by Cathie Linz
And filling him with…what? What did he call this feeling? Interest? Lust? Aggravation? He preferred to focus on the latter.
After all, he’d missed a Cubs game to be here with her. And while those few minutes with her lush body pressed against his had been worth missing a baseball game for, he wished the experience had lasted longer.
“So,” she asked cheerfully, “are you having fun yet?”
“Yeah, right” It couldn’t get much worse than this, could it?
It could. The itching started as they made their way back to his black Blazer in the farthest corner of the parking lot He had to pause several times en route to scratch his arms and the back of his neck. “Do they have poison ivy in this park?” he asked.
“No.”
With dismay, he eyed the welts that were forming on his arms. “What did you put in the food?”
“Nothing suspicious.”
“Any shrimp?”
She nodded. “Yes, there was some shredded shrimp in the dip.”
“That’s it. I’m allergic to shrimp. They give me hives.”
“I’m so sorry! You should have told me. How severe is your allergy? Do you need to take some kind of medication? Should we go to a hospital?”
“No,” he admitted. “All I need is an antihistamine.”
“While I did want to make this evening one you wouldn’t forget, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” she said apologetically.
“Me, neither.”
“So, maybe we should do it again sometime soon, huh?” Her grin was irreverent and contagious.
“Maybe we should,” he agreed. “Only this time I’ll show you my version of a great time.”
“Which is?”
“Baseball.”
And so it was that Anastasia ended up at Wrigley Field the very next afternoon.
“I wasn’t sure we could get in,” David said. He’d completely recovered from his allergic reaction of the night before. “You’re lucky I was able to get us two tickets on such short notice.”
“Hmm, right. Lucky. People must be lining up to see a team that hasn’t won a World Series since 1908.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about baseball.” He took her arm to help her down the concrete steps to their bleacher seats.
“I’m a librarian. Information is my specialty.”
His specialty seemed to be making her heart hum. She was also starting to really like the sound of his voice, the unique golden-gruff texture of it. Too bad she didn’t like most of what he said during the drive to what natives referred to as Wrigleyville. He’d tried to give her a lecture on the advantages of responsibility and the foolhardiness of dreams
“What do you have against dreams anyway?” she demanded as she followed him down an aisle.
He frowned at her. “Where did that come from?”
“Our conversation on the drive over here. Come on, tell me.”
“Dreams are a waste of time. Even worse, they can be dangerous.”
“How so?”
“Because they can blind you to reality and leave you unprepared for the future.”
“Are you referring to your grandmother? I know you’re worried about her retirement security, but…”
“I was talking about my parents,” he said curtly. “My dad risked everything for his dream of getting rich fast. It isn’t the dreamers who pay, it’s the rest of their family.” His face darkened before he shrugged. “Let’s just say that I’m a practical man. I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny or a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. So sue me.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Hard work and baseball,” he replied. “Now tell me, how could you grow up with two brothers and never have gone to a baseball game?”
“Just lucky, I guess. So you think dreams are dangerous because of your dad?”
“And because I’ve seen too many dreams go up in smoke,” he growled. “You won’t find many dreamers in my line of work.”
She nodded slowly. “I suppose I can understand that.” David wasn’t the kind of man to open up easily, and if she kept pushing him he’d just get crabby…or crabbier. The telltale flash of irritation was already apparent in his to-die-for blue eyes. She’d learned enough for now. Smiling at him, she said, “And to answer your questions about my not going to a game before, my dad likes the Cubs, but he mostly watches them on TV, while my brothers prefer basketball and the Bulls.”
“And you? What do you prefer?”
“The ballet.” Settling into her seat, she sniffed the air. The day was sunny, with a crisp breeze off the lake that reminded her that September was only a few days away. “You know, I thought a baseball game would smell differently.”
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “What?”
“You know, smell less like fresh air and more like hot dogs and mustard.”
“It smells like that by the concession stands. The hot-dog sellers don’t bring any mustard with them out.
here. It’s been my experience that their hot dogs are cold and their beer warm.”
She grimaced. “Yummy.”
“I brought a bag of peanuts for us to shell. Want some?” His fingers brushed hers as he held out a handful for her to take. Turning her free hand palm up, he transferred the peanuts from his hand to hers. A murmur of awareness flowed from his touch.
She looked up and their gazes connected. She liked the way he wore his baseball cap backward so that the brim didn’t shield his eyes from her. You’d think she would have gotten over their incredible color by now, but no, she was as fascinated as ever.
She welcomed the opportunity to distract herself from David’s potent allure when it was time to sing the national anthem, but from there things went downhill fast, or should she say slow. Excruciatingly slow. She was bored senseless.
David, however, showed no signs of being bored.
“This guy throws a knuckle curve,” he leaned over to tell her what felt like an hour later.
“Which guy?”
“The pitcher.”
“He’s the one out on that little hill, right?”
David frowned. “It’s called a pitcher’s mound.”
The heavyset man on her other side leaped to his feet, jostling her arm and tossing her peanuts two rows forward. When the disgruntled people in that row turned to give her a dirty look, she scrunched down in her seat. Which didn’t make it any more comfortable. Resting on the ground at Ravinia was more comfortable than this.
“Here.” David handed her the large bag of peanuts. “Help yourself to some more. Keeps you busy while nothing is going on in the game.”
“Which is quite often, from what I’ve seen,” she muttered.
“It’s only the fourth inning. You haven’t seen a heck of a lot.”
“You can say that again.”
Everyone leaped to their feet once again. Everyone except Anastasia, who had a lapful of peanuts. She’d worn jeans and a T-shirt, figuring that would be good attire for a baseball game. Her cap said Reading Is Fundamental instead of bearing a logo like the ones on the caps of the rest of the audience.
By the time she got her lap cleared, everyone was in their seats again. She was better prepared the next time the crowd leaped to their feet. By the time the seventh-inning stretch came around, she’d found her rhythm.
“You know the best thing about this game?” she said.
David nodded. “That we’re only down by a pair.”
“A pair of what?”
He frowned again. “The score is two to four.”
“I knew that.” She munched on a peanut before adding, “The best part about this game is singing ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ during the seventh-inning stretch. Oh, and yelling whatever you want during the game.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can stand up and say anything and nobody notices. Watch this.” Getting up with the rest of the crowd, she yelled, “Rutabagas are dumb veggi
es.”
He yanked her back down into her seat. “Stop that!”
“Why? Nobody paid any attention.”
Next time, she stood and yelled, “Attrition stinks!”
When she sat down, the bald guy in the row behind shouted, “Attrition, he’s their shortstop, right?”
Grinning at David, Anastasia said, “Now I’m having fun.”
5
“DO YOU THINK we’re going to be finished in time for the grand opening?” Claire asked David as he took a break from his renovation work. The place was really torn up now that they were well into the second week of the project. The smell of plywood and plumbing compound mixed with the aromas of coffee and doughnuts.
“I think so,” David replied. “I’ve just gone over the plans with the plumber and the electrician. They should be finished with their work by the beginning of next week, and then the heating people are coming in, but they’ll be wrapping things up a few days later.”
“The place looks much bigger now that you’ve torn down those two walls, doesn’t it?”
David nodded absently, his thoughts on the discovery he’d made as a result of removing those non-loadbearing walls. Something didn’t jibe. He’d gotten the building’s floor plans when he’d applied for a building permit, so he knew where the walls were supposed to be. The problem was, there was a three-foot discrepancy between the outer basement wall and the rest of the building.
The same morning he’d gotten the building permit, he’d also checked out the title history of the property to make sure that the sale had been aboveboard regarding ownership and clear title. In doing so, he’d discovered that the place had once belonged to Chester “Chesty” Ferguson, the proprietor of a very prosperous speakeasy during Prohibition in the 1920s.
David had had an interest in that colorful era in Chicago’s history ever since he was a kid, watching the adventures of Elliot Ness in reruns of “The Untouchables.” Under other circumstances he might have dismissed a three-foot discrepancy between the outer walls in the basement and those in the rest of the building as an error in the blueprints, a simple miscalculation on someone’s part. But given that the place had once been a speakeasy, he couldn’t help wondering about the possibility of a hidden storage room down there.
So far he’d only had time to make a cursory inspection of the basement. There was too much work to be done on the main level and it had to be done in time for the October first opening his grandmother was counting on.
“Do you regret agreeing to help me with this project?” Claire suddenly asked him, her expression one of concern. “I’m not sure you knew what you were getting into.”
“I knew. And I have no regrets, except that you bought the building without consulting me first.”
“I knew you wouldn’t agree, wouldn’t see the place as I do. But I think perhaps you’re beginning to now, hmm?”
David grunted a noncommittal reply. Even he had to admit that the storefront was starting to show some promise. He’d stripped layers of paint and decades of grime from the walls, wood moldings and trim to reveal their natural beauty. The walls had oak wainscoting with clean lines and excellent detailing.
The marble countertop had been covered with a thick dropcloth all this time, to protect it from the workmen. His grandmother checked the countertop twice a day to make sure it was still okay. The floor was also covered to protect the tile. During the construction, dust was everywhere, but that hadn’t kept Claire from spending most afternoons here to check things out.
“So, have you decided what to call the place?” he asked.
Claire shook her head. “Not yet.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with The Scoop Coop.”
“It’s too much of a tongue twister. It sounds a bit awkward to say, ‘Let’s go to The Scoop Coop.’” Claire checked her list before casually saying, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m so glad that you and Anastasia are getting along better and actually having fun together.”
David rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like we’re a pair of twelve-year-olds playing in the back-yard.”
“Nonsense, dear.” She patted his arm. “I can assure you that I’m very much aware that you’re both adults and that time is quickly marching right on by.”
David was aware of time passing, as well. It had been five days since he’d taken Anastasia to her first baseball game. Since then he’d only seen her in passing, when she dropped by after work to consult with his grandmother about everything from wallpaper to soda-fountain glassware. Much as he hated to admit it, he missed her and wished she was around more.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard her voice coming from directly behind him.
“Daydreaming on the job again, Sullivan?” she teased.
Turning to face her, he said, “How can you sneak up on me like that wearing combat boots?”
“What, you don’t like my choice in footwear?” Lifting her right foot, she swiveled it for his perusal. “I had no idea you were such a slave to fashion,” she added, eyeing his worn jeans and dusty white T-shirt.
“Yeah, right.” He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
“I saw that You’re trying to distract me again with those sexy dimples of yours, but it’s not going to work,” she assured him. “I’m here to tell Claire that I found a manufacturer in Chicago who makes soda-fountain and dipping cabinets to order.” She turned to Claire. “I got the information out of a book on the history of ice cream, so I photocopied the page for you, Claire.”
Claire nodded and smiled.
“The history of ice cream?” David repeated.
“You bet. And if you’re a good boy, someday I might tell you about it.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
Anastasia was very much aware of the teasing note in his voice and the gleam in his blue eyes. The more she heard him speak, the more she enjoyed listening to him as she mentally tried to decipher what exactly it was about his voice that intrigued her so. Was it the way he gently rolled his H’s, or his slightly lazy drawl, or the simple golden resonance of it? She couldn’t be sure.
One thing she did know, he still didn’t trust her completely. But to give him credit, he’d been relatively nice to her anyway. He’d been a good sport about their Ravinia experience and about her own antics at the baseball game. While he still grumbled about the impracticality of opening an ice-cream parlor, she could tell that his protests lacked their earlier forcefulness. She’d even heard that he’d come up with a name of his own for the place, The Scoop Coop. Now if she could only get him to admit that dreams were a good thing, then her mission would be accomplished.
“HOW ARE YOU going to get these two married when they haven’t even kissed yet?” Betty was marching across the dust-covered marble countertop like an impatient marine.
“They’re building the anticipation,” Hattie replied from midair, where she daintily batted her gossamer wings in order to hover.
“I have to agree with Betty on this one.” Muriel shook her head, making her cowlick stick up even more than usual. “Jason and Ryan had already kissed their soul mates by now.”
Hattie gave her sisters a reprimanding look. “Anastasia marches to her own drummer, you both should know that by now.”
“I thought that using Claire was supposed to speed things along,” Muriel said.
Hattie shook her head and almost knocked her cherry-red pillbox hat off. “I don’t recall Betty saying anything about speed. As I remember it, she said that enlisting Claire’s assistance would give us more time to take care of our other charges and would make this case a piece of cake. Of course, right after Betty said that, Anastasia pushed that beastly jerk into the wedding cake.”
“Which should have been my first hint that things wouldn’t go smoothly,” Betty muttered.
“They never do. You said it was more of a challenge this way,” Hattie reminded her.
“I lied,” Betty said.
“Fiddlesticks!” Hattie replied. “I think you’re both worrying needlessly. Things are going well. David doesn’t distrust Anastasia as much as he did in the beginning. He may be confused by his attraction to her, but he’s not being as bad as he could be. And Anastasia is seeing definite promise in David. Did you notice how she teased him about her boots and about the history of ice cream?”
“What’s there to tease about the history of ice cream?” Muriel asked. “Everyone knows that ice cream was created by fairy godmothers once upon a time.”
“Actually, the human history books say that the origins of ice cream are shrouded in mystery,” Hattie said.
Muriel shrugged. “That’s just their way of saying fairy godmothers created it.”
“Maybe that’s what Anastasia is going to tell him.”
“Right,” Betty scoffed. “And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”
“No, thank you.” Hattie’s voice was prim and proper. “I’m not into bridges.”
Muriel, as usual, had the last word. “The only thing I know about bridges is that we’d better not burn any behind us.”
“ARE YOU SURE you’re ready for this?” David asked Anastasia a week later. “It’s an important step to take.”
“We’ve waited long enough,” she replied breathlessly. “I’m ready. Now give me that roller.” She grabbed it out of his hand. “We’ve got a lot of walls to paint.”
“Are you sure this is how you want to spend your day off?”
“Absolutely.” Rearranging the wide straps on her painter’s overalls, she shot him a saucy look. “Why? Are you afraid I’m a better painter than you are?”
“Yeah, I’m just trembling in my boots,” he retorted mockingly.
“Fighting words, Mr. Construction Man. Get your roller and prepare to meet your better.”
“Better what?”
“Better get moving, you’re behind already.”
And while she was at it, she noted how sexy his behind looked, covered by the worn denim of his jeans. Maybe it was those jumping jacks he did, although, thankfully, not at five in the morning any longer. Or maybe it was just good genes. She could get used to having him around. How did that phrase go…something about being easy on the eyes. And speaking of eyes, the blue paint Claire had chosen matched his eyes almost exactly.