by Nancy Warren
“You didn’t have any clue at all?”
He winced. “I know. It makes me sound like I was completely out of touch with my own wife. My own marriage.” He shifted back feeling the weight of his own discomfort. “Maybe I was and didn’t even know it.”
“And today?”
“I really think I tried to be an adult about the break up. She didn’t want to be married anymore. She’d moved out. I knew I couldn’t stay in that town anymore and risk bumping into her or see her dating guys I probably knew. It was too crazy. So I took this job and moved. And today I got an email basically saying she doesn’t trust me and I verbally attacked her. I completely lost it.”
He shook his head.
“Did you verbally attack her?”
“There were some heated words when I tried to figure out what was going on and she wouldn’t even talk to me. But I didn’t call her names or anything. No.”
“Did you reply to her email?”
“Started to but it was like the unfairness of it all was choking me. I had to get out and run off some of the frustration. I left it half written.”
“Okay, I know you are hurting and you’re mad. I have no idea what’s going on obviously but you’ve got to be strategic. From now on, you have to make an unbreakable deal with yourself that you let at least four hours go by before you respond to any email from your wife or about her.”
Even in his black mood he had to smile. “Four hours? Is that the rule?”
“It’s my rule. And it’s unbreakable. You will save yourself a world of pain.”
“Experience talking?”
“Common sense. And watching other people do stupid things because they were angry and in pain.”
“You’re right. I can’t believe I almost sent off something filled with rage. Stupid.”
“Rage tends to make people stupid.”
He reached out with his bare foot and nudged her crossed ankles on the table. “Where did you learn to be so smart?”
“Oldest girl? Ten brothers and sisters? There is nothing you can teach me about drama. Or stupidity.”
“I’d have said the same for me having taught high school for so long. Truth is, I’m shocked this happened to me.”
He saw her hesitate, choose her words carefully, then their gazes met and she said, “Could she have met someone else?”
“It was my first thought. She denied it, blew up at me for suggesting it, and none of my friends have said anything.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“But you have your suspicions?” She must have read it in his tone.
“Yeah. I do. Why else would she break up so fast without so much as a conversation, a few counseling sessions, something.”
She reached out. Put her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”
He turned his hand palm-up, clasped hers. “Thanks.”
The warmth of the connection that sprang between them from their clasped hands shocked him. He glanced up and found her looking startled.
She eased her hand slowly away. “I should get back. I’ve got an early start in the morning.” She made a production of closing the pizza box. “I have to bake muffins.”
“I definitely want you fresh tomorrow since I will be coming in for one of those muffins.”
She rose. “Thanks for dinner.”
He followed her to the door and opened it for her. “Thanks for hanging out with me tonight.”
“Hope I helped a little.”
“More than you know,” and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She smelled so good, as though all the spices and sweet ingredients she used in her cooking, plus a hint of the coffee she spent her days dispensing had somehow become part of her. The skin of her cheek was silky against his lips. He wondered what would happen if he took the kiss to her mouth, was thinking about it when she pulled away.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, and was gone so fast she left a jet stream.
Interesting.
Chapter Seven
The espresso machine steamed and hissed its good morning greeting, the first batch of muffins was baked, the cinnamon rolls minutes away from done. All her familiar routines settled Iris as she prepared to open Sunflower the next morning.
Dosana arrived, a new streak of cranberry slicing her jet black hair so she looked, at first glance, like the victim of a hatchet attack.
“What do you think?” she asked, seeing Iris stare.
“It looks very -- red.” What could she say? Suggesting to an employee that her new hairstyle looked like the result of a botched murder attempt was not going to be conducive to harmonious owner/staff relations.
“Thanks. I needed a change. I’ve got papers due and exams coming up. So I dyed my hair. Figured if I’m going to procrastinate, I should do something fun that won’t get me hung over.”
Dosana was in her final year of her business degree. Since she was entirely self-funded she had to juggle school and her nearly full time hours at Sunflower. Iris planned the schedule around her busiest times and it worked for both of them. She’d be sorry to see Dosana go when she graduated and went on to greater things.
“I still want to make this bakery my case study for graduation. What do you think?”
“Will I have to give away all my secrets?”
Dosana looked amused. “You think a bunch of college kids care about your recipe for morning glory muffins?”
“I meant my finances smart ass.”
“I think we can work in general terms so you only divulge what you’re comfortable with.” She moved in for the sales pitch. “And, you know, in return you’re going to get advice from business pros who help mentor students.”
“I could definitely use some advice.” She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Dosana hugged her. “That’s fantastic. Thanks. I’ll email you with everything I need. Speaking of which, I think we’re short on those organic brown sugar packets.”
“Really? Check the next delivery. It should be on my computer.”
Dosana returned in a second carrying Iris’s laptop with her. “What is this?”
“Oh, right. That.” She’d forgotten to log out of the sperm bank website. Damn. She tried to act completely casual. “I’ve been playing with the idea of maybe having a baby.”
“Alone?” Why did she make it sound so pathetic? A decade from now Dosana might find out that being a single business owner in a small town meant there was a pretty small pool of eligible men.
“Like I said, I’m only toying with the idea.”
“Shopping for a baby daddy,” she said in a teasing tone.
“Don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
Dosana was checking out the likely candidates on the website, her nose ring winking every time she shook her head. Then she glanced up. “What about that cute English teacher? Mr. McLeod? He’s hot, he’s smart and you get the feeling he knows his way around the female body if you know what I mean.”
She knew exactly what Dosana meant. “He’s complicated.”
“All the interesting ones are.”
“Still married.”
“Getting a divorce.”
She raised her brows. “How do you know?”
“Please. Sunflower is gossip central.”
“How come I haven’t heard anyone gossiping about Geoff and his divorce?”
Dosana turned to busy herself with returning the computer to the back room.
And then she got it. She hadn’t heard because she was part of the gossip mill rumors.
Her suspicion was confirmed when Dosana returned. “What are you wearing on your date with him on Thursday?”
“How do you know I have a date with him Thursday?”
“Everyone knows you have a date with him Thursday.”
She was still thinking about that when the bell rang and Geoff himself walked in. He wore his usual teacher uniform, only this time he wore jeans with a shirt and skinny tie. She thought he was limping slightly and trying not to let it show so she decided
not to mention the impromptu half marathon he’d completed yesterday.
“Hi,” he said, all sexy voiced and still married to another woman.
“Hi.” She tried to sound bright, and really, really busy even though he was the first customer and her café was empty.
He stood in front of her counter and there was a moment of silence with a lot of unspoken packed into it. Finally, she said, “You’ve been coming here long enough that I can ask you if you want the usual?” she asked. “Americano and a muffin.”
“Sure.”
“Coming right up.”
“About Thursday, how do you feel about driving an hour or so? I’ve been asking around about restaurants and it seems like—“
“We already had dinner. Last night.”
“That was pizza delivery after you saved my life and gave me a ride home. Thursday, if you’ll recall, is a date.”
She let the hiss of the espresso machine give her a second to put her thoughts straight, then said, “About Thursday, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Is it because I got lost? Honestly, I have a good sense of direction normally.”
She turned to him. Looked into those disappointed blue eyes. “It’s because you’re still married. And I don’t want to get involved with someone who is still so wrapped up in another woman that an email sends him running himself half to death.”
She passed him his coffee, got the tongs and flipped a muffin expertly into a bag.
“I, I don’t know what to say. I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
The jingle of bells announced another customer.
“Then can’t we—“
“Hi Mr. McLeod.” A chorus of young female voices had him turning his head. The girls’ swim team, between early morning practice and school, had stopped in for sustenance. Most of the six who’d cruised inside—more like one organism than six individual people—still sported wet hair and glowed with athleticism.
“Morning girls.”
He picked up his coffee and his bag, glanced with pent up frustration at Iris, said, “Thanks,” and headed out.
The door barely shut behind him when one of the girls said, “He’s so dreamy.”
“I know, right? Ms. Barnes and him are totally going to fall in love.”
Iris realized that even in a small town there were different gossip centers. At Jefferson High they didn’t seem to know that she and the English teacher were supposed to go out Thursday night.
Except that she’d blown him off, leaving the way totally clear for Ms. Barnes.
“Red hair with bad eyes and a Harvard education or altogether better looking with a lower IQ but perfect eyesight?” Iris asked Marguerite as they sat together in front of her computer.
“Is there a way to get a kid that looks more like you?” Marguerite asked.
“Are you kidding me? You can look at donors’ childhood photos, adult photos, you can try and get someone who looks similar to you or – and this is probably my favorite trick – you can pick a donor who looks like a celebrity.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“So the future could see lots of pint sized Pitts and jacked up Jackmans? Some petite Paltrows and knee high Hathaways.” Marguerite was cracking herself up. “Oh, I have to stop. Who wants a designer kid?”
“I want a healthy one. That’s all.”
Marguerite kept scrolling through photos.
“Online dating has nothing on shopping for a baby daddy.”
“Except that a bad online date lasts as long as it takes to gulp down a coffee. Choose the wrong sperm donor and I’m stuck with my mistake for life.”
“Worse, your poor as yet unconceived child is stuck with bad choice DNA.”
“So not helpful.”
She slumped in the chair in her home office that would soon be a nursery if all went according to plan. “Do you think I’m making a terrible mistake?”
Marguerite leaned back too. Took a sip of herbal tea from the lumpy purple mug that sort of resembled the botanical Iris. Iris had a set of six of them, some more successful than others. “I honestly don’t know what I think. I’m a couple of years younger than you and I don’t have issues that would get in the way of conceiving.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “I’m still far more concerned with not getting pregnant than with trying to. But it’s your body, your life. You should do whatever makes you happy.” She grinned. “And I’ll be a killer aunt.”
“Mom would never say anything but I feel like they believe I should take in a stray, like they always did.” She sighed. “Like I am.”
“Hey. Mom had kids of her own, too. And their path isn’t your path.”
“Thanks, Sis.”
They continued baby daddy shopping, putting the likeliest candidates in a favorites file.
Harvard didn’t make the cut. The better looking guy with perfect eyes and a lower IQ did.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“I’m learning things about myself from the way I choose a potential donor.”
Marguerite nodded. “Yeah, like you prize looks over smarts. But not completely. You want a good looking kid with a chance at a normal childhood.”
“Am I a very shallow woman?”
“At least you’re not trying to create a freak with a gigantic IQ. And thank God you’re not going for a Dunst doppelganger, a jolie Jolie,” she said in her perfect French accent, “A pebble off the Rock, a—”
Luckily she was spared any more of Marguerite’s hilarity when her cell phone rang. Call display told her it was Geoff McLeod calling. Looks and brains, she thought as she picked up.
“Hi, Iris, it’s Geoff.”
“I know, I have call display.”
“And still you picked up. My day’s improving.” Maybe it was that slightly sleepy tone he always had, as though he was just getting out of bed, or thinking of getting into it. His voice was one of the most attractive things about him.
“I didn’t mean to offend you this morning.”
“You blew me off on a date I’ve been looking forward to all week.”
She immediately felt guilty. She knew from the self-help books that littered her bookshelf the way tantric sex books littered Geoff’s, that the guilt response was part of her people pleasing issues. She needed to be honest and not back down. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
She could hear the low rumble of the TV in the background. “We got interrupted so fast you didn’t even give me the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.” There was a teasing note but also the honest message of a man who needs a friend.
Did she want to be his friend? His volunteer therapist and the person who made him feel better about his break-up?
She sort of thought she did.
“Of course we can be friends.”
“Great. Friends do dinner, right?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “You asked me on a date.”
“And now I’m amending the invitation to friends.”
“If we go as friends, we split the bill.”
He sighed. “You’re going to be a pain in the ass friend, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
“So? Can we still go out Thursday?”
She debated with herself then went with the truth. Even though Marguerite was eavesdropping on every word without even pretending she wasn’t. “My problem is I find you attractive. If we go for dinner then I might forget we’re only friends.”
“Okay.” He forestalled her before she could turn him down for dinner yet again. “How about this. Friends help each other, right?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“I bought some furniture from a big box Swedish place. I need help putting it together.”
“You’re asking me to build furniture?”
“No. I’m asking you to have dinner with me, but if you don’t want dinner, then I’m offering you an alternative, a menta
lly and physically stimulating evening of building furniture. And, as an enticement, there will be dinner.”
“More pizza?”
“I heard the Thai place is good. I could get take-out.”
When she got off the phone, Marguerite widened her eyes. Since she’d already explained to her sister why she’d blown him off for Thursday, she had to explain the new relationship.
“So, you’re going to spend Thursday evening with the professor anyway?”
“As a friend. Besides, he’s getting Thai. You know how much I love Thai food.”
Chapter Eight
So what did you wear to a date that had turned into a friends-only non-date? A furniture building non-date? After work Iris was overcome with a sudden compulsion to hit the gym. An hour of treadmill, weights and stretching reminded her that she needed to do this a whole lot more often.
She came home, showered and decided eventually on jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Casual. Then she spent longer than usual on her makeup and wore her favorite earrings.
Friends, she thought as she picked up the box she’d prepared earlier with two lemon bars alongside two of her wicked brownies. Her take-out bakery boxes had the Sunflower logo stamped on the top.
When she knocked on his door she really wondered what she was doing. He opened and she was momentarily surprised to see him out of his teacher uniform. He had on a gray athletic T with a hole in the shoulder and jeans that hung low on his hips. His feet were bare.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She offered the box and he took it, giving her a hopeful look. “Is this what I’m hoping it is?”
“If you’re hoping Lady Gaga’s going to jump out and sing Bad Romance then no. If you’re hoping for wicked brownies and lemon bars, then yes.”
“Lady Gaga is nothing compared to your lemon bars.”
“You’re buttering me up in hopes I know how to use an Allen wrench,” she said as she walked inside. He’d made some progress, she noted since she was last here. Fewer boxes skulked in corners needing unpacking and the place looked more lived in.
“Do you?”
“I always get my dad to put together my stuff.”