by Zoe Chant
“Everything is ready,” Joey said. “Come!”
As Doris got up and shook out her practical denim skirt, she realized she did not want to know what Joey’s clay-feet traits were. Somehow, she knew, the discovery was going to hurt.
As the lunch progressed, every smile Joey turned her way warmed her more. Far worse, every compliment he gave to his niece and nephew, his kindly conversation with Bird about knitting, his quiet concern toward the reserved Xi Yong, and above all every line of his body—his quick, unconscious grace—added light to the heat.
At the end of the meal, Joey turned Doris’s way. “Well, is this recipe worth collecting for your book? I think I demonstrated that it can be prepared for any number of people. Chinese cuisine is very adaptable that way.”
There was no possible answer other than, “Yes.”
He smiled as if she had given him a precious gift, then said, “I wrote everything up last night. In case. Would you like the printout?”
He opened his hand toward the door to the house. She hesitated, reluctant to go inside. Not that she was afraid he’d attack her, or something ridiculous like that. She was honest enough with herself to recognize that she didn’t want to like his house, his personal space. She didn’t want to find it as compelling as his smile, his unruly blond hair with the silver glints, his slender, quick-moving body, his warm brown gaze that seemed to glow like molten gold whenever their eyes met.
But it would be rude to say, “Why don’t you mail it to me.”
So she rose and followed Joey, darting fast glances at a den full of furniture chosen for comfort rather than to impress. Which made perfect sense if students were running in and out.
They passed the kitchen, where she glimpsed trays of pastries waiting to be served, then came to a book-lined study. She averted her gaze lest she be seen snooping at titles—she loved looking at people’s bookshelves. What they bought said so much about them, beginning of course with the fact that they were readers.
Joey was clearly a reader. Did they like any of the same books—
No. She stood in the doorway as though she’d run into a wall of ice.
“Here it is,” he said, reaching into the printer tray. “I didn’t want to bring it out in case the lunch was a dismal failure,” he said ruefully, and handed her the sheet of paper.
She took it without reading anything, intensely aware of him standing within arm’s reach. She stared down at the paper, struggling to shut out the dizzying mix of scents—a clean masculine smell mixed with the fragrance of the ginger root he’d cut. That spot behind her belly button—lower—pulsed.
She turned away and walked stiff-legged into the hall.
Joey followed, his voice easy and warm as he said, “If you like, I know so many more promising recipes. Cuisine all over China has astonishing variety. If you have an evening free, I could share some of them?”
He hadn’t said lunch. He said evening. She bit down hard on her lip to keep herself from blurting, “Like a date?”
She knew it wasn’t ‘like’ a date. He was asking her out. Which was the essential definition of a date.
So far in her life, the safest men had been book and movie boyfriends—Zorro when she was twelve, the Scarlet Pimpernel in high school, Han Solo when she was in college. Handsome men who did good things with their lives, who had ideals, who treated women well. Who didn’t have feet of clay like most of the men she knew.
Fictional boyfriends couldn’t cheat, lie, or connive.
They couldn’t hurt you.
She made herself say with her best attempt at casual, “This time of year is crammed with obligations. What with school and the upcoming semester break—during which I will be away with my family. I’m afraid the only evening I have relatively free for talking will be Saturday night, when I have to serve as a chaperone for my high school’s Valentine’s Day dance. They badly need extra bodies—”
“I’d be happy to volunteer,” he said with that warm, sunny smile.
“—and . . . what?” She blinked.
“I said, I would be happy to help as a chaperone. I’ve done similar duty on exchange student field trips and the like—they can check my credentials at the university. I enjoy young people. And as you say, there would be plenty of time for conversation as we stand watch.”
“Unless,” she said dryly, “they stick you with boys’ restroom patrol.”
But she knew they wouldn’t. Not a college professor.
They rejoined the others—the pastry was served, consumed (it was delicious), and they left. As she drove home, Doris’s mind kept jerking back, like the needle over a scratched LP on her dad’s old stereo: she had a . . . sort-of date.
The broken record played that same phrase Thursday, as she turned in his name and address at the admin office to be added to the chaperone list, half-hoping there was some new rule against university people. But sure enough, he was hailed with relief.
The broken record continued Friday—the writers’ group was small, Linette did great, and Joey Hu was there, but he didn’t speak this time, nor did he single Doris out until the very end, when he said, “See you tomorrow.”
And it continued all day Saturday, until she found herself once more standing in a moat of clothes as she dressed for chaperone duty. Exasperated with herself, she ended up falling back on her old reliable black skirt and powder blue top with fringes along the hem, one she’d designed and made herself. But she added a delicate gold chain that one of her great-aunts had given her for her Bat Mitzvah so many years ago, and only worn a few times since—usually for all those family weddings.
Weddings. She almost threw the chain back in her jewelry box, but turned away from the mirror defiantly. She was being ridiculous, making mountains out of molehills. She and Joey would be surrounded by teenagers, many of them bent on trouble. There would be no opportunity for anything to… happen… between them.
She hesitated over the necklace still, then decided to take a small notebook and pen in her evening clutch, for writing down recipes. There. That wouldn’t make her look too date-ish.
When she arrived at the high school, she found Joey already there, looking understatedly elegant in a long black coat, white shirt, and gray slacks. His shirt had a standing collar, Chinese style. He was surrounded by several faculty members. She noted the women using those bright smiles and high laughs that only seemed to come out when an attractive male swam into their orbit.
And she couldn’t prevent a swoop of fierce enjoyment when at her approach, he turned his head, and lit the room with his blinding smile. “Doris!”
“I’m here,” she said. “Everyone have your metaphorical combat gear on?”
Joey fell in step beside her, as if was the most natural thing in the world, and she led the way to their station.
“I was talking to Xi Yong about what young people bring from their homes, recipe-wise,” he said—an easy topic. And an interesting topic.
So began the best evening of all her chaperoning years.
Their talk went from student cooking to student life hacks or shortcuts that left anyone else with the “What were they thinking?” reaction.
They chased off a party trying to sneak some vaping into the festivities, and Joey stepped in when a couple guys started teasing a nervous girl. Then they moved on to discussing dumb teenager tricks of their young days.
Doris didn’t have any. She’d grown up in the shadow of a gorgeous older sister whose natural charisma had made everyone turn her way when she entered a room. Even if she was in an old T-shirt and jeans. Whereas Doris could wear candy-apple red, and relatives would ask if she was home sick when she’d walked in right behind Sylvia. Doris had grown up relying on her excellent grades to make her mark in the family, and then on being responsible and dependable.
But Joey had apparently been mischievous as a teen, loving the sort of practical jokes that had no victims—visual jokes and dares. He kept her in a continuous ripple of laughter, so that s
he was actually so startled when the dance ended.
As they did a last walk around to check for canoodling couples, Joey exclaimed, “That was fun! I’d really like to do this again.”
“Chaperone a dance?” she joked.
“If you are there to do it with,” he countered, with that smile that bloomed straight Down There. “Or even get together without the chaperonage of a battalion of eighteen-year-olds.”
There it was, out in the open. Thump, thump, thump went her heart.
“Alas,” she said—and grimaced, hating the pomposity of that word.
He looked an inquiry, through those wide, candid golden eyes.
And he did want to, she could feel it. And she wanted to. The ferocity of her wanting scared the stuffing out of her. A real date? Like, going to a restaurant, maybe a play or a movie, and then . . . and then that intensely awkward waiting after, was she supposed to invite him in, or not, and what if he . . .
No. No. Her mother’s expectations—Phil the Philanderer—every small humiliation over a lifetime of indifference and rejection that had kept her firmly in place as safe, practical, sensible Doris choked her. She forced herself to breathe, then said with a Herculean effort to sound normal. Casual. “As it happens, the semester break coincides with Purim—that’s a Jewish holiday—”
Joey smiled. “I know.”
It was so nice not to have to explain everything to him. She went on, “My family traditionally goes to the mountains to celebrate, at a cabin my great-grandfather built. We call it the grandpa house.”
“That sounds restful,” he said. “Surrounded by family in a beautiful setting.”
Doris smothered a snort at the word restful. Much as she loved them, her family was seldom restful. Feeling off-kilter, she began to babble. “Great scenery, yes. It’s a locale no one has ever heard of, and it takes forever to get there. Which is why my grandfather’s grandfather picked it. I suspect he really wanted to be a hermit. All the other houses belong to rich people who use them as summer resorts. The area is empty most of the year, except summer…”
She only stopped because she ran out of breath. Joey had listened without any impatience, with that warm gaze.
“Anyway, that’s where I’ll be.” She forced herself to stop.
“Sounds like an interesting place,” Joey said with a hopeful tilt to his head that shot a pang of . . . something . . . straight to her heart.
Was it possible he wanted an invitation?
No, she was being delusional. She shifted her gaze to the fascinating sight of the parking lot as she rattled on even more desperately, “Anyway, he built it, and stories are, he used to play his violin to the bears and the deer. Nobody has lived there full time since, but it’s become tradition for us to go every Purim in hopes there might be snow. And when we come back, there’s school . . .” And she remembered Fridays. Her lifeline. Friendly, but not in that dangerous date category. “But I’ll be at the writers’ group next Friday. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”
Okay. That was totally friend-ly. But not date-y. Right?
She held her breath. He was still smiling, but the gold in his eyes had dimmed. His smile was still there, but it was more wistful than beaming. “Of course. Thank you for an excellent evening.”
“Thank you on behalf of the school,” she said firmly, in her best Teacher Voice.
Spinster teachers were in charge of their own destiny. Spinster teachers didn’t make awkward mistakes or create drama. They lived securely in their safe little boxes, doing their work and disturbing no one. Including themselves. “Good night.”
He gave a little bow, eloquent with a quiet dignity. She fought the impulse to keep him there, keep him talking, at least, but he turned and was gone.
Yes. That was the right thing to do, watch him walk away. Kept her safe. Awkwardness avoided.
So why were tears streaming down her face when she got into her car to drive home?
EIGHT
DORIS
It took her all night to fall asleep. Even two unaccustomed glasses of wine and constant reminders to herself that she had to be on the road early in the morning couldn’t chase away thoughts of Joey’s lovely eyes, and his rich, soothing voice. Doris finally drifted off to sleep around four a.m., and dreamed of Joey until her phone rang at six.
It was her mother, of course, with last-minute instructions for the trip. She had two messages when she finally got her mother off the phone, one from her niece Nicola fretting about whether to bring her new boyfriend, the other from her sister fretting about Nicola’s new boyfriend.
By the time Doris made it into the bathroom for her morning shower, nursing a miserable headache, she was already sick of her family, and she hadn’t even seen any of them yet!
She’d just turned on the hot water when her phone rang again—her general ringtone, rather than any of the distinctive ones for family or friends.
The fierce leap of anticipation in her heart surprised her. Joey? “Hello?”
“Congratulations, Ms. Liverwort! You’ve been specially selected to win a free gift—”
Doris jabbed the OFF button so hard her finger throbbed. As she blocked the number, she muttered, “Serves me right.”
Of course it wouldn’t be Joey. She hadn’t given him her number. He could get it from Bird or Mikhail, but why would he after the way she’d shut him down? Anyway, she sensed he was too much of a gentleman to ask for her number without her permission . . .
As she got into her car, she considered that. It was true. In all their interactions, he’d never been pushy or assumed anything or crossed the line she’d drawn around herself.
Then it hit her: it wasn’t he she was afraid of. It was herself.
And that was even worse.
Nearly five hours of exhausting driving later, she felt even worse. She longed for a cup of tea. But the thought of tea brought back the thought of Joey.
Everything brought back Joey. Even during the light of day, she still felt as if the sun had dimmed. If only she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much the night before! But that was the trouble—such a powerful reaction meant an equally powerful pain when the inevitable crash came.
And then there was the prospect of her family discovering she was dating. Whenever she considered giving in, she only had to imagine how her mother would have a wedding planned in five seconds flat, the gown designed, and start discussing the sit-down dinner for two hundred with Sylvia, as though Doris wasn’t even there. How appalled Joey would be when they met him, and double-teamed with the well-meant Thousand Questions—unless of course he took one look at Sylvia and forgot who Doris was, and who could blame him? But by far the worst would be how much it would hurt when it all fell apart.
No. Her spinster box might be boring, but it was safe.
At last she arrived at what her family called “the grandpa house.” No one would ever call it beautiful—it looked like a gigantic hand had jumbled together two or three houses from very different eras—but her family loved it anyway. To be honest, she did too.
She started dragging her stuff up the brick walkway, watching her breath form vapor. It was cold! Definitely a cup of—
A flash of something bright green was her only warning before a small, solid shape collided with her legs, nearly knocking her over. A second, larger shape in bright green skidded to a halt. She righted herself, staring down at two pairs of big brown eyes, belonging to a couple of kids of seven and three. Both were enveloped in neon green parkas and knitted hats with stripes, with superhero costumes peeking out underneath.
Doris had never seen either child before in her life. They were obviously siblings, though the elder’s gaze was wary, the younger’s round and curious.
“Careful,” she said, aware a second later that she probably sounded like one of those stuffy adults who only spoke to kids to yell at them.
The elder kid, who was Batman under his parka, said, “Sorry. I was chasing Pink. We didn’t see you.”
&nbs
p; The smaller one, who was Wonder Woman, announced, “I Pink.”
There was nothing pink about the child, from her dark eyes and brown skin to her parka of green over blue jeans. “I’m Doris.”
Pink responded by ducking past Doris and running off, short legs twinkling.
The elder child chased after her without a word, and they vanished around the corner of the house. A man’s voice rose, “Gotcha! Come on inside, kids—there’s hot chocolate!”
Doris heard the swift crunch of footsteps from the other direction. A lavender knit hat and matching scarf appeared, arms and legs encased in a wool coat working. The hat lifted. Doris looked into her niece Nicola’s face, ruddy from running.
“Hi, Aunt Doris. Did you see Pink and Lon?”
“If they’re the little superheroes, I heard someone luring them with hot chocolate.”
“Oh, good, Brad got ‘em.” Nicola slowed to a stop. “They discovered the mud room door. As for the costumes, Purim is new to them. I told them about the costumes, and they thought it was Halloween.”
“The small one is Pink? Or did I mishear?”
“No, it’s Pink. She picked it herself. Peppa Pig was her favorite toy when she was two, and Peppa is pink. So I guess she combined the two in her mind—she wasn’t Peppa or Pig, but Pink.”
“Does she have a name, in case someone refers to her by it?”
“Everybody calls her Pink, but her mom named her Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Yeah, and Lon—the boy, her brother—is London.”
Doris said, “And, if it’s not a bother, do you mind if I ask who they are, exactly?”
“Oh!” Nicola laughed. “I’m sorry. They’re my boyfriend Brad’s kids from his first marriage. The mom bailed right after Pink was born. Nobody’s heard from her since.” She looked angry, but then brightened. “Brad’s inside.”
