Plain City Bridesmaids

by Dianne Christner

  At last Lil saw the Riccardo’s sign and whipped Jezebel into the parking lot. She pulled next to head chef Beppe’s expensive SUV then realized she was far too close. If he came out to the parking lot and saw her car, he would yell at her again because he claimed somebody was repeatedly dinging his car door. Quickly putting Jezebel in REVERSE, Lil backed up to adjust her car’s alignment.

  But with that action, her car unexpectedly jerked. Simultaneously, a loud crashing sound filled her ears. With it came the awful realization that she’d backed into another vehicle. She yanked her gearshift into PARK, finagled her car door open, and jumped out, not bothering to turn off the ignition of her sputtering engine.

  “Move your car forward. I can’t open my door,” a curt male voice demanded.

  One look at the shiny silver Lexus caused her heart to sink. Quickly, she hopped back inside Jezebel and pulled back into the parking spot, still remaining too close to the chef’s car. She got out again, so flustered that her car door banged hard into Beppe’s SUV.

  “Do you always go around destroying cars?” Feeling the rise of indignation, she jostled her door shut and turned. Her lips tensed with an angry retort. The derogatory question had been asked by a strikingly handsome man who now stood glaring at her, waiting for an explanation.

  “Of course not!” Unless she had been the one putting dings in Beppe’s car. Her mind had been preoccupied lately with personal problems. Was she the one? She’d been so frustrated lately with her rickety door. For the first time, she entertained the possibility that she might be the culprit dinging Beppe’s car door. Her voice carried her growing dismay. “At least not until my car door broke.”

  The blond stranger eyed her clunker, and pity softened his glittering brown eyes. Lil despised pity. Her pride always raised its hackles at any pity or scorn directed her way.

  “Do you have insurance?”

  “Yes. Just a minute.” She opened her sagging car door again to get her insurance card out of the glove box, and his hand shot out and caught the edge of the door so it didn’t bang against the chef’s SUV again.

  Drowning in embarrassment, she scooted across the vinyl seat cover and retrieved the card. When she moved back, he still hovered outside, holding the top edge of her car door. Eyeing his shirt, she thought, He certainly is a tall one. The way he towered over her and the manner in which he protected Beppe’s car while assuming the worst of her, provoked her to fulfill his expectations with a shove of her door. It gouged into his body, and she heard his surprised grunt.

  “Excuse me,” she said, holding back a smile and easing out.

  His gaze narrowed onto the card she waved. “I’ll go get a pen,” he said warily, starting toward his car.

  She fumbled inside her purse. “No wait. I have one.” She saw him stare at his creased car door with droopy shoulders. At least his door has two working hinges. She sighed. If she had a nice car like his, she’d be feeling pretty discouraged about now, too. Her fingers still groping every cranny of her purse, searching for that pen, she muttered beneath her breath, “Too bad he’s such a cute guy.”

  “Too bad she’s such a beauty.”

  She jerked her gaze over at him, wondering if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. Was he referring to her or his car?

  Whichever, his expression had softened, making him even more appealing. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

  “No. You?”

  She watched him shake his head then glance back at his creased car door. With disappointment, she figured he must have been referring to his car.

  She shoved the pen and paper at him. “You can use the roof of my car to write if you want.”

  Protective as he was about cars, he must have agreed that another scratch on her clunker wouldn’t matter because he took her up on her offer.

  “Another year or so, and I’ll be driving a beauty like yours,” she remarked.

  He ran his gaze over her. “You work here?”

  “Yes. You eat here?”

  Handing back her insurance information, he gave her his first genuine smile. “This was going to be my first time.”

  She stared at the tiny dimples on either side of his mouth. “You’d better be nice to me if you’re going to order pasta.”

  Surprise lit his brown eyes. “I ordered takeout. It’s probably in there getting cold. You’re a cook?”

  “Line cook, soon to be head chef.”

  He chuckled. “I like that.”

  “Look, mister.” Not having his name, she continued. “The least I can do is get you a free meal.”

  “Fletch Stauffer.” He held out his hand to shake.

  Something familiar tickled Lil’s brain, but when she placed her hand in his palm, the pleasant firmness pushed the murky thought away.

  He released her hand. “Here’s my boss’s insurance card. Better write down his information, too.”

  She pulled a face, about to ask him if he thought Jezebel really needed fixing, when she caught the boss part. She stared at the card, suddenly understanding his dismay.

  “It’s my boss’s car,” he explained unnecessarily.

  With a penitent nod, she realized she wasn’t getting Fletch Stauffer’s personal information at all. She’d never have the nerve to call him anyway. And Jezebel certainly didn’t need a new bumper. Today’s scratch was just another wrinkle. Trying to cover up Jezebel’s age with some shiny new chrome would be about as foolish as the bright red lipstick some elderly outsiders wore into the restaurant. In Lil’s opinion, it would only make the car appear more ridiculous.

  As if their minds were running along similar tracks, he said, “Let me add my phone number.” He shrugged. “Just in case something comes up.”

  When she read his information, it finally hit her. “The name Stauffer sounds familiar. You’re not a Mennonite, are you?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I am. I was wondering. Are you, too?”

  She felt a moment of embarrassment that he must have noticed her plain clothing. “Yeah, I attend the Big Darby Conservative Church.” She lowered her gaze and was surprised to see that he wore red tennis shoes. Nope. Nothing conservative about him.

  “No kidding. Small worl—parking lot.”

  She laughed. “Exactly. Too small. If they just made these spaces a little wider, none of this would have happened.” But she couldn’t deny the pleasure she was feeling at his expense. She hoped his boss wasn’t as ill-tempered as Beppe. “Where do you go to church?”

  “Crossroads Mennonite.”

  Just as she had earlier surmised, he was an Ohio Conference Mennonite. Envy and disappointment rushed over her. It seemed the good things were always just out of her reach. She longed to attend a church with fewer restrictions on things like television and more modern clothing, but she didn’t want to leave her family and friends or feel condemned by them.

  Another car honked, and Fletcher looked over his shoulder. “Guess I better move my boss’s car before somebody else hits it.”

  “Sure,” she said, slapping at a pesky mosquito.

  When she looked up, Fletch had already turned away. Maybe she’d get a chance to talk to him inside. Inside, where she should have been a half an hour earlier, or more. Beppe was going to be mad. Quickly she started toward Riccardo’s, breaking into a run.

  CHAPTER 2

  You’re late,” Beppe, Lil’s Italian boss, snapped, just as she’d known he would. Once again she’d managed to light his short fuse, and she wasn’t sure how far his patience with her would last before he showed her the exit sign.

  “I’m so sorry. I had an accident … with Jezebel … in the parking lot.”

  Beppe’s eyes flared, and his voice barked, “You didn’t hit my car did you?”

  “No. Of course not.” Well she hadn’t had the accident with his car. She really needed to start avoiding his car altogether. But his choice spot was close to the restaurant, and none of the other employees had the nerve to park next to him so that spot was usual
ly vacant. Since she was usually running late, it drew her like a moth to flame.

  “That car of yours is an annoyance. Maybe you’ll get a new one now?” His expression was hopeful.

  “Didn’t hurt Jezebel. But the car I hit, it was a Lexus.”

  Beppe cringed as if his own car had taken the blow.

  Lil explained, “And it was the driver’s first time at Riccardo’s. Do you think we could give him a free meal?”

  Beppe suddenly turned all business. “You paying?”

  “If I could afford that, I wouldn’t be driving Jezebel, now would I?” she quipped.

  “How many are in his party?”

  “I don’t know. He has a take-out order.”

  “Yes. You hand deliver the bill, tell him it’s covered, and be sure to smooth things over. And for the love of good food, be more careful.”

  Lil glanced anxiously toward the take-out counter but couldn’t see Fletch. She needed to catch him before he paid. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry I was late.”

  “Again.”

  She cringed. Beppe was chalking up another offense for her on his mental blackboard.

  “You’re wearing my patience, Lil. You really are. Now go to your station.”

  “Yes, sir. Just as soon as I hand deliver that bill.” Hurrying away from him before he changed his mind, past the stations to the hall, she rushed to the take-out counter, where Fletch was already thumbing through his billfold. She exchanged a few words with the clerk, scratched paid on his check, and slid it across the counter to him.

  “I took care of your check.”

  He accepted the receipt and stuffed it in his billfold, which he jammed into his jeans pocket. His smile flashed more than appreciation; it possessed all the elements that could make Lil’s toes curl inside her black oxfords.

  “Thanks, Lily.”

  “I thought you should have my number, too, so I put it on the back of the bill.”

  “That’s considerate.”

  Lil felt her face heat. “No problem. Well let me know if … you know … you need anything. For your boss’s car, I mean.”

  “I will.” Concern briefly clouded the sparkle in his toe-curling gaze, and she figured he was thinking about his boss’s reaction, but honestly, she couldn’t afford to offer to pay his deductible. She was saving up her meager paychecks to move back into the doddy house as soon as her mom got better.

  “It was the least I could do. Well, better get back to my station. Sorry about everything.”

  Fletch motioned as if he was tipping the bill of an invisible hat, and Lil turned away while her feet could still carry her.

  “It wasn’t all bad.”

  She halted at the soft statement. Turned. When their gazes met, she recognized the look of male appreciation. “Thanks.” She paused momentarily, but when he didn’t say anything more, she smiled and clambered to the kitchen. Her heart peddled faster than her little nephew Scott on his new John Deere tractor trike. Would Fletch give her a call? How long had it been since a guy had shown interest in her?

  The idea lingered. Even after a half hour bent over a steaming black pot, Lil was still dreaming about Fletch Stauffer. She brushed her sweaty forehead with the inside of her forearm, aggravated that the bangs she had impulsively cut had slipped out of their bobby-pin moorings to mercilessly tickle her face. They needed trimming, but she couldn’t do that while she was living at home again, at least without getting a lecture.

  The restaurant had been what Beppe called in-the-weeds busy with the pregame crowd at the nearby SportsOhio complex. Her stomach rumbled from working around the aromas of the Italian sauces she loved so much. Usually, she skipped dinner on the nights she came in early. It helped to keep her rebellious waistline trim, although it was never small enough to suit her. That was probably one of the reasons guys weren’t interested in her. Why should they be?

  She was a plain woman in every aspect. Born on a farm. Born into a Conservative Mennonite church where the women were forbidden to adorn themselves in the latest fashions or paint their flesh with cosmetics. And having come from a family of wonderful cooks, she’d had to battle her waistline all her life. Oh she had it under control now, but only because of a regimented exercise program and bouts of deprivation.

  Clumping her black oxfords to the back room for another crate of tomatoes, she hoisted them with a grunt into her arms and placed them on a prep counter, all the while persuading herself that he wouldn’t call. She had plain brown hair and freckles to boot. No, a tall, blond, good-looking guy like Fletch Stauffer wouldn’t be calling the likes of her. He was just being kind. She remembered how he’d looked down his nose at Jezebel and gazed with pity at her. Fletch certainly wouldn’t be calling her. She leaned over the sink and washed her hands.

  Glancing around the kitchen, she squared her shoulders and started washing tomatoes. She still carried high hopes of becoming head chef, and then her life would change. She would make her dreams happen. She blew a puff of air at her bangs, but one stubborn strand still obscured her vision. Oh, she knew she wouldn’t be replacing Beppe at Riccardo’s. For now she was biding her time, scrubbing vegetables and cooking plain pasta. Plain, plain, plain. But someday—

  For a Conservative girl, Lillian Landis was anything but plain, Fletch thought as he strode out of Riccardo’s and headed toward his boss’s car. Her shiny brown hair was pulled up in a knot, but many cooks wore their hair secured. He’d noticed the restaurant’s customary uniform was either black slacks or black miniskirts, but Lillian wore a modest-length skirt that teased her curves. Instead of a tight-fitting T-shirt beneath her apron, she wore a crisp white blouse. But the tell-tale sign that Lillian was Mennonite was in her voice, which carried the thick slur that came from the Pennsylvania Dutch accent of many of the Mennonite’s older members. She must have family still from the old order.

  He shook his mind from her cute image and relived the accident. He’d been so mad when her old brown clunker had backed into Vic’s expensive car. Until he got a look at Lillian Landis.

  She was average height, lots shorter than him—but then five foot four seemed short when a guy was six foot one—and such a curvy little thing with a waist tiny enough to encircle with his hands. Her modest clothing added to her feminine allure, following her movements and tightening in the right places for the briefest of moments and skimming over her curves as if draping an exquisite piece of art that was not on exhibit for public viewing.

  Her eyes were multiple shades of blue that in their brief encounter had ranged from a soft sky blue to a sparkling glacier green. What a contradiction they were to her cute freckles and upturned nose. How refreshing to meet an honest, candid woman, startling him by admitting she was a car destroyer. In the next breath, her Dutch accent slayed him with the news that she found him attractive.

  He reached Vic’s car door and crouched to examine the damage, disbelief and regret rushing through him anew as he ran his hand along the whitish-green horizontal crease. Fletch had never owned a car this nice and hoped Vic’s car insurance premium wouldn’t skyrocket.

  He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As the Lexus glided out of its doomed parking space, Lillian’s face flashed in his mind again. What an intriguing woman. Mennonite woman, of all things. Was that some kind of God sign?

  Fletch made it a habit to observe everything that happened around him, watching for God’s direction. Could it only be coincidence that in the big city of Columbus, Ohio, he’d run into a Mennonite girl? Well, strictly speaking, she had run into him.

  In church, he hadn’t met any single women half as attractive as Lillian. He was tempted to call her just to listen to her cute Dutch accent again. Unconsciously, he raked a hand through his fine blond hair. Although he could make a pastime out of thinking about women, he shouldn’t be doing so as busy as he was with his studies and trying to please Vic.

  He had been placed at Vic’s veterinarian clinic as part of an offsite selective experience, a senior
requisite of the veterinary school at Ohio State University. As intense as these final requirements were, the last thing he needed to knock him off course was a romantic fling, especially with a Conservative girl. He didn’t even know how their faith differed.

  Fletch eased into Dublin’s traffic and headed toward Plain City, where Vic’s practice was located close to the farms that sprawled across acres of plowed fields and pasture lands. Fletch’s cheap apartment was near the practice. Vic’s brother owned the small apartment complex, and he allowed Fletch to live there rent-free as long as he worked for Vic. The veterinarian paid his utilities and gave him a small stipend for his other living expenses. Fletch was grateful for that, because all the veterinary students weren’t so fortunate. Vic had his generous moments, which was why he had offered Fletch his car for the food run. He could only hope that Vic’s attitude wouldn’t change when he saw what had happened.

  A siren’s shriek tore Fletch’s glance from the surrounding landscape to his rearview mirror. At the flashing lights bearing down upon him, he groaned with the realization he was speeding. Brooding over his unbelievably rotten luck, he pulled to the side of the road and lowered his window. He had removed Vic’s registration from the glove box by the time the police officer stepped up to his door.

  “May I see your registration and insurance information?”

  Fletch handed the officer Vic’s registration and insurance card, relieved for the second time that day that his boss kept his documents in his glove box.

  “This is my boss’s car.” He pointed at the food bag. “I was getting his lunch.”

  The officer hardened his gaze. “I’ll need to see your license.”