~*~
Penn studied Missy as she flirted with John. Fascinated, she regretted that she didn’t have a notepad to jot down tips. Not that she’d need the tips, but Penn liked collecting information.
A master at flirting, Missy trained her attention on John, touched his wrist more than once, shoved him on his shoulder when she thought he was teasing her.
“No, really.” John shrugged. “I’d never heard of Bucknell until the basketball team played in March Madness a few years ago.” He tented his knees and leaned back on his arms.
Missy’s eyes, emphasized with a heavy black line, stretched wide. “Well, it’s a great school. I’m proud to be a graduate.” She flipped her hair and loose, blonde curls tumbled down her back. The light breeze that had set in at dusk ruffled wispy tendrils around her face.
They’d make a striking couple. Both were tall with glossy-page features. Those characteristics guaranteed stares in a crowd, but their coloring, the exact opposite of each other, tipped the scales into the stunning category.
Missy’s flaxen hair, still as light as it was in elementary school, shouted, “Look at me,” especially cuddled up close to John’s raven locks.
She pictured Missy, just inches shorter than John, staring up into his dark eyes and batting her blue ones over one of his omelets.
That familiar Sunday-in-the-park pang squeezed Penn’s heart. She glanced at her arms to reassure herself she wasn’t turning green.
“Isn’t that right, Penny?” Missy extended her from-here-to-there legs in front of her and wiggled purple-tipped toes. “Penn?”
“What? I’m sorry. I—” Penn winced. Caught not paying attention again, just like at the committee meeting.
“John should talk to Joe Zimmerman.”
“Talk to Joe?” Penn had missed most of the conversation. What in the world did John need Joe for? “I didn’t know Joe knew anything about bands.”
Missy laughed. “No, silly. For his house. He needs some help refurbishing it.”
Penn’s head jerked back. Her mouth fell open. “You’ve got a house?”
Why was she so surprised by that revelation? Because he drove a motorcycle. That’s why. And he wore black clothes...at least sometimes.
“Yeah.” Sitting up straight, he reached his long arms over his head, dropped them onto his knees. “I closed a few weeks ago. It needs some work, and I’m not exactly handy with a hammer yet.” He glanced toward Missy and nodded. “Having somebody I could shoot questions to would be great.”
Penn narrowed her eyes. “You bought a fixer-upper, but you don’t know how to fix it up?” Her mind raced with the pitfalls of this kind of major investment. Her chest tightened. She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You bought a house that needs work, but you don’t know how—”
John held up his hand. “Hey, now. I didn’t say it’s a hopeless cause. It needs work, but it’s not a complete dump. And...” He winked at them. “I watch the DIY channel every chance I get.”
Penn raked her fingers through her hair and held the ends for a second before releasing. She shook her head. “You watch Do It Yourself programs? But you’ve never actually done anything like this before?” Her voice rose with each word.
She forced her breathing to slow and released her grip on the arms of the chair. His actions meant nothing to her. She flexed her hands and smoothed her Capri pants. She had nothing at stake in what could turn out to be a serious catastrophe, but she didn’t want a catastrophe to happen to him.
John leaned toward her. “Would it make you feel any better to know that I made a pretty sweet birdhouse when I was about twelve?”
Penn gaped at him. She noticed the twinkling in his eyes just before he burst into the same uninhibited laughter she’d heard when she climbed over her stick shift.
Missy joined in. “Oh, girl, your expression is priceless.”
Wonderful.
Both of them were laughing at her. They enjoyed the same kind of humor, too. She twisted her ring to the inside of her hand, drawing comfort from the cool, smooth surface of the blue stone.
Penn calculated the minutes left in the concert, how many for travel time, and, if she could park the car without the aunts realizing they were back home, she could dispense the goodbyes in a flat eleven seconds.
John tapped her knee. “Just teasing you a little.”
She gathered her wits that had scattered when his hand touched her. “So. You never built a birdhouse.”
“No, no,” he laughed. “That’s true. I built one. Earned a badge for it, too.” His smile, warm and open, signaled joy and anticipation about what was happening next. His twinkling eyes promised fun and a not-too-serious approach to life.
Penn took a serious approach to everything.
“My granddad helped me nail it up in my backyard. A bluebird moved in and raised a nice family. So I’d say my first house was a success.” He grinned at Penn.
“Building a birdhouse doesn’t exactly equate with refurbishing a people house.”
“You’re right, but I’m willing to learn. Plus, I figure I can write a few how-to articles in the process.”
Missy gasped and grabbed his hand. “Ooh, you’re a writer. That’s fabulous. I wish I’d known you last year. You could have helped me with my senior paper.” She made quotation marks with her fingers when she said, “helped,” and giggled.
He liked words.
She liked numbers. More ammunition to blast through the aunts’ plan for matchmaking.
John stood and stretched. “I guess we ought to make our way down to the band. We’re supposed to try and meet them, right? Anybody got any ideas on how we do that?”
Missy jumped up beside him, but Penn remained seated. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on our stuff. You two go ahead.”
Missy bounced on her toes. “Come on, John. This’ll be fun. Meeting bands isn’t that hard. Leave it to me.” She slid her phone into the back pocket of her pink shorts and linked her arm in his.
He’d be in capable hands, no doubt, with Missy.
Penn blew out a slow breath and dropped her shoulders.
By the time they returned, they’d probably have all the musicians’ email addresses, cell numbers, and a commitment to play the festival.
Missy was nothing if not determined.
Penn had known Missy since she was a toddler and remembered her as a freshman when she was a senior in high school. People noticed her and followed her even then.
They’d probably have their first date scheduled when they returned. She pressed her hands against her abdomen and swallowed hard.
When the aunts learned of the date, they’d be disappointed for a few days. She could deal with their disenchantment, especially if it meant they’d leave her alone and stop asking questions about John. She could focus again on studying for the CPA exam.
Good plan.
~*~
Penn cruised Gretchen into the gravel driveway and set the parking break. Just a couple more minutes, and she’d be inside and halfway to her pajamas.
John shifted in his seat. “So—when am I cooking for you?”
“What?” Penn’s heart jerked in her chest and beat out a frantic rhythm. Why was he bringing up omelets again? Didn’t he have a dinner planned with Missy? Wait. If he did, he’d be a player. He’d—
“Omelets. Remember? I’m going to prove to you that my omelets are to die for. When works for you?”
The front porch light left on by the aunts illuminated his hopeful eyes and raised eyebrows. This guy wasn’t a player. He had the looks but not the swagger.
“Whaddaya say? Are you free sometime this week?”
Penn’s mind raced through her calendar. Pretty much open book except for her study sessions. Why couldn’t she think of conflicts, places she had to be? Because she lived a boring, non-eventful life which is what she preferred except when the empty slots left her without an excuse in times like this.
She ran her fingers around the l
eather-covered steering wheel and lost herself in the soothing, pebbled texture. How many times did she hide herself in this car, her dad’s car, when she needed a timeout from her world? If the aunts didn’t find her in the stable with Peri, they knew she’d either be behind the wheel or asleep in the backseat.
A short laugh brought her out of her reverie.
“I guess your silence is my answer? Trying to find a way to let me down easy, huh?” He ducked his head and reached for the door handle.
“What? Wait. No. I was just...I was thinking about something else. Sorry.” She gripped the steering wheel. “You’re serious about the omelets?”
“Of course, I’m serious. I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise. I feel I need to prove my worth as an egg chef.”
“But I thought you were refurbishing your house?”
“It’s a fixer-upper, mostly out-dated stuff. You know. Green kitchen. Shaggy carpet. Wood paneling. Not uninhabitable. I haven’t started yet so you won’t have to worry about eating sawdust.” He raised his eyebrows. “What’ll it be? You up for the best omelet in the world or not?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re so sure of yourself.”
He shrugged. “If I don’t believe in myself, who will? Yes or no?”
“Um, OK, I guess.”
He grinned. “Not exactly enthusiastic, but I’ll take it. Earlier in the week works better for me. What about Tuesday night?” He tipped his head to the right, waiting for her answer.
What in the world would the aunts say? Plenty, no doubt.
“Sure. Tuesday works.” Tuesday. Two days from now. How would she navigate the questions, the comments, the shining eyes as Jancie and Winnie contemplated the evening?
“Great. And you’ll get to meet my new roommate, too.”
“Your roommate?” Ah, not exactly a date.
“Yea. He’s the cousin of a friend from college. Don’t know him too well. I just met him a few Sundays ago, but he seems cool. His cousin pointed me to Mars in the first place.”
~*~
From behind the front door window, Penn watched the motorcycle until it disappeared beyond the street light, and a heavy sigh whispered in her heart.
He wasn’t interested in her at all. It wasn’t a date. It was only a...a what? A kind gesture?
Yes, a gesture she should’ve offered to him. He was, after all, the newcomer in town. She’d let the aunts take care of hospitality acts. They believed in reciprocal invitations.
A tiny smile hovered around her mouth. The aunts could write a manual on the art of intervening. They’d raised their skills of intervening into others’ lives to the master level.
John didn’t know what he was getting himself into.
5
Penn hesitated at the front door of the two-story brown house on Clay Avenue. She held a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls that still needed a few minutes of rising time. Her aunts had assured her the rolls were the perfect ending to a breakfast-for-dinner kind of evening.
Thrilled to the point of nervousness when she told them—at noon—that she wouldn’t be home for dinner, they’d bustled through the kitchen slinging flour and brown sugar on every flat surface. They’d insisted she call John to tell him she’d bring the rolls for dessert.
They’d refused to listen to her protests of why it was simply an evening with a fellow volunteer. They chose to sing, “A date. A date. A very important date” instead, their nod to Lewis Carroll’s white rabbit.
Why did she agree to come tonight? She closed her eyes and remembered her aunts’ sweet pep talk.
“Go” they’d said.
“Have fun,” they’d said. “Get to know him. Praise his omelet. You’ll have a fabulous time.”
Unfortunately, these sweet, sweet women had a completely wrong idea of the upcoming evening, but she loved how they always championed her no matter what.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, she raised her finger to the doorbell, but the door burst open.
John draped a dish towel over his shoulder. “Welcome, welcome. I saw...Gretchen, right? I saw Gretchen parked out front. I was kinda worried you’d changed your mind when I didn’t hear the doorbell. Wait a minute. Does it work?” He pushed the button, and the bell sounded right on cue. He grinned and reached for the pan of rolls.
“Homemade cinnamon rolls. I can’t wait. Come on in. So what do we do with these?”
Penn still searched for how he knew Gretchen’s name. When could she have let that slip? Only a handful of people knew she’d named her car. Three to be exact.
“What do we set the oven on?” John moved back toward the kitchen.
She followed him. “Not yet.” Penn recovered her memory of the aunts’ instructions. “They need to rise for about fifteen more minutes, then bake them at 375 degrees.” As she reached the threshold, her sandal caught the rolled edge of the linoleum. Before she could catch herself, her cheek bounced off the rounded corner of the counter top, and she braced herself for the floor.
~*~
As John set the pan down near the stove, he heard a cry. Whirling toward the sound, he grabbed her just before she hit the floor.
“Oh, man. Are you all right?” He lowered her into a sitting position and knelt beside her. “That stupid floor. I forgot to get a throw rug.” He winced. “I’m so sorry.” Not pausing to think about the intimacy of his next move, he pushed soft curls back away from her face.
Eyes squeezed shut, she held her cheek and bit her lip, pulling in long, slow breaths.
“You hurt your cheek?”
Her head moved an infinitesimal bit. A nod?
“Can I see?”
A full minute passed. He chewed his lip. Why had he procrastinated in buying a rug? A head injury. Way to begin an evening meant to impress. First thing tomorrow morning...
“Penn, please, I won’t touch it, but I need to see how it looks so we know what to do.”
She lowered her hand and raised her lids, slowly as if movement might increase the pain. Tears glistened.
Please, please, please don’t cry. I can help you if you just don’t cry.
He dragged his eyes away from hers and focused on the injury. “No cut. No blood. Looks like it’s already swelling, though. Let’s get some ice on it.” He grabbed a plastic bag out of a drawer, threw some ice cubes into it and wrapped it up in a dish towel. “This should help.”
She’d leaned against a cabinet, covering her cheek again as if protecting it from any more damage. He sat down opposite her and offered the ice pack. “Here’s the ice. Please take it, Penn.”
She opened her eyes, and the tears were gone.
Thank You, Lord.
“Take this, and I’ll get some ibuprofen for you. You’re not allergic, are you? That’ll reduce swelling and maybe hold off a headache. Oh, man, I’m so sorry.” He dragged his hand through his hair.
Still nothing from Penn.
He tried for levity. “What’ll people think when they hear my house whacks my dinner guests?”
A tiny chuckle escaped from her mouth. She winced. “Stop. Don’t make me laugh.” She licked her lip. “Don’t make me speak either.” She reached for the ice pack and held it a hair’s breadth away from her cheek.
“It works better if it actually touches the skin.”
“Just give me a minute, will you? I’ll get it there. I have to prepare myself first.” She touched the pack to her cheek and bit her lip again. “It’s cold.”
“Perfect. It’ll work then.” He worried the pocket flap on his cargo shorts. “Is it taking away any of the pain yet?”
She spoke with miniscule movements of her lips. “If you mean is it easing the excruciating throbbing and burning on the left side of my head, then yes. If you mean the excruciating humiliation cloaking my whole body, then no.” She sighed.
“Humiliation?”
She closed her eyes. “Yep.”
“Not following you.” He searched her face.
She shifted the pack. �
��I always seem to show off the most graceful points of my character when we’re together. It’s a wonder you don’t call me Miss Grace.”
“First, you tripped over something I should have fixed before you got here. That’s on me, not you. Second, what’re you talking about? You’ve felt humiliated before?”
Penn rested the pack on her lap. “My cheek is frozen. I’ve got to give it a break.”
“Fine. You can put it back in a minute.” He rested his elbows on his bent knees. “You were saying?”
“Oh, you want me to recount my humiliation? Fine. How about the first and probably the worst time?” She stared at him.
He flipped back through their few meetings. “Which is ...?”
She blinked. “You seriously don’t remember the first apple meeting? When I had to crawl over the stick shift...because Gretchen wouldn’t let me in?”
He couldn’t hide the smile that crept across his face. “Yeah. I remember that, but don’t be embarrassed. Stuff like that happens all the time.”
“Oh, really?” She traced the linoleum pattern with her index finger. “I can’t imagine stuff like that happening to you.”
“Why not?” He stretched his long legs beside her.
“Because...because you dress in black and ride a motorcycle.”
He looked down at his khaki shorts. “My clothes aren’t black.” He cocked his head. “Are you colorblind?”
“No. I’ve seen you in black several times.”
He paused and rubbed his chin. “You’re right. I guess I do wear black sometimes. When I’m at the end of my clean clothes stash. But that doesn’t have anything to do with embarrassing moments.”
“Cool people don’t have embarrassing moments.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You think I’m cool?” He’d never considered himself cool. Loved, of course. Fun to be around, uh huh. Cool? Not a bit. His older brother pressed that point whenever possible.
She closed her eyes and replaced the ice pack.
“I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’“ He grinned. “Are you ready to stand? This floor isn’t just dangerous. It’s not very comfortable either.” He arched his back.
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