by Zoe Chant
When Doris came back in after serving the dessert, he moved to a couch, hoping she would join him, but she dropped into an ugly old chair close to the kitchen.
Instead, Sylvia sat down next to him. “You moved to Playa del Encanto recently?” she asked with a little smile.
“I’ve lived there a number of years,” he said, with a glance at Doris. “But I’m at the eastern edge of town. My routine tends to keep me moving between my home and the university.”
“Oh? Your home? Are you married? Children?”
“Neither—” Joey began.
“He’s got us,” Vanessa said, with a hint of wolf aggression.
Joey sent her a glance. He sensed Vanessa’s hackles rising at Sylvia’s flirtatious manner, but Joey sensed that was Sylvia’s usual social mode.
“I often have students staying with me for a semester or so,” Joey explained. “Usually international students like Xi Yong.”
“That young fellow’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Doris’s father Jacob put in. “Not everyone understands that part of designing a house is the land around it. They ought to outlaw those gigantic McMansions that leave three feet on all sides, so your bedroom looked directly into your neighbor’s bedroom.”
Sylvia put up a warding hand. “With you there, Dad.”
Jacob nodded. “I’d like to see Xi Yong’s gardens one day. He says the Chinese plan their gardens with an eye to how it will look in generations to come.”
“Are there any plants here in California that they also have in China?” Doris asked.
Joey was glad to see Xi Yong’s smile of pleasure as he answered, and even more glad to see how interested Doris was when the conversation strayed to cooking herbs familiar in both countries.
As the plates emptied, with even the teens full after seconds and thirds, rosy cheeks got even redder, and people moved away from the brightly leaping fire in the fireplace. Doris stood with a soft sigh of resignation that nobody but Joey noticed, and began picking up all the dirty dishes. Joey rose and collected the dishes around him.
He followed Doris into the kitchen, which was, of course, a disaster. She set her pile of dishes on the last bit of free counter space, and as Joey looked for a place to set his, she said with a return of her social smile, “Thanks. Go sit in the den—enjoy yourself.”
“Please let me help. I’m a fellow cook—I know this part of a big blowout. And you know that four hands cut the work in half.” He nodded at the jug still full of Queen Esther’s Cocktail. “We can make a party of it. I’ll wash. You dry—you know where everything goes. And scrubbing those pots will be the workout I need to begin digesting that excellent meal.”
“Thanks!” Doris relented with a grateful smile that sent Joey’s fox leaping around in dizzying circles, yipping Nest! Nest! Nest!
This is what a partnership is about, Joey thought happily as he filled the sink with sudsy water. When he lowered the first stack of dishes in, he said, “The worst cleanup I think I ever had was one night when we ended up with fifty-six guests.”
“Fifty-six?” Doris’s eyes widened as she fetched a dish towel. “How did you get that many into your house? Or did you have it catered? No, you said cleanup . . .”
“It was supposed to be an engagement party for a couple of my Korean exchange students who had become really popular. Equally popular, I learned that night, were my Korean ribs, which they’d requested as the main dish. Their friends brought friends, and my carefully planned party for no more than twenty-five used up every plate and glass I had. It cleaned out the fridge, the pantry, and even my secondary pantry, where I keep emergency stores. The last arrivals had to make do with bowls of Korean bibimbap—which were mostly rice, since my meat and veggies had been cleaned out too. By the time I was done there was no hot water left, and I had to boil cold to pour over the dishes to rinse them.”
“Wow,” Doris exclaimed. “What a night! You must have slept around the clock after that.”
“Pretty much. But it was a great party. How about you? What was your toughest night?”
“That’s easy. A barely-rescued disaster of a formal dinner we gave at my synagogue. It was a fundraiser for a family who’d lost their home to a fire. The dinner was for the people who donated a lot. Volunteers brought in their best dishes for the place settings. We had a florist donate flowers. We had an actual Cordon Bleu-trained chef plan the menu . . . and the gas went out midway through the prep.”
“What was the menu? And what did you do?” Joey asked.
Doris launched into her tale with the enthusiasm he loved to see. She kept him laughing at the jerry-rigged cooking tools that didn’t depend on electricity, and he enjoyed watching her animated expression as she described clever work-arounds in the menu. That kind of adaptation only comes of expertise in making excellent food.
Which was itself a form of love.
He reveled in this unconscious evidence of her generosity, and they kept trading experiences, good and bad, laughing at the bad ones, until they’d cleared the counter. Then he said, “I’ll start the coffee and tackle these pots if you want to raid the rest of the house to collect the rest of the dishes.”
“Great idea,” she said, and vanished through the back door.
The jug of cocktail had gone down appreciably when at last they finished, except for the coffee and tea cups now scattered throughout the house. Joey’s heart beat fast as they looked at one another with the weary pride of a job well done. Strands of her short hair, usually crisply brushed back, hung around her face, her cheeks rosy, her eyes smiling.
Recklessly, for he could feel the effect of the cocktail, he said, “It’s a little warm in here. I realize there’s no chance of an after-dinner stroll. But when you first brought us to the house, I thought I saw a little balcony on one side. Could you show me where it is? I wouldn’t mind a breath of fresh air, and I like to watch the snow fall.”
Doris hung up the third wet dish towel, neatened the edges, then said, “Grab your coffee. I can show you.”
On the stairs, the air was cooler, and felt good on his brow. The murmur of voices and laughter from the far wing rose up the stairwell. Doris opened a door on the landing to the balcony. “You wouldn’t know it, but it looks out over the treetops to the valley below.”
Cold air embraced Joey. It felt delicious. Ordinarily his fox would be begging for a shift and a run, but Joey felt the fox quivering inside him at the proximity of their mate.
He sipped his rapidly cooling coffee as Doris breathed out a soft sigh. She had to have risen early to begin cooking prep.
“I always love this time after a successful night,” he said. “Nothing much more to be done—another good memory added. Though those memories have built up to a pretty respectable number, somehow pulling off a great evening makes me feel young again. And I have to admit, Queen Esther helps.”
Doris chuckled, an endearing sound that shot straight to his core.
“I feel like a teenager,” she admitted in a low voice. “That is, the sort of teenager I never was,” she added wryly.
It was the first time she’d ever talked about herself, and Joey thrilled to the small victory.
“What, you were not the neighborhood expert at Truth or Dare?” he teased.
In the reflected golden light from the windows above, Doris’s eyes gleamed with humor, her cheeks rosy with color. He loved the enchanting upward curves in her face, evidence of her innate good nature. He’d never seen so free a smile from her, and he wanted so badly to take that dear face in his hands and kiss her silly, that he set his mug on the balcony rail and clasped his fingers tightly behind his back.
She put her cup down next to his. “Will I sound like the worst sort of party pooper if I admit that I’ve never played even once?”
“Not the least. There are lots of games I never played. Truth or Dare was my favorite.”
“I don’t even know the rules.”
“One player asks a question of another
player, and gives them the option of answering with the truth, or choosing a dare instead. If they pick dare, the first player dares them to do something.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s a trust game, it sounds like.”
“It can be. Or it can be just a fun challenge. So much depends on the questions.” And when she blinked at him, lips parted, he said, “For example. If I were to ask you . . . Have you ever wanted to run away from home and join the circus? Truth or Dare. Which would you pick?”
Doris gave a husky laugh. The softened lines in her face shifted from those lovely smile curves to question, then she drank the rest of her cup, and looked at Joey, blinking slowly. “What if . . . I said dare?”
“I would say,” he murmured, looking into her eyes, “I dare you to kiss me.”
TWELVE
DORIS
Doris had been enjoying the peaceful aftermath of a family dinner that had gone way better than she’d hoped. Of course the Brad Question was still there, but at least it hadn’t ruined the evening.
Now she was alone with Joey Hu.
And she liked it.
All the sensible reasons to stay away just didn’t seem to matter. She knew this recklessness was false courage, courtesy of Queen Esther cocktails. But she was so tired, and so relaxed, and so . . . warm.
And then he said that.
The trouble was, she wanted to kiss him. Very badly. For the first time in her life, she found herself staring at the soft curve of a man’s lips. She couldn’t look away from the deep dimples at either side of his entrancing mouth, simple evidence of that sunny sense of humor she was drawn to. She liked the shape of his eyes, the calm humor in their expression. No drama. Ever. Just good will, toward everyone.
And right now he was looking at her through those eyes, smiling gently with those lips she couldn’t stop looking at. Was that passion she saw in his face? It couldn’t be. She was not the sort to inspire passion in any man. Passion for her house and imagined bank account, yes—that explained Phil the Philanderer. She didn’t blame men for not feeling passion for her. She’d never really felt it herself.
Except she was feeling it now. That ball of warmth deep down inside her, she could call it all sorts of things, but she knew it was passion. Her breasts, familiar but basically useless body parts for so many years, tingled.
The man who had just helped her wash fifty kabillion dishes had dared her to kiss him.
Just do it, came a voice from deep in her, prompted by that hot, throbbing warmth down below.
She turned toward him, and found herself stepping closer. He hadn’t moved, and she sensed that he’d left the decision up to her, except what was to come next? Did she grab him? Pucker up like she was about to suck a lemon? What if her nose crunched into his?
Then he was there, his fingertips touching her cheeks along her jawline. Each fingertip sent zings down to that hot spot, which had flared into an inferno.
His lips moved against hers, and the zings brightened into stars. His lips parted, inviting her into his warmth. She tasted the tang of Queen Esther, and a deeper taste, sweet and wild that she couldn’t name, except that it was innately, essentially Joey and she wanted more of it.
Their tongues touched, and the stars burned into suns.
And then—just as she wondered where to go next, if she was doing it wrong—he kissed her back. It was his turn to taste, and to take his time exploring, with such tenderness that every heartbeat was distinct, alive, and heat sheeted through her, obliterating her mind.
Her knees began to buckle, and she pulled away.
He let her free instantly. “Doris?”
“I—I—I better go,” she said. “I’m freezing—and there’s breakfast to think about . . .”
She heard herself babbling and shut her jaw so hard her teeth clicked together.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said simply. Easily. As if kissing him was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll accompany you inside.” His voice was slightly husky, as if he, too felt that passion.
What if he didn’t feel it the same way?
She just didn’t know! The heat gave way to worry, but his calm attitude, his sunny smile restored her balance fast. She took a breath, and realized the world had not ended.
People kissed.
She’d kissed. And nobody knew.
There would be no drama about it.
She babbled more, nervously, to cut off any questions. “We decided to turn the den over to you four. You notice there are only the three couches, but we have a sleeping—that is, maybe one of the teens can use it. The carpet on the floor is ugly, but it’s clean, and has padding beneath. It should be soft enough, especially for young bones.”
When she paused for breath, he said, “That will be perfect. Thank you.”
And then they were among the others as everyone yawned and said it was time to call it a night. She brought the sleeping bags, an armload of sheets, extra blankets, and pillows, said goodnight, and shut the kitchen door.
One minute later she was upstairs, closing the door to her room.
She was safe—not from him, but from herself.
When she woke up, her mind zoomed right back to that kiss. A brief roil of anxiety churned her stomach. It was easy to picture Joey lying on the couch in the den, thinking about her. Maybe comparing her to his many past girlfriends, because someone like him had to have had a string of relationships. Of course he’d wonder what had gotten into him—besides a gallon of Queen Esther’s best.
Don’t borrow trouble, she told herself. Her head throbbed faintly, aftermath of her own drinking, though she’d downed a full glass of water before going to bed. The headache might even be due to the prospect of another day of drama over Brad.
Time to face whatever traps and pitfalls lay ahead.
She threw on her robe, grabbed fresh undies, a sturdy sweatshirt and her gardening jeans, and left her room. Nicola’s door was shut tight. Doris hoped Brad was in there. The door to her parents’ room was shut too. Doris was vastly relieved. The fewer people she had to deal with, the better.
Doris remembered overhearing Marrit call her Doris the Doormat two or three years ago. Marrit was fifteen at the time, a tough age. But it had hurt. And that feeling had come back unexpectedly at Bird’s house, when Godiva was putting together her new mystery opening.
If I am a doormat, she thought, who made me into one?
Me, that’s who, she thought as she glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looked back at herself, Spinster Doris . . . except her lips were pink. They looked like they’d been kissed. And they still tingled. When she remembered the feeling of Joey’s lips on hers, that ball of fire below pulsed again.
She turned the shower on full blast and got in. As the water pounded her, removing all the evidence of the previous day, she reflected that water didn’t wash away memory. Did she regret that kiss? No. Really no, though she knew a lot of her reaction would depend on Joey this morning. If he looked at her in indifference or disgust . . .
STOP borrowing trouble, she scolded herself. But she hated this uncertainty. It felt like . . . like a sunburn on her soul. Tender. It was all so very new.
She slipped silently down the stairs, and when she reached the door to the kitchen, her thoughts flew to the door at the other end, behind which Joey Hu was . . . still sleeping? She stopped when she saw Sylvia leaning against the sink. She was swallowing aspirin, followed by coffee.
“That’s hard on the stomach,” Doris said.
“What I’m feeling is harder on my head,” Sylvia shot back, running her fingers through her glorious hair and massaging her temples. “The water in the pot should still be hot.”
Doris went over to make herself a good strong cup of Twinings’ English Breakfast. As she poured milk into her tea, she felt Sylvia’s gaze. She looked over to find Sylvia still leaning against the sink, her arms crossed, her mug of coffee held in one hand.
“What,” Doris said, br
aced for another rant about gold-digger Brad.
“That professor guy is really into you.”
Doris’s nerves flashed painfully—there was the sunburn again. “What?” she hedged, though she knew exactly what Sylvia was talking about. But somehow she wanted, no, she needed it spelled out.
“Your hot blond professor with those sexy eyes. Mom about dropped her dentures when she realized he’d been doing dishes. She went up to bed last night muttering about how Dad has never so much as touched the sponge in his life.”
“As if she’d let him,” Doris retorted. “One of my earliest memories is her chasing him out of the kitchen, and then sighing about how the work never ends.”
Sylvia made an impatient gesture, nearly spilling her coffee. “I’ve heard three more years of it than you have! The thing is, the dude is hot, as those kids would say. Even if he’s up to his neck in debt, or an ex-con, I wouldn’t boot him off the Beautyrest for eating Cheetos in bed.”
“Sh-h-h,” Doris said, a blush burning through her. “He’s right in there!” she hissed, pointing to the den.
“No he’s not,” Sylvia retorted. “I have to pass through there, remember? In case you haven’t noticed, the snowstorm stopped, though it dumped a zillion feet of snow. He and the Chinese student went out to check on their car. Professor Hottie is the one who made this coffee.” She brandished the mug. “They also folded their blankets neatly.”
“I guess they’ll be on their way, then,” Doris said as brightly as she could.
“Not likely.” Sylvia snorted. “The snow plows won’t be here any time today. Maybe not even tomorrow. You remember what it was like twenty years ago, when there was real snow up here.”
“You’re right.”
“Also,” Sylvia said, “this clear sky is apparently a respite. Another one coming in right behind the last one.” She jerked a shoulder up. “My point is, that man is into you. Why aren’t you grabbing him for some fun?”
“First of all, I don’t know that he’s into me,” Doris said, though a pulse of kiss-memory burned through her, and her inner voice pointed a finger and yelled Liar, liar, pants on fire! “Second, I’m old enough to make my own—”
