Hearts in Bloom

by Mae Nunn

  “Moving day, huh?” she asked casually.

  “Yes. I didn’t think I’d get in this fast, but Ms. Chandler was great about pushing everything through for me.”

  Jessica nonchalantly folded her arms across her chest and leaned casually against the wall.

  “Once Valentine makes up her mind she’s found a good match for one of her properties, there’s precious little that stands between her and a closing.”

  “She’s an unusual woman, isn’t she?” he asked.

  “She’s definitely in a class by herself.”

  “Um-hmm,” he agreed with a smile.

  Jessica’s chest tingled at the sight of boyish dimples, and she dropped her eyes rather than return the smile. He was more casual today, dressed for the move in sneakers and creased denims. The neatly tucked racing T-shirt showed signs of having been properly folded right out of the dryer.

  Their eyes met again. His kind smile threw her off balance. Literally. Her shoulder began to slide backward, down the wall. Her weight had been on her recovering leg and she didn’t dare kick out with her other foot to counter the backward movement of her torso.

  Instinctively both arms cast out, hands grasping at the air in front of her. With eyes squeezed shut, she waited for the pain sure to accompany a fall. Instead she felt an iron grip on her wrists, and then her face crushed against a rock-solid surface. Warm muscular arms enfolded her.

  Drew had moved so quickly she hadn’t heard a sound, just felt the security of being rescued. She held her breath, aware of a faint thumping, a light drumming. As she prepared to push away from the heartbeat and circle of protection, the security door creaked behind them.

  “Well, I’m glad to know you’re already getting a little Southern hospitality.”

  Jessica looked in the direction of the newcomer and then into the eyes of the man who held her in an awkward embrace.

  She flushed with embarrassment.

  Drew released her, but kept a secure grip on one arm as she leaned for her cane.

  “Jessica, this is my business partner, Hank Delgado. Hank, this is my new neighbor, Jessica Holliday.”

  She offered the tall, silver-haired man what was surely a weak smile and ran a shaky hand through her hopeless mane.

  “Hi, pleased to meet you.” They shook hands over Frasier’s excited effort to sniff up another stranger. “Your partner here just saved me from hitting the floor like a deflated volleyball.” She nodded with gratitude at Drew as she spoke, silently vowing never to leave her front door again without makeup and clean clothes.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’ll see if my coffee is ready.”

  “Coffee sounds great. I take mine black.” The older man spoke up.

  “Well, sure.” She turned to Drew. “And you?” she asked reluctantly.

  What could she possibly do but be gracious after he’d literally caught her in his arms? Becky Jo would hoot over this.

  “Nothing for either of us.” Drew eyed his partner pointedly, acknowledging they hadn’t been offered any coffee. “But thanks.”

  “Oh, go ahead and get us both a cup. I’ll just haul another load of your stuff out of the truck. Take your time, son.”

  “I don’t mind.” She relented.

  “If you’re sure.”

  She smiled weakly and nodded.

  “Thanks, Hank. I’ll be right out. The front door’s unlocked. Just sit boxes anywhere on the floor and I’ll put them where they belong later.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica.” Hank turned toward the exit, exposing a long, thin, rat-tail braid that fell about eight inches below his collar.

  “You, too, Mr. Delgado.”

  “It’s Hank,” he called over his shoulder as he passed through the security door. “Mr. Delgado was my daddy.”

  Jessica pulled a key from her pocket. The lock turned easily. Frasier rushed ahead and up the stairs in search of some doggie treasure. The inviting aroma beckoned from behind the ficus grove. Leaning heavily upon the cane, she navigated the usual articles strewn about the floor. She turned behind the potted trees and climbed the steps to the kitchen landing.

  Drew hesitated in the doorway hoping for a true invitation.

  “Hello?” Her voice carried from the kitchen.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Well, why don’t you come on up and help yourself? It’s kind of hard for me to carry three cups these days.”

  That was the only request he was likely to get. He picked his way carefully through the maze of colorful throw pillows that had been tossed or dragged off the furniture. His fingers twitched to return the cushions to their rightful places.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just sugar, please.”

  He rounded the greenery to get his first look at the kitchen, where a garden of potted ferns dangled from the ceiling. Her ceramic mug sat on the counter next to a stack of paper cups, the steaming brew waiting. Piles of magazines teetered on the ledge, pages dog-eared, notes jotted on a nearby legal pad.

  Drew couldn’t help but appraise the woman before him. If it were possible, she was even more rumpled than she had been at their first meeting. But something about her was so appealing.

  Clear fair skin was creased with faint lines around her wide-set eyes. There could be a crayon named for the unique shade of green, but he wasn’t sure. He did, however, know lots of words to describe her mass of blond hair. He fought the desire to reach out and touch the soft tangles that danced around her shoulders.

  Excited barking echoed from the loft upstairs.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to see what that animal is up to.” She edged past him.

  “Sure.” He hesitated for a moment and then added, “I must be intruding. I’ll just fill our cups and be on my way.”

  “That’s okay. My time is pretty much my own these days, so my work can wait. There’s the sugar. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared around the trees and he heard her steady climb up the stairs. Trained to note even the smallest detail, he let his eyes sweep the rest of the kitchen and dining area. There was clutter everywhere. Not trash, because everything seemed clean and useful. Just clutter. The kind he’d been taught to avoid or correct.

  Gardening supplies filled every available space. The built-in wall unit, intended as a china hutch, instead displayed every conceivable hand tool for digging and planting. Judging from the seedling plants crowded onto the pine table and countertops, the local produce market was under serious threat. He sipped cautiously and studied the tags identifying the new crop as cucumbers and squash.

  Jessica made her way back down the stairs. She’d changed into a faded T-shirt and pulled her thick sandy-blond hair into a neat ponytail. He smiled appreciation.

  “If you like yellow squash, you’ve come to the right place.”

  He glanced around the room slowly, his gaze finally coming to rest on her incredible mossy eyes.

  “It looks that way. Actually, I’m wondering how you find the space to cook and serve with all the gardening paraphernalia you’ve got in here.”

  “I don’t do much of either,” she confessed. “We mostly order in or go out for meals, or I just microwave something. For years I lived on poached fish and steamed vegetables. It’s about the only thing I learned to cook, since it only required minimal effort.”

  “From what I’ve seen of your work so far, you don’t seem like the kind of person who avoids effort.”

  “Oh, it’s not that.” She shook her head. “I’ve worked hard all my life to make things happen for myself.”

  He nodded understanding, remembering too well his own misguided concept of being the one in control.

  “It’s just that I never had the time to cook,” she admitted. “When you’re young and don’t have plans for a family right away, you don’t worry about learning things like that. When I finished college I went straight to work. Until a few months ago, there was never any ti
me. So I didn’t bother to learn.”

  She hooked the handle of her cane over the high-backed kitchen chair and continued, “My mama’s a great cook. Maybe one day I’ll practice some of the things I used to watch her do in the kitchen.”

  Drew set his cup on the saucer as he wondered about her injury. “Then we have something in common. My mother is…was a great cook, too.” His mother had been lost years ago at the hands of a drunk driver, and he still had a hard time thinking of her in the past tense.

  “Next time my sister sends me a box of her homemade Tollhouse cookies, I’ll share them with you,” he offered.

  “My favorite! It’s a deal.”

  For the first time, she gave him a sincere smile. As it spread across her face, her eyes rose at the corners and crinkled around the edges. His breath caught in his throat when the eyes narrowed and flashed in good humor. His chest tingled in the strangest way.

  He made a mental note to stick with the decaf he normally drank instead of indulging in this strong Southern brew.

  “I’d better get back outside. As it is, Hank is going to give me a hard time about letting him do all that work by himself.”

  “You said he’s your partner?”

  “Yeah. I’d known him for a couple of years buying parts over the phone from Metro Muscle. We finally met a few months ago at a car show. I’ve always liked this area, so I talked Hank into selling me part of his restoration business.”

  “Good karma.” Jessica’s head bobbed up and down.

  “I don’t believe in karma, but I do believe Hank will put a knot on my head if I don’t get back outside and finish unloading. We still have a full day of moving ahead of us.”

  “If you need anything…”

  “Actually, I was wondering about the churches in this area.”

  “Sorry, that’s not my strong suit. But if you’re looking for an ice-cream shop—” she patted her hip “—I’m your resource.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He picked up the two cups and backed away from the counter, not really wanting to break eye contact with this intriguing woman. He shifted his body, but not his face, toward the door. Finally, as he turned to make his exit, a cascade of ivy blocked his view and he smacked his head into a hanging basket.

  He ducked just as the plastic bucket made a second sweep in his direction.

  Jessica steadied the swinging plant. “Did you hurt anything?”

  “Only my pride,” he admitted, rubbing his temple.

  He stared into the enchanting face as her expression changed from concern to humor. Suddenly she burst into laughter. Throwing a hand over her mouth, she shook her head in apology.

  “I’m sorry. You just looked so silly with that ivy draped over your head.”

  She followed him through the living room, unable to draw a breath without breaking into fresh giggles.

  As he opened the door and stepped over the threshold, her infectious humor caught up with him. Just before he pulled the door closed behind him, he puckered his lips and blew her a noisy kiss.

  Out in the hallway Drew stood still, appalled at the very personal gesture. The impulsive motion was completely out of character for a man who believed God had sent him on a mission to reconnect with a woman from his past.

  During a brief college romance with Amelia Crockett, she’d proposed a deal.

  When you get tired of playing army and want some real excitement, come find me in Atlanta. I’ll be the perfect political partner for you.

  A dozen years and a nearly fatal training mission later, he was prepared to take her up on the offer.

  The heavy exterior door swung open. Hank carried an armload of clothing through the vestibule into the hallway. Several garments slid off the stack, falling into a soft heap on the floor.

  “I’ve got it,” Drew called, hurrying to close the space between them. He set the cups down carefully and then reached to recover his favorite wool suit, a starched dress shirt and two expensive cashmere sweaters. He brushed at the dark grains on the white shirt, but the motion only turned the small specks into streaks.

  His nose twitched at the slight odor. Bending to the pristine broadcloth, he sniffed. Mingled with starch and laundry detergent was the unmistakable smell of…

  Manure.

  Chapter Three

  Jessica was trapped, struggling for breath. She kicked frantically at the sheets that bound her in the semi-conscious state. Her groggy mind cast back to a room filled with skinny fifteen-year-old girls.

  She stood out from them like a marshmallow in a bowl of pretzels, with thirty extra pounds on her body and a number forty-seven pinned to her back.

  The instructor began leading the young dancers through combinations. Many struggled to keep up, but some caught on quickly. Jessica caught on. She fixed her attention on the movements, intent on copying and remembering them. When the pianist added music, the combinations became fluid, purposeful motions with a destination.

  After the first hour a judge called out thirty numbers. These girls would continue the audition; the rest were free to go.

  Number forty-seven made the cut.

  The pace quickened as the instructor switched from basic ballet to moderately difficult jazz. It was obvious which dancers had the ability to cross over from classic to contemporary.

  At the second break, fifteen more mothers packed up their daughters and headed for home. Jessica was grateful to be among the survivors, waiting for round three to begin.

  The last part of the audition was modern dance, incorporating difficult leaps. The liability of her weight was evident in Jessica’s landings.

  Finally the audition ended and the girls were dismissed. There were only five scholarships available for the summer workshop. Ten losers would be spending the steamy days in small Texas towns, baby-sitting and watching MTV, while the winners worked with seasoned professionals.

  Jessica swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and headed for the ladies’ room. As she stood in line outside the door, she overheard the number forty-seven mentioned by a young, high-pitched voice. The discomfort reflected on the face of the girl directly in front of Jessica was no preparation for the blows that followed.

  The shrill voice echoed inside the tiled walls. “What a country hog! I heard there were some big ones over in east Texas, but she’s gotta be a blue ribbon winner.”

  Laughter followed the comment as another anonymous girl chimed in, “My mom says they have to let a few porky ones audition every year just so nobody can claim discrimination. If you ask me, it was just a waste of two good dance positions on the stage!”

  The girls exited, laughing at their crude comments. Turning the corner, they came face-to-face with the butt of their jokes.

  A very slender brunette gaped wide-eyed at Jessica. Embarrassed at being caught, the girl burst into nervous laughter and sprinted the distance to the auditorium. Jessica had heard the ugly words before, but they’d never penetrated in quite this way.

  Inside the audition hall, the final results had been posted. Number forty-seven was not one of the scholarship winners, but neither were the numbers of the two from the rest room. Bittersweet, but small consolation.

  Jessica bit a quivering lip and lifted her chin as a lone tear slipped down her cheek. Mama said God gave her a beautiful body and it was precious in His sight. But there was nothing precious about a girl called “porky.”

  Jessica jolted awake in a flushed panic, unable to shake the dream. It was always the same. And why not? It was more than a dream. It was a memory.

  Nature had played a cruel trick, giving her a craving for sweets and a body that efficiently turned sugary comforts into lumpy cellulite. All the years of physical work and self-denial were for nothing. She was right back where she’d started.

  The old digital clock clicked as the plastic numerals for 6:25 dropped into place. She tossed off the covers, pulled back the heavy drapes, cranked open two sets of louvered windows and slid back between
wrinkled sheets.

  At the foot of the bed, Frasier contentedly gnawed his sock monkey. She rolled across the king-size mattress to stroke his silky ears. The contact was reassuring.

  Suddenly his head popped up. He appeared to listen for signs of activity outside the windows. He began to bark just as she picked up the strong downbeat. She struggled to her feet while Bruce Springsteen informed the world he was born in the U.S.A.

  A glance at the parking lot below gave no clue as to the music’s origin, but it was so close. And so loud. It seemed to come…right through the wall.

  “Rambo! I knew it! I knew that guy was going to be trouble.”

  She yanked on the flowered chenille robe Becky Jo had bought at a thrift store for seventy-five cents.

  With a firm grip on her cane and Frasier hot on her heels, she took the stairs in record time, flung open her front door and closed the space between the two homes. As she drew back to pound on the door, it opened, placing her face-to-face with silver-haired Hank Delgado.

  Frasier scooted past the long legs and slid across the polished wood floor. He made a muffled “umph” sound as he nose-dived into a leather ottoman.

  “Good morning.” Hank cocked an eyebrow at Jessica as if he wondered what she looked like with her hair combed.

  “It was, until somebody gave the order to crank it up.”

  “The boy gets up at the crack of dawn, and he does like his music loud.” He nodded agreement, pressing hands against his ears in an exaggerated fashion.

  She tried her best to seem angry. It didn’t work. She dropped her head to hide the smile that threatened. Acutely aware of her bare feet, she imagined how foolish she must appear, standing in the hallway in the ancient robe.

  “My mama had a housecoat just like that. I think she donated it to the thrift store over on Peachtree,” he said with a reminiscent smile.

  Jessica didn’t even want to consider the possibility.

  “Hey, man, it’s the welcoming committee,” Hank shouted to his partner.