Fetching Sweetness

by Dana Mentink

He hardly knew himself. He kept his gaze down as she took the dustpan.

  “Let me help.”

  “I don’t want your help.” It came out in a harder tone than he’d meant.

  She folded her arms across her chest and sniffed. Tears? He wasn’t sure.

  “I really am sorry. I’ll take Sweetness and we’ll go.”

  “Fine.” He continued to sweep. She should go. He wanted her to. Absolutely. “I hooked up the water. You might as well take a shower first, if you want. You look like Charlie Chaplin.”

  Without a word, she turned and padded quietly toward the tiny bathroom.

  “There’s a clean towel hanging on the back of the door,” he called.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice very small.

  Methodically he swept, trying to will his thoughts into neat, sensible columns, free of the swirling clouds of regret. He heard the sound of the water gurgling to life as she turned on the shower.

  Alone with only the rumbling snores of the dog for company, Rhett stopped sweeping and let the feelings barge in. Stephanie had thought he would hurt her, and now she regretted the opinion she’d formed of him. But the truth was, he had hurt the most precious woman in the world, his sister. He’d wounded her grievously. He had no right to the moral outrage he’d felt at being misunderstood. No right at all.

  You ruined my life, Rhett.

  I never want to see you again. I have no brother anymore.

  Karen’s words echoed so vividly in his memory, the tears sparking in her eyes, her face void of the love he so desperately needed. I have no brother anymore.

  “God’s given you another chance, remember?” He gripped the broom savagely when fear took hold again. “Get it right this time.”

  He got back to sweeping, and when the first panful was dumped into the bag, he swept again. Then he mopped the floor and wiped down all the surfaces of the kitchen with a wet rag until they sparkled. By then, his breathing was calm, his thoughts almost ordered.

  “All right,” he said, putting the cleaning equipment back in the closet. “Only one more thing.”

  Sweetness raised his head and opened one eye as if he heard the bells tolling his doom.

  “Yep,” Rhett said. “You need to have your paws wiped off, you big galoot, or you’re going to mess up my floor again. You’ve already dirtied the chair.”

  Sweetness regarded him with suspicion.

  Rhett grabbed a rag and closed in.

  Sweetness attempted a leap toward the door, but Rhett held him by the collar and straddled him. Sweetness whined and wriggled, even letting loose with a heartrending howl at one point, but Rhett succeeded in lifting each paw and wiping clean the rough pads. When he finished, Sweetness squeezed underneath the kitchen table, his stubby tail toward Rhett, and licked each of his paws with sullen recrimination.

  “Sorry, dog.” Rhett dropped the rag into the trash bag. “You shouldn’t mess with a guy who’s packing a blue nightie and two rolls of duct tape.”

  Stephanie let the hot water wash the flour from her face and body. How could she have made such a colossal blunder? A serial killer? Really, Steph? But a woman’s nightie. And duct tape. And his eagerness to give her a place to scream. Wouldn’t most people have jumped to the same conclusion? Probably not normal people, she acknowledged, leaning her head against the tiled wall.

  You spend too much time reading fiction. And not the hoity-toity variety she was supposed to either. She’d learned early on that her literary tastes were not quite highbrow enough to help her mix with the English majors on her college campus. Her fellow classmates had been horrified to discover that she enjoyed romance novels, science fiction, pirate adventures, steampunk, and the odd Western. The genre didn’t so much matter to Stephanie as much as the feeling the books gave her, a feeling that there was goodness and love and justice in the world, even if it was only fictional.

  Her lowbrow proclivities explained why she’d never found a group where she’d really fit in until she discovered a dozen older ladies who met at the local Book Barn once a week. The “Chain Gang” as they referred to themselves, took over two tables in the small in-store coffee shop every Thursday night and no amount of threats or pleading from the manager could dislodge them. They welcomed Stephanie and gamely attempted to teach her to knit while they talked about books—all kinds of books. It was a balm to Stephanie’s lonely soul. Maybe her pedestrian tastes also explained why she and the newly published Spencer had not survived.

  No, Steph. That was because he is a toad and you were blind.

  She had a sudden overwhelming urge to text one of the Chain Gang members and somehow join in their conversation. It would be boisterous and unpretentious, the air rich with the smell of brewed coffee and the intoxicating scent of books. But those days were gone. She was on the cusp of something great. Her destiny, hers and Ian’s.

  The water ran cold. Savagely turning off the faucet, she stepped out and toweled dry. So she’d made a mistake. The important thing was in the recovery, Ian would have said. The getting up, not the falling down.

  She could still make it work. Take Sweetness and find someplace else to stay the night. Call her roommate, Sass, back in New York and ask her to wire money. Surely Big Thumb had a Western Union? Get Sweetness off-loaded and take possession of Agnes Wharton’s manuscript. It was a sketchy plan, but it was the best she could do. As she used the damp towel to try and brush the flour off her clothes, the streaks turned into gummy smears. With no other clothing options, she tugged on her pants and blouse.

  Pulling her wet hair into a makeshift ponytail and feeling glad there was no mirror in the small space, she straightened her shoulders and walked back out into the kitchen. The smell of something delicious made her stomach rumble. Rhett stood at the stove, easing a golden pancake over with a pair of forks.

  The table was set with two flowered place mats, precisely folded paper napkins, forks, a bottle of real maple syrup, and a jar of organic strawberry jam. On the floor was a bowl of untouched kibble.

  She shifted, clearing her throat.

  He accomplished the pancake flip. “Can’t use the spatula or the dog goes crazy. I think he’s got some sort of utensil fetish, but it doesn’t seem to apply to forks. Sit down. Dinner’s almost ready. I borrowed some kibble from a fellow camper for Sweetness, but he isn’t into it.”

  Unused to finding herself at a loss for words, she slid onto the bench seat, jumping when Sweetness slurped his sandpaper tongue up her shin. “I…I don’t expect you to feed me, especially after…”

  He slid a plate in front of her with one perfectly round pancake centered in the middle, a golden bull’s-eye. “I understand how you would have made that assumption. It matches the facts. I’m a stranger and I’m not a particularly warm and fuzzy one. You are dealing with some unusual circumstances. I should have realized that earlier, but the flour bomb took me by surprise.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  As he slid in across from her, the sadness on his face surprised her. “No, Stephanie, I’m not. I’ve been the cruelest man you’ll ever meet, but I’m trying to change that.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m hungry. Should we…say grace?” he said, uncertainty on his face. He took her hand and his fingers were warm. “Would you like to say it?”

  Say grace? Momentary panic. Her boss was an atheist, her parents not on speaking terms with God, and Sass some sort of believer in the moon and stars and the rhythms of the universe. Grace? She hadn’t said it since she was a young teen. He was watching her, and she felt an unbearable silence building. “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I googled some possibilities, but they all sound artificial.”

  “You…googled grace?”

  He shifted. “I’m new to this stuff. I heard one that a lady said in the restaurant where I stopped yesterday.”

  “Why don’t we say that one then?”

  “Uh…well…”<
br />
  “Go on.” She closed her eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank You for the world so sweet. Thank You for the food we eat. Thank You for the birds that sing. Thank You, God, for everything.”

  She opened her eyes to find him looking mortified. “I know. It’s a kid’s grace, isn’t it? I have to learn some grown-up ones.”

  She giggled. “That was just fine. I learned it in Sunday school, er, a while ago. I sort of gave up saying grace when my brother—” she flinched. “It’s been a while.” She toyed with her fork. “But you know what? After the day I’ve had, somehow it feels appropriate to give thanks for the food and that one rhymed, so it was nifty, I think.”

  He offered a hesitant smile and handed her the bottle of syrup. “Now, Stephanie Pink, eat your pancake. Then I’ve got a proposal for you.”

  Five

  Rhett waited until she’d eaten her pancake, which she’d drowned in a lake of syrup. “This stuff is great,” she said. “I didn’t know what real maple syrup tasted like.”

  He ate his own pancake, with the barest smear of jam, before he cooked up a second one for each of them.

  Stephanie peered under the table. “Sweetness, you are not a lapdog.” She blew out a breath. “His head is on my knee.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  “Hardly appropriate. We haven’t even gone on a date yet, dog.”

  Sweetness relented, but he stayed alert for any signs of weakening.

  Stephanie finally pushed her plate away. Rhett was amused to see that she’d managed to soak up every drop of the syrup, leaving only a sticky dribble behind on the plate.

  “That was delicious,” she said, folding her hands together and skewering him with a stare. “So what’s the proposal?”

  “Right to business?”

  She nodded. “I’m on a tight schedule. We agents pay attention to proposals, at least the ones that have some earning power behind them. Let’s hear it.”

  Eccentricities aside, this slender, dark-eyed beauty had a nose for a deal. His pulse thrummed as it always did when business transactions occurred. He lined out the main points. “I am offering to give you and Sweetness a ride to a small town in Washington, which is my destination. From there I can help you arrange a ride to Eagle Cliff.” He sat back, gauging her reaction.

  Her mouth rounded into an O of surprise. “I couldn’t impose like that.”

  “Sure you could. I’m going that way anyway. It might take a few days, but we’ll get there, I promise.”

  “But I’m in a hurry.”

  He’d expected this. “True, but you also have no money, no cell phone, and a suspended driver’s license. Your options are limited.”

  She grimaced. “You don’t need to be so brutal about it.”

  He shrugged. “Not brutal, just business. Wharton’s novel has been in the works for fifteen years. It can wait.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “She could decide to go with another agent.”

  “Likely?”

  “I would say no except that I think she somehow blames me for the loss of her dog.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Again, no, but she’s an author.”

  As if that was sufficient to explain the woman’s behavior. He’d not dealt with many authors in his day. He waited.

  Stephanie’s hair was slightly damp from the shower, curling into little puffs around her cheeks.

  “So what’s in it for you?” she said.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You’re a savvy guy from what I can see, even if I was wrong about the killer part, so what do you get out of the deal?”

  He shifted. “I’m picking up a passenger in Oregon, and it would be handy to have another person along to help.”

  “What kind of passenger?”

  “My sister.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Does she…need a helper for traveling?”

  He cleared a sudden lump in his throat. “Yes. Karen had an accident. A head injury from falling off a ladder. She’s been at a top-of-the-line rehab hospital in San Francisco, and then she went to stay with her friend Bethany in Oregon. I’m picking her up on the way to Washington.”

  “What’s in Washington?”

  “Karen’s new home. It would have been easier to fly, but she’s got a phobia. We’re going to our apple farm. Used to belong to our grandfather. It needs some work, so I’m pulling this trailer up for my sister to live in until we get it habitable.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud. Our apple farm. Now it was real.

  She quirked an eyebrow. “This sounds like a novel.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Amen to that. Is Karen single, then?”

  The pain stabbed him with unexpected virulence even after all these years. “Yes,” he managed. “She is.”

  He found that he was leaning forward, so he forced himself into a more relaxed posture. If Stephanie declined his offer, he would understand. There was undoubtedly an easier solution to her problem, one that didn’t involve helping with Karen—a matter much more complicated than he could describe at present—and traveling at the snail’s pace allowed by an ancient trailer.

  She drummed her fingers on the table. The polish on her nails was chipped. “I’ll have to insist on a couple of conditions.”

  He tried to hide his pleasure. “Okay. Let’s hear them.”

  She held up a finger. “First, I’m not comfortable sharing a trailer with a strange man.”

  “Especially one with a stash of duct tape?”

  She smiled, cheeks pink. “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’m happy sleeping in the truck when I need some shut-eye. Anything else?”

  “Two.” She ticked off a second finger. “I will keep an itemized list of all the expenses and food, and you will be paid back every red cent that you spend on me and Sweetness.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m not going to let anyone take care of me.” There was depth in the words, echoes of disappointment and newfound determination. And toughness. He liked the toughness.

  “All right.”

  “And I’m going to need a book soon,” she added.

  “What kind of book?”

  “Thriller, mystery, romance—I’m not all that picky but if I don’t have a book to read, I get a little edgy. It’s an obsession, but harmless, I think.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.” They shook hands to seal the deal.

  She yawned. “I’m really exhausted. I imagine you’ll want to leave early in the morning?” Her tone was hopeful.

  “We’ll head to town first thing to get a part for the trailer.”

  “Okay. I’ll be ready.”

  She helped him clear the table.

  He picked up the bowl of batter, ready to dump the remainder, when Sweetness scrambled from under the table, skidded to a stop at the stove, and reared up on his hind legs. His big black nose quivered and a rivulet of drool escaped his mouth.

  “Dogs don’t eat pancakes, do they?” Stephanie said.

  Rhett turned the pan on to heat up. “He likes hot dogs so I guess it’s possible.” When the pan sizzled, he poured in the batter and allowed it to cook before he flipped it with the forks. Sweetness hopped from paw to paw in a clumsy canine dance. When it was done to perfection and had cooled a little, Rhett put the pancake on a paper plate and placed it in front of the dog.

  Sweetness devoured it in two bites.

  Then he ate the paper plate.

  Stephanie gratefully accepted the T-shirt Rhett loaned her to use for sleeping. Armani. Another surprise. The thing would probably cost more than a hundred bucks at Saks. All of Stephanie’s designer clothes were bought at thrift shops and secondhand boutiques, where she and Sass loved to scour the shelves for special finds. They still paid too much, and then it was ramen noodles and toast until the next payday rolled around.

  It was pure pleasure to feel the clean, soft cotton against her skin. She folded and tucke
d Karen’s nightgown away in a drawer, wondering about Rhett’s sister—how it felt to be removed from your home, from everything familiar.

  She’d felt adrift in her life too. She recalled the days and weeks after her brother died. Waking up and feeling certain, dead sure, that she would find Ian in his room with his nose in a book and a half eaten bologna sandwich on his pillow. How cruel to sneak down the moonlit hall and find he was not there, to feel again the terrible finality of it all, the excruciating stillness of his empty room. He was gone. He would never return in spite of her insistent dreams. When the ache intensified, she blinked hard and folded her hands. “God…” It was as far as she ever got in talking to Him about Ian. It seemed as though she could not get out the second word that screamed through her soul.

  Why?

  Those three little letters loosed the grief all over again, the pain that could not be endured. So she and God did not discuss it. They kept to silence mostly, with occasional rants from Stephanie when she felt like letting God have it. She never brought up her brother’s name. Ian was the white elephant, the forbidden topic she must never bring to God because if she did, her anger might spill out like a poisonous gas.

  She thought her heart was so blighted that she would never be capable of feeling any sweet emotion again. And then she’d met Spencer. She’d thought God had sent him to mend her heart. Another colossal Stephanie Pink miscalculation. She rolled over on her side and forced her thoughts to other things.

  Karen and Rhett were starting up a new life on an apple farm. Who did that?

  Her imagination supplied a quaint, Hallmark scene with green fields and trees laden with round, red apples. Did Rhett intend to stay and farm apples alongside his sister? Somehow, he didn’t seem like the till-the-land type. Rhett Hastings. Why was the name familiar? Her fingers itched for her cell phone to do a quick Google search.

  He interrupted her thoughts. “Stephanie, can you send Sweetness down?” Rhett called from the bottom of the stairs.

  The dog had crept up, step-by-step, and somehow insinuated himself in a cramped corner of the tiny upstairs bedroom, watching her with his head on his paws.