Stanley placed a hand on top of his desk and rose to his feet. He'd come back to work to discover that Katie had rearranged a few things. Nothing big, just rearranged some of the merchandise. He wasn't quite sure why the over-the-counter medications had to be kept down below the prophylactics on aisle five. And she'd removed the live bait he'd kept by the milk in the reach-in cooler. For some reason, she'd put it next to the discounted meats. He knew she'd ordered some gourmet jelly and olives. He supposed he didn't mind, since it meant she was getting more involved in the store, but he didn't think gourmet items would sell in Gospel.
He placed a rubber band around the outgoing mail, and when Orville Tucker came in his mail truck, Stanley handed it over before he could change his mind. He wondered what Grace would think of his poem. He popped a few Turns and told himself it didn't matter. He'd tried his best, but Grace was a really good poet, and he was just an amateur. He cut meat for a living. What made him think he could write a poem?
He spent the rest of the day worrying about what Grace would think. By that night, he was in such agony that he wished like hell he could break into the post office on Blaine Street and steal the poem back. But the post office was one of the few businesses in town that had an alarm system. He wished he'd never sent it. He knew that if he didn't hear from Grace, it meant she probably hated it.
The next day Grace called him and told him she loved it. She said she was flattered and that the poem had spoken to her heart. Her praise spoke to Stanley's heart in a way he'd never expected. It reminded him that his heart was good for something more than pumping blood, and when she invited him and Katie to dinner at her house the next night, he accepted for both of them. Katie was always nagging him about getting out of the house more. He was sure she wouldn't mind.
"You what?"
"I accepted a dinner invitation to Grace Sutter's for the both of us."
"When?" The last thing Kate wanted was to be stuck at a dinner table with Rob Sutter. She hadn't seen him since the night he'd kissed her. That wasn't quite right. She'd seen him. He worked across the parking lot, but he hadn't come in the store for five days. And every time she'd seen him, she'd gotten an odd little bubble in her chest. Kind of like nerves, but not the good kind.
"She called about half an hour ago."
"That isn't what I meant." Kate paused as Iona Osborn labored to the counter, her quad cane making a ka-chink-thud across the hardwood floors.
"How much are these?" Iona asked and set a bag of Doritos next to the cash register.
Kate pointed to the price clearly marked on the bag. "Four nineteen."
"It always had a sticker before."
Kate took in Iona's blue eyes, chubby jowls, and mile-high gray hair and forced a smile in place. Iona wasn't the first person to give her grief over the sticker issue. She wondered if there was a conspiracy to drive her insane. She took a deep breath and explained yet again, "Items clearly marked from the manufacturer don't need a sticker."
"I like having a sticker."
Kate held her hands palms up, then dropped them to her sides. "But the stickers were always the same as the clearly marked price."
"There's always been stickers on stuff."
Kate was giving serious thought to smacking a sticker on Iona's forehead when her grandfather interceded. "How's that hip?" he asked.
"I'm a little stoved-up. Thank you for asking." Iona's leather purse hit the counter with a heavy thunk.
"Have you thought about getting one of those power chairs like they advertise on TV?" Stanley asked as he rang up her Doritos.
Iona shook her head and dug into her bag. "I don't have that kind of money, and my insurance won't pay for it." She pulled out a wallet so full of cash and coupons that it had to be held closed with a rubber band. "Besides, I can't sit in one of those while I work all day at the diner." She searched all her coupons, then pulled out five one-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. "Would be nice though, if you provided one of those chairs for seniors like they do at that ShopKo down in Boise."
"That's certainly something to think about," Stanley said as he took the money and made change. "How much do one of those things cost?"
Kate glanced at her grandfather as she placed the Doritos in a plastic bag. He couldn't be serious.
"About fifteen hundred."
"That's not too bad, then."
He was serious. He wouldn't spend a dime to upgrade his bookkeeping system in order to make his life easier, but he'd blow fifteen hundred on a power chair that the kids in town would jump on and race around the store. "I don't understand you," she said as soon as Iona left. "You won't make your life easier, but you'll buy a power chair for the occasional customer. That doesn't make sense to me."
"That's because you're young and your bones don't ache when you get out of bed in the morning. You don't have trouble getting around. If you did, you might think differently."
That was probably true, so she let it go. For now. "When is Grace's dinner?"
"Tomorrow night."
Now the tricky question. "Is Rob going to be there?" Kate asked as if she didn't care one way or the other. But the reality was that if the answer was yes, she'd have to come down with cramps or something.
"Grace didn't say. I could ask her."
"No. I was just wondering. It's not important," she said as she grabbed the feather duster and headed toward the canned vegetables and fruits aisle. If Rob was going to be there, she'd have to suck it up and pretend he didn't bother her. That the kiss he'd given her hadn't affected her at all, which of course it hadn't. Sure, she'd felt little warm tingles, but that didn't mean anything. Lots of things gave her warm tingles. She couldn't think of any at the moment, but she would.
The jars of olives and jalapefio jelly she'd ordered had arrived the day before, and she placed them at eye level on the shelves. No one had purchased any of her gourmet items, but it had only been one day. Maybe she should take an hors d'oeuvre plate to Grace's dinner. If Grace liked the hors d'oeuvre, she might talk them up. Word of mouth was important to sales.
She wondered what Grace was serving, and if her house was as enormous as her son's. It wasn't.
The second Kate walked into Grace Sutter's home, she could tell a woman lived there by herself. The furnishings were comfy and cozy and soft. Lots of pastel colors and white wicker. Belgian lace, cut crystal, and fresh flowers. Very unlike her grandfather's house, and completely opposite her son's. The home was filled with the smell of roast beef and baking potatoes.
Grace greeted them at the door wearing black pants and a red sweater set. Kate felt underdressed in a jean skirt and her long-sleeve Banana Republic silk T-shirt. She handed Grace the hors d'oeuvre plate she'd made, and her gaze scanned the living room.
No Rob. She felt her shoulders relax and the tension in her back loosen. She wished she didn't care one way or the other, but for some reason he made her uptight and nervous. And again, not in a good way.
"Thank you, Kate," Grace said as she took the plate from her. "This was so thoughtful of you."
Kate pointed to each section of the plate. "Those are Italian olives, and I stuffed those mushrooms." Grace set the plate on a coffee table. "That's jalapeflo jelly," Kate continued, "over cream cheese. You spread it on the wafers. It's wonderful."
"I'm going to take your word on that jelly," her grandfather said as he popped an olive in his mouth.
Grace picked up the Delilah cheese knife and spread some of the cream cheese and jalapefio jelly on a cracker. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "That's quite good," she announced.
Kate smiled and looked at her grandfather. "Thank you."
"I still don't think it's right for people to make vegetable jelly," Stanley maintained and refused to even try it. He'd dressed for the dinner party in his gray permanent press pants, a blue dress shirt, and a gray sweater. Which was quite dressed up for him. Kate wasn't certain, but she thought her grandfather was acting kind of nervous. He kept folding and u
nfolding his arms and twisting the tip of his handlebar mustache. And he was wearing so much Brut that she'd practically had to ride all the way over with her head sticking out the car window like an Irish setter.
Grace showed them her collection of Swarovski crystal, and she gave Stanley three crystal penguins on a chunk of crystal ice to hold up to the light. The two of them looked at the prism of color spilling across Stanley's old, gnarled palm, and then they looked at each other. For one brief moment their eyes held before he lowered his hand, as well as his gaze. His cheek turned a slight pink, and he cleared his throat.
Her grandfather liked Grace. More than just a friend. More than he liked the other widows in town. When had that happened?
Kate snagged a few olives, then she moved to the shelves filled with photos. What did she think about her grandfather dating Rob's mother? She'd always thought she'd be happy that he was moving on with his life. Living again. Was she? She honestly didn't know.
The photographs on the shelves were three and four deep, and in the front sat a picture of a naked baby on a white lambskin. Another was faded and yellow, of the same baby sitting on a man's lap, whom Kate assumed was Rob's father. She popped an olive in her mouth and looked at Rob in a grade school photo, his hair in a crew cut, with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. A prom picture of him in a powder blue tux and his date in silver lame with enormous shoulder pads up to her ears. This time his hair was in some sort of spiked Duran Duran do with long bangs. But most of the photos of Rob were taken of him in different hockey jerseys.
In quite a few of the pictures, he was so young that his hockey jersey hung over his hands. In all of them his big green eyes were bright with excitement. There were action photos of him taking a shot or skating with the puck at the end of his stick. Others with his helmet low on his forehead, this time his eyes menacing as he delivered hits to opposing players. A magazine cover of him with his arms in the air, holding a stick over his head, his smile enormous. Testosterone practically oozed from the Kodak paper, a startling contrast to the lace curtains and pink wicker sofa.
Kate reached for a more recent photograph of Rob. He held a naked baby to his chest, his lips pressed to the top of her dark head. His daughter's delicate features against his raw masculinity.
The front door opened and Kate replaced the photo. She turned as Rob walked in and shut the door behind him. He wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, white, tucked into a pair of khakis with a razor crease. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand. The last time she'd been in the same room with him, he'd kissed her and put her hand on his crotch. She felt a wary little jump in her nerves, which disturbed her since she thought she should feel a lot more angry and indignant than she actually did.
Grace moved across the room toward him. "You're late."
"Store closed late." Rob gave his mother a hug. "Hello Stanley," he said, then he looked over the top of his mother's head, and his green gaze met Kate's. "Hello, Kate."
"Hello," she said, and she was pleased that her voice did not reflect the spike in her nerves.
"Dinner will be ready soon." Grace took the bottle of wine and looked at it. "I told you to get a Merot. This is a Chardonnay."
He shrugged. "You know I'm a beer drinker. I don't know squat about wine. I just bought the most expensive, figuring it had to be the best."
Grace shoved it back at him. "Take it in the kitchen and open it. Maybe Kate can show you how use a corkscrew."
She could, but she didn't want to. "Sure." She followed Rob through the dining room, her gaze skimming down the pleat in the back of his white shirt to where it tucked into his tailored pants. The khaki fabric hugged his behind, and two brown buttons closed the back pockets. The pant legs fell in perfect, straight lines to the hem, breaking at the heels of his soft leather loafers. He might not know wine, but he did know a thing or two about expensive clothes.
He set the bottle on the white countertop and opened a drawer. "The glasses are in the cupboard above the refrigerator," he said and pointed with the corkscrew.
The kitchen was as feminine as the rest of the house. The walls were peach, with tulip-and-white-rose-wallpaper borders. With his wide shoulders and height, Rob looked a little out of place in the ultrafeminine surroundings. A lot like a bull in a china shop.
Kate opened the cupboard doors and reached inside to grab four glasses. An extremely good-looking, well-groomed bull who seemed perfectly at ease. "I think my grandfather likes your mother," she said as she set the glasses on the counter next to Rob's hip. "I think they're becoming friends."
"Good, my mother likes your grandfather." He held the bottle in one big hand and twisted the corkscrew with the other. "I can't remember her ever inviting a man over for dinner." With little effort, he pulled the cork out with a pop and poured Chardonnay into the first glass. "Of course, my mother and I haven't lived in the same town until recently. So she could have had lots of men in her life and just never told me." He filled a second glass, then handed it to Kate.
"When did you leave home?" she asked and took it from him. His fingers touched hers, warm against the cool glass.
"I got drafted into the NHL when I was nineteen." He pulled his hand away and reached for his own glass. "Between you and me," he said and raised it to his mouth, "I know what a Merlot is, but I like white wine better."
"You lied to your mother."
"It wouldn't be the first time." He smiled like an unrepentant sinner, and she felt herself relax a little. "Or even the second. I guess old habits die hard." He took a drink and watched her over his glass.
She felt the corners of her mouth tilt up despite her best effort not to smile at him. "You should be ashamed of yourself," she said and took a sip of her wine.
He lowered his glass. "I'll bet you've told a whopper or two."
"Sure." She folded her arms beneath her breasts and swirled the wine in her glass. "I used to tell huge lies all the time. My dad was in the military, and we moved around a lot. When you go to a new school every few years, you can make up your past. You can be anybody you want."
"Who did you say you were?"
"Mostly head cheerleaders and class presidents. Once I said I was a prima ballerina."
He shoved a hip into the counter and stuck his free hand in his front pocket. "How did that work for you?"
"It didn't. No one ever believed it. I have three older brothers, and I was a tomboy. Plus, I was a complete klutz."
"I bet you were a cute klutz." His gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth, then moved up to the top of her head. "I bet with that red hair, the boys loved you."
He had to be joking. "Believe me, no one liked my red hair. Plus, I was taller than most boys my age. I had braces and I beat most of them at basketball. I could have let them win, but I'm fairly competitive and don't like to lose."
He chuckled. "Yes, I know that about you."
"Not only did I beat the boys, if I had a crush on one, I slugged him really hard. Believe me, no one ever asked me out."
"I bet they're kicking themselves in the ass now."
She looked into his face. Thin smile lines creased the corners of his green eyes, but he didn't look like he was joking. For some reason, that made the old unattractive gangly girl part of her heart pinch just a little. It was an uncomfortable and confusing feeling, and she raised her wine to her lips. She didn't want to feel anything for Rob. Nothing but a big empty blank. "I wouldn't know," she said before she took a drink.
Grace and her grandfather entered the kitchen, and Kate got busy helping Grace with the rib roast and baked potatoes. Rob dressed a salad with Italian vinaigrette and placed it in four bowls.
"What can I do to help?" her grandfather asked.
"You can place Kate's hors d'oeuvre plate on the table," Grace answered. "I would hate to see it go to waste."
Five minutes later, the food was on their plates and they were all seated at a pedestal table set with white damask and bone china. Kate sat between Grace and Rob, with her
grandfather across from her.
"This is all mighty fancy, Grace," Stanley said as he picked up his linen napkin and placed it in his lap. His shoulders looked stiff, like he was afraid to breathe.
Grace smiled. "I don't ever get to use my good stuff. It just sits in the hutch year in and year out. Let's mess it up." She shook out her napkin.
Rob picked up his fork and speared a stuffed mushroom from the hors d'oeuvre plate in the center of the table.
"Rob," his mother said, "could you say the blessing, please?"
He looked up and stared at her, as if she'd just asked him to stand on his head and speak French. "You want me to pray?" He set his fork down. "Right now?"
Grace's smile stayed in place while she gave him a hard stare. "Of course, dear."
Rob bowed his head, and his brows came together to form a thick line. Kate half expected him to say something like, "Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat."
He didn't. "God, please bless this food we're about to eat." He paused a moment then added, "So that we don't get sick or… choke or something. Amen."
"Amen." Kate pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
"Amen."
"Amen. Thank you, Rob."
"You're welcome, Mother." He grabbed his fork and ate the mushroom in two bites. He stabbed a few more and put them on his plate next to his potato, which was piled high with butter and sour cream. "You brought these?"
"Yes."
"They're good," he said and reached for a dinner roll.
"Thank you." She took a bite of her plain potato, sans everything but salt and pepper.
"How're things going for you at the store, Kate?" Grace asked.
Before she could utter a word, her grandfather answered for her, "Katie's not a people person."
Rob made a sound next to her like he was choking on his wine. Kate ignored him and looked across the table at her grandfather. What? She was a people person.
"Perhaps your talents lay elsewhere." Grace refolded the napkin on her lap. "Stanley told me that you used to work in Las Vegas as a private investigator."
The Trouble With Valentine's Day Page 13
