by Anita Higman
Uh-huh. Mason gave his mother an all-knowing smile as he raked his fingers through his hair. It was obvious what she was up to. Ever since he’d turned thirty-four, family members, especially his aunts, had gotten edgy, thinking he’d never marry. They’d become like a pack of overzealous cupids with a quiver full of arrows. But underneath their crafty ways, he also knew they meant well. And it was hard to be upset with any of them, especially his mother. That is, as long as she didn’t make a habit out of setting up her grown son with dates. And besides, he’d have to eat eventually. Mason sniffed the air. Tempting aromas were already curling their way out of the picnic basket. It smelled like one of his favorites—fried chicken. Now there was some serious persuasion.
As they headed outside toward the picnic table, Mason wondered about Lily’s secretarial skills and if she was in need of a job. Wouldn’t hurt to ask. He made himself useful by spreading the tablecloth and setting out the food. And there was lots of it. Lily had made baked beans, potato salad, Southern fried chicken, and homemade apple pie. Not exactly a light picnic lunch. He felt officially buttered up. After they were all pleasantly munching, Mason asked, “Well, Lily, what do you do?”
“Well.” Lily paused as she brushed some of the hair out of her face. “I was a secretary at one of the big realty offices in Houston, but I got laid off when they downsized.”
Mason gave himself an extra helping of baked beans. “I’m sorry to hear that.” So, Lily just happened to be out of work. Hmm.
His mother gave him a guileless shrug.
Okay, so his mother was wily on a massive scale, presenting him with a wife, the mother of his children, and a secretary all in one, but her scheming could certainly be used to his advantage. “Well, for some time now, I’ve needed a secretary.”
“Really?” Lily’s doe-like eyes got even bigger. “What a coincidence.”
Uh-huh. Mason watched a jet pass overhead and poured himself something from the thermos. Pink lemonade. He didn’t really like the stuff—reminded him of liquefied cotton candy—but he wasn’t going to hurt anyone’s feelings over it. He took a sip. Not as bad as he thought it’d be.
He turned to Lily. “I tell you what…if you come work for me, maybe we could give each other a two-week trial period. That way I can see if you can do the job, and you can find out if you can stand me. I’ll pay you whatever salary you were getting before. So, Lily, what do you think?” Mason took a bite off the crispy drumstick.
Lily nodded. “I think that sounds perfect, Mr. Wimberley.” Mist filled her eyes, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Please call me Mason. And you’re welcome. Do you think you can start on Monday?”
“I not only think I can, I know I can.” Lily nodded again. “Oh, that’s perfect. Just wonderful.” She sniffled. “Wonderful and, well…perfect.”
“Oh, this is a happy day when everyone gets just what they need.” Mrs. Wimberley rocked her head back and forth as she took a big bite of potato salad.
Mason had to admit, if Lily’s secretarial skills were as good as her fried chicken, she was going to do just fine. Maybe he should ask his new secretary a few questions to get to know her better. “So, I’m curious. Why did you want to become a secretary?”
“Well.” Lily touched her fingers to her lips. “It was what my mother did. She was a secretary. And she told me I should be a secretary, so I became a secretary.”
“Oh?” Mason shoveled a forkful of baked beans into his mouth. “By the way, I always have coffee in the morning. I’ll make sure we stock your favorite kind too. What do you like?”
Lily shrugged. “I’ll like whatever you like, Mr. Wimberley.” When she took a sip from the straw, her lips came together in the shape of a kiss.
Hmm. Okay, downside to Lily being his secretary—her looks would be a mite distracting, and he got the feeling she wouldn’t be very innovative. Maybe not too much fun either, but then a secretary shouldn’t be expected to be fun. Upside—she would be obedient and hardworking. Mason determined not to nitpick her comments to death and just enjoy the fact that he would no longer have to deal with the front door or the phone.
“Oh, Lily,” his mother said, “this potato salad is yummy. Like something Little Red Riding Hood would take to her grandmother. Tell me your secret.”
“There’s really no secret.” Lily folded and unfolded her paper napkin. “I just follow the recipe. That’s what my mother always says…’follow the recipe.’ And that’s what I do. Follow that recipe.”
When Lily smiled again, Mason noticed it was a bit crooked. He cleared his throat. Well, perhaps there was more to Lily than he thought. Mason decided to go quiet for a bit so he could enjoy his mountain of food. His own cooking was passable, mostly macaroni and cheese, so home-cooked food was more than welcome. He suddenly wondered if Trudie was a great cook. Somehow it didn’t really matter. Wouldn’t change the equation.
He glanced at Lily. She was suddenly engrossed in a chat with his mother about paper towels and their absorbability. Even though Lily was not a philosopher, Mason was certain she was used to guys hovering like vultures and digesting her every word. She would always be the most beautiful woman at any party. Always the one sought after and photographed, perhaps pampered and indulged too often. No one could argue the main point—Lily was gorgeous. And her perfume wasn’t bad, either. He wondered if it bothered her to be adored simply because she was lucky enough to be born with flesh and bone molded in all the right places—so splendidly that a glance from her would turn any sensible men into a blubbering puddinghead. Maybe it pleased her to be so admired. Strange thing to ponder over a mouthful of fried chicken.
His mother lifted the lid off the apple pie. “Well, you’ve gotten all hushed over there, Mason.”
“Sorry. I’m just contemplating the beauty…of home cooking.” He leaned on the picnic table. “So, Lily, what’s your story? Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“I don’t have much to tell, really. I’m just me. Little ol’ Lily. I was born in Houston. I grew up in Houston. Went to college in Houston. And now here I am. You know, right here with you.” Lily took a bird-sized bite of her chicken.
“Yes, here you are.” Mason took in a deep breath, since he thought he might need the additional oxygen. Well, Lily didn’t seem to be a very complex woman—all the better for what he needed at work. And even though she’d need some training, her help was looking more necessary by the minute. “By the way, if it’s convenient, Lily, would you like to start work tomorrow morning at seven instead of Monday?”
“Oh, perf.” She nodded. “I’ll be there…I mean here. Thank you, sir. Thank you…Mr. Wimberley.” Then Lily folded her hands in her lap.
His mother tried unsuccessfully to hide her grin as she handed everyone a slice of pie.
“Lily, it really is okay to call me Mason.”
“Yes, sir…Mr. Mason.” She smiled.
Lily would be a fine secretary. There certainly wouldn’t be any disputes. She wouldn’t hesitate to agree with him or do whatever he asked her to do. Mason took a big bite of the apple pie and groaned with pleasure. Then he bragged on Lily’s baking until she was blushing and giggling. But in spite of all the beauty around him and all the fine cooking, his mind became engaged elsewhere, thinking of blue eyes laughing at him. Inquisitive eyes that belonged to a woman he could not get off his mind. Trudie.
“Mason?” Lily said to him in a distant voice.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve put your elbow in the baked beans.”
Chapter Five
Trudie stood in her bathroom, fidgeting with her hair. It would be worth the hassle, since she was celebrating her first date in six months. Or was it the first date in ten months? Oh, how time flies when you’re not having fun.
She chuckled as she wound another strand of hair on the curling iron. But perhaps her last date didn’t really count since it started as a church group thing and dwindled to t
wo, which left her with Stanley Ledbetter at the local pizzeria. What an odd recollection. Trudie had hung on to the bitter end, listening to Stanley’s soliloquy on the brain capacity of the local squirrels. To her credit, she didn’t so much as grin at Stanley’s topic. But then she’d felt sorry for him since he had no good hair days to speak of, and no one else in the crowd seemed to give a flying squirrel about him.
Trudie combed all her curls, smoothing them together. Now, the fact that Mason Wimberley had asked her out and was soon to arrive at her apartment could be attributed to the benevolence of her sister. Yes, Lane’s relentless bragging and crowing must have worked on the poor man like kryptonite. She laughed. So, her sister really hadn’t revived her interest in Mason. Apparently, she’d been quite wrong about that.
While holding her breath, she squirted some hairspray on top of what looked like a passable hairdo. Normally she wore her shoulder-length blonde hair flat and stuck behind her ears, but Lane had given her some helpful as well as practical tips, and the whole process hadn’t taken as long as she thought it would.
She headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Her sister had taken her shopping for a few “smart pieces” as she called them, so Trudie slipped on one of those amazing pieces, which was a well-designed peach-colored dress made of linen. She opened the closet door and gave herself a look in the full-length mirror. Nice.
Trudie got closer and closer to the mirror until she could see all the lavender flecks in her blue eyes. “But I guess the real question is…am I really together? Who are you really, Trudie Marlow Abernathy?” You’ve been a long time thrashing about inside there. When do you think you’ll ever find the courage to unlock the door? She had no idea. But she wished that just once she could stop by a mirror and look only at her hair.
Wanting to put herself into a more romantic mood, Trudie pulled out the smallest drawer on her armoire and lifted out a stack of Victorian Valentine cards. They were the only things she could afford to collect, but they were satisfying to look at—so lovely in design, each one so unique and ornate and full of romantic notions. She looked through the little pile and then tied them back up with a ribbon. She hadn’t always allowed herself sentimental indulgences, since it usually led to disappointment, but the evening felt different. Tinged with hope.
Just as she put on her dangly pearl earrings, the doorbell rang. Trudie looked at her watch. 7:05. Mason was only five minutes late. Not bad. She put the cards back in their cubbyhole, ran to the door—pausing briefly to regain her composure—and then opened the door.
A bouquet of white daisies met her along with a man who was too handsome for his own safety. Mason was dressed in tailored slacks and a blue shirt. Nice. Only in a fantasy could this be happening to me.
“Look at you.” Mason spread his hands out. “Lane told me what your birthday present was.”
Trudie chuckled. “Well, I’m a work in progress.”
“And a very lovely one.”
“Thank you.” Trudie shrugged, feeling warm from the sudden attention.
Mason handed her the daisies.
“They’re beautiful.” Trudie held the flowers to her face, letting the petals tickle her cheek. “Did you know that daisies mean innocence and purity?” Of course, she wouldn’t tell him that daisies also meant loyal love.
“I had no idea.” Mason smiled. “Those certainly aren’t words people use anymore.”
“You’re right.” Trudie tried not to stare at him. “Would you like to come in for a minute? I’ll put these in some water.”
Mason entered her domain, and it was impossible for her not to wonder what he thought of her apartment. She didn’t own anything expensive, but she hoped there was a bit of eclectic intrigue in every nook and cranny. At least that had been her intention. “Please make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” Just before she stepped into the kitchen, she was happy to see Mason comfortable enough to look around at the many pictures on her walls. Trudie reached for a vase on top of her fridge, filled it with water, and then cut and arranged the daisies.
“This pencil sketch looks like an original,” Mason said from the living room.
“It is.”
“I’m familiar with Kitzman. My aunt bought one of his paintings.”
Trudie set the flowers on her kitchen table and joined Mason in the living room. “His paintings have become more valuable…but unfortunately, after he passed away.”
“I suppose that’s happened too often over the years.” Mason turned to look at her. “I do like this sketch. I assume it’s Kitzman’s view of life’s crossroads.”
Trudie stared at the drawing as she had so many times before. In one direction, a furrowed road led to a citadel on a hill, and the other path, lined with new grass and lit with sun, led toward the unknown. “It’s what our lives are full of. Forks in the road. And sometimes it’s that one choice…that one defining moment that makes all the difference. So simple a decision, and yet that choice can lead us to either joy or regret. Or—”
“Purgatory or paradise?” Mason finished.
“That was exactly what I was going to say. How did you know?”
Mason shook his head. “I have no idea.” He took a step closer to her.
Trudie returned his gaze and thought that if color could be felt, she was suddenly swimming in a rich, cadmium blue. She’d never felt so alive.
Mason reached up as if he were going to touch her face, but then he lowered his hand. “My heart. It’s pounding…really hard.”
Chapter Six
Trudie smiled at him. “Please don’t have a heart attack. I don’t know CPR.”
Mason laughed.
She stepped back out of their little whirl of emotions. She had such a pendulum swing of feelings when she was around Mason. Sometimes they were merely chatting, and it was an ordinary moment, and then there would be an unforeseen word or look from him that would alter everything. And then all things became suspended and memorable.
“Artwork is what keeps analytical people like me sane.” Mason glanced back at the wall. “Kitzman. Did you know him?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t sure how much she should tell him about her past. “I knew him a long time ago.”
Mason tilted his head. “A long time ago for you would have meant I was gazing at you in your crib.”
Trudie chuckled. “In my youth, I had an interest in art. And Mr. Kitzman befriended me. He gave me that sketch.”
“I read in an article that he was a recluse and that he disliked everyone. But I can see you being the one to charm him out of his world.”
Trudie enjoyed the compliment, but for some reason it made her uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve never been much of a charmer. But there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t like to think that of herself.” She grinned and then picked up her purse and a small overnight case. “By the way, after dinner this evening, do you mind dropping me off at Lane’s house? We’re going to have an old-fashioned sleepover.”
“I don’t mind at all. So, are you ready to go?”
Trudie nodded, and they walked to the front door together.
“You two are close, aren’t you? You and Lane.” Mason opened the door.
She looked up at him. “Yes, we are. Lane is a wonderful sister.”
Mason seemed to ponder her words as Trudie locked up. She had to admit that even though she and her sister got along well together, there was still something that kept them from being as close as they had been in their early years.
“So, are you hungry?” Mason asked as he escorted her down the sidewalk.
Trudie turned her attention back to Mason. “I’m always hungry.” She laughed at herself, knowing Lane would have rolled her eyes over that one. Not a very feminine thing to admit—that one had the appetite of a walrus.
“Glad to hear it. Women who just push bits of food around on their plates should never be allowed to dine out. Ever.” He winked. “Do you like Italian cuisine?”
“It’s never
been my favorite, but I’m just happy to spend the evening with you.”
Mason’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Well, now I like honesty, especially when it has such a nice spin on it. So, where would you like to go?”
“Something casual would be fine. Maybe Banjo’s Café.”
“Good idea.” Mason shook his finger. “They do have good fried chicken.” He helped her into his car.
Trudie’s face twitched into a smile as she looked around inside his vehicle and breathed in that marvelous old car smell. She’d expected a new Mercedes or Lexus, but it was a rattletrap just like hers.
After jimmying the driver’s door open, he slid into the seat and patted the cracked dashboard. “Dear old Maggie. She got me through college, and now I can’t seem to part with her.”
Trudie chuckled. “I have a Maggie too. They’re faithful. Ugly, but faithful.”
“Oh, now don’t let Maggie hear you talking about her that way. Beauty can be definable, but it can be equally unpredictable.” Mason started the engine, which sputtered and coughed.
“’In the eye of the beholder.’ Right?”
Mason looked at her. “Exactly.”
He seemed to give Trudie that gaze again, the one that told her he was assessing her. For what, she couldn’t imagine. She had her hopes, of course, but she knew reality would keep those dreams securely in check. Trudie drew away from his gaze before she did something silly like touch his hand—the hand that she couldn’t help but notice was glued white-knuckled to the stick shift. Was he nervous? “Cars,” she said absently.
“Yes, cars. Right.” He looked forward again, put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb. “Tell me about your Maggie.”
They continued chatting about old vehicles until they were laughing so hard Mason nearly swerved off the road. They made it to Main Street—still in one piece—and he parked and helped her out.
After strolling past the museum, they crossed the street and stepped into Banjo’s Café, which was named after the owner, Eddy “Banjo” Jones, who from time to time strummed a little for his guests. Trudie had always liked the atmosphere—photos of oil derricks and roughnecks and an array of pump jack paraphernalia—which celebrated the rich history of Humble.
