by Holly Jacobs
Dave went back to the truck and soon plunked a second box down next to the first. “Pretty soon you’re going to have to work inside again.”
I breathed in deeply. I still thought I caught the faintest scent of cinnamon.
I loved this time of year, but Dave was right, soon enough it would be winter and I’d have to move from my porch to the chair by the window. “You’re right. But I’ve still got a few more porch days.”
“I never understood why you write outside so much,” he said.
“Okay, this is going to sound totally narcissistic, but I like to work outside in view of the school and anyone who is simply passing by because I feel like if I’m not typing, people are judging me.” I laughed. “Yeah, I know, no one is actually noticing me, but still, it keeps my fingers moving across the keyboard.” Most days. Obviously not on days I had first dates.
He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I pull up and your fingers aren’t flying. I’ll judge you.” He laughed harder. “Oh, yeah, I’ll judge you good. And I’m going to ask my wife to do drive-bys on occasion, and I’ll tell her to judge the crap out of you if you’re not typing.”
“You are a good man, Dave,” I assured him.
He was still laughing as he walked back to his truck.
As soon as the brown truck pulled away with a friendly beep good-bye, I opened a box. There it was.
Couch Couch’s debut book, Felicity’s Folly.
I pulled the top book off the pile and admired the cover. Oh, I’d seen it before, but it was always different when the cover was attached to the physical book. I opened it and lost myself for a moment in the smell. It obliterated my fantasy cinnamon and replaced it with the smell of new book.
I wish they could bottle that scent.
As always, I checked the dedication.
And as always it read, For Amanda.
I reached back into my ponytail twisty and pulled out a pen I’d shoved there that morning. I scribbled an inscription in the front of the book, then skimmed through it and found the passage on page twenty-seven. I dog-eared that page.
After putting the boxes and my laptop inside the door, I walked across the drive to Ned’s front door and knocked.
Mela opened it and in an unguarded moment she glared at me, before she remembered to kill me with kindness and pasted a smile on her face. “What’s up, Piper?”
I didn’t want to give her the book to give to Ned. I wanted to hand it to him myself. I was saved from having to ask if he could come to the door, which would have annoyed Mela, by Ned himself coming up behind her.
“Hey, Pip, come on in.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t lock the house up. I just got my author’s copies of Felicity’s Folly and . . .” I thrust the book at him. “Normally my mom claims the first book, but this one’s for you. I know that YA is not your normal genre of choice, but . . . well, read the inscription.”
I really didn’t want to do this in front of Mela, but she stood glued to Ned’s side and I’d already started, so I continued. “That first day when you pulled in the drive, I was working on this book. When you came over to the porch, I know I seemed distracted, but it’s because when I saw you, I suddenly had a character come to life in my head.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound crazy at all,” Mela said in a teasing manner, but I could hear her animosity bubbling among her forced laughter.
I ignored it and continued, “Couch Couch.”
“Couch?” he asked.
“Coach Divan. Felicity, the main character, mispronounces coach as couch. And she knows that a divan is a couch. As I was writing that first scene, you came over and introduced yourself. Ned Chesterfield. I dog-eared the page for you. Did you know that your last name is a name for a—”
“Couch. I did. My father considers it a source of pride and tells people our family invented couches.”
I laughed now, just as I had that first day. “Anyway, that’s why I laughed when you introduced yourself.”
I’d thought about dedicating the book to Ned, but in the end, I couldn’t. I wrote the books for Amanda and I couldn’t not dedicate them to her. Not even this once. So I settled for adding:
A special thank-you to Ned, who was an inspiration.
I’d written underneath those words:
Dear Ned, That day you moved in next door, you not only gave me the gift of inspiration for Couch Couch, you also gave me the gift of your friendship. Thank you for both. Pip
He opened the book and read the dog-eared page, then looked up at me with a grin. “Yeah, I’m going to work tomorrow and telling everyone that I’m an inspiration.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I described you as an everyman sort of guy. I mean, I didn’t describe you—Couch Couch—as a male model or anything.”
He scoffed. “You’ve said before that your books are fiction. And they’re YA,” he added, tossing around the term he’d never heard until he moved in next door to me, “so you couldn’t really wax poetic about my rugged good looks.”
I snorted. “As if.”
“I think you’ve got rugged good looks,” Mela assured him.
Darn. We’d done it again. “I’ll let Mela salve your wounded ego,” I said, maintaining our banter while distancing myself. “When I get done at the school today, I’ve got to get ready for my date.” I threw that in mainly for Mela’s benefit.
She jumped on the tidbit. “You’ve got a date?”
She didn’t have to seem so . . . shocked. “Yes. With Anthony, from Ned’s firm. He was at the benefit last week.”
Suddenly she seemed friendlier than . . . well, than she ever had. “Oh, he’s cute.”
“It wasn’t so much the cute as the nice that attracted me,” I said. “And it’s just dinner.”
“That was our first date, too. Remember, Ned? He took me out on his friend’s boat and we had a picnic—”
Ned cut her off. “Anthony’s a nice guy.”
“Well, you did say you’d introduce me to someone.”
“I did.” And though he smiled, I could sense that something was wrong.
I figured that he’d finally noticed Mela’s barely hidden animosity. And because I didn’t want to be the cause of any friction between them, I said, “That first dinner for the two of you sounds lovely. Anthony and I are going to Alto Cucina.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mela said and for the first time ever sounded almost friendly as she added, “Let me know how it goes.”
Maybe if I dated someone, she’d finally accept that Ned and I were just neighbors. Well, friendly neighbors.
I nodded. “I will. But before tonight’s date, I have a date with a roomful of eighth graders. My cup runneth over.”
Ned lifted the book. “Thanks again, Pip.”
“You’re welcome.” I added a, “Bye, Mela,” and beat a hasty retreat.
I called Mom to tell her that my copies of Felicity’s Folly were in. She wanted to come right over, but I explained I’d be out. I offered to leave her book in the door, but she decided to wait until after school. She knew about the date and probably wanted to help me get ready, hoping she could bump me from dressed to the sevens-ish to dressed to the nines. I hated to disappoint her, but I was pretty sure seven was as far as I could go.
At one, I headed over to Coop’s class.
Coop had thirty-two eighth graders this year. She’d taught all over the school district, and I was thrilled that this year she’d landed across the street from me. It was nice to have her stop by for a quick chat occasionally after school.
I’d been the story time lady for the younger grades for years. Generally kindergarten, but sometimes through second grade. I read stories, sang songs, and basically had a wonderful time with them. My singing voice is less than stage quality, but the wonderful thing about young kids is, they d
on’t care. Rumor has it, I sing a mean rendition of “I Have a Rooster,” and don’t even get me started on my expertise with “Up on the Housetop” at Christmas.
I would not sing around the older students because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be as forgiving as the kindergarteners.
The office staff buzzed me in. I signed the required sheet and Mrs. Rose asked how the new book was coming. I’d given her my reason for working on the front porch a couple years ago, and ever since she always asked about my current book, as if to prove to me she was checking, though we both knew she couldn’t technically see my porch from her seat behind the counter. And since I’d never arrived and not seen her behind the counter, I doubted she was actually checking on my writing often.
“The new book came,” I said, holding it aloft. “I brought it to show the kids in Coop’s room.”
“They’ll be excited. And I’ll be adding it to my Christmas gift list. You’ll be signing it at the convention center for the expo?”
Once a year there’s a big expo for women at the convention center on the bay. All kinds of women-centric businesses come out, and one of the local bookstores has a table there and asks me to come sign.
I rarely did book signings, but this annual event was a great way to get out and meet local readers. The expo had added a Teen Scene Night last year. It had been a big hit with local girls, and I’d had a Question-and-Answer hour that had been fun.
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
“Good. I get most of my Christmas shopping for the grands done by stopping at your table.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Rose.”
I was unbelievably lucky to have garnered so much support in the community. It wasn’t just the expo and other events I was invited to. It was people like Mrs. Rose, who bought my books for their grandkids. And it was the kids themselves who bought my books.
I walked up one flight of stairs to the second floor and looked at the posters as I went. There was a school play for Thanksgiving. I knew I’d probably go because I knew so many of the kids.
There would be a science fair in November as well.
I remembered my award-winning science fair project. I’d studied the effects of sound on plant growth. The plant I talked to and played classical music for grew better than the plants I never talked to or played any music for.
Thinking about Bach, I entered Coop’s class.
And I felt a moment’s yearning for some soothing classical music.
There was nothing soothing about Cooper’s classroom.
“Just back from lunch,” she practically shouted as I came in.
When I graduated high school, I thought about being a teacher. The noise level in Cooper’s class made me decide that nursing had been a much better option, and writing even better yet.
“Okay, class, find your seats,” she shouted.
And while there was still an undercurrent of noise, it was in the tolerable range. “Ms. Pip is volunteering her time, so the least you all can do is pay attention. She’s not used to this kind of hullaballoo.”
The classroom settled. Although I would have sworn that there was still an undercurrent of sound floating just under the surface of their quiet. As if with the slightest provocation, the noise level would rise again.
“Miss Cooper’s right; writing is a quiet business,” I explained. “Most of the time, the only sound I hear comes from my fingers tapping on the keyboard and an occasional car driving by my house.”
The class finally settled. There was a different feel to the room. I leaned against Coop’s desk and started. “Now today, Ms. Cooper said she wanted us to start by discussing creating fictional characters. I thought I’d tell you how it works for me. And for me, it’s never the same way twice. Sometimes I have to work really hard to find my character, and sometimes . . .”
I launched into the story of meeting Ned and Couch Couch. The kids listened and then spent a half hour asking questions before Coop put them to work on their own characters.
“Introduce your characters to me,” she instructed her students. “How are they the same as you? And how are they different?” Like magic, the room was silent as they went to work.
She motioned me to the hall. “I’ll be watching through the window, so no shenanigans,” she warned.
“Did you ever listen to warnings like that from your teachers?” I asked. To the best of my knowledge, listening to rules had never been Coop’s strong suit, but then again, maybe she’d been better behaved before I met her in college.
She snorted at the thought. “No. But let’s not tell them that.” She added, “Sorry I missed the fund-raiser last week.”
“How’d the PTA meeting go?”
“It wasn’t too bad. I met a number of my kids’ parents. I think this year’s class is going to be a good one. They’re excited about the books. Thanks again for the help. I know you’re more at home with the little kids.”
“I think I’m going to enjoy the older students.” To be honest, the kids were so much closer to Amanda’s age. I’d spent the class wondering what type of student she was. Would she be like Kelsey and ask question after question because she wanted to be sure she understood the topic completely? Or would she be like the boy in the back row who’d zoned out the entire talk?
Was Amanda a quick study, or did it take her some time to catch on to a new subject?
Was she creative?
Was she—?
“Do you want to do something tonight?” Coop asked, interrupting my stream of thought.
“I’d love to,” I said, meaning it, “but I’ve got a date.”
Coop couldn’t quite cover her look of surprise.
“Really, Coop, I do date.” Then for the sake of honesty, I added, “On occasion.”
She was a good enough friend not to point out that it had been a while since my most recent occasion. “So who is he, what does he do, what does he look like? . . . Spill.”
“His name’s Anthony, he’s a partner at Ned’s firm—”
“I’m sure the partners enjoy hearing the firm referred to as Ned’s.”
I chuckled because I’d had the same thought before. I finished, “—and he’s good-looking without being intimidatingly good-looking, if you know what I mean.”
“Tony sounds nice. Anything else?”
“Anthony. Not Tony,” I corrected. “I don’t know much else other than he can dance and he has a sense of humor. Plus, in addition to the firm’s donation, he made a nice personal donation to the pantry.”
“He had you at donation,” Coop teased. “Speaking of which, do you want a hand tomorrow?”
The first and third Saturday of every month were my days at the pantry and Coop frequently came to help. I nodded. “I’d love it.”
“Great. Of course, this time I have an ulterior motive. Between clients, you can tell me all about the date.”
“I don’t know how much there will be to tell. We’re just two people getting to know each other.” He seemed nice enough, but I’m not sure that “nice enough” was enough, although I wasn’t sure Coop would allow for the distinction.
“Maybe there will be more to tell than you think.” She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned.
I doubted there would be anything eyebrow-wiggling worthy about the date but promised to share the highlights with her. I said good-bye and headed home.
Mom was waiting for me on the porch. “Your father had to run some errands so he dropped me off so I could pick up my book and help you get ready for your date,” she announced.
I was right, she wanted to dress me to the nines, but a couple hours later, even she had to admit that seven was about as high as it was going to go.
“Seriously, I don’t know where you got this hair,” she muttered as she tried to capture another escapee.
“Dad always maintained
the postman,” I teased.
“He’ll be here soon,” she said.
“The postman?” I asked, trying to look serious.
She shook her head. “I might not know where you got the hair, but that weird sense of humor is all your father’s.”
“Well, don’t forget your book.” I padded over in bare feet because I refused to put my heels on one moment sooner than I had to.
She checked the inscription, which read, “To Mom, As Always. Love, Piper.”
“To Amanda,” she said, reading the dedication. She looked up. “Honey, after all these years, don’t you think it’s time to let go?”
“I—” I was interrupted by my father beeping the horn.
We both knew it was him because no one else beeped to the rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut.” He knocked on doors to the same beat. It was nice you always knew it was my dad before you opened the door.
And thanks to him, I was saved from once again trying to convince my mother I was not brokenhearted.
“Go out and show your dad how nice you look,” Mom commanded, carrying her book and heading out.
I put on my heels and followed her. It was a bit breezy out and I swear, I could feel my curls blowing loose as I walked.
“You look nice,” Dad said on cue without getting out of the car.
“Thanks. Mom was hoping for better than nice, but I’m satisfied with just nice,” I teased, trying to push a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
“You look lovely and that is indeed better than nice,” Mom retorted. “Tell her, JP.”
“Lovely for sure,” he agreed.
“Thanks.” They pulled away and I resisted a sigh of relief. I adore my parents, but my mother worried far too much about me. I was thirty-one and had proven quite capable of taking care of myself.
I went back into the house and realized the door had blown shut. And my door automatically locked when it was closed.
I didn’t even have a cell phone.
I might have worried, but Ned’s car was in the drive. I knocked on his door, praying Ned, not Mela, opened it.
He did.
“Can I have the key to my house, please?” I asked.
