Oh for the love of...Nate shifted back in his seat and reached for his beer. "Jess. Come on." He paused, curiosity getting the best of him. "Let me see the list."
She brought the folded piece of paper closer to her chest. "I'm not ready to share it."
"You want me to mold you into the perfect woman, is that it? But you won't even show me what's on that piece of paper?"
Her lips thinned as she considered the question, and moment by moment, she relaxed her shoulders and brought the paper away from her chest." I guess when you put it that way...but you can't laugh. You have to promise me."
"You're coming to me, looking for my professional advice. I will be the paragon of professionalism."
He sort of meant it, but she didn't look convinced. Reluctantly, she handed over the paper. Jackpot.
Nate could barely contain his interest as he unfolded the paper. Was this —? Yes, it was. Pink stationery. With purple flowers at the top. She was so darn cute that Nate started to smile despite himself. Then he saw what she'd written, and the smile dropped away.
1. Problem: bakery social skills.
Solution: Must think before speaking. Or acting.**
2. Problem: headed nowhere professionally.
Solution: Must be more ambitious. Must be fearless. Open chocolate shop to demonstrate both.
3. Problem: headed nowhere personally —> perhaps due to bakery social skills (BSS)?
Solution: Must comply with #1 and #2. Small talk is critical.
4. Problem: don't fit dress.
Solution: Lose three pounds a week times five weeks.
**N.B. No more mimosas. They are marketed as classy, but are actually the devil. Also, because of empty calories and sugars.
It was like a dark cloud blackening his mood. Was this what Jessie thought of herself? "Bakery social skills?" he murmured. What the hell did that mean?
She took that as an invitation to remove the paper from his hands in one quick gesture and refold it into a small square. "I don't think it's my fault, per se. I haven't been exposed to more cultured matters, that's all. I also haven't challenged myself as much as I should have. I'm optimistic that all of this can be fixed." Jessie tucked the paper back into her bag and settled back in her seat, turning her wide, hopeful eyes to him. "Well? Do you think you can help me?"
Man, did he want to be invisible right then. He'd haul ass right out of that restaurant and pretend he'd never even seen that list. Nate couldn't explain the sudden raw, sick feeling in his gut, like he'd seen something he shouldn't have. "I don't think I'm your guy." He didn't want to change her. As far as he was concerned, she was great the way she was.
Her face fell, and for a minute he thought she was going to cry again. "Oh. That's okay," she said.
"It's just that I don't — what do I know about social skills? I wasn't born into that kind of a lifestyle."
"But Quinn's your best friend. I thought you'd have some insight into how I could develop country club manners." She bit her lower lip. "Forget it. Just please don't say anything about that list. To Quinn, or anyone. I can't stand the thought of people laughing at me."
She swallowed and inched closer to the table, keeping her gaze on the plate in front of her. "I would never laugh at you," Nate said. Not to be cruel. Not when she'd shown him how vulnerable she was.
They spent the rest of the meal avoiding the subject altogether, and Nate hoped that was a good sign. Then, as they were leaving, she whispered, "I still love him. I just want to do everything I can to show him who I am." She turned to Nate with wide eyes. "Does that make sense?"
The words wrapped around his heart and squeezed. For a moment, his throat closed and the words wouldn't come. Hell yeah, it made sense. Because all he wanted was to show Jessie who he was.
He looked down at his feet, and at the stretch of asphalt between them, and he thought about her list. If he was honest, he could write one of his own. On it, he'd want to be a better friend to Jessie, a better man who could show her what she was worth. Hell, he could stand to be fearless and to take risks, too. Open his own place and make a go of it. Maybe he should throw "be less judgmental" on there, because what was wrong with wanting to show someone your best side, anyway?
"It makes sense," he said, and took a deep breath. "Look, I'll help you if I can, all right? If you want me to put together a training program for you, or a nutrition plan, I can do that." Maybe she'd make a few changes and feel better about herself. No harm there.
Her blue eyes widened, and a cautious smile spread across her lips. "Thank you. That would be great."
In the parking lot, she gave him a one-armed hug — their usual good-bye. Noncommittal. Then they took their separate cars home. He’d meant it when he’d said that he thought Jessie was great the way she was. If he could change one thing about her, it would be that she'd stop chasing after things she'd never be able to catch and start seeing what was in front of her.
Chapter 5
When Nate checked his cell phone the next morning, there was a message from George Dinardo. His stomach sparked and his pulse kicked. "Nate. George Dinardo, returning your call. Look, I'm gonna be around this morning doing some work on the space. If you want to stop by we can talk then. I should be there early. Say by eight. If not, we'll set up another time."
Nate glanced at the clock. Eight o'clock, huh? That gave him a full three hours to get ready. Perfect.
He had a light schedule that day. He was doing some physical therapy work later in the afternoon, and before that he was offering yoga at the country club. That ought to be interesting. His buddy was running a rec program there and had asked him for a favor. He wouldn't say he was the best yoga instructor in the world, but his friend was desperate, and Nate figured he could get by well enough.
He parked his SUV in a street space by the food shelf and saw the director, Tom Hannigan, lifting a cardboard box from the trunk of his red Buick. "Hey, Tom. Let me help you with that." Nate hurried to his side.
Tom had suffered a mild stroke a few years ago, and as he unloaded the box into Nate's arms, he said, "Thank you. It's not too heavy, but it saves me a trip." He reached into the trunk and lifted a white plastic bag weighted with canned goods before closing the door. "Donations have been low."
"And I'm guessing need has been high." Nate glanced into the box he was carrying. There were a few boxes of pasta, a jar of sauce, and assorted canned foods. Condensed milk, peas, and creamed corn.
"It seems to be the way it goes." Tom sighed. "But some folks are finally getting back on their feet. It's been a long stretch."
The food shelf was a squat, square building that had once housed a laundromat. Yellow curtains hung on tension rods halfway down the front windows, giving privacy to those inside. Tom unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. The interior was an open room lined with shelves, much like a grocery store. Tom always stressed the need for people to come in and take what they needed with a sense of dignity, like they were shopping in the general store. The shelves appeared well-stocked with loaves of bread, boxes of pasta and noodles, assorted vegetables, nut butters and jellies. It was enough to keep some families going when they needed help the most.
Tom stood just under six feet tall, but he was broad-shouldered and round in the middle. His thick hair was silver on top and dark gray at the temples, and his face was kind. If he'd grown a beard, he probably could've played Santa at the town Christmas festival — appropriate, considering he spent his life giving to others.
Nate set the box down on a folding table in front and removed some of the canned goods. "I'll help you unload."
"Sandra should be here any minute," Tom said with a glance at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like a smiling cat, and a swinging black tail kept the seconds. "She's buying some perishables."
"I don't have anywhere else to be right now," Nate said easily, and checked the date on the cans before setting them on the shelf.
"I'm actually glad you're here," Tom said. "I
could use some expert advice."
Nate chuckled. "You've mistaken me for someone else, sir. Though I'm faking my way through yoga this afternoon. I like to pretend to help people."
"You're too modest." Tom set his hands on his waist and stood for a moment, catching his breath. "We need a new roof. We're eligible for a grant, but it will only cover half the cost of repairs. We have to run a fundraiser."
"Uh huh." Nate continued to straighten the cans on the shelf, his body half-turned toward Tom. "And let me guess: you're auctioning off bachelors?"
"We were thinking more along the lines of a road race."
Nate paused, one hand on a can of string beans. "What distance?"
Tom shrugged. "You tell me. We'd like to get as many participants as possible. What's the best distance for that?"
"I'd say five kilometers. It's a friendly distance for organizers and runners. You won't need the resources that a longer race would require."
"Good, 'cause we're stretched pretty thin there." Tom slipped his hands into his pockets. "We were hoping to plan it for the end of June, but we don't know where to start."
"End of —?" Nate straightened and turned to face the director. "Tom. It's mid-May. Do you have a course? Permits? Have you done advertising of any kind?"
He lifted his shoulders. "No to all. We're in a bind. We thought we'd get another year out of the roof, but with all of the ice last winter...well, we just found out we need to replace it this summer. Fall at the latest."
"Which is why you need to host a race in June." Nate dragged his palm down his face. "These things can take months to plan."
"We only have weeks," Tom replied. "I was just hoping you'd point us in the right direction. You've planned a few of these things, haven't you? I don't want to take up a lot of your time. If you can share some tips, great. If not..."
The director turned with a shrug and headed toward the front of the room. Nate swept a hand across the back of his neck. He'd first volunteered at the food shelf when he was sixteen years old, and he'd always liked Tom — quiet, unassuming Tom, who never asked for anything. A 5K? Nate couldn't think of anything that Tom was likely to know less about. Between his inexperience and the timing, it was a disaster waiting to happen.
Nate stared at the shelves. Archer Cove was a town where disparity was the norm. It was populated with people who had more than enough and those who struggled to make ends meet. Lots of families needed to be able to count on something like the food shelf. And the food shelf needed a new roof.
He released a long breath. So planning a race on such short notice was a challenge. Nate was an athlete — since when did he back down from a challenge?
"Tom, stop," Nate said. "I'll do it."
Tom paused and glanced over his shoulder. "You'll give me some tips? That's great. I'd really app —"
"No. I mean I'll plan the event for you. I've planned a bunch of races in the area over the years. I'll dust off some old routes."
Tom seemed momentarily stunned. As he came out of it, he shook his head slowly. "You're one of a kind, Nate. I mean that."
"It's no trouble. Off the top of my head, I have a few ideas already."
As Nate told him his thoughts, Tom's eyes softened and his broad shoulders relaxed as if a weight were being lifted. Finally he said, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Some of our board members suggested that we sponsor a race to raise some extra money. I don't know the first thing about it." He patted his stomach and laughed. "As you can see, I'm not much of a runner. If there's anything I can do —"
"If this is going to be successful, we need to involve local businesses. I'll make a few calls, but we should get sponsors lined up as quickly as possible." Weeks ago, really.
"I'll call people today." Tom paused as Sandra walked in the door carrying two large grocery bags close to her chest. "Sandy's friends with everyone in town. She can get people to open their wallets."
"What's this?" Sandra said warily as she set the bags on the table. "What are you signing me up for now, Tom?" She pushed her long braids back off her shoulders and gave a quick wink to Nate. "I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet."
"I'm planning a 5K to raise money for a new roof, and Tom said you were training to win it."
"Oh, hell no. You're funny." Sandra laughed, and the sound rippled through the space. She lifted two quarts of milk out of one of the bags. "So Tom roped you into planning our road race, is that right?"
"It was his idea," Tom said, palms raised. "I didn't ask him to do anything."
Sandra arched a brow, a knowing look crossing her face. "Yeah, right." She looked at Nate. "You think I'm good at fundraising? This one here is a mad genius. He can convince people it was their idea in the first place."
Tom shrugged before turning and heading toward the back room. "I do what I can."
It was almost eight o'clock. Nate thought if he could get to the Dinardo space early, that might show Mr. Dinardo how interested he was. He hoped it would be enough to convince him to knock thousands off the rent. He turned to Sandy. "I'm going to have to take off. I'll be in touch about the race."
Sandy reached over to press his hand with hers. "Thanks for the help."
Nate folded up the cardboard box he'd emptied and stacked it against the wall with the others. Outside the front door was a small metal locked box marked "Donations." He reached into his wallet, peeled off a few bills, and stuffed them through the slot before heading down the street.
He reached the space with fifteen minutes to spare, but George Dinardo had beaten him. Nate saw him through the glass, removing shelving from the wall behind the counter. He gave a wave when he saw Nate and shuffled to unlock the front door. "Nate Lancaster! Good to see you."
"Mr. Dinardo." Nate accepted his firm handshake. "How's retirement treating you?"
George Dinardo had a shock of white hair, small blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Nate smiled, remembering a time when all of that white hair had been black. "I'm not retired," Dinardo said with a dismissive wave. "I'm otherwise employed. You know I put a lot of my savings into real estate, right? I own this place outright. This place, and the place next door, and the one next to that. I also have a place over in Spencer. Commercial space on the bottom, some apartments on top. Mixed use."
"I had no idea." Nate was impressed, though. "So you're managing those properties now?"
"You could say that." He sighed. "I've owned this place for almost forty years. Bought it brand new ages ago, back when commercial space cost three dollars," he added with a grin. "The other places I've bought over the last five years, and they all need some work."
"How about this one?" Nate asked, casually stepping closer to look at that water stain on the ceiling. "How's the roof?"
"Roof's fine. I just had it replaced five years ago. Put a little paint up there and the ceiling will look good as new." He took the white shelf from the wall and set one end on the floor. "So you're going to turn the space into a gym? I never thought about it like that. I figured another restaurant would come in."
"It's hard to find large open spaces like this. The plumbing in back could be converted to showers, and those walls would come down easily."
"They would," Dinardo agreed, and patted his hand against one. "They're actually pretty flimsy. Just drywall."
"The windows are great, too," Nate continued. "Lots of natural lighting on a corner space like this." He paused. "You know, I came by on Sunday and spoke with the realtor. He didn't give me a price, though."
Without missing a beat, Dinardo said, "Price is thirty dollars a square foot."
Damn. Nate had secretly hoped the realtor had gotten his numbers wrong. He scratched at his temple. "Thirty dollars? No offense, Mr. Dinardo, but that seems awfully high to me."
He paused to study Nate, appearing to mull this remark over. "You'd be able to make that, I'd think. And then some. How much does a gym membership go for these days?"
"I'd want to keep costs reasonable. Don't forget, I'd hav
e to invest in equipment and hire staff." He shook his head. "That kind of rent would leave me starting in a giant hole. Would you consider anything less?"
"I've given this a lot of thought, and I think that's a reasonable price. Besides, this is my retirement income, and it's only been on the market about a week."
Nate stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. If the space had only been for rent for a week, then Dinardo wasn't going to be open to negotiating the price yet. Maybe he'd change his mind if it sat empty for a few months, or even a year. "I think it's too high, sir. This is Archer Cove, not Great Barrington."
"Try finding a space in Great Barrington this size," Dinardo replied. "I appreciate your thoughts, Nate, but I'm comfortable with that price for now. Why don't you give it some thought and come back if you change your mind."
Nate held out his hand. "I will, sir. I'd ask you to do the same."
George Dinardo smiled. "Always good to see you, Nate. Give my best to your mother."
Chapter 6
T he morning broke with a heavy gray sky, but nothing like that was going to dampen Jessie's spirits. She had a list of flaws that was painful to look at, but everything could be fixed. She was a work in progress, that was all. By the time Quinn was named partner at Emerson & Parker, Jessica Mallory would be a new woman. Practically perfect.
And it started that morning.
She poured herself a bowl of cereal and resisted the urge to add a teaspoon of sugar. When she reached into the refrigerator for the milk and found that she only had a splash left, she wasn't even angry. "Look at me, saving calories," she murmured to herself. At this rate, she'd be fitting into that dress in no time flat.
She leaned against the counter, chewing her dry cereal. "From now on, I'm going to be ambitious," she announced to Prince Travis, who stared back with characteristic disinterest. "Sorry, am I boring you? If you have somewhere else you'd rather be..."
There she went, talking to herself again. Surely this was evidence of her bakery upbringing. Jessie redirected her attention back to her goals and imagined herself achieving them. Losing weight was simple. That was just a matter of food sacrifice. Like, say, eating dry cereal. Easy.
A Sweet Possibility (Archer Cove Series Book 2) Page 7