“I don’t think either one of us is going to get much sleep till this thing is done.” The nervous feeling he’d had about the project was pretty much gone, but he still worried that the board would nix some detail in the end. At least they seemed to have Eli on board at last. Thanks, largely, to Samantha. He took a bite of the turkey sandwich.
“Is that the mosaic room?” She pointed her neatly manicured nail to one of the squares on the drawing.
“Yeah, and the mosaics will be illuminated with these soft spotlights overhead.”
“Nice.” She nodded as a slip of hair fell past her cheek. It was no surprise that the guys in the firm talked about Samantha as if she were one of the unattainable girls in high school. She was way out of their league. Her wavy blond hair hung loosely around her shoulders. Her green eyes were framed by long, dark lashes, and her body was obviously toned, free of any mommy tummy. Kate, who was no fan of competition in the office, had sniffed to Rob that all the girls in the office knew Samantha wasn’t a natural blonde. “Look at her eyebrows. Why are they brown?” Kate had gone so far as to look up Sam’s graduation photos in her high school yearbook. “She was nothing to look at then,” Kate had informed him smugly. “Highlights,” she added with a dismissive wave of her hand.
But Sam Wilcox had grown into herself. She was, he supposed, the kind of woman who turned heads when she walked into a room not because she was outrageously attractive, but because she exuded confidence, an air of “I can’t be fooled” coupled with a certain coyness.
“Looks like we’re almost there,” she said now and looked up at him with a smile. She took a sip of Red Bull.
“I sure hope so.” He shook his head. He couldn’t take much more of this project. “And, thanks to you, we got there a lot sooner than we might have otherwise.”
“Ah, you flatter me.” She waved him off, but she looked pleased.
“No, really. You’re not bad for a young whippersnapper.” He liked to pull the age card when he could on the associates. It made him feel wiser, despite his paltry thirty-seven years.
“Thanks. That means a lot. Sincerely.” She played with the tab on her soda can. “You know, I heard a rumor about you.”
“Really?” What could possibly be interesting enough about my life to start the rumor mill turning? he wondered.
“I hope you won’t think it’s too personal a question,” she paused, gave him the once-over to see if he was about to object, “but is it true that you’re color-blind?”
“Oh, that.” He felt himself deflate slightly at the fact that that was the salacious rumor circulating about him. “Yeah, it’s true.”
“Isn’t that kind of, I don’t know, an oxymoron? A color-blind architect?”
“Not exactly. I can see colors . . . I just don’t see a whole spectrum like you do.”
“What do you mean?”
Did she really want to hear this or was she just being polite to her superior? Rob couldn’t tell.
“Color-blind is kind of a misnomer. I have what they call a red deficiency. I can’t see it. So, when I’m looking at red or orange or yellow, I see a pale green. When I’m looking at purple, I see more of a blue.”
“Because no red.”
“Exactly.”
“Huh.” She thought about it for a moment. He couldn’t help but notice again the hint of lace that poked out from behind her top button. “Doesn’t that make practical stuff hard? Like traffic lights?”
He cleared his throat. “Nah. My parents figured out early on that I was color deficient, so I learned how to make allowances over the years—like red light on top, green light on bottom.”
“And architecture?”
“You’d be surprised how you learn to accommodate. Still, my wife has to lay out my tie for me every night to make sure it doesn’t clash with what I’m wearing.”
“Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who’s color-blind.”
“Interesting for about five seconds,” he added, and they shared a laugh.
“Anyway, shall we get to work, add the final touches?” he asked and rolled up his sleeves.
“We shall,” she said, wiping her mouth and throwing her wrapper into the wastebasket. “And seriously, Rob, who says shall anymore?”
“It’s important to remember when twisting the traditional Danish knot, if you twist too tightly, the center filling will burst through.”
—The Book of Kringle
Ellen had brought her cookbook to the store. She’d been puzzling over the riddle long enough and thought perhaps if she considered it in the ambience of the shop, she would be inspired, crack the secret wide open. She’d added a few other capitals to her list—a recipe sent in from Atlanta, Georgia, and another from Tallahassee, Florida—but they stumped her even more. What on earth could be the secret ingredient tying these places together? Or maybe she was meant to focus on just one state capital with seven letters? After all, the riddle had said: For if you like capitals first and seven. Was it Atlanta and therefore a Georgia peach? But what could first refer to? She sighed. She was getting nowhere.
It was then that she looked up from the cash register and saw him. Sitting at the table, his hat in his hands, a goofy grin on his face. His face was tanned, his hair lighter, whether from the sun or highlights she couldn’t guess. He wore a denim jacket over his T-shirt, a bit of a non sequitur for a fifty-year-old man, she thought. And a little gold hoop in his left ear.
“Ellen,” he said with a mix of what sounded like sweetness and regret.
Her hand shot up to her neck. She could feel it turning a deep crimson. For the first time in a long time, she was speechless.
“Ellen,” he said again. “I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by to say ‘hi.’ ”
“Well, hello.” She had found her voice. She hated that it came out so small, so girlish. She cleared her throat. “Can I get you something? A coffee?” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“That would be nice.” She grabbed the coffee pot, ducked out from behind the counter, turned over his cup and poured it for him, black.
“Lookee that. You remembered how I like it.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “I just haven’t offered you any cream or sugar yet.”
He laughed. “That’s my Ellen.”
Ellen bit her tongue, refrained from telling him she wasn’t anyone’s Ellen and most especially not his anymore. A customer in the corner looked up from his paper. He wasn’t a regular, though, so she couldn’t know if he understood the gravity of the situation.
“So, how’ve you been?”
Just another typical Monday, she thought to herself. Your ex-husband walks into your store after eighteen months and asks you how you’ve been.
“I’m fine, Max. Just fine. You?”
“Did you read my e-mail? You never responded.”
“Oh, I got it all right. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. I’ve been busy with the store.” She waved her hand in the air, gesturing around her as if no one could imagine all the work the place required.
“Right. I figured,” he said and took a sip.
“Are you back for good?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“From Sint Maarten or Martinique or whatever it’s called.”
“No, no. Like I said, I’m just visiting. Wanted to say hi to my sister, check in on some old friends. Here for just a few more days, then I’m headed back to paradise.”
“Good.” Ellen caught herself. “I mean it’s good that you’re visiting your sister. I’m sure she appreciates it.” Max’s younger sister, Lily, had been in and out of relationships with one guy after another. Last Ellen heard, she was seeing a minor league baseball player from Dubuque, a long distance relationship that sounded slightly serious for a change. For her sake, Ellen hoped it would stick.
Max nodded, looked around. “So, business has been good, I take it?”
“Oh, fabulous. We got written up in Ist
hmus the other day, and apparently a writer from the New York Times saw it. He called to say he was thinking of flying out to interview me about the finer points of kringle-making.” It was only partially a lie. The Singular Kringle had been included in Isthmus the other day among a roundup of recently anointed bakeries in the area. And a fact-checker from the New York Times had called to confirm the spelling of kringle in one of its articles.
“Well, isn’t that remarkable?” Max asked. He sounded sincerely pleased for her. “That’s great. Congratulations. Good for you.”
She couldn’t remember one time in their marriage when he’d congratulated her on anything.
“Kringle, huh? You always liked your Sunday morning kringle.” She was surprised he remembered that she’d kept up her mother’s tradition of buying kringles after church.
“And you? How did you end up in Sint Maarten?” She couldn’t help herself. She really was curious.
“Oh, you know me. Always something up my sleeve. I’ve always wanted to live down there, just never imagined it was possible. Then an old buddy of mine from college called to say he was opening this scuba store and did I want to go in on it with him? I figured I’d better jump before I got too old. And so, that’s where I am now. It’s like Fantasy Island, I’m telling you.”
She smiled to think of her old favorite television show. She loved watching the seaplane land at the beginning of every episode, the passengers deplaning, full of hope and possibility. She doubted Sint Maarten, or at least Max’s version of it, was anything close.
“Sounds like good living.” She went back to the counter, cut a few slices of raspberry kringle and brought them over to the table, sitting down across from him. With only one other customer in the store, it couldn’t hurt to take a moment to be civil and regain her composure.
When she looked up from her plate, though, she had to catch her breath. Damn him, the man was still heart-stoppingly handsome. Those bright blue eyes, the chiseled cheekbones. It was all too much, blinding. And a smell that could only be Max’s, some kind of shaving lotion mixed with what she’d always thought of as his own personal brand of pheromones. It was intoxicating.
“Why don’t you join me?” He said the words and they hung in the air for her to claim or not. Did he mean what she thought he meant, or was he just belatedly asking her to join him at the table? Ellen could hear the man in the corner breathing, a sort of asthmatic wheeze, while she watched the invisible words cross the table to her. From the intense look on Max’s face, she could tell he meant the former.
Where to begin?
Funny, how shortly after the divorce she’d found herself overcome with sadness, wondering what on earth she’d done. Had Max really been that bad? She was so sure when she signed on the dotted line, making the divorce final, only to be wracked with second-guessing a few weeks later. Was she destined to be a spinster with cats? (The fact that she was allergic to cats gave her hope that that particular fate wasn’t in the cards for her.) But still. She hadn’t really wanted to be alone for the rest of her life. Then the pizza joint had gone up for sale and she’d snagged it, poured all her energy into it. There was no more time for self-doubting and second-guessing.
Except now here he was, sitting in her store, asking her to question the very thing she’d wondered after he’d gone. When his e-mail arrived, a little door in her heart had, admittedly, squeaked open. Here he was trying to pry it open further.
She laughed a little. “Oh, Max.” The kringle crumbled between her fingers, dropped to her plate. “You’ve always had a good sense of humor.”
He reached across to lay his hand over hers. “I’m not kidding. Come with me. You’d love it down there. I’m a changed man, with a real job and a real nice place that I call home.”
“And give up all this?” She pulled her hand away and gestured to the walls around her.
“I’m sure you could sell it for a pretty penny.”
Where was Lanie when she needed her? On their last date, Henry had told Ellen that a sapling shoots off myriad seeds to signal when it’s in trouble; Ellen imagined herself sprouting miniature seeded helicopters by the dozen right now, but no one seemed to notice.
All the “what-ifs” came flooding back. What if she was never going to meet another man who’d bring the kind of adventure and excitement to her life that Max had, even if it wasn’t always the good kind? She had had fun with Henry that first night, so much so that she’d agreed to his invitation for a second “date,” and then a trip to the movies and dinner out. But with Max across from her, she felt her ground shifting in a way that it hadn’t in months.
“Isn’t it iconic, how you loved kringle and now you’ve created all this?” He grinned.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that he meant ironic and that it wasn’t even the proper use of the word. But it was enough to snap her back to reality.
She pushed up from the table. “I appreciate your stopping by to say hello,” she said. “But I don’t see how things have changed.”
He looked crestfallen. “You’re the one who was always faulting me for not keeping a job, and now I have one.”
“Max, I’m sorry, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea, do you?” She tried more gently now.
“Did you get my gift?”
She searched her mind. “Your gift?”
“Yeah, the Fowler’s thing or whatever it’s called.”
“That was you?” She felt the romance of Gretchen and Anthony come crashing down around her feet. She was a balloon, deflated. So Max had been in town for a few weeks. Why had it taken him so long to stop by?
“Sure, I stopped by the store late one afternoon. You’d already closed up for the day, so I dropped it through the mail slot in the door. I know how much you love that grammar stuff and when I saw it at a used bookstore, it had your name written all over it. I figured you’d know it was me since I always used to give you such a hard time about being a word freak.”
“But that was weeks ago.”
“Yeah, took me a while to work up the nerve to come by again.”
She was momentarily stunned. It wasn’t like Max to do something, well, thoughtful like that. She thought back to when she thanked Larry for the book. He had played it off as if he’d no idea what she was talking about, but she’d assumed it was part of the lark. And perhaps a small part of her, she was surprised to admit, was disappointed it hadn’t been Henry after all.
“Thank you. It was very thoughtful of you.”
“Come on. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. How about we start with something small? Like dinner? It’ll be just like old times.”
She felt something spark inside her. “Let’s not do this. It won’t end well, you know that, right?” The words came out softly.
“Unlike you, Ellen, I’m an optimist. Call me a fool, but that’s what I am.”
About that, he was right. He was never short of optimism. It had been a good counterpoint for her more dour moods.
Max pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Is there someone else?” he asked.
She inhaled sharply. What to say? That she’d had a few dates with a horticulturist who seemed nice enough but who had yet to kiss her? Max would laugh.
“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “I mean there might be. I’m, well, I’m not quite sure.” Why was she showing any hesitation to Max of all people?
“Might be?” Max raised an eyebrow. He buttoned up his denim jacket. “Well, I’m in town a few more days if you change your mind.” He walked to the front and paused to look back before heading out. “You’ve got a nice shop here, Ellen. Good luck with it.”
And with that, he walked through the door. And out of her life once again.
• • • •
Except. Except that he showed up at her house later that night, cradling paper cartons of Chinese beef and broccoli, her favorite, and a six-pack in his tanned, muscular arms.
“I know you said no, but we both know t
hat sometimes it just takes a little arm-twisting. I thought if you won’t go to dinner with me, I could bring dinner to you. This way you won’t have to be seen in public with me.”
She knew in that moment that she should shoo him away, hold strong. But instead she found herself looking across the yard to see if anyone was around to notice her ex-husband standing on her porch. All clear.
She showed him in, against her better judgment.
“Dinner, but that’s all, got it?” She wasn’t one to turn down free beef and broccoli. There was a practical side to all of this, she told herself. Dinner gratis.
Three helpings of beef and broccoli and a six-pack later, she rolled over and half-smiled to see his familiar shape lying next to her. She had forgotten how nice it was to be close to someone, had forgotten the contours of his body, the freckles that swam across his back like schools of fish, the slightly raised mole on his left arm. The tan lines that ran across the top of his waist and circled his upper thighs were new. And his hair was sandier now—lighter in color and rougher, as if the southern seas and all that salt had added texture.
With Max, she had to admit, it was comfortable. She knew him, inside and out, good and bad. There wasn’t much mystery to him, aside from not knowing where his next adventure would lead him. And perhaps that was what had made her cave in earlier tonight, follow him after he took her by the hand to lead her up to a bedroom that he had, ironically, never set foot in. The clothes had come off on the way up the stairs; she’d almost tumbled over his pants in mid-step. She had forgotten passion, what it felt like, tasted like.
Max was comfortable in his own skin wherever he landed. Ellen missed that. She missed feeling wanted, missed feeling as if it was fine to forget everything and throw herself into the moment. Max had been good at getting her to do that. And here she was, seduced again.
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