“Come on,” he says. His tone is soothing, melodic. The streetlights and the lights from the store and restaurants are nearly blinding me. I close my eyes as he holds me close and leads me the few steps back to Nick’s place. Joe took over Nick’s apartment above the coffee shop when Nick moved to L.A.
By the time we reach the steps, my vision has gone black and spotty and I’m having trouble forming coherent sentences.
Joe shakes his head and sweeps me into his Popeye arms. “Am I too heavy?” I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder.
“You’re a feather,” he whispers back. I know it’s not true, but I let him lie to me. I’m too sick to argue.
My eyes flutter open to the sight of sunlight slipping through the shutters. It doesn’t take any time at all to remember where I am. Joe took care of me last night. He tucked me into his bed, and I remember a warm kiss to my forehead. And that’s all until this moment.
I push back the covers—a lovely off-white with a pattern of little roses. One pant leg is up around my calf. I push it down and pad barefoot to the door. My insides are churning. Nerves. It’s my first time sleeping in a man’s bed with or without him. (My moral code says sex comes after marriage, and that’s ironclad.)
I open the door to the sound of snoring. Joe’s, I presume.
Tiptoeing into the living room, I see Joe curled up on a worn-out blue recliner. His blanket has slipped onto the floor and he’s shivering. In a rush of sympathy, I pick up the blanket and spread it over him.
Joe looks—well—he looks really good. His face is gentle, like it was last night. He looks like the kind of guy who would pay his elderly mother’s rent and take her to the grocery store. The kind who would bring home Chinese food at the end of a long day and rub his wife’s feet after dinner. Who knows if that’s really the case, but I find the fantasy too appealing to surrender.
His dark hair falls just over his ears, begging me to reach out—just like in a romance novel or a love story on TV—and brush it away. But of course I resist. Instead, I force my gaze from the sight. I think I’ll rummage around the kitchen and find some coffee to brew.
As I start to walk away, Joe’s warm hand catches mine. He stares up at me silently, his eyes squinting against the light. “Thank you,” he says, fingering the blanket with his other hand. “I was freezing.”
“You were snoring.” I smile. He’s still holding my hand.
“I was freezing in my sleep and you saved me.” He tugs me until I’m sitting on the arm of his chair. “I guess that makes you my hero.”
“One good turn deserves another.” I can’t catch my breath.
“That’s an old-fashioned phrase.” He smiles and reaches up with his other hand to tuck a curl behind my ear.
My cheeks warm, but I shrug off the embarrassment. “What can I say? I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
A knock at the door pulls us from the conversation.
“I’ll get that,” he says, untangling his fingers from mine. I take the hint and stand up.
I wait, feeling like maybe I should run back to the bedroom so that whoever is at the door won’t see me and assume the worst. But not only isn’t there time, the thought of hiding away like I’ve done something wrong doesn’t sit well with me. So I stand there, staring at the door while Joe answers it, barefoot, wearing a pair of men’s lounge pajamas and a sleeveless undershirt.
Nancy’s standing at the door. “It’s about time, Joey. For crying out loud. It’s raining out here.”
“You should have called.” He moves aside and allows her to enter.
“I told you I’d bring my roomie some clothes today, didn’t I?” With that, she focuses on me. “You feeling better? Joe was awfully worried about you last night.”
My face feels hot and splotchy. “Much better, thanks.”
She hands me a gym bag. “I picked out an outfit and hair stuff and makeup. I figured you might not have time to go home before your breakfast with your friends.”
My eyes bug out. “I forgot about that. What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
I breathe a little. Breakfast isn’t until eight so I have plenty of time. I turn to Joe. “May I use your shower?” He nods and points me in the right direction.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve showered, towel-dried my hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and dressed in the jeans and hoodie Nancy brought.
There’s a fresh cup of coffee sitting on the kitchen table with a note next to it. “Laini, help yourself. I’m using the shower in the coffee shop. See you in a few minutes. Joe.”
A cozy feeling washes over me.
I always wanted a guy who leaves notes.
10
Tabby stares at me incredulously as I relay my last few days to my two best friends over a steaming latte.
“So, basically,” she says, shaking her head, “in the last four days, you’ve had dinner with a great-looking cop in his dad’s seafood restaurant on Long Island”—she takes a breath—“then had another great guy . . .” She stops a second and her eyes rest on Joe. “Correction, great, and great-looking, carry you up to his apartment because you were too sick to walk.”
“Yes. That pretty much sums it up.”
“And he put you to bed without trying anything.”
“Right again. But in his defense, I’ve looked better.” A weak joke that Tabby doesn’t bite at.
“Laini! Obviously the best thing that ever happened to you was having Dancy and me move out.”
Dancy frowns. She is definitely not a morning person. “I don’t see what one has to do with the other. She met Joe before we moved out.”
“Yes, but if we’d been home, she would have called as soon as she got that D, and you or I would have trudged down to Nick’s, bought a cheesecake, and met her at the subway station.”
They have no idea how those words bring an ache to my heart.
“Well, poor Joe probably thought it was either carry me to his apartment or carry me all the way to ours—mine.”
“Don’t slam yourself, Laini,” Dancy growls in her I-haven’t-had-enough-coffee-yet tone. “You look just like a redheaded Meg Ryan and you know it.”
Joe shows up then and gives us each a warm cinnamon roll. “On the house,” he says and sends me a wink that burns my cheeks.
“Don’t you think Laini looks like a redheaded Meg Ryan?”
I cannot believe Dancy just said that.
Joe grins. “Prettier. And has a better walk.” And then he’s gone.
“A better walk?” Now I’m confused.
Dancy sinks her fork into the warm, gooey frosting. “She walks like a boy trying to look macho. No grace whatsoever.”
I shrug and stare at my own roll, trying to decide if I should wait and start my diet tomorrow. If so, I can eat this without guilt. Otherwise, I’ll be cheating on my diet, and that will most definitely induce a measure of unease while I devour it. “I’ve never noticed.”
“How about you, Tabs? You’re being awfully quiet. You okay?”
The sound of Dancy’s concern pulls me away from the breakfast treat. Tabby’s face is white.
“Are you sick?” I ask. “Do you have a migraine?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not a migraine.” And then Tabby looks from one to the other of us, reaches out, and takes each of our hands. “I’m going to be a mother.” Her eyes are misty.
I’m around the table in a flash, sliding into the chair next to her and grabbing my pregnant friend in my arms. “Oh, Tabby. How perfect.”
Dancy’s grinning. “The two of you sure didn’t waste any time, did you?”
Laughter mixes with Tabby’s tears and gurgles out of her. “We are praying for at least two or three more. And I’m not exactly getting any younger.”
“Hey!” Dancy tosses a napkin at her, which Tabby deflects easily. “I’m exactly the same age as you are, and I’m definitely younger today than I was yester
day.”
A grin replaces the sickly look on Tabby’s face. “Sorry.”
Dancy slips around the table and hugs Tabby. “I can’t wait to be Auntie Dancy again.” She stops and turns a serious gaze on our little mother-to-be. “How do Jenn and Jeffy feel about the new baby?”
“We’re telling them tonight. I just found out myself. Yesterday.”
“Is David ecstatic?” I ask. I can’t help but imagine the day I carry a child inside me.
Tabby’s expression softens. She’s absolutely glowing. “I’ve never seen a man so happy. And to think I put that smile on his face.” Her eyes are shining as she looks from one of us to the other. “And I have another announcement.” She grins. “I’m quitting work.”
“What?”
Dancy is a huge fan of Legacy of Life and particularly the relationship between Tabby and her on-screen love, Trey. “What’s going to happen to Felicia?”
I toss out a rueful smile. “Not to mention her evil twin.”
Tabby laughs. “You do know I’m not really Felicia Fontaine, right? She’s just a character I play.”
Dancy sticks out her tongue. “I know. But what about the story line? I mean, with the twins’ characters just leaving for boarding school.” (A necessary plot revision since David decided not to renew Jenn’s and Jeffy’s contracts.) “Isn’t that going to be difficult for the writers?”
“I’ll finish up my contract, which is only another three months anyway. We’ve been in negotiations. And now we won’t have to worry about it anymore. They can wrap up my story line while I’m still there and that’s that.”
I’m in awe. Truly. Tabby gets to be a full-time mommy.
Dancy downs the last of her coffee. “I have to get to work. All this ticking is about to make me go deaf anyway.”
Tabby frowns in confusion. But I know exactly what Dancy means. I swig my own coffee down and stand too. “Me too. I have to bake rolls and stuffed sandwiches today. And the sound of all that ticking is definitely distracting me from my goals for the day.”
“What ticking are you two talking about?” Then her eyes go wide with understanding. She grins. “Of course. Biological clocks.”
I bend and peck her cheek.
“Get some rest,” I say. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
She nods and takes my hand. “I have a feeling you’re about to be off the market.” Looking past me, she nods toward Joe. “My money is on that guy.”
Dancy follows my example and kisses Tabby’s cheek too. “At least she has two to choose from.”
“Oh, sure. They’re just waiting around for me to decide which one to choose. I’ve never even had a date with Joe. And only one and a half with Mark. Let’s not jump the gun.”
But I have to admit, I’m feeling a little smug as I head for the door while Dancy and Tabby finish up their good-byes. I glance around to tell Joe good-bye, but he’s busy with customers and doesn’t notice me. My stomach drops in disappointment, but to go up to the counter would be too obvious, so I turn away and shuffle across the floor, trying to make the trip across the room last as long as possible. The sound of my name on Joe’s lips halts my steps just as I reach the door. “Laini, wait!”
My heart rushes as I turn.
Wiping his hands on his apron, Joe seems a little out of breath as he reaches me. His gaze peruses my face. “You—uh—feeling okay now? No headache?”
I smile. “Yeah, it was a quick one this time. Thanks for everything, Joe. I don’t know what I’d have done without you last night.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I just . . . I don’t want you to think anything of it. I’d have done it for anyone.”
Humiliation surges through me. I get it. He’s trying to tell me not to make more of the encounter than there was. So much for Joe being on the menu. Tabby is so wrong about his interest in me.
“Trust me, I didn’t think you had any ulterior motives. You were just being a nice guy. And I truly do appreciate it.” I clear my throat. “Well, I have rolls to make.”
“Oh, good. We’re about out.”
“Okay. I’ll deliver them fresh tomorrow.” I turn and push the door.
“Laini, wait a second.” He looks down at his feet. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to go out with me sometime.”
I can’t tell you the relief I feel. As a matter of fact, I’m too relieved to feel self-conscious. “Sure.”
His face brightens. “That’s good. Real good. Okay. I’ll call you.”
My heart is light as I walk the two blocks to my apartment. This has already been a good day. Waking up to Joe, Tabby’s news, and the promise of a date with a good-looking Italian man.
And it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.
I can’t wait to see what the rest of the day brings.
I can’t believe it. My stove is on the blink. My first instinct is to call Dancy. But that turns out to be a dead end. “I’m so sorry, Laini. Any other day I’d be happy to have you come to the condo, but the exterminators are there. Roaches. I think they must have come in in a shopping bag or something.” I hear her shudder. “I hate those things. Anyway, it wouldn’t be safe to cook in the kitchen for a few more hours.”
I assure her it’s no problem and consider my other options. I don’t want to bother Tabby because she’s getting ready to tell the twins about the baby.
I’m so desperate, I even consider calling Joe. But that would just be too awkward.
Reluctantly, I pick up the phone and call my mom. Looks like I’m in for a subway ride to Penn Station and a forty-minute train ride, then a cab ride to Mom’s.
“I’m glad you came,” Mom says when I pull up in the taxi two hours later. “Here, let me help you with that.” She takes some of the bags from my hands and leaves me with the rest.
I pay the driver and follow my mom into the kitchen.
“Thanks so much, Ma. The super is supposed to get my stove fixed in a couple of days. So hopefully this will be the last time I have to impose.”
“Honey, it’s no imposition. It’s my pleasure.”
“How’s Aaron?”
Her face flushes. “He’s well. Thank you for asking. As a matter of fact, he’s coming for dinner tonight, so you’ll have a chance to get to know him better.”
“You’re cooking for him? Will you need the oven?”
“No. Don’t even worry about it. I’ll be cooking on the stove.” She sends me a wink. Weird. “Aaron has been craving sausage and kraut lately, and I promised to make it for him.”
Sausage and kraut. Okay, this is a meal I’m not looking forward to at all.
Mom swats me on the shoulder. “Don’t frown. You’ll get wrinkles. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”
“Good.”
“I’ll leave you to your baking. You know where every-thing is.”
Surprise jolts through me. The thing is, my mom loves her kitchen, and she’s not completely comfortable with anyone rummaging around in her cabinets. Any time I cook anything she gets out all my ingredients, spoons, mixing bowls, and pans. My mom is definitely changing into someone I don’t recognize. Or maybe I do. Maybe she’s becoming the woman she was before Dad died.
And maybe I should be grateful to a certain widower named Aaron who fills my mother’s house with flowers and her heart with joy.
There are certain childhood memories that come back to me from time to time in the form of nostalgia. Things like spaghetti night that rolled around once a month from as far back as I can remember. It was the only time Mom left the kitchen and allowed my dad to take over a meal. Mom stayed out and I was allowed to help. I don’t remember whether or not the spaghetti was truly any good. But my time with Dad was delicious. During dinner, Dad’s rules applied. Laughter, funny stories, and noodle-slurping reined supreme. Back then, Mom’s eyes smiled. Last night I dreamed about them.
My eyelids, the so-called windows to my soul, lift and I glance around the darkened room. Dawn has
n’t even broken. It’s this time of day when I can never tell if it’s midnight or four in the morning. My gaze rests on the nightstand clock: 4:30. Time to haul it out of bed and get ready to deliver my rolls and stuffed sandwiches to Joe.
I push back the covers, shove down the PJ legs that always insist on bunching up around my knees while I sleep, and stand, pulling the quilt up over the mattress.
I gather my things for my shower and as I open the door, another wave of nostalgia hits me. The sound of my mom clanging pans and spoons in the kitchen. The sounds of childhood, but more than that . . . she’s humming. No—wait. My mother is singing. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine . . .”
Her voice is beautiful. I’d forgotten. Mom always sang while she cooked. Dad would sneak into the hall and hide, so he could listen without being caught. Because once she knew anyone was listening, she clammed up.
My throat tightens as I walk quietly down the hall to the bathroom. The water steams over me along with a sense of bewildered optimism. My mother is changing.
Last night, our dinner with Aaron was pleasant enough. Mom enjoyed his company, I could tell, but I wouldn’t say she’s anywhere close to being in love. I mean, well, maybe. She did smile (with her eyes), when he complimented her sausage and kraut. And again when he ate two slices of peach pie à la mode.
By the time I finish upstairs and join Mom in the kitchen, she’s quietly standing over the stove, dishing up breakfast.
“I heard you singing.” I take the plate she offers and head to the table.
“Oh? I didn’t realize I was.”
She touches the collar of her robe—still the threadbare chenille my dad bought her, so I guess she’s not completely ready to let him go. For the first time in years, I’m actually fine with her wearing that robe.
“Breakfast casserole.” I slide my fork into the egg, sausage, and cheese dish. My mother never met a low-fat cheese she could abide, so it’s all fat, all the time. And oh-so-yummy.
Mom sits across from me and smiles. “I know it’s your favorite.”
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