High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “No. What?” Probably something noble—saintly.

  Chelsea looked surprised. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.”

  “I didn’t know they got it for a day, so how could I know?’

  “Good point.” Chelsea pulled a bank bag from under the counter and began filling it with cash. “How are we going to get Jarrett’s merchandise back to him?”

  Merry hadn’t thought about it and doubted if Jarrett had, but it would be the right thing to do. “I can give it to him tonight.”

  Chelsea’s eyes widened. “Tonight? You’re seeing him again?”

  “Don’t get excited, Chelsea. He’s going on the road tomorrow. I probably won’t see him again after tonight. And tonight is just an early dinner. In fact, he’s picking me up here soon.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Don’t you want to touch up your makeup or something?”

  Merry laughed. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You could take down your ponytail,” Chelsea admitted. “You hair looks so pretty down.”

  “Maybe I’m not trying to look pretty.”

  “Try or not, you are.”

  Nonetheless, after brushing her teeth and applying fresh lipstick, Merry freed her hair from the ponytail and brushed it. At the last minute, she tied the white ribbon that she had used to cover the elastic band into a headband to hold her hair off her face.

  When she returned, Jarrett was standing at the counter talking to Chelsea—something about Disney World.

  She hadn’t worried overmuch about what to wear. Since she wore jeans to class and a uniform to the arena, she didn’t have that many clothes to worry over—just the few outfits she had for Foolscap and Vellum. In the end, she just wore what had come up in the rotation—black pants, white shirt, and the gray cardigan with the little ruffles down the front openings and at the sleeves. Though it was doubtful that his jeans and camel corduroy blazer had come from T.J. Maxx, she was glad that he wasn’t dressed better than she was.

  And thank God he wore a navy turtleneck under that blazer.

  No neck exposed.

  He looked good, no doubt about it, but an Ice Prince would.

  “I have all kinds of Disney swag,” he was saying to Chelsea. “I’ll bring some for your kids the next time I’m in. But I’m going on the road tomorrow, so it’ll be when I get back.”

  So he was planning on coming in again, but planning didn’t always turn out to be reality.

  “Hi.”

  Jarrett turned and looked her up and down. “Hello.” It was clear he was pleased to see her, which was nice but she’d have to hear about it from Chelsea later.

  Merry bustled behind the counter and found the bag he’d left. “Here.” She scooted it across the counter.

  He looked confused. “Did you get me a present?”

  “No. You left that here.”

  He let his head dip to the side, pursed his lips, and wrinkled his forehead. “I’m not sure . . . ”

  Oh, unholy hell. She gave the bag another little push. “It’s the things you bought, Jarrett—the sealing wax and seals. The 9 and the 1.”

  Comprehension dawned on his face. “Right!” He pointed his index finger. “I left that here. I didn’t realize, and I would have been looking for that tonight when I pack. I was counting on having that for when I write letters while I’m gone.”

  Beside her, Chelsea made that laughter-covering-choking sound. “I’m just going to lock the door,” she rattled out as she walked across the shop. “It’s five o’clock.”

  “Are you ready to go?” Jarrett asked. “Our reservation is in a half hour, but it’s downtown near the arena. And it’s rush hour.”

  “And you just came from practice there?” Merry said. “I could have met you.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t. We don’t practice there. We practice here in Sound Town at the Music City Ice Center.”

  Where was her brain? “I knew that. I just wasn’t thinking.” But she knew where the slip had come from. She’d been visualizing him practicing where she’d seen him on the ice, and she’d never seen him at the practice rink.

  “In any case, I would have picked you up. I pick up my dates.” He caught his breath. “That is, in the past. Past dates. It’s not like I have other dates right now. And I’m not dating any of the past dates. I’m through with them. Or they are through with me. Not that I would reconsider if the ones who were through with me changed their minds.”

  She had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. “This belongs to you.” She turned and retrieved his coat from the rack behind the counter.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” He smiled a little and she couldn’t tell if he was trying to make a joke.

  “Do what?”

  He smiled wider. “That’s my favorite Southern phrase. Do what? I love that I live in the Land of Do What. It’s much more charming than pardon or what. I understand that it can mean that you didn’t hear what I said or that you didn’t understand. In case you didn’t hear, I said, ‘Are you breaking up with me?’ In case you didn’t understand, I was making a joke. Or trying to. You know how it is when teenagers break up. They have to give back CDs, pictures, letter jackets . . . though I don’t know if they have CDs anymore. Or pictures. Do you think they sit down together and delete pictures from their phones?”

  Her head was spinning. How in the world was she supposed to comprehend all that, let alone respond to it?

  “I think you covered about three different subjects there. But didn’t you say we need to go?”

  “Right. Do you have a coat tonight?”

  “I do.” She retrieved her simple wool jacket from the rack.

  “Let me.” He took the jacket and held it for her.

  As they approached the door, Merry realized, to her horror, that Chelsea was still standing there with her hand on the lock. Merry would never hear the end of this bizarre encounter. Chelsea would relay it to Harper and they would analyze it for weeks.

  “Have fun.” Chelsea opened the door. “Oh, wait.” She strode across the room, picked up the bag that contained Jarrett’s purchases, and brought it back to him. “You forgot this—again.”

  “Right,” he said taking the bag. “I’ll be needing this.”

  Once on the street, Jarrett turned to her. “What do we do about your car?”

  “In what way?”

  “Do you want to drive home and let me follow you and pick you up? Or would you prefer that I bring you back here after dinner?”

  “What if I wanted to drive us?” She couldn’t help herself from teasing him. Old-fashioned guy that he was, no doubt he would balk at the prospect of not being behind the wheel.

  But he didn’t hesitate. “That’s fine. Just let me put my coat and my little candles and things in my truck. I’m right here.” He took a step toward the biggest pickup truck she’d ever seen. It was cobalt blue.

  “Wait,” Merry said. “I was kidding you. My car isn’t here. I live four blocks away and I walked.”

  He nodded. “Well then.” He took her arm, led her to his truck, and unlocked the door. “If you would feel more comfortable taking your car, we can pick it up.” He stored his coat and bag on the back seat.

  He really was a sweet man. “No. I don’t feel uncomfortable with you. And I wouldn’t ask you to fold yourself into ten-year-old Toyota Corolla.”

  “Let me give you a boost.” He put his hands on her waist and helped her into the truck. His hands were strong and sure. It was a good feeling—a good feeling from a sweet man. This was dangerous territory for Cinderella. “You don’t so much fit in my vehicle either.”

  No doubt Cinderella rattled around in her pumpkin carriage, too. Or would have without a seat belt. Merry snapped hers in place.

  “Are you warm enough?” Jarrett asked as he pulled into traffic. “You can control the temperature with that black knob, and the button underneath will turn on your seat heater.”

  “This is the fanciest truck I’
ve ever been in. Not that I’ve been in that many trucks. I bet it’s way better than Cinderella’s carriage. Not that I’ve ever been in a carriage.”

  He shuddered a little. “I have been in Cinderella’s carriage and I promise that my truck is much better. That carriage might look good, but it has hard seats and rides rough—rougher than the hand-me-down Jeep I had in high school. Plus, when I rode in that carriage, it was full of little girls and they were all squealing and one of them threw up on my shoes. Worst photo session of my life. About all that carriage has going for it is you could make a pie out of it after midnight.”

  She laughed and clapped her hands. “I think it would make more than one pie. That is a pumpkin of unusual size. Though come to think of it, this is a truck of unusual size.”

  He nodded. “Biggest one on the market.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t have a sports car or an SUV.”

  “Yeah. Emile has both. He paid three million dollars for the car and then had it custom painted with a bloody wolf’s head, stars, and his jersey number. It matches his goalie mask and helmet. Most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen. But I grew up out in the country where a man had to have a truck. Never know when you might need to haul something. Plus, this truck will tow 32,500 pounds. I could tow the biggest horse trailer made full of horses and have towing capacity to spare.”

  “Do you do that a lot? Tow horses?”

  “Well, no. I haven’t towed anything. And I don’t anticipate towing horses. I don’t have any plans to get any. But I could if I wanted to. But I have hauled some hockey sticks in the bed. Plenty of room. And you know what? Those sticks belonged to Emile. They wouldn’t fit in that Bugatti Cyron of his or the Range Rover. Jake Champagne has a Lamborghini, but when he needed a load of manure last spring, who did he call? Me and my big ass, American-made truck, that’s who.”

  “Manure, really?”

  “He gardens. Or he intended to. I don’t know if that worked out. Knowing him, probably not.” He turned the corner. “See, there?” He pointed to an old red brick building surrounded by a wrought iron fence. “That’s where I live. It used to be a high school. It was built in the 1940s. When they renovated it, they kept the gym. I could play basketball if I wanted to. I haven’t, but I like the idea of it.”

  She’d noticed the building with its pretty grounds and fountain out front but had never given any thought to its purpose. “So it’s condos?”

  “No,” Jarrett said. “Apartments. My grandfather keeps telling me that rent is just a waste if you can afford to buy. Sharon Orlov, my teammate’s wife, is a realtor and she is always talking to me about places that are safe investments. I probably should have bought a place, but now there’s talk that the Sound might be sold and moved to Massachusetts, so I don’t want to go to the trouble until I see what’s going to happen.”

  “You might be moving to Massachusetts?” She didn’t like the thought of that.

  “Maybe. There’s nothing definite. Just rumors.” He sighed. “I guess if we do move, I should buy a place to live—and if we don’t move, I should buy something here. It’s stupid to keep paying rent.”

  “You don’t sound too happy at the thought. I’d love to own where I live and I will one day. We’ve lived in parsonages all my life. There were always a lot of rules about what we couldn’t do. I’d like to be able to knock down all the interior walls of my house if I wanted.”

  “You don’t want to do that. Some of the walls are load bearing. The whole house would collapse.”

  “Are you always so literal? I didn’t say I would. I just want to be able to if I want. Sort of like you towing horses.”

  “Except towing horses wouldn’t make my truck collapse—or my house.”

  “You don’t have a house. Why haven’t you wanted to buy one?” Owning probably was too close to commitment.

  “I don’t know. There are lots of decisions. What kind? Condo, house, townhouse? And where? In town or out?” His voice sounded sad. “It seems like that’s something you shouldn’t do alone. And I’m alone.”

  She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, or she probably wouldn’t have done it, but she laid her hand on his arm.

  He covered her hand with his and turned and gave her a sunny smile. “But I’m not alone tonight, am I?”

  “No. You’re not.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jarrett pulled into the valet line at the Butter Factory—or what would have been the line if there had been anyone else waiting. “Hold on,” he said to Merry. “I’ll come around and help you out.”

  Emile and Bryant had given Jarrett hell for spending $100,000 on a truck he didn’t need. The way they saw it, he could have spent that money on a sports car or a tricked out SUV—like they had any room to talk about an unwise vehicle purchase. Emile had that three million dollar helmet car and Bryant that Porsche Cayenne that couldn’t decide if it was a sports car or an SUV.

  Though he would have not admitted it to them, he’d thought they might have been right.

  But not anymore. It was the perfect vehicle because it necessitated taking Merry’s hand and placing an arm around her waist to help her down. She smelled good, like oranges and cookies—two of his favorite things. When he lifted her down, his arm ended up underneath her jacket and he stroked her back a little once she was on her feet. Her sweater was soft and he loved the little ruffles on it, loved the ribbon in her hair, loved how she dressed.

  He was pretty sure he would love how she undressed, too, but was equally sure he would have to wait a while to find out. And that was okay. She was a lady. She’d raise boys to respect women and girls to be worthy of respect. Maybe those children could be his.

  “Sir? Would you like me to park your truck?” The voice at his back interrupted what might have turned into a sweet moment.

  When he turned, the valet’s mouth few open. “Mr. MacPherson. Nice game last night.”

  Jarrett handed him the valet key. “Are you a hockey fan?”

  “No so much a hockey fan as a Sound fan.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  The young man hesitated. “I’m not allowed to ask for autographs.”

  “Are you not?” Jarrett reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out a puck and silver Sharpie that he kept there for such occasions. “Are you allowed to accept autographs?” He signed the puck and handed it to the boy. “Seems like this fine establishment wouldn’t want you to offend a customer by refusing to accept an autograph.”

  “Thank you,” the valet said.

  “Would you like to get a picture?” Jarrett asked.

  The boy hesitated. “I would, but not with the puck. I wouldn’t want you to think I need to prove it’s authentic, because I wouldn’t sell it.”

  “That’s very flattering,” Jarrett said, “but it’s yours to do with as you see fit. What’s your name?”

  “Colby.”

  “Colby, give Merry your phone. Merry, you don’t mind do you?”

  “Not at all.” She took the phone and Jarrett stepped next to Colby and put an arm around his shoulders. “Colby, if you were smart, you’d have me taking a picture of you and Merry. She’s much prettier.”

  Colby let out a nervous laugh, probably afraid to comment on whether or not Merry was pretty. Come to think of it, that was smart.

  “Smile,” Merry said. “Again. One more.”

  “Thank you,” Colby said, taking his phone from Merry. “I’ll take good care of your truck, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Take good care of yourself. It’s just a truck.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said to Merry as he ushered her up the steps to the door.

  “Never apologize for being kind. That was so nice of you,” she said.

  “Is it really nice to do what you ought to do?” Jarrett asked.

  “I think it is. You didn’t have to give that boy the time of day.”

  “Maybe. But I’m getting paid an obscene amount of money to play a game that I lo
ve so much that I’d do it for free. The least I can do is be nice to the people who make it possible for me to do it. Because whether or not Colby has ever bought a ticket or seen a single game live, he’s a fan and he counts.”

  “You made his day,” Merry said.

  “If that’s so, I’m glad.” He barely touched her hair with his fingertips. “I’d rather make yours. Maybe someday I will.”

  To his surprise, she smiled liked she meant it. “Maybe so.”

  He let his hand drift to the ribbon. “I like that bow. It looks like a halo.”

  “Thank you.” She widened her eyes. “Would you like to wear it? After all, you’re The Saint.”

  He laughed. “Maybe. I’ll let you know after we eat.”

  “Good idea. I’m starving.”

  “I may not be able to make your day yet, but I bet I can make your dinner.”

  “One meal at a time,” Merry said.

  He opened the door. “Let’s get started on that.”

  • • •

  The restaurant—which was almost empty—was part dairy barn and part upscale elegant. The tables were farmhouse style, but the sleek half-moon banquettes were snow white leather. There were oil paintings of cows and there were butter churns of every description scattered about. Merry imagined the designer had used the word juxtaposition a lot.

  “What do you think?” Jarrett asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s kind of down-home pretentious, don’t you think?”

  She laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “Do you really think that?” He looked so pleased. “Other people don’t think I’m funny.”

  “Other people are wrong.” She gestured to the room. “If you don’t like it here, why did we come?”

  “I do like it here. The food is great. I don’t mind looking at butter churns. The other time I was here was for Sharon Orlov’s birthday. Mikhail set it up.”

  So he had not brought dates here—other dates.

  “MacPherson,” he said to the hostess, and she led them to a table in the corner across from the fireplace with butter churns on the hearth and butter molds on the mantel.