by Amanda Tru
“Oh? You like sappy movies?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. This time I just want to see if my date likes them or if they make him squirm.”
“Who’s your date? Maybe I know him.”
Not letting you off that easily. Jordan turned to go to Bookends—and hoped she was right about what the picture meant. “I’m not sure yet. I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
The doors to Bookends showed nothing. No pink in the window. Nothing outside to interest her. She reached for the door handle and found it pulled open by someone behind her. Without even looking back, she charged inside. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jordan froze. There’s something creepy about this. But it’s nice that there’s help, too. Maybe. An idea formed as she looked around the front part of the store. In seconds, she described the scene to her mom without lowering her voice at all. I’ve become that person—making the whole store listen to my conversation. Extenuating circumstances, right?
“He’s totally following me. I don’t think it’s creepy—yet. He got me tickets to that new Valentine’s movie.”
“Tickets plural?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll let him go with me—if I ever figure out who he is.”
Mom began hacking and coughing. “You—” she gasped. “You think you know him?”
“Something about him is really familiar. At first, I thought it was because he’d been where I was, but his voice…”
“Well, if it’s not setting off warning bells, it’s good, right?”
“Except that I’m walking around Bookends looking for a pink sticky note and no idea where to find it.”
Again, the choking. “Um, where is he?”
“Somewhere in here. He opened the door for me.”
“Good. I’d have to let him have it if he didn’t treat you right. So, why don’t you go find him? Maybe he’s there to be your hint.”
Something in Mom’s words felt… off. Before Jordan could think much about it, a tween stopped her. “Hey. Did you say you were looking for a pink sticky note?”
“Yeah. Did you see one?”
“There’s one over in the Biographies and Memoirs. I have to do this paper on Hammurabi, and I was over there looking. It’s sticking out between two books, but there’s the name Jordan written on one edge.”
“Thanks!”
The guy stood leaning against a bookshelf, a book open in his hand. Jordan couldn’t help herself. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I love a good book.” He snapped the one he’d been “reading” shut and pushed it back onto the bookshelf.
Jordan took note. A biography of Jane Goodall. “Wasn’t she the woman who studied apes?”
“Chimpanzees, but they aren’t a safe subject for me. See you around.”
With that, he bolted from the store. One second, he’d been standing there, and the next, she heard the door bells jingle. “Jordan?”
That’s when she remembered her mother was still waiting for her. “Sorry. Found the book—and the guy. He was reading about Jane Goodall and then just ran when I mentioned apes.”
“At least he didn’t go on and on about the mating habits of chimps. Improvement.”
“What?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“I need to go. Call me if you need me.”
She wouldn’t let it go that easily. “What aren’t you telling me? You know something.” The wheels turned, and cogs clicked into place, but the only answer made no sense. “Mom?”
“Bye, Jordan. Love you.”
Dead air followed. Whatever. I’ll deal with that later. What does this one say? It showed a half-plucked daisy stem with petals—or what appeared to pass for them—falling down. “The Pettler.”
“It’s just down the street—catty-corner across the square.” A blue-haired lady smiled at her. “Do you need me to show you?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
There was no sign of the guy—none. All the way to The Pettler, she mulled her mother’s words. Why would Mom ask about the mating chimps? Why would anyone talk about that with someone they don’t even know? It’d be like—
She came to a standstill—right in the middle of the street. Brad shouted at her, but Jordan couldn’t move. That guy. With the bladders. Heath… something. He had a beard, didn’t he? Dark. Why am I so bad at faces?
A car’s horn blared, and it ripped her out of her thoughts. She stared at Brad who shouted, “Jordan! Get out of the street!”
A glance back showed a man screaming at her from inside his car. “Right. Move.”
At the corner, Brad asked if she was okay, but Jordan just waved her hand at him. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, next time think anywhere but in the street.”
How would Mom know Heath? Oh… In seconds, she had the zoo’s website pulled up. Staff. There he was. Head of the mammalogy department. Heath Karras. As director of the entire zoo, her mother would be his immediate boss.
She shot Mom a text message.
Jordan: You knew all along?
Mom: Yes. Was it a lie not to tell you? I’m sorry.
As if appearing out of thin air, Heath’s back disappeared into the doorway of The Pettler. Jordan dashed across the street in pursuit, but just outside the shop door, she zipped back another text.
Jordan: Not a lie. Confused. Talk later. He’s safe, right?
Mom: Would I have encouraged you to play along if I didn’t know he was?
Mom… words. We will have words. Heath stood by a barrel of daisies and handed her one as she entered. Jordan paused. “Thanks. Talked to Mom.”
“How is Ann?”
Despite every attempt to look and sound severe, Jordan snickered. “Panicked that I might be seriously ticked off at her right now.”
“Don’t be. She took pity on a guy who isn’t good at dates and helped him—and by him, I mean me—figure out how to try to show that he… um, I am not a complete troll.”
“Is there a sticky note, or do I just pluck the petals off this daisy?”
The wince on his face—she’d berate herself for thinking it was cute later. Heath shook his head. “I always thought that was a cruel, barbaric thing to do. It’s like tearing wings off butterflies.”
“You just earned two brownie points.” Her gaze swept the cheerful little flower shop. Unlike the semi-dark and dingy places Jordan recalled from her childhood, the store was bright, well decorated, and inviting. The humid air mingled with the scent of carnations. That she still remembered and still loved.
A woman stepped forward. “Hello! What can I help you with today?”
“He was here first.”
The woman gave Heath a secret smile. “Yes, I know. I have already helped him. Yesterday.”
That caught her attention. “You did this yesterday?”
“After I dropped off cheesecake filled strawberries, yes.”
“After you—” If she hadn’t answered the phone, she would have answered the door at Arnie’s. And the car… “Hey, when did you put the note in my window?”
“After I left the strawberries with the guy at the house on Dogwood.”
He’d waited for her around town. She knew it. And then he’d come back today. “Um… thanks.” To the woman, she added, “I need a pink sticky note. Do you have any of those in stock?”
“Lo siento, Jordan, no. I do have something here with your name on it, though.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You asked for the pink. You speak to Heath. I know this. Come with me.”
From a small floral case behind the counter, the woman pulled a wrapped gardenia still on the stem, and tucked into the ferns and baby’s breath behind it, was a small, pink, sticky note daisy. “There are meanings to flowers. My husband has taught me these.” She pointed to the gardenia. “One of the meanings of the gardenia is hope.”
Jordan shot a look at Heath. “Hope for what?”
&nbs
p; “Second chances.”
Well, he’d certainly worked hard for one. She had to give him that. Jordan turned back to the florist and asked, “Okay… what about the daisy?”
“Daisies have many meanings. One is that the giver can keep a secret.”
“I’ll say.”
This time, Heath groaned. “I didn’t know until yesterday that you have a hard time with faces. I was sure you’d recognized me in The Diner last week.”
Embarrassment made her curt… almost rude. “Right. Whatever. So, any other ‘meanings’ I should know about?”
“Oh, sure. There’s purity, innocence, true love, and…”
Jordan saw it. The woman had made Heath squirm on purpose. Good for you. I’ll send my apology flowers to Mom from this place. Just as soon as I let her have it.
“… new beginnings.”
A poke through the pink daisy showed that she’d have to unfold it to read. “Do you remember what this said or showed?”
“Yes. It was a strawberry—sort of. There was something in it. Maybe it was supposed to be a blob of chocolate. Not good drawing.”
The woman’s Spanish accent grew thicker the more she spoke. From the back, a voice called out, “Lena, she’s supposed to work for it.”
“You stay out of this, Wayne Farrell. This is my job.” The accent—even thicker with Js sounding like “ch.” “She knows. I see it in her eyes.”
Jordan did know. She called out thanks and nearly ran to The Confectionary. Heath was already there, seated at a table, watching. How’d he get out of the shop so fast? When had he even left?
The candy case—pink-free. The same went for the ice cream case, the shelves, the tables. Everything. Jordan tried to meet Heath’s gaze, but he only stared at the door. Exasperated, she turned to the woman behind the counter. “I’m looking for—” A chair scraped against the floor. “—a pink sticky note.”
“I’d be looking at posters or fliers…” The woman winked at someone behind her. Heath, of course.
When she turned to the door, there it was, stuck to the back of a flier. A steaming coffee cup. This time, Jordan had a plan.
Heath opened the door. Jordan smiled in an attempt to disarm him. It worked, too. Then she bolted down the street. It took a few seconds, but the sounds of footfalls behind her told her that he’d caught on. Another second or two passed before she heard him ask—right behind her, of course— “Do you want me to beat you or not?”
“If you can.”
She should have known he’d be fast. He sprinted ahead and disappeared inside. In her defense, she had to dodge a woman coming out of The Market with a giant rolling handcart. Like I could have beat him. That dude is fast.
Heath sat, arms folded, feet propped on an extra chair, and not even panting. Under the bulletin board. Under a pink sticky note that had words this time. Pie and coffee at The Diner? Lunch at Rositas?
Jordan sat down beside him and fingered the note. “Rosita’s will be busy—so will The Diner.”
“True…”
“I’m calling Mom. Hang on.” A second later, she grabbed his sleeve. “Come with me.”
Heath came.
They passed through a narrow space between The Fox and a small resale shop just down from the square and ended up in the parking lot. Her Fit sat parked there.
“Hey, Mom? How much do you trust Heath?” The silence nearly killed him. “Enough to trust him at my house? Alone? With me?”
An eternity passed in the next fifteen or so seconds. A few “Mmm… hmmms” followed before she shoved her phone at him. “She wants to talk to you.”
Ann sounded excited. “She’s willing to bring you home. That’s big. It means she’s not mad at me, still trusts me, and willing to give you another shot. Don’t blow it.”
“Can’t promise that last one, but so far, so good. Ice broken, maybe?”
“Don’t know, but if prayers of someone who doesn’t really think they do anything but bounce off the walls helps, then I’ll throw some out into the cosmos.”
Ann… we’re going to have to talk Jesus someday. “Prayer is never a bad idea, Ann. I’d be honored to know you were praying for me. Thanks.”
Jordan gaped at him. When he passed back the phone, she took a step back. “Maybe I should rethink this. You may be some kind of witch or wizard or whatever they call guys who do evil things to get their way.”
“Or, maybe your mom just likes me and hopes that if she throws words at her walls, the ‘cosmos’ will give her favor and help me keep my bladder, dung beetle, and mating chimps stories to myself.”
Astonishment transformed into utter disbelief in one sharp intake of air. “What? Not really. Chimps? And you picked up Jane Goodall?”
“I had to get out of there before I blew it.”
She pointed to her Fit. “That’s my car. Want to have lunch at my house?”
Indecision struck with the force of ptomaine poisoning and twice as virulent. Throat dry, heart pounding, Heath stood there with clammy palms in his coat pockets and feeling eleven again. Courtney Callen. “Did you know lemurs are the only primates with blue eyes besides humans—just like yours. Will you go to the dance with me? They also are very intelligent—just like you.”
The sandwich approach. As usual, it had failed. Then his mother had called her mother, and the next thing he knew, he was taking Courtney to the winter dance. “Worst furlough ever.”
“What?”
Heath snapped to the present with raw honesty that should have served as warning bells for both of them. “Are you sure you want to risk it? Bladders aren’t my worst coping mechanism, unfortunately.”
“I’ll shut you up.”
Something told him she would, too. “Um…”
“Get in.”
Heath got.
Books talk about those lovely companionable silences that pour peaceful joyfulness into hearts. Books lie.
Misery. The misery that gives birth to every awkward and unwanted fact is the byproduct of silence. Awkward, horrible silence… That was more like it.
Unfortunately.
Then Jordan flashed him that smile. How God managed to contain Himself and wait thousands of years before creating it, Heath couldn’t imagine. Her eyes twinkled—in broad daylight! Those freckles beckoned like nature’s glitter across her nose and upper cheeks.
And now I’ve completely lost my mind.
“So… tell me something.” Jordan pulled onto Primrose Lane just as she asked. She also didn’t wait for him to agree. “Just how did you know I’d find the notes today instead of last night?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you asked,” she reminded him as she pulled into the driveway, “if I’d meet for lunch at The Diner or Rosita’s”
Heath pulled the crumpled dinner invitation from his pocket. “I got there in time to switch it out.”
Car in park, Jordan out, she peered at him over the top. “That was anticlimactic. You should know that.”
“I’ll remember.”
The house was impressive. He didn’t know what caregivers made, but it had to be much more than he’d imagined to afford a house in Fairbury at all. Still, the interior seemed a bit… cold for someone like Jordan. “Nice house.”
She glanced around her as she dumped her things on a table in the entry. As she shrugged out of her coat, she half-agreed. “Is it? I guess. I like the structure and some of the bigger pieces of furniture, but D.C. keeps it sterile enough for his military-loving heart.”
“D.C.?”
“The owner.” Before he could ask, Jordan led him through the living room to the kitchen. “Let’s see what’s in here. Oh, and I’m just housesitting while he’s deployed. Saving to buy my own.”
That he could get behind. “It didn’t seem to reflect you, but then I realized I don’t know you that well.”
“Or at all…”
An argument formed before he could stop it. “I disagree there. I know quite a few things about you.”
Jordan closed the fridge and held up one finger. “Burritos or sandwiches?”
“Sandwiches?”
“Good choice. After being offered Rosita’s, mine would just be a terrible reminder of what I was missing out on. Roast beef?”
After assurances that he’d be happy with anything and offering to help, as well as being relegated to the mini breakfast bar and told to stay put, Heath began his assessment. “First, you are the kind of person who, when she’s faced with an insufferable bore, listens politely and leaves without being unkind. Second, you invest in your clients far beyond taking them a meal or driving them to a doctor’s appointment.”
“Yep, I even help them get over their attachment to ugly tchotchkes. I’m a hero.” Jordan winced. “Sorry. Still feeling a little guilty over just how eager I was to help Arnie cut the lace and crystal from his life yesterday. Hoping he’s not regretting that.”
“Well, you also found something understandable in a guy who attacked you today. You’ve got a great mom who fought for my promotion at the risk of her own job.”
Jordan froze. A moment later, she looked up and locked eyes with him. “Wait… you’re that guy?”
A shiver rippled through him. What’d Ann say about me? Not trusting himself to speak without squeaking, Heath nodded.
“Ron was so mad at her for risking everything like that, but she said, ‘If they don’t trust my judgment, I’ll go somewhere they do. He’s the best, and I want him.’”
“Wow. I was sure that it was a non-risk—that they’d never actually accept her resignation so they’d be sure she never had to give it.”
Jordan slathered all four slices of bread with mayonnaise before wincing and asking, “Um… do you do mayo?”
“Yep. Mustard, too.”
“Gross.” But she pulled a squeeze bottle from the fridge and set it in front of him. “Anyway, on a happier note, Mom thought one of the board members wanted someone he knew—probably a nephew—to get it. So, she decided you were worth the stand against nepotism.”
He accepted his sandwich, gave it a squirt of mustard, and asked the question that he suspected was a universal one. “Why don’t they just call it ‘nephewtism’ and get it over with?”
