by Peggy Webb
As soon as she plugged it in, Birdie clapped her hands and began to dance.
“It’s Christmas,” she said, and Jolie turned her back so she could wipe her eyes.
Birdie tapped her on the back. “Let’s dance.”
Surrounded by lights from the tree and the reflection of the sun coming through stained glass, they began to twirl.
The director of Hanging Grapes Haven was Evelyn Manchester, an attractive woman in her late forties. From what Lance had seen, she tried hard not to let her heart get involved with the sometimes heartbreaking cases that ended up under her care. Cases such as Birdie’s.
He gave Jolie’s name as a contact and Evelyn said, “This is great. It’s always sad when our residents don’t have family.”
Homeless was a word he understood all too well. The past tugged at him, and Lance found himself wondering if Birdie had been somebody’s mother.
He handed the director his business card. “Put my name down, too.”
It was a giant step for a man who never got personally involved. Whether his gesture had to do with the season or Birdie herself, Lance couldn’t say. All he knew was that he couldn’t walk away from a woman who had no family and no name.
“Now, can you give me her history?”
“Most of what we have is anecdotal. She was brought here by someone from the local Department of Welfare with nothing except the clothes she wore and two books, Audubon’s Field Guide to North American Birds and Gone With the Wind. She’s been here nearly twenty years, longer than my tenure.
“Some of the old-timers say she was a hobo who rode in from Chicago on a train. Others say she was an ornithologist before the onset of Alzheimer’s. We simply don’t know. All we know is that her physical health is good and she’s clever enough to escape every now and then.”
“She mentioned a person named Jacky,” Lance said. “Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“No. She calls several people here by that name. He’s real to her, but we have no clue.”
Lance thanked her, then went to Birdie’s room. He found Jolie dancing with Birdie in a rainbow of Christmas lights and sun catchers. His heart wrenched, and he stood watching from the shadows outside the door for a very long time.
Yes, Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus, he thought, and then he cleared his throat and walked into the room to say goodbye to the Bird Lady.
It was dark when they left the nursing home. Lance took the wheel because Jolie was in no shape to drive. She wasn’t the kind of woman who sniffled quietly and dabbed at her hardly mussed face with a delicate handkerchief. No, Jolie bawled with big heaving sobs, her nose turning red and her mascara streaking.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Pontotoc she’d run through a whole pack of tissues. She wadded the wrapper up and tossed it into the stuffed plastic bag hanging from the cigarette lighter.
“I can’t quit crying,” she wailed.
“That’s okay.”
She scrambled around in her purse and came up empty-handed. “Elizabeth always has a handkerchief.”
Holding the wheel with one hand, Lance reached into his pocket, withdrew a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Take mine.”
“It’ll be a mess.”
“That’s what washing machines are for.”
She blew her nose. “I like you, Lance Estes.”
“I like you, too.”
Understatement of the year. He was dangerously close to pulling over to the side of the road and taking her into his arms. For comfort, of course, but still....
Gripping the wheel, he watched the darkened scenery. And suddenly there it was…a drive-in theater, the marquee lit with neon, the removable letters listing Jimmy Stewart, his favorite actor, in a double feature: Harvey and the Christmas classic It’s A Wonderful Life
“Would you like to go to the movies?” he asked.
She perked up like a little girl who had been promised ice cream. “What a great idea. I’d love it.”
Now he’d done it. Three hours in a car with the sweetest woman he’d ever met. Lance blamed it on Jimmy Stewart.
Then later, when he reached for her hand, he blamed it on the moon. Halfway through the Christmas feature, when she leaned against his shoulder and he slid his arm around her, it was for comfort, he told himself.
“I’d buy the Brooklyn Bridge from Jimmy Stewart,” Jolie said.
And Lance told her, “So would I.”
“I’m glad. It says a lot about a man that he can like sentimental movies and a gentle hero.”
“What does it say?”
“For one thing, that he has a tender heart.”
Lance had never thought of himself as tender-hearted. Occasionally, of course, he did a decent act that others might misconstrue. Still, he liked to think of himself as emotionally uninvolved.
At least, until tonight he’d liked it.
Sighing, Jolie settled closer. “This is nice.”
“Yes, it is.”
She leaned back so she could see his face. “You don’t mind?”
Mind? He was close to taking it up as a full-time occupation. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” She settled back, and he noticed how perfectly she fit against him. Her head came to just under his chin, and when he rest it in her soft hair he could smell the fragrance she wore, light and sweet as summer flowers.
Lance was aware of every cell in his body, every ounce of blood as it rushed through his veins, the steady thrumming of his heart.
The movie passed in a blur. If his life had depended on repeating what he’d seen on the screen, he couldn’t have. For him there was one reality, and that was holding Jolie.
Suddenly her shoulders began to shake.
“Jolie?” He leaned down and caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I always cry at the end.”
She was soft and appealing, and he was dangerously close to kissing her. He was dangerously close to calling her “precious.”
“I’ll get popcorn,” he said instead. “Do you want it with butter or without?”
“With.”
He left her sitting in an appealing little heap on the front seat of a car that had transformed itself into a hotbed of temptation. Striding across the drive-in’s parking lot, Lance congratulated himself on his clever escape. With popcorn, they’d both have something else to do with their hands.
But how long would popcorn last? Not through an entire movie. Especially since they hadn’t had anything else to eat since their late lunch.
He bought hot dogs and Cokes, then, fearful of having time on his hands, he added two candy bars. King-size.
“Chocolate,” she said when she saw the candy. “Just what I wanted. Are you a mind reader, too?”
“Too?”
“In addition to your many other talents.”
Momentarily speechless, he sat there like a dummy wondering what his many talents were. He didn’t dare ask.
“Maybe,” he finally replied. Instead of looking at her, he dug into his box of popcorn.
“Movie popcorn is always the best,” she said. “Don’t you think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Do you think it’s because of the way they pop it, or is it because of the company?”
“The company?”
“Yes. Usually when you go to the movies, you’re with somebody you like. I’ve discovered that doing things with people I like makes the activity more fun.”
“I see.” Did she consider him fun? Tough, hardworking, cool under pressure—those were the things people usually said about him. But fun? Never.
Much to his relief, she was quiet for a while. Was it because he’d hurt her feelings? Was it because he didn’t make small talk and say You’re fun, too?
He took a big bite of hot dog but he could hardly taste it for wondering ex
actly how much Jolie Kat Coltrane liked him. Even more to the point, exactly how much did he like her?
Too much.
The second feature got under way, and they sat on the front seat, separated by a good two feet and enough food to last halfway through the movie.
And then what?
Jolie didn’t have a devious bone in her body, but there she was, sitting on her side of the car, trying to think how she could maneuver herself back into Lance’s arms. Of course, she hadn’t exactly been in his arms, but she had been close enough to smell the soap on his skin and enjoy the comfort of his arm across her shoulder.
She ripped into her candy bar and savored the chocolate while Jimmy Stewart conversed with his imaginary rabbit. When In Doubt, Be Bold. That had always been her motto, and although she was in the throes of making herself over, she wasn’t planning to ditch philosophy she’d followed her entire life. Just the parts that didn’t work.
And so when she finished her candy, she wadded up the wrapper and crammed it into the empty popcorn box, then slid across the seat and leaned into him.
“I hope you don’t mind?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re extraordinarily comfortable.”
He didn’t say anything. Had she offended him? Did he think she was flirting? Not flirting?
Fighting the urge to fidget, she tried to concentrate on the movie. It was a hopeless task. Finally she risked a peek at him…and fell straight into the depths of his dark eyes.
As he leaned toward her, her breath escaped in a long, drawn-out, “Oohh.”
His black hair absorbed the moonlight, then his face blotted it out. His mouth was close, so close. He was going to kiss her.
Excitement surged through her, and she yearned for his lips with an intensity that was as scary as it was unexpected. She wasn’t ready for this. She was ready for this. It was too soon. It wasn’t nearly soon enough. It was madness. It was magic.
“Jolie.” His hand cupped her cheek, his lips inched closer.
“Yes?” Oh, yes, yes, yes.
“You have chocolate…” his thumb caressed the edge of her mouth “…right there.”
Jolie wanted to lick his hand. She wanted to draw his thumb into her mouth. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry.
What was the matter with her?
“Hmm,” was all she could say.
“Do you always get chocolate on your mouth?” He was still leaning close and she was dangerously near tears.
“Uhm, I guess. I never noticed.”
“Well, I did.”
Why couldn’t she move? Why didn’t he?
In a final desperate act of self-preservation, Jolie said, “Thanks,” then scooted none too gracefully away under the pretext of looking in her purse for lipstick.
She never bothered to paint her lips after she ate. Poodles and weimaraners didn’t care whether she wore lipstick or not. Pet owners didn’t, either.
She wasn’t even the kind of woman who carried a compact. Working without a mirror, she slashed color on her lips, never mind whether she stayed within the lines. Who would notice anyhow?
The only things Lance noticed about her were her silly mistakes—chocolate smears, comic flak gear, cooking disasters.
That wasn’t entirely true. He had called her pretty. Well, she wasn’t about to build a whole romance out of one word. She was too busy becoming a new woman. A wise new woman.
“Are you watching this movie?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“It’s late and I’m getting sleepy. Do you mind if we go home?”
“Not at all.”
He didn’t have to act so grateful. A little reluctance on his part would have salved her wounded pride, though what she had to be wounded about was beyond her comprehension. All he’d done was tidy her up a bit.
Lord, he must think she was the biggest mess in Mississippi.
Tomorrow she was going to change his mind. She didn’t know how yet, but she’d think of something.
Chapter 8
When Jolie’s alarm went off at seven, she lay in her bed wondering what had possessed her to get up at such a god-awful hour. Then she remembered: today was the day she would start getting organized.
She left a note for Lance in the kitchen, then drove to the local 24-hour discount store.
Elizabeth would be proud. Jolie was starting today with a list. In fact, the list in her hand was so long she could slipcover Texas with it. Maybe after she got organized she could trim it down to something smaller, say the size of a good longhorn heifer.
She bought everything on her list—multicolored sticky notes, daily desk planner, daily purse-size planner, notebooks to fit pockets and purses and desk drawers, pens and pencils, and enough paper clips to make a chain across the county. Loaded with packages and feeling triumphant, Jolie whizzed back home and dialed her apartment. No messages.
She had hoped to hear news regarding her job interview. Was it too soon? Should she make a follow-up call? Was she too anxious? Too laid-back?
“Jolie?”
Lance was in the doorway, smiling, looking much too appealing for her peace of mind. Memories of sitting in the curve of his arm at the drive-in theater colored her cheeks. Was he remembering? Trying to forget?
Or worse, not even giving last night a second thought?
“Oh, hi. Did you get my note?”
“I did.” He studied her until she thought she would burst into flames, then abruptly turned his attention to her packages. “It looks like you bought out the store.”
“I needed a few things for my office.” Now why had she said that? Nobody knew about her job search.
“Your office?”
“Well, not yet. The office I’m going to have.” She sighed, and the truth came tumbling out. “If I get the job. Unless the SPCA finds out about me.”
“That you wear soccer pads for flak gear?”
“That I’m scatterbrained and flighty and…and unreliable.”
“I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have on my team than you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’re fearless and loyal and determined. Those are admirable qualities, Jolie, and don’t let anybody tell you differently.”
All of a sudden she felt fearless and loyal and determined, a woman to be admired, even if he didn’t want to kiss her. Which was fine with her. It really was. She needed to stay focused on her plan.
“Thank you. You won’t tell Elizabeth, will you? About the job?”
“No.”
Thank goodness he didn’t ask why he should keep it secret. Jolie didn’t want to talk about being the sibling nobody expected to succeed. She wanted to put the past and her old psychologically crippling baggage behind her.
Lance was studying her again, and she came undone—shortened breath, hammering heart, racing blood. He moved, adjusting his stance, leaning closer, and Jolie’s lips parted.
“Did you miss me?” She licked her bottom lip. “I mean…this morning while I was gone, did you find everything you needed to…to…”
“I missed you.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Oh help, she was drowning. His eyes were amazing and she was floundering in their depths without a clue. Shoot, she didn’t even want to be rescued. She wanted to wallow in glorious, total immersion.
“Lance.”
His name came out in a sigh. Lovely name. She wanted to take one of her new pens and write “Mrs. Lance Estes” two dozen times in one of her recently purchased notepads just for the pure pleasure of seeing how it looked on paper.
He must have read her mind, because he backed off, not literally, but in ways she could see—body language, facial expression, even his eyes. Everything about him changed from warm and inviting to cool and remote.
“Your mother called while I was in the library. I let the machine take it.”
“What did she say?”
“She and the rest of the f
amily will be home in three days.”
“Three days!”
“It’ll be Christmas Eve.”
“Good grief, I’ll never be ready by then. I haven’t even figured out how to thaw the Christmas turkey, let alone bake it.”
“Could you use a hand?”
“A hand? Good Lord, what I need is a miracle.”
Lance led her to the kitchen, then tied on her apron and his.
“One miracle, coming up.”
Lance always relaxed when he cooked. There was something about the precise measuring and mixing and timing that soothed him. Unlike his job, where anything could happen, there were no surprises in the kitchen…until today.
Jolie added an unheard of element to cooking: fun. She listened to loud music, she danced, she hummed. She made messes, then laughed at herself.
She was lively, charming, fun to be with and impossible to ignore. She was addictive.
“I can’t believe this,” she said, grinning. “Six casseroles ready to freeze, then take out on Christmas Day and bake. Amazing.”
“You have to allow time for thawing.”
“Wait…wait. Let me write it down.” She caught her tongue between her teeth while she was writing, a little girl’s gesture so enticing he reached over and tweaked her pigtail.
“You’re going to do great, Jolie.”
“Thanks to you, miracle man.”
“I take no credit. You just needed a little guidance, that was all.”
She scribbled some more. “Wait a minute.... Now what did you tell me about the turkey? I want to be sure I don’t end up with a half-baked bird.”
He went over the instructions again, then added, “Tomorrow we’ll make the congealed salads, and the day after, the desserts. That just leaves the turkey, the green salad and heating the rolls for Christmas Day.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll help.”
“No, no. You’ve done enough already. More than enough.” She sank on to a bar stool, suddenly glum. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“I enjoy cooking.”
“Yeah, but not on your vacation, for crying out loud.” Tearing up, she began a futile search of her pockets. Why did women cry so often? And why did it make a man feel helpless and strong at the same time?