesn’t need to hold me to keep me captive.
“Listen, Karen, when you left for New York—”
“You mean when you sent me off? When you told me to leave and never come back?”
He winces, and for the first time, I can see I’m not the only one hurting from this memory.
“Yeah, the thing was, I said so many things that night. I said them to hurt you. I needed to do that, though. I had no choice but to hurt you. It was the only possible way I could get you to—”
Beep-beep-beep!
A shrill tone blares over the radio he has clipped to his belt. We both jump as the 9-1-1 call pierces the air with a crackle. “We have a medical call at residence eight-four-eight Garrison Avenue. All available medical personnel in the area please respond,” a woman’s voice calls out.
Emotion dances in Luke’s blue eyes, but his lips pucker tight as he pulls the radio from his belt and growls into it, “This is four-three-six responding.” He gives a deep sigh, frustration radiating from his skin. “I’ve gotta go. Please, let’s talk about this later.” He races off toward his car.
As the door slams and he drives away I realize two things. The first is that Luke is most definitely a man now. A sexy, responsible, strong man who could probably teach me what else has changed around this town, starting with a detailed and personal tour of his body.
And that leads me to the second thing. I can’t let myself talk to Luke Murphy ever again.
18
Luke
Josh Baker sits in the passenger seat. I bring the rescue vehicle to a screeching halt in the driveway of the emergency call. Standing out on the front step, in a fuzzy blue bathrobe, is an elderly lady I’ve seen at my mother’s church during holidays. Her shoulder-length, silver hair looks like one of those beaded curtains from the seventies with little tangles punctuating the long strings. She paces and rubs her hands over her housecoat like she’s trying to wipe a hole through the fluffy fabric.
“Oh good, you’re here!” She darts her eyes around to the neighboring houses and yanks open the door for us. “Please, come inside. My husband needs your help.”
With the emergency bag in hand, I follow Josh into the house and we let the woman lead us down the hallway toward a bedroom.
“Get it off me, for the love of God! It hurts,” a bald man with sagging jowls and wrinkles deepened by his scowl calls out. He has his hands cupped under the bed sheet, which is tucked up around his waist. He sits up by the pillows, clearly naked, and yowls.
“Oh dear. Oh, I just didn’t know what to do about this,” the woman frets. “We were just supposed to be having a bit of fun, you know?” Her face flushes and she tightens her bathrobe belt around her middle.
“Okay, sir. What seems to be the problem?” Josh starts assessing the situation as I try to listen to the missus about what’s going on.
“You gotta get it off. It’s stuck. Fuck me! It hurts like a bitch!” he yells.
“Jeremy Crawford, watch your mouth,” his wife warns him.
“Oh, dammit, woman, I’ve got bigger fish to fry! This whole thing was your stupid idea in the first place.” He pulls air in over his teeth sharply and leans over.
“You see, Jeremy isn’t a young guy like you anymore. And when we get older our bodies just don’t work the way they used to. I thought we could give the little contraption a try, you know, to see if it would keep the blood in there longer …”
“Jesus H. Christ, Bernice! They don’t need my life
story! Just cut this fucking thing off my dick, will ya?” Jeremy throws back the bedsheet like a magician doing his big reveal. Except instead of magic, we are all staring down at his swollen, angry penis and the neon yellow cockring choking his boner.
“Well ...” Josh just shakes his head.
I don’t blame him. Words are failing me too right now. I’ve been called out on a lot of emergencies with the elderly. Falls and slips are common. Chest pains and the need for oxygen machines are definitely routine. But cockrings that won’t budge off a grandfather’s chubby? That’s one for the history book.
“Are you gonna stand there and stare at it all day? Get this thing off before it rips my dick clean off my body!” our patient hollers.
Josh and I give each other the same deer in the headlights stare as we try to figure out how to release this guy’s weasel from the snare. His wife paces unhelpfully at the end of the bed, narrating a long explanation to God knows who.
“I told him to take those blue pills. Didn’t I tell you to go to the doctor, Jeremy? But no, you didn’t want to admit you had a problem,” she complains.
“The only problem I have is that I can’t get you to shut up.” He moans and twists back on the pillows, squeezing his eyes closed.
I gently place the emergency bag on the bed next to Josh and Mr. Cockring. Unzipping it, I search through the compartments for something that can help us out here. Josh joins me and grabs a pair of scissors from inside.
“What about these? We can cut it off, right?” I can see from the look in his eyes that he’s barely holding it together right now.
“So I read about these little rings you slide down on it and they say it can keep a man, well, you know … ready.” Bernice keeps pacing and talking to no one in particular. “And I thought to myself, lookie here, Bernie, you might have just fixed your little dick problem.”
Forged by Fire: A Small Town Second Chance Romance Page 10