The Second Yes

by Amanda Tru

  She didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t that his words were disingenuous. Rather, the tone and his demeanor felt stitched with scratchy embroidery. Each second that passed only added to the irrational irritation, so she murmured a half-hearted, “Thanks,” and snatched up another buffalo sprout.

  Lord, forgive me, but I suddenly want a real buffalo wing. With meat. Actual chicken meat. And the thing is, he wouldn’t care if I did. Would he? It’s me. All me. Once she’d gotten started, Lara couldn’t stop her thoughts. Why do I feel like I know him less now that we’re engaged than I did before we were? Why am I suddenly awkward around him?

  “You’re probably waiting for my answer. No, I’ve never had a problem with porn. I’ve seen it. I wasn’t interested. I never looked again and didn’t linger when I ran across it.”

  The impulse to say, “Well, bully for you,” shocked and dismayed her. Am I that petty that I resent him for having a stronger moral compass or whatever?

  “That probably sounds a bit self-righteous.”

  How she kept her, “A bit,” from sounding as snappish as she felt, Lara could only attribute to God’s mercy.

  “It’s not, I promise. There’s no virtue in resisting what doesn’t interest you.”

  A kiss stole her attention until Lara had forgotten they were in the middle of premarital counseling homework. But as Preston finally released her and speared his first sprout, he said, “Now that, on the other hand, is a definite temptation.”

  Still held hostage by emotions he’d stirred into a swirling vortex, Lara could only think of one thing. Flirting. You were going to try flirting with him. He deserves that.

  “I see how it is,” she murmured as she gazed at him under lowered lashes. “Make me have to confess that my life is now a romance novel…” Lara winked.

  Preston, on the other hand, rose, kissed her temple, and backed away. “I’m sorry. I guess I should go. I’ll see you later tonight or maybe on Tuesday.”

  “Pres—”

  But he’d already turned. A moment later, he was at the door. A moment after that, she heard him on the stairs.

  “Apparently, I’m a lousy flirter.”

  A blanket of white amplified the quiet hush of New Cheltenham before it came alive—such as it would on a Monday, anyway. Lauren Kinsey burst through the door, shattering that silence in a bang, a huff, and an echoing bang as she shoved the door shut again. In what felt like one bounding step, she crossed the room and dropped a math book and notebook onto his desk. “Brenna is more relaxed.”

  “Good!” What are you doing here?

  “Maybe for you,” the most “un-tweeny” tween he’d ever come across snapped.

  “And it’s not for you?” Please don’t say it’s for math help. I’m hopeless with stuff involving letters.

  “She relaxed when she got away from here. She never goes anywhere, because she has to take care of me. Therefore, because of me, my sister is all stressed out.”

  Lauren reached for something in her pocket and pulled out a mechanical pencil. “What do I do?”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about?” And do not ask me what a diffidential equation is. That thought brought an involuntary smile to his lips. Good one. That would have been one of my childhood malapropisms.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  Time to stop goofing around. “Lara… talk to me.”

  “Let’s start with my name. I’m Laur-en. She’s Lar-a.” His self-smile had shifted to her lips. A second glance confirmed it. Laur-en was quite pleased with herself.

  A defensive response blurted out before he could realize it was defensive. “I’ve been spending more time with her lately, and your names are similar.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go with that.” Brenna opened her math book, flipped a few pages, set her pencil and notebook on top, and flopped back in the chair again. “How do I get Brenna to do things?”

  “Like…”

  The eraser end of the pencil—an almost non-existent eraser at that—tapped against the notebook as she thought. “Well… manicures? Pedicures? No, that’s just gross. People messing with your feet and stuff. Ew.”

  “Does she like manicures?”

  There, Lauren just shrugged. “I’ve never seen her get one. Maybe she needs a hobby. The knit wits?” That idea got dismissed almost as quickly as Lauren made it. “No, she’s staid enough as it is.”

  “Do you know how unusual it is for a twelve-year-old girl to use the word staid?”

  “Do you know how unusual,” Lauren retorted, “—it is for an almost teenager to have a sister under thirty who can be called staid? I’m a product of my environment.”

  And you know what that even means. I didn’t at your age.

  “So what do I do? If I suggest something, she’ll probably take up bingo or something.”

  At exactly the same time, Lauren and Ty said, “No, whist.” Ty added, “Okay, what about just more dates… more days off the store? Why does this need to be a big group thing? You wanted them together…”

  “But she relaxed when she got away from here. Maybe we should set her up for one of those mystery shopper things, but instead she’s rates and reviews travel things—airlines, cruises, trains, hotels, and stuff.” Once she got going, Lauren couldn’t stop. “She could even do picking on the trips!”

  Ty knew better than to ask, but he did it anyway. “What is picking?”

  “You know, finding stuff for the shop. We’ve got pickers who do some for us, but Brenna goes out whenever she can because we make more when we find it ourselves. She just doesn’t like to leave me alone that much.” The girl huffed and flung the pencil at the notebook. It hit the only tiny piece of plastic rubber left on that pencil and bounced end over end into Ty’s lap. “It’s like she forgets I’m not nine anymore. I can handle the store just fine!”

  His gut said he shouldn’t say it, but Ty did anyway. “Hint to the grown-up kids among us. The minute you say something like that, you prove that you’re not old enough after all.”

  The expected outburst didn’t appear. Instead, Lauren cocked her head and held out her hand for her pencil. “Really? So what do I say? How do I convince her to do stuff so she won’t be all stressed out?”

  If he hadn’t been watching, if he hadn’t listened carefully to every word, Ty would have missed it—that tiny crack in the middle of the word, “stressed.” It tugged at his heart and prompted him to move around the desk and sit beside her. Though he ached to hug her—assure her that all would be well—Ty resisted. It’s a messed up world when a preacher can’t comfort a hurting kid.

  A truth he hadn’t considered before crowded out that thought. Yeah, and it’s been a messed up world since Adam stood there and watched his wife seal the fate of mankind. So, why do I think that I get to exempt myself from doing right just because “conventional wisdom” says I should to protect myself?

  He hugged her. “I need to throw a few things out there first.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Brenna loves you. She loves her store. She loves her life here with you and her store. She wouldn’t trade any of that for anything except that, of course, I know she’d love to have your parents back.”

  “I know.” The words came out wavering and weak. “I do. Really. But I keep hearing people say how refreshed and relaxed she seems since she got back. She needs girl time, not to be a second mom to me.”

  He’d expected to have to brainstorm for better ideas than whist or pedicures, but the obvious one came to him almost without effort. “I feel foolish. It’s simple.”

  “Then enlighten the even simpler one over here. I’m lost. Everything sounds dumb to me.”

  “It’s the wedding. It’s the perfect solution. They’ll be doing all that girlie stuff—finding shoes and flowers and jewelry. I’ll just tell Lara to make sure she keeps it up after the wedding. It’ll feel natural to Brenna after all that extra time spent together. One stress-free sister coming up.”

 
; Something in her expression hinted she might not go for it, but then Lauren nodded. “I heard Lara say they wouldn’t have kids for a few years. That would make me at least fifteen or sixteen by the time she’s too busy with babies to keep Brenna from going nuts. Maybe by then…”

  Lauren snatched up the notebook and copied a problem down before passing it to him. “So, what do you know about square roots. I stink at them.”

  Me too, kid. Still, at least they use actual numbers.

  He’d just remembered that he needed to divide two numbers at once when Lauren said, “Of course, if I can convince Lara to dump Pressie’s sorry bum, then we’ll still have to come up with an alternate plan.”

  That shouldn’t sound like as much of a good idea as it does.

  A tweet greeted her as Lara brushed through the doorway of The Secret Garden. A rustle of leaves so faint she almost missed them followed a moment later. Another tweet. If you listened close, you could hear a gurgle of water somewhere. Several tweets.

  Lara stood inside the door, eyes closed, and listened. She allowed herself a dip into her imagination and felt the breeze, smelled the damp earth. When her eyes opened, a man stood opposite her on the other side of the counter. “Do you like the music or the scent of flowers?”

  “Both?” She stepped forward with her hand outstretched. “I’m Lara—”

  “—ra Priest. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Wayne Farrell—owner of Fairbury’s “The Pettler” and now New Cheltenham’s shop as well. He was taller, broader, bigger than she’d imagined. She’d expected a mousy little man, and, much to her chagrin, a bit effeminate. Lara covered her embarrassment by gushing. “When I heard you were taking over The Secret Garden, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I needed to use the local shop, but I really wanted your work. And I got both!”

  “I scoped out the church earlier… just through the windows, but it looks like a great location. We can do pretty much anything you like in there.”

  The discussion began. Lara pulled out her phone and showed the ledges at the bottom of each of the arched windows. “I thought maybe floral sprays at the base of each. And then if we could do a larger version at the base of the giant window behind where that pulpit is—it’ll be moved, of course.”

  She went on to describe the archway curtain of flowers that Ty had told her about. “I don’t know if the groom’s family will go for it, but I like it better than the idea of having a kid there just because we need a kid. That’s silly.”

  Wayne-the-florist pointed to the aisle on her phone. “I’ve also seen it done where they create a thick mound of rose petals along each row there to frame the aisle. It also removes the need for a runner. And, if you prefer, there’s no reason your bridesmaids can’t surreptitiously drop petals as they walk to have a few on the ground in the middle if you wanted them.”

  That idea struck her as perfect. She pulled out her planner and sketched out the idea in a perfect display of stick figures and, unrecognizable to anyone but herself, pews and an aisle. “So, like this…”

  “Looks great for the space, too. With that, I’d forgo the curtain, but maybe keep the archway at the opening to the doors. I always think we neglect the area that showcases the bride the most.”

  “The top could have that same spray…?”

  “What kind of flowers?”

  Lara chewed the end of her pen, unwilling to make anything permanent. “Well, I know my fiancé expects lilies, but I think they stink. I don’t want them. I want the old English garden roses—the big, fat, swirly ones. And if they come in ivory or pale yellow with a hint of blush, all the better.”

  He made notes, writing in a ratty notebook atop an old French door covered in tempered glass. It had all the rustic beauty that a shop like his should have and yet practicality, too. “All right. If you’ll just put your number at the top of the page there, I’ll send you a text when I have a few options ready for you to look at—probably not until the middle of next week.”

  That was it. She walked out of the shop and into the cobbled street on Piccadilly Square. The beautiful sounds of nature gave way to other sounds she couldn’t place. A door jingle followed. A car door slammed somewhere, followed by the blip, blip of the alarm setting. The rattle of a dolly truck being pushed along the sidewalk caused her to glance over her shoulder. There he was—the UPS man. Even the big brown trucks weren’t allowed on the streets of New Cheltenham. Pedestrians only, except for rare occasions.

  She’d planned to take her things upstairs and get ready for work, but yelling in the kitchen sent her racing back. There, with a bloody towel around his hand, the prep cook tried not to wince as Carlo berated him for his carelessness and stupidity.

  Lara stepped in. “How bad is it?”

  “He’s got blood all over—”

  “Del. How bad is it?”

  “Stitches,” was all the man could gasp out.

  “I’ll take you to the medic myself.”

  Del shook his head. “Juli… went for… someone. I was just… trying to… clean this up.”

  “Sit down.” Lara glared when he hesitated. “Hand over your head. Now.”

  Carlo protested. Lara turned on him. “I’ll finish the salad prep myself, but when someone gets hurt in my restaurant,” she glared and stopped him from responding. “Even in your kitchen, he gets seen and is off the floor for the night. Period.”

  Coat off, sleeves rolled up, Lara scrubbed her hands, doused them in lemon juice, and rinsed again—an unnecessary step but one Carlo insisted on for handling raw vegetables after washing. She wasn’t in the mood to argue. At the prep table, she realized her mistake. “Help! I need an apron here. Forgot that, and don’t want to wash my hands again.”

  No, she couldn’t work half as fast as Del, and after seeing the look on the medic’s face at the sight of Del’s hand, Lara worked even slower than usual. However, it kept salad prep going until their other prep cook could arrive. When Carlo stepped out to inspect a shipment, the tournant stepped close the moment Lara set down her knife. “It’s Carlo’s fault. That’s why he’s so mad. He startled Del by shouting at someone, and the knife slipped.”

  “Thanks.” She’d seen near misses enough to believe it. “I’ll talk to him after closing, so you guys don’t have to deal with it.”

  A nod, a point to a piece she’d missed, and the tournant went back to the other prep work not being done. “Just glad I came in early to play with that sauce I was working on.”

  Me, too.

  The other prep cook burst in the door just as Lara reached for her first onion. Thank you, Jesus! And I mean that with every bit of my heart!

  Lara stepped away, hands up as if someone called time in a cooking competition, and went to scrub her hands. Lather, fingernail brush, lather again, rinse. It was at the end of the rinse cycle that she noticed.

  “Oh, no!”

  “What?” The question came from all corners of the kitchen, Carlo’s voice the loudest.

  “My ring. It’s gone!”

  The kitchen grew silent enough to hear each bubble, sizzle, and even the ting of a fan in the walk-in refrigerator. Gotta get that fixed.

  “Where’d you last see it?”

  Lara glared at Carlo. “Um, that would be on my hand!”

  He scowled at her. “I meant, where were you when you last saw it on your hand?”

  It took more effort than it should have, but Lara managed to mumble out an apology. “I’ve got to find—”

  “Where?”

  He was right, of course. She needed to find it—fast. Every second was a second it could get washed—” She dove for the drain, but it was empty. “I saw it here. It was on my hand when I washed them the last time—after chopping tomatoes.”

  Head swimming, everything sounded garbled as Lara fought the temptation to collapse into a puddle of ineptitude. He’s going to kill me. He loves that ring.

  Someone said they’d call Jack Leighton—the town handyman. “He’ll take ou
t the trap. It’s probably in there.”

  Carlo—that voice she couldn’t mistake, demanded one of the busboys go through the garbage near the sink. “Check every bit of it. It might have come off in the paper towel after she dried her hands.”

  “True! I’ll look—”

  He ordered her out of his kitchen, but Lara dropped to all fours and crawled around on the floor, looking under the mats, between the crates, behind the stoves. When that didn’t yield anything, she went for the prep table and poked through the chopped veggies.

  “Stop! You contaminate—”

  “I don’t care! Throw it away. But find that ring!”

  Once the first garbage can was cleared as ring-free, she dumped everything she’d touched and went for the salads. Carlo protested. “Let me wash my hands and look. I’ll put on gloves. But you can’t throw away those salads! We don’t have time.”

  He was right, of course, but Lara didn’t care. Or, rather, she didn’t want to care. She did, however, decide to agree to keep her filthy fingers out of the fresh salad if someone would dig through every bit of lettuce and cucumber to find that ring.

  Someone led her to the door to her stairs. “Go change. Get ready. We’ll find it by the time you get down. They need you out front, and we need to get this done. Just go.”

  Lara went. What else could she do?

  With one hand on the shower nozzle and one peeling off her shirt, a pounding on her door sent Lara through odd contortions to get her shirt back on by the time she reached the door. With an overzealous jerk to the hem, she yanked it in place as she flung open the door and found one of the busboys standing there holding the ring.

  “Wow! That was fast!”

  “Carlo just shook the bowls until one clinked. It saved a few bowls, at least.”

  “I should have had it off. I wonder if we should toss that salad anyway. Ask him.”

  “He said no when someone asked. Said you’d cleaned your hands well, and that’s all that mattered.”