“I don’t know what I’m doing with that woman,” I say, voicing my sudden doubts.
“What do you mean?” he questions.
“I don’t know if it’s smart to be with someone like her.” The words are the opposite of how I feel, though, and a sudden sourness fills my stomach after I speak. I lift my steamy mug to my lips and burn my tongue on the hot liquid. How’s that for karma?
“What’s wrong with her?” He chuckles, wiggling his brows like a teen. Honestly, I can’t think of much other than her being a little opinionated. I like her hair. I like her smile when she aims it at me. I like how she looks at me, like she wants something from me, and it isn’t marked by dollar bills. I take too long to offer Todd an explanation, so he asks another question.
“Is this because of Henny?” Todd remains standing next to the table with the coffee pot in his hand. He can act like a busy body, sticking his nose into my business. Then again, I’m the one who told him my first love has returned. I figured if any man understood the confusion of the situation, it would be him. Todd lowers into a chair, settling in for this conversation.
“I’m not attracted to Henny. It’s more the idea of her. What she represented.”
“What did she represent? Besides crazy sex in your twenties that we can’t quite replicate as we near fifty.” He laughs at his own assessment.
“Speak for yourself,” I mock, and his brow arches again with another knowing glance about my night with Scotia. I won’t be sharing details, but he doesn’t doubt that I’ve had sex with the illustrious Scotia. Good sex. “Anyway, Henny stands for that drive and determination I had to prove I could be something greater than my beginnings.”
“And you have done great things. Your businesses. Your boys.”
I nod to agree, but I still feel like I’m missing something.
“You know you don’t need to prove anything to anyone else. Didn’t then. Don’t now. It’s your life, man. As long as you’re living it to your fullest, by your definition, what does anything else matter?”
“I am living my life to the fullest,” I defend, but the words lie flat. Something is still absent, and I hate to admit the one thing I don’t have. Love. A partner. An equal. The idea I could offer something—myself actually—to someone else and I know I’d be good to her.
I want someone to belong to me.
“If I could add one bit of advice.” Here we go. “If a woman came for me down that road in the dark of night . . .” Todd points off toward The Tail outside the bar. “And she looked as fine as Scotia, plus she made me smile—”
“What the—”
“Et.” He holds up a finger. “Let me finish . . . because you’re still smiling like a fool this morning despite a grumpy disposition. I don’t think I’d be considering it a bad idea to keep her. In fact, I’d think it pretty fucking special that a woman wants me bad enough to risk things for me.”
My head slowly lowers, feeling all kinds of guilty. The Tail is unforgiving, and it takes some courage to drive it, especially at night. Scotia did come here when she could have simply called me. Wasn’t she hell-bent on jealousy, though? She thought I’d gone on a date with Henny when it was only drinks. On second thought, it’s kind of nice she might be jealous. It means she wants me.
“She spent the night in your crappy bus,” Todd adds, interrupting my thought process.
“My bus is not crappy,” I defend, lifting my head back up.
Todd chuckles. “Okay, you’re right, it’s awesome, but she must see past things I know you’re harboring as a barrier to letting her all the way in. Are you really gonna finish things before they start? Don’t blow her off because of some unfair comparison.”
“I’m not comparing her to anyone,” I snap.
“Aren’t you?” Todd questions. “Haven’t you measured every woman against one?”
Todd holds up a finger. “She’s a socialite.”
He raises a second digit. “She’s rough around the edges.”
Another finger. “She obviously has a reckless streak.”
Another finger. “She’s opinionated.”
I chuckle softly. He doesn’t know the half of it.
“Buuut,” he exaggerates. “She’s good in bed, right?” He lowers a finger, and I glare at him. We both know that isn’t everything.
“She’s been volunteering with your boys and adores them. She’s good with them.” He retracts another finger.
“She’s independently wealthy and runs her own business, so she doesn’t need any of that from your sorry ass,” he teases, lowering one more finger, leaving one remaining.
“And she’s crazy about you,” he lowers the last finger.
“How do you know?”
“Man, I saw the hurt on her face when you walked away from her on Halloween. She wants you bad, and I don’t think the bus-rocking is the only thing she wants.”
I stare at my friend, whose hand is now a fist. “You’ve got nothing to lose,” he says, lowering his tone, bumping his fist once to remind me he has no fingers in the air, no strikes against her.
Of course, there’s my heart, which I never wanted to open again to a woman.
“Henny’s the one you need to let go of, my friend. Not Scotia.” With that advice, he stands, taking the coffee pot with him, and I stare at my coffee mug, wondering when Todd Ryder got so wise.
Chapter 23
Pickle Party
[Scotia]
The day of the pickle party is a blustery day. I already fear that no one will show up at Genie’s, despite the bar’s popularity. During the quarrel Genie Lee and I had when we first pitched the idea to her, she didn’t hesitate to tell me that a party with my name on it might not draw the public. I had to remind her that In A Pickle would be the name of the business hosting a party in her fine Green Valley establishment.
“Never in your life would you associate with the likes of me or the company I keep,” she had snarled. Now I wanted something from her. She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. Genie was no dummy when it came to business, and she recognized I did want something from her, mainly her name to draw patrons.
Quick to note the underlying tension between us, Gideon interceded during that proposal meeting as the party had been his idea. He thought we should celebrate, and I didn’t disagree. My business was an accomplishment, and one I was proud of despite it being one more thing I’d done on my own. While owning a small business wasn’t solitary, I didn’t have a lot of family rooting for me when I opened. My sisters and I were estranged then. Darlene was off in medical school. My best friend, Diane, had disappeared, and of course, Karl was gone. My desire for something in my life provoked this turn of events, which I really did want to celebrate.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got Jennifer Winston on your side,” Genie tsked as we were setting up for the party, and I wanted to question what she meant, but Gideon had already slipped an arm around Genie to guide her away from me.
The country western bar was an explosion of pickles. Gideon had secured pickle-shaped helium balloons along with plastic tumblers and T-shirts as prizes. He’d even convinced Genie’s staff to wear a green-colored T-shirt with Genie’s name and logo on the front while the back said, “Pickles please” with our logo underneath.
Gideon and I already had a conversation about greeting patrons.
“Don’t frighten the children,” he warned. “Or the adults. We’re here to pass out samples, share the swag, and offer a few games for T-shirt prizes.”
Swag? Who came up with that word?
While I’d never worked a day in my life as waitstaff, I donned a shirt like the rest of them but remained in my pencil skirt and heels. I wouldn’t be serving food exactly, just greeting people and passing out some samples. I’d had plenty of practice serving guests in my home for medical staff parties over the years, so I figured it couldn’t be that hard.
It wasn’t that hard.
It was excruciatingly difficult.
&n
bsp; First, my feet ached from my high heels and the hardwood flooring of Genie’s.
Then there was the fact I was constantly in the way of Willa Monroe, Genie’s niece, and Patty Lee, Genie’s daughter, who waited on tables like professionals, which they are. In our tumblers, they served beer to adults and sodas to anyone who ordered one.
Eventually, I relegated myself to cleanup duty as a way to question what people thought of the samples and then offered to rinse out cups for customers to take home once they completed their meal. This meant I actually had to speak with people.
Gideon’s reasoning was that word of mouth spreads positivity the most. If the locals loved my product, they’d purchase it, share it, and request it. Reputation was everything, he told me, and that’s when I worried my personal repute might be a hindrance to my professional success. I’d never been concerned that people didn’t like me. It didn’t matter what their opinion of me was. In matters of business, though, In A Pickle was me. My personal opinions needed to step aside, and a new Scotia needed to step up.
Like when I served Beau Winston, who owns Winston’s Auto Shop, and his girl Shelly Sullivan. Shelly witnessed my female mishap about a month back and I owed her a semblance of gratitude. With an In A Pickle tumbler filled with beer in each hand, I approach their table.
“Beau. Shelly. Thanks for attending the party. A beer, on the house.”
“We aren’t at the party,” Beau clarifies, watching me set the green tumblers on the wooden table. “Just looking for a quick bite at Genie’s.”
“Well, the fried pickles are on special tonight. Willa will be around with a sample in a minute.” Both Beau and Shelly stare at me, and I take a deep breath. “And thank you, Shelly, for your assistance a while back at the garage.”
Beau’s red-haired head swivels to Shelly as she continues to look up at me with that blank face she can have. She hadn’t actually helped me during that god-awful incident in their garage, but the situation was jarring, and while mortifying to me, I feel the need to apologize to her as she’d been present.
“I just wanted to say, I am very sorry, Shelly. I know I can be . . . I can have a real sandpaper personality sometimes.”
Beau’s face drops into one of confusion while Shelly’s expression remains inscrutable and intense.
“I know what that’s like,” she says, giving me a slight nod. “No apology necessary.”
I still can’t read her, but as I’m learning, not everyone can be taken at surface level. Perhaps, Shelly and I have more in common than I thought. We’ve both been misunderstood in the past.
“Anywho, enjoy your beer.” I point between the cups. “And your night.” I excuse myself, trembling with the effort to remain polite, positive and professional. Perhaps Shelly had not shared with Beau what happened to me in their shop as a small show of female solidarity.
Thank goodness for small miracles.
I stalk toward Gideon when I see Maura enter with all six boys in tow. My breath catches in excitement. I’m so happy she took me up on the invitation. I promised I’d cover their entire meal. I wanted to treat them all. Then I do a double take when Chet enters at the tail of the crew.
He came.
I can hardly admit to myself how happy I am that he’s here.
He nods at me once he stands within the doors.
After a hug to greet Maura and smiles for all the boys, I watch as Patty pushes two tables together to seat the larger group.
“Order whatever you’d like,” I say, excitement flowing from my lips once the boys take seats. “Whatever you want, it’s all on me.”
My hands clasp in front of my chest and my heart hammers as I’m pickle-pleased by their presence.
“You’re spoiling them, darlin’,” Chet says behind me, and I turn to face him. My cheeks heat.
“A child can never be too spoiled,” I state. “And I’m so thrilled you’re here.”
“It looks like someone vomited pickles in here.” He turns his head, taking in all the green pickle balloons. “In a good way, of course.” His deep eyes return to me, a spark in them as our first meeting comes to both our minds.
“I’d like to cover your dinner as well.” I hold out a hand, pointing at a seat for him.
“I can cover my own, darlin’.” While I know he can—he could easily purchase Genie’s outright and stay stocked in pickles for the rest of his life—I still want to do this for him.
“When was the last time you ate?”
The questions surprise me, and I count back the hours. “I had coffee this morning.” I’ve been a bundle of nerves the entire day, and my stomach hasn’t considered food an option.
“Then eat with us, and I’ll let you take the tab.”
I smile. “I’m working.”
“Want me to speak to your boss? I might have an in with her.” My insides flutter when his lip slowly crooks in the corner. I’m certain I’m blushing like a schoolgirl, although I don’t recall ever feeling like this as a teenager.
“An in, huh?” I tease. “If you ask her nicely, will she let you do anything you ask?”
“I don’t know. Will she?” The flirtatious standoff has my face heating further and my knees trembling. I want to launch myself at this man despite the public place.
“Let me just speak with Gideon.”
When I point out the table of boys and mention having dinner with the group, my assistant eyes me suspiciously.
“Isn’t that the man who barged into the office a while back, demanding to see you?”
“Is it? Did he demand to see me?” I glance across the room at Chet.
“That man was on a mission.” Gideon’s head swivels from Chet to me and back. Then he hums, tapping his finger on his lower lip. “Is he the one not attracted to your mean streak?”
My mouth gapes, remembering the conversation with my assistant, but I quickly clamp my lips shut.
“Don’t you worry. Your secrets are safe with me. But just so you know, I don’t think he’s un-attracted to you.” Gideon lowers his voice and winks while nodding to the table. I turn to find Chet watching us. “That man’s savoring you like he’s never had a fried pickle in his life, and he’s discovered that salty snap and crispy fried go together surprisingly well.”
I stare at my young apprentice and laugh. “Gideon.” What the heck is he saying?
“Go. Shoo. I’ve got this. It’s your company, but everyone knows I’m running the show.” He winks again, and I hold back a retort. He wishes he was in charge, but I’m the queen. Or at least, the princess.
“Thank you,” I whisper, excusing myself and taking a seat between Malik and Chet.
Dinner with the boys is a chaotic mess of laughter and jokes and one spilled soda. Hugh tells me about his studies. Dewey informs me of his latest building efforts in the Harper House great room, and Louie and Hunter want to know when I’ll be back to read. Campbell tells me more about their MMA lessons. Malik remains quiet at my side although I catch Chet watching him from time to time, his eyes narrowing in question.
Has he considered what I’d told him? Does he have a way to investigate with the information I’d shared? Maybe my suspicions amount to nothing other than being wound up after Malik ran away?
“So, phallic symbols?” Chet quietly mutters next to me, interrupting my thoughts as he leans closer. “Ever going to explain this one?”
“Karl was freaked out by anything remotely phallus in nature. Fire hydrants, eggplants, pickles. You get the point.”
“A bit ironic, don’t you think?” Chet keeps his voice lowered, his eyes shifting to a display of pickle-shaped balloons.
I chuckle softly, understanding his meaning. “The issue was, he worried expressing an interest in any of these types of items would give him away, so the opposite occurred. He overreacted to anything that could be misconstrued or interpreted as penis-shaped.” I worry I might have spoken too loudly and clear my throat, side-eyeing the table of young boys.
I also n
otice how close Chet and I sit, leaning toward one another as if we’re telling secrets. His eyes drift to the white strip of hair near my face and I want him to reach for the strands. I want him to twirl his finger through the stripe, making a statement to everyone present.
Chet chuckles, his gaze shifting to mine. “Mushrooms?”
“Yes.” I bite my lip. His eyes lower there.
“Bananas?”
“I suppose.” I struggle with a grin.
“A corn silo?”
“Possibly.” I pause as his voice rises, laughter filling the air around us. I cross my arms, nipples peaked inside my bra for some reason. “Are you done yet?”
“One more.” He lifts a thick finger close to my face. “The Washington Monument?”
“Okay, fine. Yes.” My arms slip apart, and I can’t help the huge grin on my face.
Chet’s chuckle turns into full-on guffawing. “Well, it’s like a penis-imposter explosion in here tonight. And eggplants? Really?”
My gaze drifts to his lap and then leaps back up to his face. “I suppose that one would hurt, but so might a fire hydrant.”
Chet leans back, smacks the table, and laughs harder. The sound bellows out of his chest and vibrates around us. The deep echo warms my insides even if it’s at the expense of my deceased husband. I want to bottle that laughter . . . in a phallus-shaped cylinder.
Eventually, I help the boys gather their things before leaving the restaurant until I feel a tug at my arm.
“What do you need, precious?” I ask as I lower to Malik. He looks around the room and then dips his head in embarrassment, crossing his legs on his seat.
“Oh. Oh. Do you need to use the restroom?” I push back my chair and hold out a hand. “I’ll show you where it is.”
I pause when he takes my hand. “Anyone else need the potty before you head home?”
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 21