I’m not lying with this encouragement. I want her to enjoy herself with men—safely, of course. There’s no reason to limit herself as I did.
“I hate to run already, Mama, but I’ve got to go. I’m on call.”
“Of course, baby. Be safe,” I say as a reminder to protect herself against the men in her life and the sick people she heals.
“I’ll call you on Thanksgiving,” she tells me, and I want to remind her that’s two weeks away, but I don’t.
I grit my teeth and smile weakly to myself. “Thank you, honey. I’ll talk to you then.”
“Love you, Mama,” she says, and while I’m still telling her I love her, the phone goes dead.
I lower the phone to my desk while my body sinks into my desk chair. After spending two endless days in my office, work is the last place I want to be. The emotion of finding Malik and telling Chet about Karl yesterday has me unfocused today, but pickle products don’t sell themselves.
November isn’t prime pickle season, but we’re branching out from our original fried pickle recipe to include a variety of spice levels and a cookbook. We also have a new apparel line for our retail store. We ran a contest for new slogans, and the favorite was Just Dill with It. We plan to launch our newest endeavors in the next few days to celebrate National Pickle Day on November fourteenth. It’s a big dill—another one of our sayings.
I stare at the apparel images before me on my computer, lost in my head. Will the real deal ever happen for me? Am I just too old to consider falling in love? Was Karl my once-in-a-lifetime, even if it wasn’t the lifetime I thought I’d have? I can’t answer my own questions, and it frustrates me. I’m even more frustrated that I opened up to a man I hardly know. One who, despite being filled with all kinds of contradictions, I’m highly attracted to. Just the thought of him does something to my insides and my panties.
But I’ve been telling myself not to think of him after our encounter last night. His reaction as he was caught kissing me is still unsettling. It’s Karl all over again. Secrecy. I want someone who claims me as his because he wants me and does it proudly, not simply to protect himself, not to hide himself. Besides, my husband and I didn’t kiss, and it’s one thing I’ve liked so much with Chet. But I can’t be with a man who doesn’t see my value is more than keeping his secrets.
I didn’t want to hide Chet, I wanted to keep him for me, and there’s a difference in that logic. I want someone for me, that’s mine alone—not shared, not compromised, not a secret. Someone who is mine.
Maybe I should date? Maybe I need to experiment more? Maybe I need to be more open like I suggest my daughter be? But first, I need to figure out what’s wrong with me—as in, why aren’t men attracted to me?
“So I have some final thoughts on the pickle party,” Gideon states, rushing into my office. He has had some good ideas, making him more valuable than my past few assistants. One of those ideas includes a party to celebrate fried pickles on our five-year anniversary at Genie’s Country Western Bar. Getting Genie Lee to agree to a celebration at her place caused me to swallow a bit of my pride, but she finally acquiesced in the name of good business practice.
“Why in tarnation would I allow you to throw a party in my establishment? You don’t even like me, and I can never forget what you said about my daughter. Woman of loose morals. Hmph!” Genie huffed at me when I approached her with my plan. I knew it would be an uphill battle, and I had the event barn at Donner Lodge as a backup, thanks to Jennifer Winston’s kind offer, but I really wanted Genie’s.
Where else should fried pickles be celebrated other than at a bar?
When I glance up at Gideon, I bite my cheek so as not to bark at him for interrupting me. He isn’t really disturbing anything. My gaze falls on the pickle trophy I won, kicking off this new journey in my life. The vertical pickle immediately reminds me of a penis.
“Mrs. Simmons?” My name pulls my attention to my assistant.
“Gideon, sit down for a second.” At my command, he suddenly drops into one of the chairs across from my desk. Swallowing, I fold my hands over the wooden surface and try to meet his eyes. On second thought, I don’t think I can look directly at him as I ask my question, so I return my gaze to the phallic trophy.
“Gideon, I have a serious question, and I’d like an honest answer. Not employee to employer, but from a man to a woman.”
My gaze hesitantly shifts to him, and his Adam’s apple bobs along his throat.
“What’s wrong with me . . . as a woman?”
His mouth falls open and quickly shuts. I hold my pose, squeezing my hands together. I will not snap at him, I remind myself. I asked for honesty.
“Please answer freely. I can handle it.” The statement is meant to assure him I assume what he’ll say will be critical. He continues to stare at me, not offering anything. “Perhaps I should guide you, but don’t let me sway your answers. Tell me something good about me.”
“You have amazing hair.” The comment startles me, and I instantly reach for the white strip. Like a magnet, people can’t seem to help but notice it when first looking at me, and I’ve always hated it. As I aged, I decided to embrace the unique feature. With Chet’s new habit of wrapping the strands around his finger, I’m rather pleasured with this part of me.
“Thank you, Gideon. Now for something not great about me.”
Gideon grits his teeth in a manner his lips pull back over them. His neck muscles stand out with the action. “Sometimes, you are kind of mean.”
“Mean?” I interject. The word in Gideon’s high-pitched tone merges into Chet’s deep tenor.
Mean. I’m all too familiar with the term but haven’t paid too much attention to how it relates to my behavior until Chet mentioned the same word to me.
“Well, just kind of. I mean, nothing I can’t handle. You’re just . . .”
“Mean,” I repeat.
“Rough around the edges,” he attempts to soften the critique.
“Mean, you mean.” I nod, commiserating with his initial assessment.
“Well, just a little.” He lifts his hand, pinching his index finger and thumb within an inch of each other. Then he spreads them a little farther apart.
“What do I do that’s so mean?” I ask, still hopeful for his honesty.
“Well . . . uhm . . . the thing is . . . sometimes . . .”
“Just spit it out,” I snap. His eyes widen, and I realize I’ve given myself my own verbal example. “Okay, yes, fine. I see.” I drop my voice on each word.
Gideon watches me, visibly nervous.
“Gideon, how would you recommend someone stop being mean, especially if say, someone else didn’t find it attractive?”
“Are there people attracted to mean people?” he questions, brows arching, and I stare back at him. In romance novels, women are always attracted to mean men. The swanky alpha. The blunt a-hole. He can insult her, punish her, even do some despicable things to her, which, for all intents and purposes, are abusive, yet he’s always forgiven. A woman, however, who makes a few comments about another person is considered a bitch, and it’s not a compliment.
I dismiss his responding question. “I consider myself honest,” I defend, and Gideon sits up a little straighter.
“Sometimes, people don’t need quite so much . . . honesty,” he states, scrunching up his nose.
“Give me an example,” I ask my assistant.
“Say a woman has a little hair on her lip, which I absolutely agree is not attractive. I mean, girl, get that squirrel tail off your face.” Gideon waves his hand as if he’s Hazel Cumberstone eagerly agreeing with my assessment. “However, no one wants to be reminded of their imperfections.” His eyes flit to the white patch in my hair, and I bristle as I take his meaning. I had plenty said about me as a child. The mark of the devil was my favorite—says me, never. My father disagreed with people’s cruel assessment, saying the distinguishing mark meant I was chosen by God for something special in this life.
&nb
sp; “As men,” Gideon continues, “we can be particularly sensitive. I don’t want to be told my hair is thinning, or I look paunchy, or I have whiskers in my ears.”
“But what if you do? Shouldn’t someone tell you?” I’m an eager student awaiting his answer, which he hesitates on for a second.
“No. Even if I ask, you should probably lie to me.”
“But if I ask someone if they like my new shoes or if I look good in my suit, I don’t want them to lie to me.” Karl was always honest when I asked. When I thought I’d gained some weight, he agreed I had.
“Well, Mrs. Simmons, I think you’re an exception to that rule then.” He smiles to soften his truth. Perhaps I am exceptional, but maybe I shouldn’t be pointing out to others where they aren’t.
“What do you recommend instead?”
Gideon stares back at me like I’ve asked the impossible. I lean forward, prompting him to tell me the secret.
“Maybe you could try to be nicer,” he suggests. My expression must suggest that’s not specific enough, so he continues. “Compliment someone instead. If you notice their hairy lip, compliment their lipstick instead. If you think they need to pluck their eyebrows, tell them how pretty their eyes are.”
“I don’t want to lie, though,” I admit, as most of my life has been a giant lie.
“Mrs. Simmons, have you ever heard that saying ‘if you can’t think of something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all’?”
“Often,” I remark.
“There’s a newer saying. If you can’t think of anything nice to say, you aren’t thinking hard enough.”
“Are you insulting my intelligence?” I clip.
“With all due respect, this is what I’m talking about.” He pauses, circling a finger in the air as he points at me. “Maybe you need to consider that new suggestion. Think before you react.” He nods several times, agreeing with his own assessment.
I take a deep breath and a moment to consider what he’s said. If he had been anyone else in Green Valley, telling me I need to improve my delivery, or perhaps keep disparaging comments to myself, I’d have had choice words for him. But this is Gideon, and while my assistant, he is also new to the community. He doesn’t have preconceived notions about me, so I’m appreciative of his lessons as an impartial mentor.
“I like your shirt,” I say, and he slowly smiles. His face brightens, and I’m a little stunned. My assistant is a pretty man. Not one I’m attracted to and way too young for me, but pretty nonetheless. His shirt today is hideous. Still, I can see the effect of telling him how much I like his shirt and recognize it’s considerably different than suggesting he never be seen in it again. He stands, tipping his shoulder upward, giving off a little flare of excitement.
“Thank you. If that’s all for now, I’ll get back to party planning.”
“Of course, yes. Make yourself useful.” I pause, grateful for his assistance in securing Genie’s for our party. Her bar is a popular place in town, and the joint business venture could be profitable for both of us. “As you always are,” I add, attempting kindness again. He takes a step around the chair where he sat and shakes his head.
“That was a lie, but I’ll pretend it’s a compliment.” He winks.
“You know me so well,” I mock.
“I do, and that’s why there’s hope for you yet,” he states, just as Chet did.
Is there hope? I want to believe so.
Deciding I’m useless for the day, I head to my weekly manicure at The Beauty Mark. As I enter the salon, I’m immediately surprised to see a little boy in the waiting seats.
“Malik?” I question the child, and his head pops up. Instantly, I note that he’s younger than Malik by a few years but looks exactly like him. How strange.
“I’m so sorry. I thought—”
“May I help you?” The sharp tongue of a woman startles me, and I turn to meet a face overdone with plastic surgery. Puffy lips. Too-smooth forehead. Taut eye corners giving her a continuously surprised appearance. Her blonde highlights are brassy, but I practice in my head what Gideon has taught me.
I like your . . . I scan her up and down. Her shoes are decent.
“Is this your son?” I pause taking another glance at the child. “He looks exactly like a little boy I know named—”
“We don’t speak to strangers, do we, honey?” She hesitates on the endearment, careful not to address the child by name. Her eyes try to hold his, but his brown eyes are wide as he peers up at his mother. It’s almost frightening how much those eyes could be a match for Malik’s.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No offense taken,” she cuts me off and reaches for the child, hastily pulling him by the arm from his seat, but his head twists in my direction, keeping his eyes on me. As I remain standing, waiting for the nail technician to call me forward, I can’t take my eyes off him either.
“How much do I owe you?” the woman asks of Tabatha, the hair tech.
“That’s thirty dollars.”
“Thirty? You hardly did anything,” the woman scoffs. Tabatha blanches, looking up at her customer. “This is a second-rate establishment. You shouldn’t be charging such exorbitant prices.”
Second-rate? Exorbitant? Thirty dollars is not unreasonable, and this is not a second-rate place. It’s the best in the valley.
“That’s robbery,” she states, rustling through her bag before handing over crumbled bills. “I have nothing extra for a tip.”
Stepping forward, I’m unable to stop myself. “You must be new to Green Valley?” I question, forcing my best smile. I know the regulars in The Beauty Mark, and I’ve never seen her before.
“We’re renting a cabin nearby,” she admits and then cringes as if she’s said too much. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
It isn’t my business, but I’m not about to let her insult Tabatha. Even though I’ve insulted the hair tech a time or two myself, newcomers are not open to opinion.
“Tabatha, put this woman’s tip on my session today.” I tip my head to the outlander. “Welcome to Green Valley,” I snip, holding back all the other things I want to comment on like her tight forehead, Botox lips, and firm eye corners. Keeping my thoughts in my head, I smile as prettily as I can muster to this stranger, and I grit out, “And I like your shoes.”
And all the while, her child stares at me with eyes like Malik, causing an eerie chill to ripple up my spine.
The next day, I catch my breath when Chet enters Harper House. His hair is clipped short on the sides while the top remains longer but not as long as it’s been. His beard is trimmed tight to his jaw, accenting the edge of it. He smells exceptionally citrusy and warm today, and my mouth waters.
“My, you clean up nicely,” I tease, unable to help myself as I’m reminded of our first meeting.
“That’s because he went on a date,” Hugh announces after exiting the study room, and all the cheer in my compliment deflates. My head whips from Hugh to Chet, who nervously scratches at the beard under his chin.
“It wasn’t a date. It was only drinks.”
“Isn’t that a euphemism for date?” Hugh questions as he stands inside the great room while the other boys work on an intricate Star Wars Lego project, including a variety of vehicles and extensive instructions.
“Where’d you learn that word?” Chet asks, keeping his eyes on his nephew.
“Homework,” Hugh states.
“What’s a uff-ism?” Louie asks, not looking up from his building project.
“It’s when you call something common by another name,” Dewey interjects.
“Like when people say dick for penis?” Louie asks. My face heats while Chet chastises his nephew by groaning his name.
“Not exactly,” Dewey explains. “I believe Hugh used it correctly. Uncle Chet is substituting drinks with a woman for the term date.”
“Whatcha drink?” Louie asks, not even looking up from his project.
“Water,” Chet remarks, a
nd Hugh scowls at his uncle. I don’t care if he drank the entire Little Tennessee River. I want to know more details.
“Well, that sounds wonderful.” That sounds awful. More teeth gritting. More forced smiling.
“Was your date with that lady who came to visit?” Louie adds, and I’m about to inquire who said woman is when Hunter interjects.
“The one whose face looked like a Barbie doll?” He pulls at the sides of his face, tightening the skin at his eyes and his lips.
“She didn’t look plastic,” Chet defends, and I want to question the child about surgeries and Botox, but I bite my cheek.
See, I can be nice.
And it’s killing me.
“I’m sure she’s beautiful,” I reply, still chewing the inside of my mouth.
“She is.” Chet catches himself on the admission, eyes wide as they leap up to meet mine. He quickly looks away with guilt written on his face, and I’m crestfallen. Nice or not, he’s not attracted to me, or at least, not enough. He hasn’t asked me out on a date—not for drinks, not even for coffee. We’ve never shared a meal of any sort besides a feast of our bodies. My skin crawls a little with the thought. I’ve been very unladylike with this man . . . and he’s gone on a date with another woman.
“She’s an old friend,” he clarifies as if that explains everything. I chew the inside of my cheek even harder. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that statement from Karl, I’d own land in Hawaii.
“How fortunate,” I mutter, working hard to suppress how I really feel.
“I needed to go to the office today. We met after work.”
“Oh, you work?” I blurt, wishing I could retrieve the words as soon as I’ve said them. He’s never mentioned details of his business beyond his net worth. I don’t know what he does on a daily basis, where exactly his office is located, or how often he enters it.
“Yes, I work,” he retorts. “That place I make all my millions.” The edge to his voice is unsettling.
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 17