Sticky Notes - A clean romance (Ethel King Series Book 1)

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “Evans refers to you as Miss A. And as you may already know, I’ve often referred to you as Miss A-nnoying.”

  Her jaw dropped. They were serious fighting words, and he was winning.

  “Uh . . . Maybe you didn’t know but, well, now you do. You, uh, turn the key to the right. Unlocks it every time.”

  She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and glanced back at him. With one hand on the metal railing, he leaned forward, an intent look on his face.

  “Next Friday, Carl or Cindy will be driving me home. Good night, Professor B.” It was then she noted the book was still in his possession. She smiled and locked the door behind her.

  What she’d viewed as contempt between them might possibly be the Big C . . . chemistry. Enough dynamite to blow up the Grand Coulee Dam.

  How had this ever happened?

  She sat down in her chair at the table and leaned her head against the wall beneath the calendar. Headlights shone on the picture window in the kitchen as Benton’s Volvo reversed out of the back gravel drive and then headed east.

  Moonlight streamed through the window; a half-empty glass salt shaker stood alone in its path. Katherine pulled the half-empty pepper shaker over to join its mate. Like ice skaters skimming the surface, the shakers waltzed in the moonlight.

  Did Benton know it was chemistry, not contempt, between them? Maybe on his side, it was still contempt; maybe because of her two visits to his office, it always would be. Why had he walked her to the door? It made their one-mile drive home together almost feel like a date.

  Learn from this, she told herself: Never bribe your good-looking professor with cinnamon rolls in exchange for driving you home. If he accepts, your overactive mind may read into everything that happens. Everything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wrist-deep in sweet dough, the phone rang. “If it’s for me, take a message?” Katherine said over her shoulder.

  Grandma was in the middle of cutting out her “welcome to the neighborhood” letters. “The phone has never rang as much as it has this summer.” She set the scissors aside. “Hello, Katherine King’s answering service.—She’s making cinnamon rolls for a male friend of hers, and her hands are all sticky. May I take a message?”

  Katherine rolled her eyes. Grandma didn’t need to tell whoever it was ALL that. How embarrassing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Carl, I thought you were a solicitor again. You have such a professional- sounding voice. I know you’re a professor. That must be where you get it. I’m writing your number on a sticky note, and yes, I’ll tell Katherine that you called.”

  “Carl, the professor, called.” Grandma paused in the kitchen doorway.

  Wow! After last night, she’d felt certain he was going to leave her alone.

  “Even though he’s flagrantly good looking, I’m not interested.” Using her forearm, Katherine brushed her hair away from her face.

  “Flagrantly good looking?” Grandma giggled. “Is that the way you and Rikki used to talk?”

  “Sometimes.” Her freshman and sophomore year, her older cousin, Tim, had boarded with Grandma, while Katherine stayed in the dorms; Rikki had been her roommate. Rikki, a Moscow native, lived on campus to get away from her parents, and then went to grad school at the University of Texas to get even farther away.

  “Once you’ve washed up, call him back?” Grandma swished her hand.

  “This is not the type of guy you call back. It would be too encouraging for him.”

  “Too encouraging. Listen to you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Katherine’s turn. She set aside her handwritten rough draft of an essay for Quinn’s Civil War class and rose from the couch. “Hello,” she said into the receiver.

  Grandma sat in the recliner, her back to her as she pretended interest in a crossword. But Katherine could tell that she’d tilted her good ear up.

  “Hi, Katherine, it’s Carl. Did your grandmother give you my message?”

  “Yes, she did, Carl.”

  “I was hoping you’d return my call.”

  She wrapped the long, black phone cord around her left hand. “Yes, she did.”

  “We’re at The Breakfast Club on Main, and we were hoping you’d join us. I thought I’d take you to Bucer’s for coffee afterward.”

  “You forget, Carl, I have nine reasons to decline.”

  “Don’t you mean ten?” He chuckled. “Nine credits plus Joe equals ten.”

  “Are you seated with the guys?”

  “We’re waiting for the tab.”

  “Evans and Benton?”

  “Yes, Evans and Benton are with me.” The background noise dimmed.

  Benton knew now that she’d resorted to the Joe excuse. Carl was asking her out with an audience! It was no longer about dating her; it was about his ego.

  “Carl, put me on speaker, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Am I on?”

  “Yes, Katherine. I hear you clearly, love,” Evans said quite loudly in the background.

  She cleared her throat. “Carl, I now have eleven reasons why I won’t meet you for coffee. Any man who would call with his buddies as an audience is not someone I’d consider future dating material.”

  “Joe’s at the top of your list, Katherine, isn’t he?” Carl said.

  “Katherine is fond of lists, Carl,” Evans said. “Katherine, I recently stumbled upon your Joe List. All these years, it’s been buried in my briefcase. According to Carl, you need a refresher of all the reasons you weren’t going to fall in love with him again . . . Joe, I mean, not Carl. Give me a call, Katherine, and I’ll remind you.”

  “Four years ago you told me you were going to shred it.” She grabbed a scalp-full of hair and squeezed.

  “How could I shred it when I’d misplaced it?”

  “You found it the other day when I was writing Benton’s apology!” She knew he’d found something of secretive importance.

  “She wrote it in front of you?” Benton asked in the background. “You put her up to it, didn’t you?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Katherine, you must try The Breakfast Club’s Huckleberry Zucchini Bread the next time you’re here,” Evans said.

  “Carl, please take me off speaker.”

  There was the screech of a chair’s legs being pushed back on hardwood. “Katherine, I’ve just clicked you off speaker phone. I’m now heading toward the banquet room, which is very quiet at the moment. I could pick you up in about fifteen minutes at your grandmother’s, and we could pretend this conversation never happened.”

  With his ability to not be discouraged, he should really be in sales, not history. “I’m sorry, Carl, I prefer someone less insistent. Thank you, though, I wish you luck.” She lowered the receiver.

  “Katherine . . . the more we converse, the more I’m convinced—”

  “You obviously like a challenge, Carl. I’m sorry, I’m sincerely not interested.”

  “Because of Joe?”

  “Have a nice day.” She hung up on Carl. With both hands finally free, she grabbed handfuls of hair near her scalp and grimaced.

  “Was that Carl the professor?” Grandma asked.

  “Yes, Professor Carl.”

  “The flagrantly good-looking one?”

  “Yes.” Katherine sat down on the couch and lifted the ten-pound history textbook to her lap.

  “I remember, when I was younger than you, of course, when a young man showed me attention, even if I didn’t like the fellow, I still felt a little flattered. I’d always try to paint a pretty picture. Not like you. You’re just slapping on the paint.” Grandma swished an imaginary brush in large X-like motions through the air.

  “I think you need to take a little more time, honey. Would you have spoken to that young man that way if Pastor Ken was sitting at our kitchen table?”

  “His nerve is a bad sign. I do not want an admirer this semester.” If she were honest with herself, Carl’s voice held
a little disappointment. Had she been too harsh?

  Grandma looked at her crossword. “I forgot to tell you that Joe called earlier when you were in the shower.”

  “Oh . . .” Returning to the curio cabinet, Katherine found a sticky note that read: Joe called in minuscule print. Grandma had printed Carl’s sticky note three times larger. She dialed Joe’s number.

  “Joe, it’s Katherine.”

  “Hi, babe. Are we still on?”

  “Yes.” She’d hardly accomplished anything this morning, but she’d given Joe her word.

  “Should I pick you up at Bruneel Tires at ten minutes till?”

  “Yes.” Years ago, when they’d dated, meeting at Bruneel Tires had been their way to get around Grandma and her strict no-motorcycle policy. After Joe annihilated her playing tennis, which usually took under thirty minutes, she’d get in a couple of hours of study at the library.

  “Love you,” Joe said.

  “Love you, too,” she whispered, hoping Grandma couldn’t hear. Katherine hung up and returned to the couch and her textbook.

  “Why were you whispering?”

  Katherine shrugged.

  “You said ‘Love you, too.’ I heard you.” Grandma’s eyes didn’t blink.

  “We’re like brother and sister now. We always say it. Joe’s been telling me it for years.” Though she’d been honest, heat flooded her face.

  Grandma’s eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t you remember, Grandma?” Katherine’s chest ached with the memory. “Ever since Joe’s dad died, he’s been telling me he loves me, and I tell him, too. I do love Joe, like a brother.”

  “I remember.” Grandma nodded. “I was just making sure you did.”

  Ж

  Katherine waited out front of Bruneel Tires. Ready for tennis, she wore Adidas shorts, a fuchsia fitted top, and her backpack and tennis case strapped to her back. Directly across the four-lane highway, huge grain silos marked the south side of downtown Moscow.

  Only ten minutes late, not bad for Joe, he pulled up on his motorcycle, grinned, and handed her his extra helmet. She pulled it on over her high ponytail. The compressed knot on the top of her head would only be a temporary headache. She sat behind Joe with her arms wrapped around his middle, and they rode north toward Sixth Street.

  Traffic was unusually congested due to the farmer’s market. Saturdays were always busy, and parking was at a premium. Joe stopped at the red light on Sixth and Main.

  “How was the professors’ group last night?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Fun.” The word was growing on her. She glanced toward the corner florist across the street. She loved this little college town, a pocketed oasis nestled in the rolling hills of the Palouse. The area was the lentil capital of the world. She loved the ambiance of the downtown area, the brick courtyard, the hanging baskets on lamp posts, the eclectic shops on the main street. Pedestrians carried their farmer’s market finds—plants, bouquets, baskets of strawberries . . . A man who looked very much like Benton stood on the corner holding two tomato plants.

  Crud! It was Benton.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Quinn carried a shallow cardboard box hosting his farmer’s market finds—two tomato plants and a dozen farm fresh eggs. At the four-way intersection on Main and Sixth Street, Quinn stopped beside Evans and Carl. Before meeting at The Breakfast Club, the two had lucked out by finding a parallel parking space in front of the sports store. Quinn had walked; it was a pleasant seventy-degree day.

  At the intersection, a motorcyclist on a nice bike, a Yamaha 650 Seca, waited first in line. A girl’s arms were wrapped around his middle. Over the fellow’s shoulder, the girl stared wide-eyed at him. Quinn had no doubt whatsoever; the big, blue eyes belonged to Katherine.

  He had to remind himself to breathe.

  As Joe drove by, a bright blue backpack and tennis racket were strapped to Katherine’s back. According to her grandmother’s instructions, she was not to be motorcycling about the countryside with Joe.

  Evans nudged him. “Isn’t that Katherine?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “The girl on the bike?” Carl’s voice rang with humor. Everything Katherine did seemed to grip Carl more.

  “Doesn’t appear that she’s using her nine-credits excuse much with Joe Hillis, does it? I’m sorry, Carl. If you needed another rebuff spelled out in brilliant color...” Evans extended a hand west. “There it is.”

  At the end of the next block, where Sixth Street and the Lewiston highway converged, the couple on the motorcycle waited at a red light.

  “There sits our Katherine, with her arms around another man. Remember that picture, Carl, and move on with your life.” Evans beefed up his English accent as a somewhat attractive middle-aged woman strode past.

  “I’m moving on.”

  It never took Carl long to move on.

  “I don’t believe her.” Evans looked over his shoulder at Quinn. “When you talk with her tomorrow find out what’s going on with Mr. Dynamite. I would’ve sworn after reviewing her Joe List that she would have stuck to it.”

  They’d voted two out of three that Quinn should be the one to speak with Katherine about the way she’d handled Carl. He’d wait until after Ethel took her to church. Maybe after hearing the Lord’s Word, she’d be penitent. In the meanwhile, he’d pray about it.

  The woman was unpredictable.

  Instead of walking straight home, Quinn took a right on Logan. Before the start of Ethel’s fence line, a table was set up in the center of the concrete sidewalk. The little girl who manned it had her nose behind a paperback—Charlotte’s Web. A plastic pitcher of lemonade sat on top. Her Crayola signage read: Lemonade 25-cents. On top of the table sat a glass fish bowl with a small sign taped to the front: Hannah’s Puppy Fund. Donations Welcome.

  “I’m saving money to buy a puppy,” she said from behind the book.

  “What kind of puppy?” Quinn’s hands were full. Otherwise, he would have happily plunked down a quarter.

  “Not sure. We’re going to the Humane Society.” Lowering the book a couple of inches, she looked up at him. Freckles were sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.

  Since Tammy Morris in third grade, he’d always had a weakness for freckles. He set the dozen eggs down on the table. “One for here, and one to go,” he said dropping two quarters into the fish bowl.

  “Thanks, Mister.”

  Near Ethel’s side gate, he set down his purchases, that way she wouldn’t think he’d bought them for her. Holding the Dixie cup of lemonade, he knocked on the back door. His memory returned to Katherine on Joe’s motorbike; her arms wrapped around him. Framed by the motorcycle helmet, her large blue eyes had appeared stunning.

  Ethel opened the door. “As soon as I saw you walk by, I put on the kettle. Hopefully, you’re a tea-drinking man.” She wore a peach-colored T-shirt over faded jean capris and pink slippers.

  “I am. I bought a lemonade for you.” He handed her the Dixie cup.

  “Come in.” Ethel waved him inside and appeared genuinely happy to see him. “Our little neighbor girl’s saving up for a puppy.”

  “So I’ve heard. Do you think she gets much business there?” He sat down at the table in his usual chair. An earthy aroma in the room triggered a childhood memory of his visits to his Aunt Alice’s home.

  “No. Katherine has a pile of quarters on the windowsill for Hannah’s lemonade.” One brow lifted as Ethel appeared deep in thought. “She’s sold about four dollars worth that I know of.”

  “Not very much.” He nodded. “The guys from the professors’ group—Carl, Evans, and I, met for breakfast this morning.”

  “Did you know Carl called Katherine this morning?”

  “Yes, I was present at the table when he made the call.” He glanced around the white, boxy kitchen. “Something smells delicious.”

  “It’s the sweet roll dough for your cinnamon rolls. Katherine started it this morning after breakfast.” Ethel waved a han
d toward the counter, where a damp tea towel covered a large bowl. “Tell me your side of the story.” She carried two mugs and a chipped royal-blue teapot to the table and sat down. “Why is my granddaughter making you cinnamon rolls?”

  “Katherine didn’t want Carl driving her home last night. She mentioned cinnamon rolls, and well, given the circumstances, I caved. If she ever gets another B in my class, I’ve already told her that cinnamon rolls are the perfect answer.” His face warmed, and for a moment, he was thankful that none of his superiors were friends of Ethel’s.

  “Your stories match.” She pressed her lips together in a slight frown. “I can’t believe she’s such a ninny about Carl.”

  “Is she here?” Did Ethel know her whereabouts?

  “She left a little while ago to play tennis with Joe. After tennis, she’s going to study at the library.”

  After tennis, she was probably going to Joe’s place. The girl was officially not to be trusted.

  “Did she walk?”

  “Yes. She’ll be home for a late lunch before attacking your cinnamon rolls, as she put it.”

  What other things did Katherine not tell her grandmother?

  “Do you have dinner plans?” Ethel patted the table between them.

  “No.” Except for a dozen essays to review, his Saturday evening was a blank page.

  “We’re just having omelets and toast if you care to join us.” She poured him a mug of darkly brewed tea.

  “That sounds great.” Even though he’d had a farmer’s omelet and toast at The Breakfast Club, he wouldn’t mind the same meal again this evening with Ethel, and he supposed Katherine would be here as well. His mind returned to her on the back of the motorbike, her arms wrapped about Joe.

  “Is everything okay?” Ethel patted his hand for the second time.