Love Me Forever

by Muriel Jensen

  “Bobbie called me to tell me what she was up against, and I called Sandy.”

  “Well...” He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t like the two of them working together, getting cozy—talking. “That’s nice.”

  She handed him a towel to dry his hands and led him into the living room. “We’re not conspiring against you, if that’s what you’re worried about. The subject of you never really comes up.”

  That was a relief, if a little hurtful.

  He wound his way after her through the bright yellow kitchen into the pink-and-gray living room filled with flowers, knickknacks, and bamboo furniture. He’d always thought his mother’s living room looked like it belonged in Florida. Because his father had died at fifty-five after a long career as a cop, it was probably the closest she could get to their dream of retiring to the Sunshine State. The sunny room always ground in his guilt at letting them give him their nest egg to start his business.

  “Everyone in each of Glenda’s classes did something for the Clothes Closet. The beginners made scarves and simple throws, and the advanced people made sweaters, fancy blankets, and baby stuff. Look at this!”

  Stacked all over the sofa and two chairs were colorful piles of knitted and crocheted work. He smiled as he fingered a scarf in a soft purple with a beaded fringe. Sandy had a shirt that color. “Would these have been their toads and frogs?” he teased.

  “No. There’s nothing halfhearted or unfinished about these.” She unfolded a masterfully created blanket made up of different colored and patterned squares sewn together. “Look at this. The woman who did it could have gotten hundreds of dollars for it in Glenda’s retail shop. You have to write the women a note. Or, better yet, pay them a visit and tell them how grateful you are for their contributions.”

  Pay a visit to a yarn shop. He’d rather be audited. He smiled noncommittally. “I’ll make sure they know how much we appreciate this.”

  “The shop’s in Warrenton. Not very far.”

  “Mom, I wouldn’t know what to say to ladies in a yarn shop. It’s all so...female. I’ll write them.”

  “Stop being such a chicken. They’ve also collected a monetary donation for you. They got customers to contribute and they want to present you with a check. It’s probably not four figures, but it’s from a bunch of women who love to see their hard work go to a worthy cause. The money was one of her students’ ideas because she and her little girl wouldn’t have survived without the Food Bank and the warm clothes the Saint Vincent de Paul Society gave them.”

  She drew a deep breath and stared him in the eye. “I told them you’d be by to thank them. So Glenda’s having all her classes come to the Thursday night meeting. 7:00.”

  He closed his eyes and counted to three, but that wasn’t nearly high enough, so he kept going. The money donation was extremely generous of them, but what would he say?

  “They were impressed,” she went on in a coaxing tone, “because most of their sons’ interests lie in basketball games, bars, monster trucks and loose women. They think you’re pretty special.”

  He groaned loudly. “You want me to do this so you can show them you can still push me around. I’m not going. Like I said, I have no idea what to say to a group of women who knit. I’ll write or I’ll call. You’re welcome for the excellent job I did washing your car.” He headed for the door, then he turned to ask her grudgingly, “Can you store all this for a while, until we get the Clothes Closet ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  She closed the door on him. That was happening to him a lot lately.

  He needed a month in Bermuda. Away time to clear his mind of the vision of Sandy in the purple shirt that matched that scarf with the beaded fringe.

  Generally, he was doing just fine without her. His evenings and his weekends were free. No one challenged everything he said or did—well, except for his mother, and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon. No one wanted to know what he was thinking, or the feelings behind his thoughts.

  He was enjoying his freedom. He ate whatever he wanted without concern for clogging his arteries, and he could watch cop shows without someone beside him muting the violent parts.

  He didn’t have to clean the apartment against drop-in visitors, didn’t have to worry about whether the toilet seat was down, or whether he had anything in the fridge but sardines and hot sauce.

  He headed for home and the Mariners-Yankees game. He had a frozen pizza in the fridge and a dozen date bars Bobbie had made. He looked forward to a quiet evening—until he noticed Sandy sitting on the bench in front of his simple old brick apartment building.

  Mild panic formed in his chest, but he kept reminding himself that it was over between them, and though he often thought of her and even sometimes longed for her, he was sure she didn’t long for him. So her heart wouldn’t beat faster as he approached, so it would be deadly to let her see that his did. If she had any idea at all that he had moments of regret that their relationship was over, he’d be dead meat. Like the gazelle at the watering hole.

  He parked and climbed out of the car with a friendly smile. “Hi, Sandy.” He was happy to hear the polite, uninvolved sound of his voice. “Are you waiting for me?”

  She looked more tired than his mother had. And if he wasn’t mistaken, her face appeared just a little thinner. She studied his expression as though trying to read his thoughts. He kept them carefully hidden and continued to smile.

  She picked up a manila folder that sat on the bench beside her and stood. She wore black jeans and a black long-sleeve T-shirt. The black made a torch of her hair, which was caught up in a fat, curly ponytail. He noticed instantly that her hips had a little less curve. He kept his smile in place and the concern from his eyes.

  “These are my recommendations for the mystery money. I didn’t think you’d appreciate me bringing them by at 3:45 in the morning, or 10:00 at night, so I thought I’d drop them off when I had a minute. Terri’s manning the cart. However, I have to get right back.”

  “But you haven’t seen the spreadsheet.”

  “Actually, I did.” Her cheeks pinked. “I stopped by late one afternoon to see you at the office.” She glanced away at that admission and he could only guess she’d stopped by when she knew he wouldn’t be there, probably checked first with Jonni. “You were at a client’s and the spreadsheet was on your desk. I took some notes and...voila.”

  He didn’t recall ever seeing her look embarrassed. “Voila?” he asked.

  The pink in her cheeks deepened. Maybe her heartbeat was accelerating. She shrugged and smiled. “I tried a lavender latte today. I’m feeling French.”

  He accepted the folder from her and resisted the fragrance of her, which was part honeysuckle soap, which he was used to, and part coffee cart—a complex smell that combined strong coffee, milk chocolate, and something citrusy.

  “How’s it going at Crazy for Coffee?” He kept the question casual.

  She nodded. “Decent. I’m getting more comfortable with it every day.” She took two steps down the sidewalk, then turned and said reluctantly, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for the heads-up on the assigned contracts. Found one I hadn’t thought about and it was good that I did.”

  He felt mild elation that she thought that, but went to great pains to remain casual. “Happy to help.”

  “Well...” She pointed toward town. “I’d better...”

  “Do you knit?” he asked abruptly, walking after her as she started for her car.

  She turned to him with a blink of surprise.

  “Or crochet?” He kept talking, hoping to keep her there. “Thanks to my mother’s nosey parker interference—or assistance, however you want to view it—her partner in a yarn shop sent us all kinds of scarves and blankets and things for the Clothes Closet. She had all her classes working o
n it. Mom told her I’d stop by to thank her and her students, but I’d feel like, you know...” he shrugged, groping for the right word and finally settled on “...stupid. Way out of my element.”

  She clearly was trying not to smile. “I used to knit when I was younger. When Bobbie and I were in college we shared a booth at a craft fair. She sold small paintings, and I sold hats and scarves. I haven’t had time in ages. But...how nice of them to do that for us. Needlework takes time and attention.”

  “Do you want to come with me to their meeting Thursday and tell them that?” he asked. “I don’t know what to say. But you know what work goes into that stuff.”

  “No,” she said simply—and now she did smile. “I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, but I have so much to do—I’m trying to learn payroll, and get my books on the computer and spend some time with the girls.”

  He nodded his understanding, hid his disappointment. “Of course. I understand.”

  Laughing lightly, she started to walk away. “They’ll realize how much you appreciate their help. Women always relate to your charm and your sincerity.”

  He had to laugh, too. “You didn’t,” he reminded her.

  She’d reached her car and unlocked it with the remote. “That’s because you weren’t thanking me for anything, but instead raking me over the coals for attempting to do something for you.” She pulled her door open. “They’ll love you. Just be yourself. Tell them how many children and babies we have among our clients. How many old people, and how much more comfortable the gifts will make them. Appreciation generates affection. Gotta go.”

  She drove off with a tap of her horn. Hunter watched the little red car disappear around the corner toward town and refused to dwell on how relaxed she appeared around him. That had to mean she didn’t care. She’d been as casual as he’d had to pretend to be.

  Actually, that was better all around. He didn’t have to be so guarded around her. Weird, though. Now that she was behaving in a way that allowed him to direct his own life, he missed her interference. He needed counseling.

  He climbed the steps to his apartment, the game, the pizza and the date bars suddenly holding less appeal than they had a few short minutes ago.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “NO, NO, NO!”

  Sandy stood with her hand on a barely cold two-liter bottle of whole milk in the stand-up refrigerator. No. This couldn’t be. She moved her hand along the half dozen bottles beside and below it, and they, too, were only moderately cold. The cart’s harsh overhead light usually kept the 4:30 darkness outside, where it belonged, while Sandy prepared to open. This morning, however, the darkness was invading her being.

  Anger at a fridge that would allow its contents to grow warm was ridiculous, but she felt precisely that as she struggled to push the big case away from the wall to determine how it had become unplugged.

  She gasped at the sight of the plug still firmly in the socket. The refrigerated case was simply not functioning. It was broken. Required a repairman. Had spoiled several hundred dollars’ worth of everything she needed to open for business this morning!

  Feeling panicky, she went to the refrigerator under the counter in the front to check how much product she had there. An unopened two-liter carton of nicely cold, whole milk and a half-empty carton of two percent. No fat-free. That wouldn’t last her an hour with all the latte junkies who were now her regulars between six and eight o’clock.

  She groaned and made a quick list of what to buy and how much the fridge could hold. Fat-free milk, two percent, whipped cream. She took the money she would have used to pay her cable bill, flipped off the light and ran to her car. Thank God the nearby Safeway was open twenty-four hours.

  She purchased just what she needed to start the day and thought she might be able to impose on Bobbie in the middle of the morning to run to the store for her. She raced back to the cart, was stopped for speeding by a police officer who was sympathetic but still gave her a ninety-four dollar ticket.

  Biting back tears, she put everything into the low refrigerator, found her list of repair people Bjorn had used and left a message for P & L Johnson Mechanical, stressing the urgency of her situation. She turned on the lights at 5:01 and greeted Dave with a smile.

  At ten-thirty, with little milk left, she phoned Bobbie and had to leave a message. When Bobbie hadn’t returned her call by ten forty-five, she phoned Stella and had to leave a message there, too.

  When no one had phoned her back by eleven o’clock, she did the only thing she could think of. She called Hunter at the office.

  “This is Hunter,” he said in his professional voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Hunter!” she said with what she knew was too much enthusiasm, but she didn’t care. “Thank God!”

  “Sandy?” He sounded confused.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean to call me?”

  “Yes!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She sighed. “I got a speeding ticket this morning, but right now, that’s the least of my problems. Listen! I need a favor. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll go to the yarn thing with you.”

  “Really?” She heard his voice brighten. “It’s tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then, sure. What do you need?”

  She explained about the refrigerator and all that had gone wrong. “I could only buy as much as would fit in the fridge under the counter and I’m almost out of everything again. If I call Safeway, give them my order and my credit card number, would you pick it up? Please?”

  There was an instant’s silence. In her desperation, it felt like five minutes.

  “You won’t back out on the yarn shop meeting?”

  “I will not.”

  “Then, I’m on my way.”

  She placed her order at Safeway while preparing chai tea for a customer.

  Fifteen minutes later a rap sounded on the door of the cart. Mercifully between customers, she ran back to let Hunter in. He carried a large box filled with two-liter bottles of milk, a six-pack of whipped cream cans and four bottles of juice. She tried to take the box from him, but he held on. “Where does this stuff go?” She pointed to the front.

  He ate up the small space in four long strides and placed the box on the counter.

  “Snickers Frost!” someone shouted from the window on the left. Sandy peered out and smiled at an unfamiliar face. “Coming right up!” she said.

  Then, without thinking, caught up in the swift and easy solution to what had been a giant hurdle to business just half an hour ago, she wrapped her arms around Hunter’s neck and hugged him.

  “Thank you, thank you!” she said.

  With a gentle hand to the middle of her back, he held her to him for just a moment. “Sure,” he said, then retreated a step.

  Curiously, in the tight confines of the cart, standing toe-to-toe, her lips inches from his throat, their eyes locked in surprise. She thought she could hear his heartbeat, feel the rhythm of his body’s power train—blood flowing, lungs expanding, thoughts humming.

  “Snickers Frost!” the voice said again.

  Sandy pushed Hunter away and grabbed one of the milk cartons out of the box. She poured some milk into a blender carafe, added something slushy out of a container, a generous dollop of ice cream and snapped the container onto the blender. She turned on the machine, held it in place with a hand on the lid. It whirred for several seconds, then she poured half the contents into a clear cup, put a bubble lid on it, fit the tip of a whipped cream can into the hole in the top and pushed. Cream filled the bubble, and as she removed the can, a tiny dollop popped out of the hole. She inserted a straw and handed the cup out the window. “Four dollars and fifty cents, please.”

  Hunter heard “Keep the change,” and the purr of a motor as the customer
left.

  Sandy put the money in the register, then poured the rest of the mixture into another cup. “Want cream on it?” she asked Hunter.

  He tried to demur. “Oh, thanks, but I’m not much for really sweet...”

  She shot cream into it. “Because you’ve never tried this.” She put a straw in it and handed the cup over.

  Obligingly, he took a sip—and was instantly converted. The drink was probably diabolically laden with calories, but it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, smooth, sweet and just like a Snickers bar liquefied and frozen. She grinned. “I keep wondering what it would be like with crème de cacao in it.”

  “Yeah.” He sipped again. “We definitely have to try that after hours.”

  He half expected her to remind him that they wouldn’t be together after hours, but that line of talk would be futile now and she probably knew it. When she’d needed help, she’d called him; when she’d wanted to thank him, she’d used her arms rather than words; and she was now smiling at him as though a barrier was down.

  He tried to make himself relax, but his body was rioting. She was still only inches away from him and he could feel the heat of her, smell that complex honeysuckle-coffee fragrance that now defined her for him, and the energy coming from her made him think of photos he’d seen of lightning forking out of the sky in a jagged string of power and the earth reaching up to meet it. A charge moved between Sandy and him that hadn’t been there before.

  He was going nuts. All this sugar was sending him over the edge. He had to get out of there.

  “Thank you. This is incredible.” He saluted her with the cup before turning toward the door. “The meeting’s at 7:00 in Warrenton. I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”

  He let himself out of the cart, ran down the three portable steps that were pushed up against it and drew the first even breath he’d taken since he’d heard her voice on the phone.

  He headed for the Urban Cafe, thinking that he had to get something to eat to temper his mood and all the sugar in his body. They had a beef, cheddar and veggie quesadilla that was to die for.