Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  She looked in the mirror as she held up another possibility. Dark top with light skirt? Nope, after Friday’s serious chocolate overdose, she wasn’t feeling slim enough for that combo. Navy cotton with . . . Jane gasped as the DJ on the radio announced the time—7:45. How could it be so late? Not only would Green Taurus beat her today, but the ferry might very well leave without her. Jane grabbed the closest skirt—a floral she’d worn to her mom’s for Sunday dinner two days ago. Pulling a short-sleeve sweater over her head, she ran into the bathroom, hoping the circuits wouldn’t short out before she was finished blow-drying her hair.

  * * *

  Paul waited impatiently for his computer to connect with the Internet. He’d just checked his email an hour ago, but with the time difference overseas and all, he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to look once more before he left for the hospital. He closed his eyes, practicing the breathing exercises he and Tami had learned at their Lamaze classes. This morning he wasn’t trying to get past the pain—he’d all but given up trying to be valiant on that front. Knowing what was ahead of him today, he’d taken painkillers before he even rolled out of bed. It was the anxiety that had him feeling ill right now. What man in his shoes wouldn’t be nervous?

  Six weeks ago he’d been married. Today, he was meeting fourteen different women, because he had to find a mother—whether he wanted to or not. It would be far better for the twins to go to someone he knew for a short while than to some caseworker from the Department of Child Welfare Services.

  Paul reclined in his chair. For a moment he went back in time, the image of a Vietnamese orphan flashing before his closed eyes. He hadn’t thought about Mary for years. And then it had still been with animosity for the upheaval she’d caused in their lives—especially his mother’s. Now, for the first time, Paul thought of Mary differently. He saw her as a child in a strange land, abandoned to a system that was ill equipped to handle misplaced children. He remembered her thin dress and worn sandals. How long had it taken them to get her new clothes and shoes? And when they did, were they cast-offs from someone else? He shuddered, thinking of his own children abandoned to such a fate.

  Where was Mary now? Had she stayed in America or been sent back to . . . What? Or who was probably the better question. Guilt nagged at him, but he pushed it away. Pete would know what became of her. He had made sure she was taken care of. Just like he would make sure Madison and Mark were taken care of.

  Paul opened his eyes and stared at the computer screen.

  You have new mail.

  “C’mon, Pete,” Paul said as he opened his inbox.

  Monthly statement from Wells Fargo, he read somberly. No other new messages.

  “Just take your sweet time, brother,” Paul grumbled. Discouraged, he shut down his computer and mentally prepared for the day ahead. He told himself it was okay if he didn’t hear from Pete today, this week—or even this month. After all, what could he really do from the other side of the world? What was really important now, today, was finding a woman, a kind, caring woman who would be there for his children when he would not. Everything else, his brother included, could wait until later.

  * * *

  Jane self-consciously smoothed the left side of her hair as she walked. The ponytail helped but did not completely hide that she’d only been able to blow-dry half of her hair straight this morning. The circuits had overloaded again before she’d been able to get the other half of her natural curl under control. She was going to have to get the wiring fixed—soon. Nothing like going on a first date looking like half her head had suffered an electric shock. And if her hair wasn’t bad enough . . . Jane frowned as she looked down at the wet spot on her skirt. It wasn’t until she’d gotten to work that she’d realized her skirt had a purple stain right in front. She’d been holding her two year-old niece Sunday evening while they ate dessert—blueberry pie. Copious amounts of water and soap from the office bathroom had only made the spot more obvious. Tara had offered to trade her outfits for the afternoon, but Jane had declined, preferring one purple stain to the fuchsia miniskirt her friend sported. Tara had looked hurt at first, until Jane hastily explained that the outfit would clash with her toenails—currently striped glitter orange and silver, thanks to her eleven-year-old niece, Jessica.

  Jane looked down at her toes now. Too bad—in her haste this morning, she’d grabbed sandals. Maybe, with a little luck, she’d be able to slide her feet under the table before Paul noticed the hideous combination of color. Of course, she wouldn’t be as fortunate with her hands. Her fingernails were typically short, and no matter how much scrubbing she did, it seemed green plant stains and potting soil remnants always lingered. Jane held her hands out it front of her. It seemed the term “green thumb” had some truth to it.

  It looked like she was going to need her family’s prayers after all, if there was going to be a second date. Jane felt her confidence slip another notch as she remembered the episode at dinner Sunday evening.

  It was tradition—even more entrenched than her First Friday rituals—that the whole family gather at her parents’ home the first Sunday of the month for family dinner. With seven brothers and sisters—and all but her married and producing grandchildren—it was quite the occasion. Her parents’ table, refinished in recent years, stretched to ten feet, and an odd assortment of chairs and benches squeezed around it to fit all but the youngest grandchildren. Mom always cooked a roast—or three these days—and her famous potato rolls. Caroline baked pies, and the other siblings all pitched in with their favorite side dishes.

  Jane always brought salad. Her mother was still afraid she was going to electrocute herself in “that old house with faulty wiring,” so she wouldn’t allow Jane to bring anything that had to be cooked. And afterward, Mom always sent her home with enough food so she wouldn’t have to turn her oven on for a week—so long as she could stomach leftover roast again.

  It was normally a happy, enjoyable sort of chaos that Jane really looked forward to. But last Sunday, just as everyone had taken their seats, and right before her father offered prayer, Caroline had announced, “Jane has a date this week.”

  Reaction was instantaneous. Her father’s head snapped up, and he beamed at her. Her mother froze, the basket of rolls tipping precariously in her hands.

  “Oh Jane, dear, how wonderful.”

  Jane couldn’t be certain, but she thought she saw tears in her mother’s eyes.

  “Who is he? Who is he, Aunt Jane?” her nieces Amber and Jessica clamored.

  “Way to go, Jane,” from Scott, her brother-in-law.

  Jane glared at Caroline. “Thanks,” she muttered. “Remind me to announce to everyone the next time you think you’re pregnant, or you mess up your hair color or—”

  “You’re coloring your hair already?” Mindy, their eldest sister, asked, staring closely at Caroline. “Wow. I didn’t have to start until—”

  “Food’s getting cold,” their father boomed. All eyes turned toward the head of the table. Mom slid into her seat, and their father continued. “Let’s give thanks to our Father in Heaven for our family and this wonderful meal.”

  “And Jane’s date,” Jessica piped up.

  And so they had. After blessing their food, her father had petitioned God that this man would finally be the right one for Jane, and that she would find happiness. Who ever said she wasn’t happy? Then all twenty-eight voices chimed in a vehement amen. Even two-year-old Megan got the word right. It seemed everyone believed Jane would never succeed on her own.

  Well, she would.

  Jane forced her hand away from her uneven hair and slung her purse over her shoulder, away from the stain she’d been hoping to cover. If Paul was truly a man looking for a woman who wanted to be a mother, then messy hair and a skirt stained by a child wouldn’t matter to him.

  It wouldn’t matter at all.

  Chapter Seven

  Paul took a sip of cold coffee and grimaced. Having his appointments at Starbucks had originally seemed
like a good idea—something like that eight-minute dating café in New York he’d seen featured on TV. But now, three hours and forty-seven minutes into the ordeal, overloaded with coffee and sufficiently frightened by the scary women he’d met, he realized what a mistake Starbucks had been—what a mistake this whole thing was.

  He should never have advertised in the personals. At the very least, he should have specified that he wasn’t part of the deal. Who would have thought his simple ad would unleash a torrent of women on the ultimate manhunt.

  Unfortunately, it was a little late for revisions, and he still had . . . Paul glanced at his laptop. Nine more interviews to go. He groaned, then seriously contemplated getting up and walking away, pretending he’d never had such a stupid idea. Of course, then there would be a slew of angry women calling him. He’d have to change his phone number, and his address was listed in the phone book as well. He stared out the window, eyes darting from one woman to the next as he recalled a scene from Fatal Attraction.

  Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort of relocating, Paul closed his laptop and rested his head in his hands. At least he had ten minutes to recuperate before the next attack.

  * * *

  Remembering that her How to Catch a Guy and Keep Him manual said never to appear over eager, Jane slowed her hurried walk to a casual stroll as she crossed in front of the large glass window fronting Starbucks. She opened the door and stepped inside, her eyes searching for the corner table opposite the counter, where Paul had said he would be.

  Someone was there all right, but Jane frowned as she moved closer. A man wearing a baseball cap sat at the table, facing away from her, his head leaning against the window. Could this be Paul? Asleep? She looked at her watch and saw she was barely two minutes late. Maybe he was one of those stickler-for-being-on-time type guys, and feigning sleep was his way of showing he was annoyed she was late.

  Disappointment surged through Jane as she walked toward the table. She hoped this wasn’t Paul. With his head to the side and the baseball cap hiding his face, she couldn’t tell much about his features, except that he didn’t have any hair. Too bad she couldn’t give him some of hers. She ran her hand over her own frizzy mass again.

  And why the Mariners cap? Was he just a really casual guy? Probably—after all, they were meeting at a coffee shop. That should have been her first clue. Maybe he was trying to tell her right off that sports came first in his life, and if she didn’t like it, then she should just move on right now. She would move right along if that was the case. Her brother-in-law Scott—aka Sportsmaniac—was like that, and she’d seen what it had done to her sister Karen. In the fifteen years they’d been married, the poor woman hadn’t had her husband beside her at Thanksgiving dinner once that Jane could remember. And Scott’s idea of a perfect date always involved playoffs of some sort—never, heaven forbid, tickets to Phantom, or an overnight at a bed and breakfast, or anything remotely romantic.

  Nope. If this guy was Paul and he was an impatient sports maniac, then this wouldn’t work at all. She could live with his baldness—she’d dealt with her own hair problems her whole life—but romance she could not live without. She needed it the way everyone else needed air. She’d been overcompensating for the lack of romance with chocolate, movies, and novels for a long while now, and while those things were nice, it was a miracle she’d survived this long.

  A step away from the table, Jane hesitated. She could just keep walking right on past, and Paul—if that was him—would never even know she’d been here. It was a tempting thought. After all, what were the odds that anything was going to develop between two people whose hairstyles were polar opposites?

  You ever answer them? Do you ever go out with any of those poor saps who advertise? Jay’s voice rang in her head. Poor saps indeed, she thought, looking down at the sleeping man. Still, she’d promised herself that she would take the plunge—or get her toes wet, anyway. Gathering her courage, she stepped forward. She’d never know until she tried.

  Jane slid into the chair opposite the sleeping man, careful to jostle the table just a little as she did so. It had the desired effect. His head snapped up and he looked at her, surprised.

  Jane smiled. Score one. He hadn’t seen her hideous toes or the stain on her skirt.

  “Hello.” She offered her hand.

  He took it, though his look was panicked.

  “Are you Paul?” she asked hesitantly, looking around. Maybe this was the wrong guy. He looked exhausted—like he’d never have the energy to chase after all the children she’d imagined having. Maybe she was at the wrong table, or the wrong Starbucks, or—

  “Yes, I’m Paul. And you’re . . .” He released her hand and flipped open his laptop. His panicked look intensified as he stared at the blank screen.

  “Jane,” she offered. He couldn’t remember her name?

  “Oh, yes. Sorry.” He smiled faintly, revealing nice cheekbones. “I’m really sorry. I had a late night, and I guess I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes.”

  And you woke up, saw me, and were momentarily befuddled by the bizarre hairstyle. That would be enough to cause anyone temporary memory loss. “Don’t worry about it,” Jane said.

  “So, is Jane short for anything—Janice or—”

  “No, it’s just Jane. I’m the youngest of seven children, and I think my parents were all out of creativity by the time they got to me.”

  “Wow, seven.” Paul leaned back in his chair. “That’s quite a family. But you’re the youngest?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Oh,” he said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Then I don’t suppose you’ve spent a lot of time around children.”

  “Actually, I’m around them all the time. I have fourteen nieces and nephews, and their parents leave them at my place as much as they can.” She laughed lightly, but quickly stopped when Paul didn’t join in.

  “So, can I get you something?” He gestured to the menu over the counter.

  “A cranapple juice would be great.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Paul rose from his chair and headed toward the short line by the register.

  Jane closed her eyes for a moment and offered a prayer of her own. Please, God, let this get better or let it be over quick.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Paul returned from the counter with two drinks in his hand. Reaching the table, he placed the juice in front of Jane and sat opposite her. Don’t stare at her hair anymore, he commanded himself. They each sipped their drinks for a minute, then began speaking at the same time.

  “So what do you—? What do—?” They broke off, smiling. She did have a nice smile.

  “Go ahead,” Jane said.

  He did. This same awkwardness had happened too many times already for him to gallantly say, “Ladies first.” If he’d learned one thing today, it was that ladies didn’t want to go first—at least not in this particular situation. It was better if he asked them the questions. Women could talk for hours, so while he might not have found what he was looking for, at least they’d be past the uncomfortable silences.

  “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

  Jane took another sip of her juice before answering. “Currently, I’m a realtor.”

  “Oh.” What more could he say? He would have been more impressed if she’d told him she drove a garbage truck. Right now he wasn’t overly fond of real-estate agents. The one he’d been unfortunate enough to list his property with had about as much compassion for his situation as—

  “Is that bad?” Jane asked. “Because you’re looking at me like I’m a vulture or something.”

  Paul nearly choked on his coffee. Vulture. He couldn’t have said it better himself.

  “One step above a crooked lawyer, maybe?” Jane asked, sarcasm lacing her words.

  A lawyer. Now that was good. It would serve Pete right too, and who knows? Maybe it would be a match made in heaven. A vulturous realtor and a conniving attorney. Paul
thought perhaps he ought to consider it.

  “Sorry,” he apologized again. How many apologies was that now? He’d forgotten how much a man said “sorry” around women. “It’s just that I’m in the process of selling some property, and I have had the misfortune to work with some rather carnivorous realtors.”

  “I’m sorry then.” Jane nodded, understanding. “We have a few like that in our office—anything-for-the-sale types. But I’m only in real estate until my business takes off. I’m actually terrible at selling—my biggest accomplishment is keeping my checking account in the black for nearly six months now. But hopefully that will change when I get my business going.”

  “Business?” Paul asked, leaning forward over the table.

  “In college I ended up majoring in landscape architecture,” Jane said, warming to the topic. “I’ve been trying to get my own landscape design company going. Real estate is actually a great way to find clients. After work and on weekends I spend my time designing and running a small crew on the jobs I’ve landed.”

  “Not to be rude—” Paul cleared his throat. “But did you read my ad?”

  “Yes,” Jane said, giving him a perplexed look. She sat up straighter, folding her arms across her chest. “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, I don’t see how you’ll have time to be a mother. I mean, how would you take care of children and be a real estate agent and run your own business?”

  “Women do it all the time,” Jane countered. “However, I would love to be able to stay—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss—” Paul glanced down at his laptop. “Miss Warner. But I don’t think this is going to work out. I do appreciate you coming today.”

  Jane forced her mouth shut. But she continued to stare at the man across from her. Paul. How could she ever have thought that was a nice name? Now she’d have to add it to her list—at the very top—of names she could never possibly give her children.