Down on Love

by Jayne Denker

“That’s . . . pretty clever, actually.”

  “I know!” she cried gleefully, and Casey couldn’t help but grin back. “Personally, I think she and Justin Bieber should just get it over with and get together. The universe would fold in on itself, and then we could all clamber out of the wreckage and start over, fresh and clean.”

  Casey just looked at her. She looked back at her laptop. More uncomfortable silence.

  “What?” she demanded, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  “I’m impressed. I mean, I can’t believe you take all this on.”

  George still didn’t look at him. “What, you think I can’t?”

  Her voice was mild, but Casey got the distinct impression he’d just stepped in something he shouldn’t have. “No, of course not—”

  “Because I’m perfectly capable, you know. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “I know that too—”

  “I’m an adult, Casey. Been one for a while now. And with that comes plenty of experience.”

  Oh, he was aware of that. Very, very aware. And thinking about it was going to make it difficult for him to get to sleep tonight, he saw it coming. The amount of time he’d spent with her already, especially right now, sitting so close to her, watching a shaft of late-afternoon, post-thunderstorm sun set off all the different colors in her hair, feeling the warmth radiating from her bare arm, made him realize the George he knew, the one he’d always thought of whenever he’d thought of her—that bashful slip of a teenager—was long gone. He knew a lot of years had passed, but scrambling to make the adjustment had been muddling his senses all day. So much so he almost blurted out the one thought that was crowding out all the others in his head: George was no longer the girl he had pinned against the tree by the creek in the park on a June night so many years ago.

  He could in no way dwell on that. Not when she was right there next to him. What if she could tell what he was thinking? What if she did remember? No, he couldn’t chance it. Back to firmer ground. Back to just the facts. “Experience—you mean with crappy relationships?”

  “You bet,” she growled, typing again. “Plenty.”

  “Enough to fill a blog.”

  “Yup.”

  After a pause, he asked softly, “Haven’t you ever had a good one?”

  She froze, still staring at the computer screen. Finally she whispered, “Have you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  George turned to him, and he stared into her light-brown eyes. She was close enough that he could count the freckles on the bridge of her nose. His heart was slamming against his rib cage; he could have sworn she could hear it. Then she looked away—at the wall, out the window, at the keyboard—while the skin above her tank top flushed, the rosy color rising up her neck and into her face. “Of—of course I have. That’s a stupid question.”

  “Well, good, then.”

  “And—and I know you have. You and Celia, right?”

  “We had a pretty good run, sure.”

  “You’re not still together? Or . . . back together? Whatever?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “I’ve . . . heard some things. Around town.”

  Now he was truly amused, and more relaxed again. He rested his elbow on the back of the couch. “Oh, and since when do you believe what you hear around town?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed ruefully. “I should know better.”

  “What have you heard?” Casey really wanted to know what people were saying when he wasn’t within earshot.

  “Just that . . . you know . . . Celia just got a divorce and you two were thinking of giving it another try.”

  “Well, Celia and I ended a long time ago. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Wait—is this going on your blog?”

  “Do you want it to?”

  “Uh, don’t think so,” he said with a laugh.

  “Because that’s what I’m here for. I mean, that’s what it’s here for,” she amended quickly.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Well, it was no big deal Amelia didn’t sleep, George thought as she paced the nursery with her niece in her arms. George was awake anyway—they might as well keep each other company. What time was it? Three AM? Four? Who cared?

  Amelia’s gums ached. George’s head ached. But the baby was doing better than her auntie—at least she had her teething ring, which she was gnawing on with a vengeance over George’s left shoulder, to get some relief. But George? All the chilled silicone in the world couldn’t fix her problem, because her problem was named Casey.

  God, the conversation they’d had earlier. Was it just her, or had it been ridiculously loaded? At one point she could have sworn he was going to bring up . . . but no. He would never mention the night in the park. Why would he? He’d never talked to her about it even back then. Leave it dead and buried, he was probably thinking. Hell, George had been trying to do that forever. She wouldn’t let a small thing like a visit to the scene of the crime, her hometown, wipe out all the progress she’d made in the intervening years.

  But damn, he’d looked incredible today. Or, er, yesterday. (Whatever time it was, it was definitely tomorrow by now. Thanks loads, Amelia.) She had been telling the truth when she’d told Jaz and Sera she wasn’t interested in dating, but she’d lied—well, a lie of omission—when she’d skated over the issue of getting laid. Suddenly it became an option, as her traitor of a body had proven when Casey was next to her on the sofa—every single nerve ending of hers was tingling, and her brain (and other parts of her) were screaming to lunge at him, consequences be damned. And in her more confident moments, she thought maybe Casey might be receptive to what she had in mind.

  But, as usual, she’d been a good girl and hadn’t followed her strongest impulse. So she’d never know whether he’d have lunged right back, intrigued, or pushed her away, horrified. Typical.

  A sudden small thud behind her made her jump and turn around. The teething ring was lying on the floor; while George had been navel gazing, Amelia had fallen asleep. George pulled her head back to see the baby; her feathery eyelashes were fluttering, one drooly cheek was plastered to George’s shoulder. George wasn’t proud that she felt relieved the kid was finally asleep. Shouldn’t she have been more . . . selfless? But she couldn’t deny she was practically giddy at the thought of depositing Amelia in her crib and finally getting some shut-eye herself.

  But once she was back in her bed, she realized there was no way she was going to go back to sleep. She just couldn’t relax. Amelia would be up again in about an hour and a half (at the most), so why should she bother trying? Plus she was still thinking of Casey, which just made her more agitated. Her mind racing, she stared at the ceiling and swore softly as she faced the inevitable: Circumstances like these demanded she bake a pie.

  Chapter 9

  “Oh my God, do you smell that?”

  “What is that?”

  George smiled at Amelia, who looked up wonderingly from her high chair and beamed back around a gooey hunk of zwieback. There was nothing George liked better than people enjoying the aroma of her baking, anticipating the—

  “Is something burning?”

  “Maybe we should call 911. That’s not natural.”

  “You both suck,” George declared when Sera and Jaz appeared in the doorway, grinning like fools. “Just for that, neither one of you gets any pie for breakfast.”

  “Lighten up, little sister.” Sera put her face into the steam coming off the pastry on the counter and inhaled deeply. “You’re too tetchy.”

  “Oh, that’s something, coming from you, professional crank.”

  “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  “How about ‘not at all,’ thanks to your daughter? I swear, she’s part . . . what animal is nocturnal? A cat?”

  “I always thought she was part raccoon,” Jaz said, rubbing Amelia’s nose with her own. “It’s that weird obsession she has with flipping over garbage cans.�
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  “When you chose the sperm donor, how many questions did you ask about his genetic history?”

  “Sorry, kid,” Sera said, “but I don’t have much sympathy for you if Amelia’s sleep schedule—”

  “She doesn’t have a sleep schedule.”

  “Whatever—gave you time to bake. Although I am concerned about your mental state. More than usual, I mean.” To Jaz, she explained, “She must be stressed. She always bakes when she’s stressed.”

  “Well, then, let’s throw some more stuff at her, see if she snaps. Then we might get quiches and soufflés and cupcakes too.”

  “Sorry, Jaz. I only do pies.”

  “Okay, that’s weird, but I could live with it.” Jaz eased into a chair at the table and Sera put a cup of coffee in front of her. “What are you stressed about? Besides living with your sister, I mean.”

  George turned to the pie, pausing before she made the first cut to bid farewell to the baby foot-shaped vent in the center—her attempt at acknowledging what was important in her life at the moment. Family, she reminded herself. Nothing else right now. Her back to her sister and sister-in-law, she mumbled, “Nothing. Just found some extra time on my hands at four in the morning, that’s all.” She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the other two women exchange looks. “Quit it. I’m fine. Except for that whole ‘no sleep’ thing, of course.”

  “That’s why they invented naps,” Sera announced sagely, fork at the ready, eager to dig into the slice George handed her.

  Jaz let hers sit for a moment. She was still studying George. “You know what? You should make another pie today.”

  “You and Sera are planning on eating this whole thing in one sitting?”

  “No, I mean for Casey. It would be a great way to say thanks for fixing the sink.”

  The sound of Casey’s name brought George up short mid-yawn, and she had to fake finishing it. She slid into the seat on the other side of Amelia’s high chair. “I guess,” she hedged.

  “Good idea,” Sera said. “Or, better yet, we could invite him over for dinner or something.”

  “No,” George snapped, before she could stop herself.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Be–because,” she stammered, “he’s busy. With the farm. He’s wasted enough time over here. I’m sure he doesn’t have time to come back over for dinner and everything.”

  “Boy’s gotta eat.”

  “Really, Sera. He said he’s busy. Lots of things to do. Don’t bug him.”

  Jaz eyed George with something that might have been suspicion, but she only said, “Okay, let’s go back to the pie idea, then.”

  “Yeah, sure. I can make another one.” George kind of felt bad for denying Casey a full dinner, but she wasn’t certain she could deal with having him at the house for an entire evening. The way she’d reacted to him yesterday, so viscerally . . . it wasn’t helpful for her peace of mind. She was finally comfortable being on her own; the last thing she needed was to have her head turned—and her neo-virginity threatened—by some guy. Not interested, she reminded herself. In anyone. Not even Casey. Especially Casey. But if he kept turning up, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep denying it. What if she acted the same way she did the last time he was always around—mooning over him, crushing hard? Not helpful. Not useful.

  Jaz finally took a bite of pie, and George watched her closely. Pie making may have been just a hobby, a stress reliever like Sera said, but she was still committed to doing it well. She hadn’t baked for anyone since Thom (Ingrid’s thieving boyfriend, Long A, didn’t count), and she wanted to make sure she still had that particular knack for turning flour, fat, fruit, and sugar into happy. Judging by the blissful look on Jaz’s face, George figured she hadn’t lost her touch. Good. It was a concrete success she could be proud of. Right up there with improving on her latest record diaper-changing time—and the diapers didn’t immediately drop to Amelia’s knees when she picked her up, either. She was achieving all sorts of goals she didn’t even know she had.

  Jaz and Sera devoured their pie in silence and asked for more. When the second helpings were gone, Jaz finally sat back, dipped the crust in her third cup of coffee, and ran her bare foot along Sera’s leg. “So the order’s done? Ready to go?”

  “I just have to pack up the last box.”

  “What is it?” George asked, collecting the empty plates and putting them in the sink.

  “A beautiful set of dinnerware,” Jaz said. “Big custom order—service for twenty, including serving dishes and stuff. She’s been working on it forever.”

  “Wow. Who for?”

  Sera started to answer, but Jaz jumped in before she could get a word out. “A new place opening in the fall. Something like a tearoom, but I hear it’s going to become an inn when it grows up, maybe next year.”

  George nodded. “Good idea.”

  “This place has been letting the leaf peepers and the art buyers bomb into town just for the day for too long. We need more places like that—get the tourists to stay overnight, spread the wealth after the sun goes down. I hope this one works. Then maybe others will start up.”

  “Nice to see the chamber of commerce still has its thinking cap on.”

  “Oh, Marsden is trying to change with the times, all right.”

  Sera snorted. “And yet it intentionally manages to stay mired in the early twentieth century. That’s some feat of contortionism right there.”

  “Have some more pie, crabbypants,” George interrupted Sera, sensing an impending rant.

  “I would, but you took my plate away.”

  “You actually have room for a third piece?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to find out. Because you took my plate away.”

  “Don’t you have to pack your shipment?”

  “George is right,” Jaz said. “Skip’s coming early to pick it up. It’d better be ready, or he’ll wander off to do something else and never come back.”

  Sera growled as she pushed herself away from the table, lovingly palmed the top of her daughter’s head, kissed her wife, and went back upstairs to dress.

  “What have you got planned today?” Jaz asked George. “After you bake the second pie, that is.”

  “Dunno. Maybe Amelia and I will go to the park,” she answered, surprising even herself. The park? That park? Was she intentionally picking at a scab on a wound she’d spent this long trying to heal?

  “Sounds like a plan. I wish I felt up for a drive. I’m itching for a picnic, even if I can’t play frisbee.”

  “At least promise you’ll try to get some fresh air today. I cleaned the lounge chairs and hosed off the patio. And I’m pretty sure the umbrella won’t fall on you.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Promise!”

  “Yes, Auntie George. I promise.”

  “George!” Jaz called from outside a couple of hours later.

  “Yep!”

  “How serious were you about going to the park today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did it have to be today?”

  “What? Wait.” George scooped up Amelia, who was sitting on the kitchen floor bashing some plastic measuring cups together, and went outside so she and Jaz didn’t have to keep bellowing through the window over the sink. “Okay, start again.”

  “Do you absolutely have to go to the park today? I might need you to do something else instead.”

  “I don’t think Amelia would be too disappointed if we didn’t go. She’s not too clear on the difference between ‘today’ and ‘some other day’ just yet.” She looked at her niece, who was busy tangling her fist in George’s ponytail with one hand, clutching a yellow measuring cup in the other while she gnawed on the handle. “What do you think, kid? Today? Tomorrow? Doesn’t matter? You flexible? What does your schedule look like?” To Jaz, she said, “I don’t think she cares. So what’s going on?”

  Jaz squinted up at her, phone in hand. “I was just t
alking to Skip. He can’t make it today—his truck’s on the fritz. Can you deliver Sera’s pottery?”

  “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “It . . . I . . . I called Skip. To make sure he was coming. He’s kind of . . . flaky. And I guess it was a good thing I did, right?”

  George studied her sister-in-law. There was a lie in there somewhere; she could smell it.

  “Please,” Jaz wheedled. “It’s important.”

  “I guess.”

  “And is the pie done?”

  “You’re giving me a headache. I thought we were talking about Sera’s stuff.”

  “We are. You could deliver both.”

  “Not following you.”

  “It’s all going to the same place.”

  Chapter 10

  “Casey. Delivery.”

  Casey didn’t look up from his computer. “So handle it, El. That’s what I pay you for.”

  “You’d better do this one.”

  With an aggravated sigh, Casey pushed himself away from his desk and moved past Elliot hovering in the doorway of his office. He pounded through the echoing Gothic monster of a house and out the back door to what was now the delivery entrance. Last year, he’d extended the pea-gravel drive so it wound around the side of the house, went under the portico where coaches used to draw up a couple of centuries ago, and ended short of what had once been the formal gardens (and would be again, as soon as the roses were planted).

  He stopped wondering why this delivery was so important when he spotted Sera and Jaz’s beat-up van. Of course Elliot would be skittish about handling Sera’s pottery. “Need some help with that?” he asked, rounding the open back door—only to plow right into George. He jumped back. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  She smiled grimly. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

  “I thought Sera would have . . .”

  “You would think that, wouldn’t you? But for some reason I got ambushed, the baby was wrenched out of my arms, and I was shoved into the van and handed the keys. Like a do-it-yourself kidnapping. Anyway, here.” She grabbed something from inside and turned back around. “Take this.”