by Ellen Parker
One more thing. Kevin reread the email, taking note this time of the local Saturday event. He dashed off a quick message to his grandmother.
“Rockford is busy as always. Next break in my schedule is late October. How about I come up late on Saturday and help with the final winterizing projects on that Sunday? Want to keep you snug your first full winter at the lake. Kevin.”
Arrive at the lake late on Saturday. Let her think I had to put in a morning of work instead of dropping in on a certain small town’s Harvest Festival. He hummed an advertising jingle as he filled his commuter cup and walked out the door. Deadlines improved his performance.
Chapter Eighteen
Don’t touch. Beth commanded her fingers to open the exhibition hall map. This was her second non-date with Jackson. All the activity at a large, busy home improvement show should make it easy for her to obey her own rules. Around them, the air vibrated with voices. Flashing lights from some of the vendor displays supplied punctuation. She took a deep breath and identified bacon and garlic coming from the direction of the cooking demonstrations.
“Where do you want to start?”
She moistened her lips and looked away from his face. Discarding “running my fingers through your hair,” which was the first answer that came to mind, she stalled by glancing at the list of vendors. “Flooring. Countertops. Bathroom fixtures.”
“Aisle three? I see plumbing and flooring distributors.”
She stepped out of the traffic pattern and concentrated on the paper in her hand. “Looks good. What are you interested in?”
“My only assignment was lighting. Mona wants a new fixture in the dining room.” He unzipped all but two inches of his jacket.
Beth’s gaze went over him from wheaten hair and the layered look of blue dress shirt, charcoal knit vest, and brown jacket to deep-gray dress pants and shiny black shoes. On the way back up, she paused at the slightest hint of five-o’clock shadow. Her fingers tingled with desire to touch his sleeve. Was the jacket real or faux suede?
“Aisle three it is.” As they walked, she looked at the tips of her practical black boots and breathed, “Weak. Dumb.”
The whole situation was risky, and it was all her fault. She’d agreed to go out as “friends.” Almost all of the rules were her conditions. No touching. Dutch treat on meals and entertainment. Then why, as they drove the miles from Crystal Springs to this exhibition in a St. Paul suburb, did she want to reach over the console and rest a hand on his thigh?
“Did you say something?”
“Oh. Nothing important.” Just second, third, or fourth thoughts about this entire relationship. “Let’s get started. I want to fill my tote with brochures and my head with ideas for the next stage of renovations on the old farmhouse.”
“Plumbing fixtures on the left.” Jackson stepped forward and blocked the other attendees from bumping them.
The salesman at the booth launched into the features of a sleek kitchen faucet set.
Beth gathered up one each of the glossy brochures. As the salesman paused for questions, she pointed at a pair of shower controls. “What’s the comparative price between these two?”
“Good question. As you may expect, this one, with the handheld and six-spray adjustments, runs a little more. In the neighborhood of fifty dollars difference.”
Beth jotted a note on the literature. During the next week, either she or Carla would go online and check out the prices on the manufacturer’s websites. The local plumber was willing to special order from a selection of companies, but tonight was an opportunity to see a wide selection of models in person.
“Would this be going into new construction?” the salesman addressed Jackson.
“Old. And it’s her house, her decision.”
“You’re not…?”
“Not at all.” Beth smiled at the exhibitor’s mistaken conclusion. For the rest of their browsing, she’d have to be clear they were together but not a couple. “Now tell me a little about these new sink styles. I don’t see an overflow outlet on them.”
By the time they’d worked down one side of the long aisle, Beth had collected literature from two plumbing manufacturers and one flooring outlet. Twice she’d resorted to shaking her head when others assumed they were a couple furnishing a home together. And the sense of excitement, via the delicate hair on the back of her neck, crested each time Jackson brushed against her shoulder or touched her elbow to guide her around an obstacle.
“Let’s try aisle four,” he said. “It looks like a lighting booth is located next to flooring.”
“Sounds good to me. What sort of light are you interested in?”
“Dining room. I think the current one needs to be rewired, but Mona really wants to replace the fixture with something designed for bulbs from this century.”
“Will you and Linc do the replacement?”
“Not this time. The electric in that house has too many surprises. Our grandparents upgraded the kitchen and bathrooms about twenty years ago. They didn’t do anything other than paint and paper in the living or dining room since, well… Dad can’t remember. I suspect that circuit goes back to 1950 or before.”
“Old houses and their quirks.” A little piece of her heart twitched with regret.
Old Ben’s house, the grand structure from the late 1920s, beckoned her. She wanted to live there again. Yes, without the matted shag carpet and with a modern furnace. But Anita would be married with children laughing in that house before Beth’s sentence of celibacy was over. A tiny sigh escaped. It would require an entire string of miracles for her to claim the house.
“Updating old homes keeps a lot of people in business.” Jackson led her to a booth with a display of tile and wood flooring. Then he pointed toward the exhibitor directly across the aisle. “I’ll be there.”
Beth glanced at the samples of wood flooring in several widths and finishes before running her fingertips lightly over a tile. Time lost meaning as she discussed finishes, sizes, and colors with the sales representative. For the moment, she was free to use her imagination and select her own choices for the remodeling. It was fine to indulge her fantasy world and picture the kitchen floor with bold green-and-gray swirls. The common sense of a neutral palette throughout the house faded as she examined the strong, clear colors.
“Thank you. I’ll keep your card at the top of the stack.” She drifted to the next booth.
A few minutes later, she turned away from a display of fiberglass fencing and scanned the crowd. The aisle was filled with people. She raised up on her toes, looking for Jackson, one particular tall, blond man among many. Her heart skipped a beat. Where was he?
* * *
Jackson patterned his gaze left to right, right to left, and back again. White beret and auburn hair. It took a moment, but he spotted Beth standing beside a roofing display with her lips pressed into a slight frown and her eyes searching the crowd.
He quickened his step and didn’t stop until he was almost in front of her. “Sorry about that. You seemed absorbed, so I checked out both lighting vendors on my list.”
“I figured you’d return to this aisle eventually.”
Not according to your face. “Shall we?”
He moved his open hand to within an inch of hers. Standing next to her without touching grew more awkward each minute. Her rule did nothing to cool his desire to skim his fingertips across her freckles or test the softness of her hair. Pressing his lips tight, he held his disappointment inside when she shook her head and tucked both hands in her coat pockets.
He shrugged while puzzling over her body language. “What’s next on your list?”
“Carpet.”
“Then we’ll go down the row, looking for Aladdin.” He grinned at her trace of a smile. He may as well admit the joke was old and worn. “And then my stomach tells me it’s time to find supper.”
“You didn’t eat before picking me up?”
“A protein bar does not count as a meal. I postponed real
food during my time at the orchard in favor of a short leash session with Bailiff.” He looked directly into her hazel eyes and tried to keep his smile casual. “Figured I’d have a prettier dinner companion by waiting.”
“In that case, we’ll make aisle six our final foray.” She turned away, leaving him to imagine her blush.
He followed, clasping his hands behind his back. I can’t. Each time he recalled her statement of refusal, it puzzled him more. Why couldn’t she date? When he found her name on the internet with a simple search, the information was minimal. The computer confirmed her bachelor’s degree and linked to the kennel’s website. Nothing to indicate she wasn’t free to date. Direct questions had only increased the mystery. Tomorrow, he’d find the time to browse around in her friend list on one of the major social media sites. Maybe that could fill in the gap Beth left when talking about her past.
Two carpet vendors later, he offered his hand again. “Come with me. They have entire kitchens set up at the end of the hall.”
She settled the tote bag on her shoulder and wrapped both hands around the straps. “The folder said cooking demonstrations. Is that considered supper?”
“Not exactly.”
He hoped the two men he’d overheard discussing the “before” photos to go with the recreated kitchens were accurate. One of them had mentioned a step-by-step restoration of 1920s woodwork. And while Jackson had not been inside the old house on Big Cat Farm, he’d been inside many homes built in that decade.
At the demonstration kitchen, the upper and lower cupboards had a rich walnut finish and flanked a white farmer’s sink with brushed nickel and porcelain fixtures.
“What do you think of the cabinets?” he asked.
“Makes me wonder what’s under the decades of grime on ours.”
He studied the display of photos showing the stripping and refinishing compressed into six steps. “It looks like tedious work. Different but similar to rebuilding the cider press.”
“You have a cider press?”
He shrugged. “We have all the pieces of a small one. I won’t have it reassembled in time for this season.”
“Jackson the mechanic. I think I like that better than attorney.” She picked up the folder from the manufacturer of the stain and topcoats on the restored cabinets.
“It’s a hobby. Uses a different set of brain cells.”
“Be careful when you visit Big Cat Farm. We may put some of those neurons to work.”
He maintained his slight smile while the hope in his heart multiplied. Her use of “when” implied more than a quick stop to pick her up or take her home. Hope of an opportunity to discover the secret of “I can’t” warmed in his chest.
Chapter Nineteen
One week later, Beth savored the smells and sounds of the new house at Big Cat Farm. The rich, spicy scent of lasagna seeped from the oven to mix with the fresh rosemary she added as the final ingredient to the salad dressing. The sound of the shower from down the hall comforted her. Anita was on schedule, a rarity this week.
Glancing at the clock, Beth pressed the blender button. Fifteen minutes. Or less. Her mind scrolled through the tasks remaining before the guests arrived. Relax. It’s a casual dinner. They were hosting a birthday supper for Sam’s younger brother, Steve. Neither of them were strangers to the table at this house.
Running her moist hands down the thighs of new jeans, she eased a bit of her nervousness. It was Jackson’s first visit to the farm. This would be his introduction to her cooking. She stirred garlic powder and parmesan cheese into softened butter. He lives in a house with a professional cook. Her imagination compared every dish on the menu with Mona’s skill and came up short. Why does it matter? It’s not like we can be more than casual friends.
Her gaze wandered down the hall as the sound of water was replaced with Anita’s muted singing. Her cousin deserved a ring on her finger and Sam in her bed.
“Mmmm. Makes me want to play hooky.” Carla emerged from her bedroom, dressed for her Friday night shift at the care center. “Save me some lasagna for my breakfast?”
“You expect leftovers after feeding three men?” Beth picked up a slice of French bread, applied the flavored butter, and set it on a foil-lined pan.
“Right. I’ll psych myself up to fix peanut butter and banana.”
“Are you taking a few of the cookies in your lunch or supper or whatever you call your midnight meal?”
“Of course.” Carla shrugged into a light jacket. “Enjoy your evening. I understand Jackson has good mechanical skills. Maybe you can persuade him to diagnose the downstairs toilet.”
“That’s plumbing. And we know what’s wrong. We’ve got professionals searching for the parts.”
Carla sighed. “Once again, my parents’ good intentions of using a small, new manufacturer backfires.”
“Go to work. Make old people comfortable.” Beth swatted the air as if to drive her cousin out of the house.
Carla laughed and started down the steps to the back door.
A few moments after Carla’s car left, Dancer and Greta barked a mixture of alarm and welcome. Beth dashed for the front door, paused on the small porch, and called the dogs. Two vehicles pulled to a stop side by side. All of their guests had arrived, and she hurried to turn off the oven before going to greet them.
“Come on in. Don’t mind the girls,” Beth called.
“Come over here, Greta. Smell my new laundry soap.” Sam paused within the circle cast by the light at the corner of the house.
His brother, Steve, leaned against the front fender of the truck, pretending he had other places to be.
Jackson hesitated before closing his car door. “Good luck keeping Greta’s attention.”
“Did you bring…?” Beth was down the three steps and halfway across the lawn in a blink.
“You said he’d be welcome.” Jackson rounded the front of his Jeep, Bailiff leashed at his side.
Beth and the three men stood together, exchanging comments about their day and the weather. She kept a careful gaze on the canine trio as they inspected each other with much sniffing at both ends. Bailiff stood his ground, neither lunging forward nor retreating from the older, larger shepherds.
“Apologies again for canceling the fall obedience class. I really need a minimum of three,” she said.
“Then I’ll have to settle for introducing him to a couple of the graduates.”
“At least he’s used to being around one other dog at the orchard. Have you taken him other places?” Beth presented her hand to the puppy and quickly received a nose bump from Dancer.
“Public park. He’s encountered a few of his kind. Mixed results on his reception.” Jackson shifted the leash to his other hand as the dogs milled around their owners.
Anita, her short, dark hair still damp from the shower, joined them and wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist. “Remind me to show you what I found in the old house.”
Beth shoved her hands into her pockets and forced her gaze away from her cousin and her beau. “Speaking of that, let’s walk over before it gets completely dark.”
A few minutes later, Beth clicked on the interior lights at the partially renovated farmhouse. Home. She shook her head as if it would be simple to banish the notion. The rational portions of her brain cited half a dozen large obstacles to ever living within these walls again. The irrational slice longed to move in before the repairs were complete.
“Nice.” Jackson stood in the middle of the living room and turned in a slow circle. “Quality craftsmanship.”
“Old Ben had the money to build the best.”
Sam cleared his throat. “In case you haven’t heard, Old Ben is at the center of most of the Prohibition stories in this town.”
“Rumors that his son would neither confirm nor deny,” Beth added the official family line.
There were lots of things her grandfather hadn’t expanded on. But when Beth’s brother, Luke, found several rusted metal pieces next to an old fo
undation, Young Ben had admitted it was part of a whiskey still.
“Follow me, Sam. I pulled up that ugly shag carpet in the small bedroom. You’ll drool at what I found.” Anita led him up the open staircase.
“Built in either 1928 or 29.” Beth decided a little history of the building would answer Jackson’s silent question. “Depending on who you ask, Old Ben Cosgrove either saved from several good crop years or built it with moonshine profits.”
“Family stories can get colorful.”
“Or boring.” Steve headed off toward the back porch.
“Old Ben tales fit the first choice.” She favored the version of events where whiskey paid for the new house. A trace of foundation for a small building beside the spring still existed. And the farm had the correct combination of isolation and access to roads to support the theory.
“When was it last lived in?” Jackson allowed Bailiff to sniff along the outer wall.
“Two and a half years ago. Uncle Joe rented it out after his dad passed away. The same couple lived here for years, moved out when they got ill. We decided the time was right to update it. Got the roof on and some of the new windows installed before the cash flow dried up.”
“I take it the settlement money will pay for some of the things you admired at the home show last week.”
“Correct.”
She ignored Sam’s voice and Anita’s giggle drifting down the stairway. With Steve out of sight, she was alone with Jackson and Bailiff. It would be so simple, and so wrong, to give him a hug. Her own rule of “no touching” slammed into her mind before she did something foolish. It was bad enough that she’d allowed him to take her hand getting out of the car last week. She couldn’t blame him for taking the opportunity to plant another kiss on it. No. Obey my own rules.
For an instant, Beth pictured them as cartoon figures. With her as a temptress and he hazardous. She found it impossible to turn him down when he asked to spend time together. Instead, she found herself dropping hints or even dinner invitations. Having a conversation with him felt right, comfortable. Quick texts or the occasional email had turned into almost nightly phone calls. She looked forward to and enjoyed each moment of conversation more than anyone in her position should. Then again, what was her status? Checking the box on an application shouldn’t take a serious internal debate.