Her Best Catch

by Lindi Peterson

  What do you want? I want to add, but I don’t.

  “I have a question for you. I don’t remember Jax saying anything about it, but are we supposed to be studying something for next week? I’m not really sure how the class works.”

  Okay. Is he really interested in how the class works, or is he using his ignorance as an excuse to call me?

  The aura. What you see is what you get.

  Not that I want him to be calling me for me. I don’t have the energy right now to deal with a man. My mother is acting like my sister and my best friend is acting like she’s in love, which she may be and I don’t want to begrudge her one minute of it, but I need her. More than Trent does.

  “Allison?”

  Omigosh. Ashton is still on the phone and I’m ignoring him. No wonder I’m not dating anyone.

  “Hi. Sorry. Jax doesn’t expect us to study for next week. He’s on the plan of asking us to try to put into practice during the week what we learned from his class. Kind of contemplate on the lesson all week.”

  “Oh. Okay. And he went over the beginning of James, right?”

  “Yes.” I can’t remember the exact scripture numbers, but he can find it.

  “I went to the book store and bought a Bible this morning,” he says.

  “Great.”

  “I know I have one somewhere, but it’s buried in a box in my grandparent’s basement.”

  “We all have one buried somewhere I think,” I answer.

  “Really?”

  “Well, most of us, anyway. We’re given them when we’re kids, then outgrow the children’s version and move on.”

  At least I guess that’s what happens. Maybe kids don’t receive kids Bibles anymore. After all, children are growing up at an alarming rate these days.

  “Well, thanks for answering my question,” he says. “I’ll guess I’ll see you Sunday morning.”

  Okay. So he’s not looking for a date this week. Which is okay. I don’t want to date this week either.

  “Sure. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Bye,” he says.

  I hang up after a quick goodbye.

  Celebrity baseball player called me at work. Granted he didn’t want anything much, and I’m probably the only woman in the class who offered him her number.

  My heart sinks as my face turns beet red. Could he possibly think I gave him my business card in hopes he would call me? Subtly chasing him? Nothing like Braedyn.

  I feel like calling him back and telling him that wasn’t my motivation in giving him my business card. But I don’t have his number.

  Oh, I’ll have to explain all this to him Sunday morning. I don’t want to give him a false impression.

  What I need right now is a big brother, a Trent. Not a date.

  And help on my mother’s beach barbecue.

  It’s mid week and Grandma Fola has arranged a dinner for mother and me to officially meet her new man.

  He must be important. She has set the table with the fine china. Water glasses grace the table along with a full setting of silverware.

  Formal. No denim. No shorts. Grandma Fola has certain standards at her table.

  I turn and head back upstairs to my room. I shrug out of my denim shorts and slip on a skirt. I also slide into a pair of flat sandals.

  The fact that Jesus dined barefoot hasn’t convinced my grandma that we can.

  In the kitchen I ask her if there is anything I can do. What you have to understand is I’m okay in the kitchen. Can’t do a whole lot, but I didn’t starve when I lived on my own. What little cooking knowledge I had has pretty much evaporated over the last three years.

  But boiling water, boxed macaroni and cheese, and frozen pizzas don’t have anything on me.

  “Thanks for offering, Allison, but I think I have the meal under control.”

  Grandma looks great. There’s really no other way to describe her. She dresses very chic, (but she doesn’t say ciao, praise God.) Tonight she’s wearing a powder blue sleeveless top and matching Capri pants. Her white very fun looking sandals have light blue stones on them, and she’s wearing an anklet.

  For sure, my Grandma has style.

  The doorbell rings, and she asks me to answer it.

  I open the door to a man dressed in dark slacks and a Hawaiian printed dress shirt.

  He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers. Be still my heart.

  “Come on in,” I say as I step aside, closing the door behind him.

  Grandma comes rushing in, taking the flowers and giving him a hug all in one swoop.

  “Allison,” she says, “I’d like you to meet Paul. Paul, this is my granddaughter, Allison.”

  “Lovely to meet you.”

  His demeanor makes me long to be a part of their generation. Most of the time now, guys don’t show up with flowers and they never call us lovely.

  Paul and I shake hands. I tell him what a pleasure it is to meet him. And I’m serious. Any man who is such a gentleman and makes Grandma Fola happy is a pleasure.

  “Do you know where your mother is, Allison?” Grandma asks.

  Mother. Well, I kind of forgot about her. Back up. That statement is too strong. Let’s rephrase. I didn’t remember she was missing.

  Still strong. Oh, well.

  I look at my watch. Six-thirty. Paul is right on time, I’m right on time. So why can’t mother be as prompt? Usually she is, but lately she’s not acting usual-like.

  Looking out the window of the front door isn’t making her car magically appear in the driveway so I quit peering from behind the white lace curtains.

  “I don’t know where she is Grandma, but you know how traffic can be in Atlanta.”

  We sit down at seven, sans Mother. I had tried to call her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. I’m really not worried, but there’s just enough of a nagging something’s-not-right feeling at the back of my brain, that won’t let me enjoy myself or the dinner as much as I would if Mother was here or had at least called.

  The food is delish and Paul seems like a very nice guy. He and Grandma tell fun stories. It isn’t until we are eating dessert that they break the “news” to me.

  Okay, so nice, sweet Grandma has an ulterior motive for the whole evening.

  “Allison. Paul and I are taking a vacation. We’re going to Nova Scotia for a week in July.”

  Wow. You go, Grandma. “That’s great.”

  “A group from Fola’s Sunday school class is going, and they were nice enough to invite me along,” Paul says.

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling and smile. God certainly has things under control. There is no way Mother needs to be here to learn that Grandma Fola is going to be vacationing with a man. Even if they’re chaperoned by the Sunday school class.

  “Oh, Paul. You’ve been coming to Sunday school since the beginning of the year. You are one of the group,” Grandma says.

  “They only put up with me because of you.” He winks at her. She squeezes his hand and they both smile.

  Young love.

  But their dinner declaration leaves me in a bind, because now I’m the one who has to tell Mother about Grandma’s travel plans. And companion.

  I look at my watch again. It’s eight-fifteen and still no sign of Mother.

  Grandma, Paul and I clear the table and wash the dishes. At nine-fifteen, Paul says it’s late and he needs to head home.

  He gives Grandma a quick kiss on the lips before he leaves. Had I known they were going to kiss, I would have turned my head. Grandma and I finish wiping down the counters.

  I grab the broom and start sweeping the kitchen floor glancing at the clock before I brush the crumbs into a dustpan. Nine-twenty-five.

  “Are you worried about your mother?” Grandma asks.

  How sweet is she? Not one comment about Mother missing Grandma’s formal dinner.

  “I don’t know where she could be unless she had to work. But she rarely closes. That would be unusual. I guess she just forgot.”

  Which is
not normally like my mother, but the woman walking around in this house seems like an imposter anyway. So who knows?

  “Well, there are plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator if she’s hungry when she gets home.”

  My grandmother’s sincerity inspires me. Seriously. The woman doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She is a true example of how humans are supposed to treat each other.

  But in my case, along with many others, what the heart knows the brain rejects.

  My mother walks into the house at nine-thirty dressed in her work smock. She is a Clinique lady. You know one of those perfectly made-up women who work at the department stores trying to sell you items that are going to make you equally beautiful.

  But they don’t sell bone structure, or chins that don’t sag. I think the only parts they sell are eyelashes.

  “Hi, Allison,” she says, giving me a hug. Her dark hair is pulled back into a bun. (Have you ever seen a Clinique lady with her hair down?) How ironic. My mother’s job forces her to pull her hair back. Maybe that’s why the fact that I volunteer not to wear my hair down at work drives her insane.

  “Mother, Grandma had her dinner tonight with Paul. Why didn’t you tell us you had to work?”

  She steps back from me, feigning a shocked look. I say feigning because since my father died my mother has a hard time with real emotion. I sometimes wonder if she feels anything.

  Her real reactions are very monotone. Very blasé. Unless the subject is my ponytailed hair. Then she can be vocal. How fortunate for me.

  “Oh, was her dinner tonight? Where’s your grandmother? I need to apologize. Sissy Satterfield called me at the last minute asking me to cover for her. She had put some flea medicine on her cat and his fur was falling out, so she wanted to run him to the vet.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “It was the least I could do. She just loves her cat. She named it Harry.”

  Obviously she had no clue his fur would be falling out one day.

  “Maybe we should get a cat,” she says.

  “No, Mother. We have a hard enough time keeping up with each other. We don’t need to throw an animal in the mix.”

  Good grief. A cat? We are one of those families who never had pets while I was growing up. Trent, on the other hand, had one dog after another. Sometimes two or three at a time. Thanks to him I had plenty of childhood animal experiences.

  “Nina, is that you?”

  Grandma’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes, Fola. It’s me,” my mother says as she jaunts up the stairs. “I’m so sorry about dinner. It slipped my mind and when Sissy Satterfield called … ”

  The rest of my mother’s story fades into the upstairs bedrooms where she and Grandma will finish the discussion about Harry the unhairy cat.

  And since after several minutes in which I hear no shrieks of dismay I’m sure I’m left with the dilemma of figuring out when and how to tell Mother about Grandma’s upcoming vacation.

  CHAPTER 3

  My job as an auditor is not exciting most of the time. I purposely choose not to use the b word. Boring. Because that tends to put a depressing spin on a job I enjoy.

  Actually, I love numbers, and I love working with them. It’s an inspiring challenge. Most people don’t understand why I like my job so much. I don’t bother explaining, because unless you have the number fascination going on you can’t understand.

  I travel from time to time, mostly at the beginning of the year, but not very often and not for long periods of time. We audit all sorts of companies. It’s nice when you go back the next year and the same friendly faces greet you.

  I’ve developed some pseudo-relationships. Phone calls now have faces, and families to ask about. Pets not to ask about.

  I’m feeling rather left out today, though. Velvet and I always have lunch on Fridays. Kind of a wrap-up-the-week thing. But today she took the day off work to antique shop with Trent, the fireman, who only works one day for every two he has off.

  Anyway, she said they needed a focal point for his new living room, and to have it ready by party time—even though the party is going to be outside, and they’re skating that issue on purpose—they really needed to get a move on.

  So, she asked me to join them for lunch. Them. As in couple. As in no. Even though we’ve all been best friends for years now, it wouldn’t be a best-friends-having-lunch lunch. It would be a Trelvet-having-lunch-with-me-joining- them lunch.

  I’m not emotionally ready for Trelvet.

  I’m not emotionally ready for a solo lunch on Friday, either. I hope this isn’t the beginning of a new trend for us.

  Before I can dwell too much on either depressing scenario, Dave buzzes me.

  “Yes?” I inquire.

  “Miss Doll, you have a visitor.”

  “Dave. You never call me Miss Doll. Why are you being so formal? And I’m not expecting anyone. Please tell them to leave their card.”

  I hear a dramatic sigh. Drama Dave in action. He’s so Metro. But that’s what makes him so much fun.

  “I don’t think that’s the response you should give. Just high-tail yourself out here, and take a look at who’s waiting for you,” he whispers into the phone.

  At this point mere curiosity spurs me on. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I never have visitors. Especially on a Friday. Friday is jeans day. Provided your jeans don’t have holes and aren’t fifty years old. Never mind you can pay good money for jeans that look fifty years old and have holes. But that doesn’t matter.

  I push my chair back, make sure my ponytail is straight and head down the hall.

  Who could possibly be here to see me?

  Ashton Boyd, that’s who.

  “Allison,” he says. “Wow. You look great.”

  And suddenly I feel great. Yes, I’ve fallen prey to the compliment.

  “Thanks.”

  He looks pretty great himself in his black slacks, and gray polo.

  “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I tried to call a couple of times, but you were on the phone. I didn’t really want to leave a voicemail. I don’t like talking on those machines.”

  “I can always take a message, Mr. Boyd,” Dave’s eaves-dropping self says.

  We both turn to look at Dave, but I’m the only one who glares at him.

  “Thanks, man. I’ll remember that,” Ashton says.

  “So, what brings you by?” I ask. “Need something audited?”

  He laughs. How sweet. I now notice his eyes. They’re an interesting combination of hazel and green.

  “Actually I do. My stomach.”

  “Stomach?”

  “Yeah. Come have lunch with me,” he says in a voice that leaves me absolutely no choice but to say yes.

  “Sure. I’m game.”

  A somewhat painful look passes over his face and I realize I’ve probably made some sort of faux pas. Considering he’s not playing the “game” anymore because of an injury to his elbow, I suppose I could have used a more generic phrase.

  So I do. “I mean, I’d love to.”

  I sound way more corny than I really am, but his expression changes for the better, even though Ashton Boyd looks fabulous with or without a scowl.

  But I need to remember, it’s not about looks, it’s about substance.

  In this case, substance drives a classic Jaguar. Silver, sleek and elegant. Wow.

  I don’t voice my appreciation of the car, basically because I can’t. I think my vocal cords might clash with the interior.

  I buckle my seat belt, hoping the pink highlighter marks on my hands don’t rub off. Oh, I’m very careful.

  “You can put your feet on the floorboards,” Ashton says.

  Okay, I’m probably being overly careful. I set my sandal-clad feet gently on the carpeted floor mat.

  Very gently.

  My body molds to the leather seat. I have never known such luxury.

  Trelvet has certainly done me a favor. I’
ll have to remember to tell them thanks for searching for a focal point so I’d be available for lunch.

  “How about Panos?” Ashton asks. “They have great food.”

  I smile and nod hoping he takes that as a yes. Even though Panos isn’t too far from the office, I’ve never been there. I’ve never had a big enough balance in my bank account.

  Oh well, if he can drive this car, he can afford to pay for lunch. I guess injured relief pitchers don’t do too badly after all.

  We pull into a circular drive and an attendant opens my door. He’s dressed in black pants, white dress shirt and burgundy vest. He looks nicer than I do.

  I wait while Ashton hands over the keys in exchange for a yellow ticket. I’d be hard pressed to make that trade.

  Ashton walks to me and places his hand on my elbow.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  At this very moment my head is spinning and I couldn’t tell you if I am ready or not.

  We only take a couple of steps and a flash goes off. I jump back, slamming into Ashton.

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  Turns out it’s a photographer, not an explosion. Hey, I’m not used to having people take my picture while I’m walking into a restaurant.

  I steady my glasses.

  “Don’t have time, Johnny. Not today,” Ashton says, obviously on a first name basis with the photographer. “I’m having lunch with my girl. Catch me later.”

  His girl? I turn around, looking for his girl, because I know he’s not talking about me.

  But apparently he is. Johnny salutes Ashton, murmurs something about how he would catch up to him later and takes off.

  Dare I ask? I mean, maybe he calls every girl he hangs out with “his girl”, but the term has meaning to me.

  “Sorry about that,” Ashton says. “Some days I just can’t go anywhere without reporters popping up. You just tell them what you think they want to hear, and they’ll leave you alone.”

  So what did Ashton think Johnny wanted to hear about? His lunch or his girl?

  We are having lunch, but I’m not his girl.

  But no, he was talking about me. I need so badly to brush up on my celebrity etiquette. How do I handle this situation?

  We’ve been together for slightly over twenty minutes and I have yet to speak. I know this.