by Ginny Aiken
“Oh, Lord Jesus . . . thank you . . .”
I shudder, make my way to my dresser and wardrobe, pull out clean clothes, and then head for the shower. The spigots squeak as I adjust them so the water reaches the right steaming temperature, and then I let the hot water splatter against me.
As I shampoo my short-short hair—short, thanks to the fire—I let the image of Max replace the nerve-wracking thoughts of last night, danger, and murder. I have to be mature about this, about him. I have to face the reality that I’m going to have to make myself vulnerable, to let Max get close. I also have to face the possibility of heartbreak in the end.
What’s most frightening is that this time, it won’t be a matter of post-adolescent infatuation, as my college romance was. This time, I suspect, I’m going to have to give a hundred percent. I know Max. He won’t expect anything less.
Neither will God.
“Lord?” I murmur, confident the shower will hide the sound of any confession I make from curious elderly ears. “I’m scared. This could be the real deal, and you know I don’t know how to react when face-to-face with . . . well, the real deal. I know you’ll be there to pick up the pieces afterward, but I don’t want to wind up as a bunch of pieces for you to pick up.”
I automatically reach for the squirt pump on the conditioner bottle, but then consider the minuscule scraps of red locks left on my head. There’s not enough up there to benefit from the liberal application of emollients and bodifiers and who-knows-what-else they put into those bottles.
With a twist, I turn off the water, slide the shower curtain aside, and reach for the towel. The fluffy cotton is a comfort against my face.
“It’s all about trust, isn’t it?” As usual, God doesn’t answer me, but I know the answer already. “Okay. I’m going to take your promises as seriously as I always promise to do. But it’s up to you to help me hang in there.” My stomach lurches. “Help me with my weak knees here. I want to remember all the time how you’ve told me you’ll never leave me nor forsake me.”
God never promised you an unbroken heart, my conscience says.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. What you really promise is to be there for me, no matter what comes. And all you ask is that I walk with you, no matter where I go. Just give me some smarts about this, okay?”
Not so sure about my romantic smarts but certain of God’s faithfulness, I dress and head down to the kitchen. Where I find Aunt Weeby impatiently checking her watch.
“Well, it’s about time, sugarplum. We have us places to go, houses to see. Come on, come on. Let’s go. Davina’s outside waiting for us.”
Davina is the S.T.U.D.’s limousine chauffeur, a quiet, intensely loyal, former racecar driver who tops the measuring tape at a lofty six foot one. I never know what she’s thinking, but I hesitate to get on her bad side. She could take me down in a blink, should she so desire.
Truth be told, she strikes me as someone you’d see in a James Bond flick.
“Did you really have to rope her into this scavenger hunt of yours?” I ask my aunt as I snag a granola bar from the basket on Miss Mona’s gleaming granite kitchen counter. I doubt I’ll see food again until Aunt Weeby’s inner Energizer Bunny winds down.
Aunt Weeby’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. Uh-oh.
“Davina’s a smart girl,” she says. “She knows we’re going to have us some fun today.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, she’ll have fun. At my expense. Da-vina’s not dumb.”
A chuckle comes from the far corner of the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder. There, on the ever-so-comfy, down-stuffed loveseat Miss Mona keeps by the walk-in–size hearth, I find the S.T.U.D.’s smirking chauffeur. Hmm . . . now I think of it, would the correct term, since she’s female, be chauffeuse? Weird.
“Morning, Andie,” the taller-than-tall driver says.
I know when I’m beat. “All right, all right. Let’s get this over with. What time do we have to be at Evie’s office?”
“Oh, no, no, no, sugarplum. We’re not heading to Evie’s office.” Aunt Weeby slides her classic black leather handbag on her forearm and heads for the back door. “We’re meeting the sweet girl at the first place she wants to show us. We don’t want to waste any time, you know.”
I know no such thing; I’d much rather dawdle than have to fabricate reasons why I don’t like this or that splendiferous place. But who am I in this house-hunting deal? Just the schmuck who’s being plunked into a house she doesn’t want, is all.
“Lead on—er . . . lay on, Macduff,” I say, remembering yesterday’s English Lit lesson.
In the cushy limo, I stare out the window as we zip down streets lined with luxe mansions and out of the exclusive enclave. There are no “cute little cottages” in this part of town, and that’s what Aunt Weeby is bound and determined to find for me.
“Oh, look!” Aunt Weeby trills as Davina guides the land yacht vehicle around a corner. “Isn’t this a sweet street?”
I have to give her that much. On either side, 1930s and ’40s bungalows line the street. Tall, leafy trees provide shade, and flower beds teem with fresh color. I get a sense of cozy comfort, pride of ownership, warmth, and permanence. “Nice . . .”
The canary-feathered smile on my aunt’s face reminds me not to say a thing. The woman has laser-sharp hearing and an agenda in mind.
When Davina stops the car, I get out and study the house before me. It’s a cute little story-and-a-half bungalow, slate blue with white trim and cranberry-red shutters and door.
Both sides of the front walkway are lined with a riot of red and white geraniums, and lush green azalea bushes nestle up against the foundation. At the end of the driveway, I spot a matching one-car garage.
I’m in trouble, folks. I have just fallen in love.
Maybe the inside’s a dump, all torn up and piled ceiling high with decades-old newspapers. Maybe it’s painted in shrieking shades of purple and orange and slime lime-green.
Or not.
“Ooooh!” Aunt Weeby coos. “Isn’t our Evie one smart girl?”
I face my wily relative. “And where is your smart girl? Wasn’t she supposed to meet us here?”
Just then, a school-bus yellow SUV pulls up. From what I can remember of the Evie I once babysat, the vehicle is exactly what she would drive. The driver-side door pops open, and out jumps a livewire dressed in electric blue. Asymmetrically cut black hair frames a pixie face, a cell phone glued to the ear on the side with the shorter cut hair.
But, of course, Evie isn’t alone. Nooooo.
And I’m sure you’ve figured this one out—well before me, no doubt. You see, out the passenger-side door comes a six-foot-something, blond male, a grin on his gorgeous face, his beautiful blue eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses. As he ambles toward us, I can’t help but notice the way the light blue polo shirt enhances the gold of his tan. No one could miss the graceful energy in his step.
Max walks up to Aunt Weeby and kisses her waiting cheek. “Good morning.”
My aunt smiles. “Now we’re all here. Let’s go find Andie a proper ‘pad.’ ”
She sails up the walk with Evie, who hasn’t quit jabbering into her phone, leaving me on the sidewalk standing next to Max.
“Ready?” he asks.
Seeing how my mind superimposes the picture of a slaughterhouse over the little house, I answer, in character, “Baa-aa-aaah!”
200
Fast-forward four lightning-fast weeks. I have since signed more papers than I ever imagined a person might have reason to sign. And even though I refuse to admit it—it would give Aunt Weeby even more to crow about—I’m excited about my impending homeownership. I’m not so excited, however, about her living alone again.
Oh well. At least my new house is no more than four blocks away from hers, and I plan to spend a whole lot of my spare time visiting. In fact, she can count on it. Once Mickey and his guys get around to repairing the fire damage there, that is
.
On the—ahem—male front, Max has been on his best behavior. Come to think of it, aside from some heavy-duty teasing here and there, he’s really always been on his best behavior. True, he did horn in on our house hunting every chance he got, but I don’t hold it against the guy. He gave me terrific input. I wouldn’t have noticed some inconveniences in a couple of the houses on Evie’s short list. Especially that one place with the crazy driveway. It resembled a banana, and early morning departures, since I’m hardly a chandelier-bright bulb (as Max put it) at that time of day, might have proven a mite dicey.
In the end, I put an offer on the blue house with the red shutters, the first one I saw. It’s perfect for me. Now I can’t wait to launch a shopping safari. I need tables and chairs and bookshelves and curtains and rugs . . . oh! A TV. I’ll want a new one of those too. Wonder who’s holding the best sale this weekend . . . ?
What’s that? Oh, you’re reminding me that I’m a reformed New York shopaholic.
Humph! I did reform. But a girl needs furniture, you know. The handful of items I brought back from the glorified closet they call an apartment in the Big Apple will hardly fill a three-bedroom cottage.
But that’ll wait for another day. Today, Max and Josh Ross, my good friend Peggy’s husband, are loading my belongings in one of Josh’s pickup trucks, then moving me into my very own brand-new—to me—home. Josh owns a highly sought-after landscape design firm and its pickup-truck fleet. I’m saving my pennies to have him do something faboo to the front yard.
Ooooh! My very own yard. How cool is that?
Well, it’s mine and the bank’s. When it was all said and done, Aunt Weeby wouldn’t take no for an answer on the subject of a down payment. She insisted it was a gift. She also said she could afford it now, thanks to me, since my shows have so increased the value of the nest egg she invested when Miss Mona started the S.T.U.D. Network.
But the mortgage? Ah . . . the mortgage is all mine. What’s more, I can afford it. So the bank says. Actually, I can afford it—according to moi. I never would have thought I’d feel so good about that kind of commitment, but I do. I’m thrilled the Lord brought me back to Louisville, and the sweet little house crystallizes for me my determination to make a life here, in my hometown.
I scoot the kitchen chair away from the table just as the back door to Miss Mona’s glam kitchen opens. “You ready?” Max asks.
“Readier than ready.” I swig down the last drops of my too-cold coffee. “Is Josh with you?”
The door opens again. “Reporting for duty, ma’am, yes, ma’am.” Josh gives me a jaunty, two-fingered salute. “You said you don’t have a whole lot to move, so let’s get it moved. The sooner we’re done with that, the sooner we can get to that pizza-for-payment you promised.”
I laugh. “Peggy warned me about you, you bottomless pit. How do you stay so skinny?”
“What?” Max asks, his voice full of overdone outrage. “Are you going to let her get away with that kind of insult?”
Josh shakes his head, a mournful expression on his craggy face. “What can I do? I’m just a poor old weakling.”
That sets the tone for the rest of the day. By mid-afternoon, the three of us are sitting on the hardwood floor of my new kitchen, a giant pizza box in the middle, the cardboard decorated with grease stains, and only a handful of boxes left in Max’s SUV.
“Are you guys done with that thing yet?” Peggy wails from the living room. “I’m sorry to be such a party pooper, but this baby doesn’t like the smell of pizza. Pepperoni’s the worst.”
I scramble upright and head to her side. “I can’t imagine foregoing pizza for nine months.”
She rubs the mound in her middle. “It is a pain, but the end result’s purely amazing.”
A momentary pang of envy zings through my heart, but I squash it with the determination of an elephant on stampede. That’s dangerous territory for a single woman. Especially when the man that makes her heart go pitter-patter is sitting cross-legged in the next room. A man who hasn’t revealed his feelings for her yet. Maybe he never will reveal them.
Or maybe he has no feelings to reveal.
Other than those he revealed when he kissed the stuffing out of you one stressful night, whatever they may be.
Groan. One of these days I’m going to have to do something about the little voice my conscience uses on me at the most inconvenient moments.
“Umm . . . well, yeah. I admit your Andrew and Sophie are both pretty cute.”
Peggy gives me a squirm-inducing stare. “Maybe you oughta do something about getting yourself a couple of pretty-cute little ones of your own.”
I gulp. “Ah . . . I’m waiting on God. You know. He’s in charge. He’s driving this bus. I’m just the passenger doing the trust thing during the ride.”
“You’re protesting way too much, my friend.” She grins. “And just so you know, I heard all about the mega-smooch in the PD’s parking lot.”
I cross my arms. “Just because I work in front of millions of curious eyes doesn’t mean I want every part of my life to be put out on display, you know.”
“I’m hardly one of those million viewers,” she tried but failed to hold back a laugh. “You’re just blushing and blushing and trying awful hard not to show what’s written all over your face.”
“Hmm . . . now that I think about it, that pizza has smelled up the house. Let me get rid of the box.”
I spin on my heel, but get nowhere real fast. My escape is foiled by a football—not mine. Max never travels without more than his fair share of sports paraphernalia. Not even to the exotic locations we’ve visited for work.
Here I haven’t fully moved in yet, but his junk has. And no. I’m not going to look at it as some kind of sign. I’m still on God’s bus trip here.
“Hey, Max!” I yell. “No footballs, golf clubs, or tees allowed at my place. Come collect your stray toy.”
My cohost saunters in, a wide grin on his face. He winks at Peggy. “She’s cute when she’s mad, isn’t she?”
“Aaaaargh!” Enough with the goofiness. I have too much to do. “Have a lovely time chatting, folks. I’m more into moving into my new place. See ya when I’m done.”
I march into the kitchen to the sound of their humor. But, seconds later, they join me. Before long, my pots and pans—the few I accumulated in New York—fill the first two shelves in the wall of cabinets, and I’ve set the glass and iron café table with my Pfaltzgraf dishes. Peggy and Josh have left to rescue their poor babysitter, and Max has gone out to his car to bring the last box of books inside.
“Andie!” he yells from the front stoop. “Get the door for me, please.”
I let him into the tiny foyer, and he nods toward the living room. “Do you want them in there or in that extra room upstairs?”
“I don’t know if I’ll have enough room for this box of books in the shelves you and Josh took up there, but I don’t think I want them in the living room, either. At least, not now.”
“You’re the boss.”
And with those inspiring words—which suggest multitudinous future furniture-arranging episodes—we relocate the final boxes. After I drop off a load of linens in the dining room, the beautiful built-in corner cabinet catches my attention. It’s that kind of detail that made me fall in love with the house. Then there’s the delft blue tiled fireplace in the living room. It’s wonderful. Oh, and I love the luscious natural woodwork throughout. You don’t get that kind of workmanship in newer homes.
I can fill the china cabinet with the dainty teacups I started collecting back in my teens. Those two boxes remained packed the whole time I lived in New York. Not only did I not have the room in my postage-stamp-sized place, but I also felt . . . well, not exactly embarrassed, but their feminine nature and touch of antiquity seemed out of place there. Now, in this beautiful home, they’ll fit right in. I can see myself pouring cups of tea for Peggy and me.
I will need a new table, though. The café set look
s spindly in the middle of the room. I’d like something more substantial, with more staying power. I envision a gleaming wooden table and chairs— “Congratulations,” Max says at my side.
I blink and blush.
He lays an arm over my shoulders. “I’d be smiling too if I’d just bought this place. You made a great choice.”
Oh my! That arm . . . and his warm, solid presence at my side, in my brand-new house . . .
Enough!
“Ah . . . er . . . well, you did give me some good advice during the house safari.” Is that breathy, girly voice really mine? Whooo-boy! Am I in trouble, or what?
He gives me a little squeeze. “What? You didn’t want to drive right off your driveway every morning? Let’s face it. You’re not at your best bright and early in the day.”
I glance up and give him a wry grin. “You noticed, huh?”
“There’s not much about you I haven’t noticed, Andie.”
My eyes widen at his deepening voice. Oh my! A girl could become a puddle of melted mush just from hearing Max talk. And me? I’m way too susceptible to those beautiful blue eyes looking at me as though I’m the only woman around.
Come to think of it, I am the only woman around. In my house.
Before I can get my act together enough to cobble a response, he goes on. “I mean that, you know. I’m always tuned in to you, no matter whether we’re doing a show or you’re bossing me around some foreign hole-in-the-dust dead gemstone mine.”
I want to answer but find myself unable to break the spell of his gaze.
Hands on my shoulders, Max turns me to face him.
Dum-de-dummm . . .