by Opal Carew
“Because I’m the one who hired you.”
“Wait. I thought Mike did?”
Mrs. Gray shook her head. “No. They left it up to me.”
“But why? Todd really doesn’t need anyone to cook for him.”
It was a sad older lady who cared an awful lot for Todd Best who now faced her. “Not now he doesn’t. He did before. Now he just needs someone in his life and I thought… “
“You mean you’ve been personally selecting chefs to set him up with?”
“Terribly silly, I know. But a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you know, plus I thought the proximity… “ Sad little puppy dog eyes implored, “You won’t tell him, will you?”
Guilt scissored up Jolie’s spine. She had her own secrets—who was she to criticize? Plus, Mrs. Gray obviously loved him and Jolie was such a sucker for that kind of familial love. “I’m not going to lie, Mrs. Gray.” Unless it was by omission. That, she could do. Especially when the omission had such wonderful motivation behind it. And she was the direct beneficiary of it. “But I won’t say anything unless he asks.”
“Thank you, dear. I knew you’d be perfect for this, er, job.” She reached down to pat Boots’s head, sending loud purrs rumbling from the kitty’s belly.
“Mrs. Gray, what’s with calling Boots Jonathan?”
“Oh, that.” Mrs. Gray stood and patted her bun again, then wiped the countertop with the folded dishtowel. “I must have slipped up and called him the name of my old kitty. Yes, that’s it. My old kitty, Jonathan, who’s no longer with us.” She took off her apron. “Now, I have a few things to tidy up in the other rooms, so I’ll leave you be.” She patted Boots once more. “I’ll see you later.”
Jolie might have believed her if Mrs. Gray hadn’t removed the apron. Who cleaned in their good clothes?
She stared at Boots, who was sitting on the tile floor, licking milk from his whiskers and swatting dust bunnies with his tail. Or cat-fur bunnies, because the place was too clean for dust.
“Why do you suppose it is, Boots, that I think there’s more to your little furry face than meets the eye?”
“Meow.”
Jolie’s cell phone rang. Jolie studied Boots’s blank stare a moment or two longer while the phone trilled again.
“Saved by the bell,” she muttered, glancing at caller ID. She recognized that number. “Hi, Bella.”
“Jolie! Thank God. I need your help.”
“What’s up? You sound worried sick.”
“I’m understaffed for that big gig I was telling you about. Bruno’s out of commission and Giuseppe didn’t get clearance from his doctor to come back to work. Reese said he’d help out, but you know what happens when he shows up at events.”
Bella’s husband was a famous ex-professional football player. He usually became the event through no fault of his own. Yeah, low key didn’t exactly happen around him. “What happened to Bruno?”
“He broke both his legs chasing a cat out of the kitchen, if that doesn’t sound weird,” Bella answered.
“You don’t say.” Jolie glanced at Boots. Mr. Innocent was playing with cat-fur bunnies.
“Yes, and Drew’s taking care of him, so she’s out.”
“Drew? I thought Drew was dating Jimmy DeLeo? What’s he have to say about that?”
“Not much I’m guessing. She said it’s hard to have a relationship when Jimmy’s studying abroad. So, is there any chance you could help me out?”
As if she’d turn Bella down. When there’d been nowhere for her to turn, Bella had opened her door. And given her more than a boost to where she was today.
Jolie glanced out the kitchen window, a perfect view of the gorgeous swimming pool—and a catty-corner view of the west wing. Where Todd was.
Yep, this was a pretty darned nice place to be.
“Of course I’ll help, Bel. When is it?”
Boots seemed to have tired of bunnies and was working on sheep. He wound his tail around his body and fell asleep faster than humanly—or cat-ly as the case might be—possible with some serious Zs coming from that itty bitty kitty mouth.
“Friday. I know it’s last minute—”
“Hey, no problem. I don’t have any plans. Do you need help with the food, too?”
“Oh, God, really?” Bella sounded more than a little relieved. “You’re a godsend, Jolie.”
Not what dear old mama had had to say, but whatever. “Of course I’ll help you, Bella. You want me to come by on Thursday for prep?”
They agreed on one o’clock and Jolie fluffed off Bella’s profusion of thanks as she hung up. She owed her friend more than she’d ever be able to repay, what with the job she’d given her years ago, the encouragement to go to culinary school—not to mention the loan—plus a bed when there hadn’t been enough money for a place to sleep.
Speaking of sleep… “Is there some reason you’re ignoring me, Boots?”
Nothing—not even a whisker flicker. That cat was good. Or she was out of her mind. He hadn’t really caused Bruno’s accident—had he?
“Was that Bella Casteleoni, dear? Earl and I so enjoy her restaurant. “ Mrs. Gray walked back in the kitchen and Jolie shook of the ridiculous thought. Boots was a kitten, not some imp in disguise.
She turned her attention to Mrs. Gray and explained about Bella’s dilemma.
“This Friday?” Mrs. Gray wrung her hands. “Oh dear.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Well, you see, Charles wanted us to come back this weekend and babysit so he and his wife could go away for a few days. The new baby and all, you know. And, well, since you’re here, I called him yesterday and said that it wouldn’t be a problem. But now Todd will be all alone.”
“You mean Todd hasn’t been alone in two whole years?” That might be a bit obsessive for everyone concerned. “Wait a minute. Yes, he was. The morning I got here. You’d left already.” She stopped—the condition he’d been in when she’d gotten here didn’t bolster her argument.
Perhaps leaving him alone wasn’t such a good idea.
“It’s not that, dear. But Earl and I won’t be around and you could both be here, all alone, over the whole weekend… “
“Mrs. Gray, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” It was one thing to be in the moment with Todd, to wish and think what-if thoughts, but to actively pursue something she wasn’t sure was in her best interests—
Mrs. Gray wrung her hands. “Oh, but Jolie, one can hope, you know.”
Oh, Jolie knew all about hoping and Todd.
“Mrs. Gray, really. I’m here to do a job and that’s it. Regardless of who hired me. It’s awfully nice that you consider me worthy of Todd—” and, gosh, it truly was—”but I just don’t think he’s at that point yet.” Though, apparently his body was on the mend quite nicely. But Mrs. Gray didn’t need to know that.
I notice you didn’t say a thing about you not being ready for the match, Naughty Girl mocked.
Go away. Maybe that’s because I am ready.
You did not just say that!
It wasn’t often she could pull one over on Naughty Girl.
“Please, Mrs. Gray, go to your son’s house. Let him and his wife have their weekend. Think of it as matchmaking for them. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get another grandchild out of the bargain.”
Mrs. Gray smiled. “Now wouldn’t that be nice.”
“I’ve got it!” Todd shoved open the French door to the kitchen behind her, almost sending it—and Mrs. Gray—careening into the wall.
Jolie cringed, expecting to hear the shatter of glass at any moment.
“Got what, dear?” asked Mrs. Gray.
He strode in, picked up the older woman, spun her around, gave her a kiss on the cheek, then repeated the whole exercise with Jolie.
“I’ve got it,” he said again, smiling away.
“Got what?” Mrs. Gray repeated.
“It,” he said as if “it” were a common everyday occurrence one got.
<
br /> “It?” Poor lady was so confused.
“It,” he repeated.
“Oh, I get it,” Jolie jumped into the “it” fray. “It.”
Todd smiled her way and crossed his arms in front of him. “It.”
She beamed back, happy for him.
“Would one of you kindly explain to me what ‘it’ is? All sorts of horrible medical possibilities are running through my head.” Mrs. Gray leaned against the granite counter with a hand over her heart.
They laughed as Todd gave her another hug. “Not to worry, Jasmine. Nothing deadly. I’ve simply gotten that elusive something I’ve been trying for when I’m sketching Jolie.”
Mrs. Gray looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “And what exactly is that, Todd?”
“Can’t explain it. It’s an essence about her. Part of her. And I couldn’t get it. Until—” he wagged a finger at Jolie—”I added the paint. Oil, in this case.”
“Oh really? So I’m right, am I?” She was entitled to her moment of triumph.
“Go ahead and gloat. I feel like I’m on top of the world.” His fingers traced up her arm. “Just like I did the day I painted my first sunset and the colors blossomed before my eyes and I could feel the heat of the waning sun.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Todd.” Mrs. Gray clasped her hands together, her eyes darting between the two of them.
With her honing in on the location of his hand, Jolie was wondering what exactly the “that’s wonderful” was about.
“It does feel pretty wonderful,” he said, his pearly whites gleaming. “So wonderful, that I’m just going to grab a sandwich and head back into my studio. I probably won’t make it out for dinner.”
“We’ll send a tray up then.” Mrs. Gray looked at Jolie, pointedly. “Jolie can bring it up.”
Nah, she wasn’t matchmaking much, was she?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
With Todd at work in the attic and Mrs. Gray doing whatever she was doing (“catching up”—yeah, right), Jolie sat down to give Annie and Tom some of Mrs. Gray’ words of wisdom.
One can hope.
Well, sure. One could. But hope alone wasn’t going to work everything out, not without some help from “one.” In order for Annie to have her happily-ever-after, she was going to have to metaphorically straighten her backbone and tell Tom what she wanted out of life and where he fit in. Proactive instead of reactive. No more waiting for life to hand her the lemonade—she was going to make her own.
Hmmm. Make lemonade. She’d heard that analogy before.
Well, heck, she could “make lemonade,” too. Or, if she chose not to, she could let the ingredients sit and rot.
One can hope.
Hope hadn’t done anything all by itself at any point in her life. Hope had always needed a nudge. And if she was going to write Annie with determination, she darn well better take her own advice. It was all well and good for Todd not to be sure, to “take it as it goes,” but she was done being buffeted by others’ wishes. It was time she stood up for hers.
“Mrs. Gray.” She strode into the den where Mrs. Gray had situated herself for an afternoon of lust, lies and improbable plot lines—AKA the afternoon soap lineup. “Would you mind watching Boots for me?”
“Who? Oh, Boots.” Mrs. Gray slid in the recliner, straining her eyes from TV’s top vixen who held a gun on yet another unsuspecting husband. Couldn’t the woman be more inventive? “Well, certainly, dear, but why don’t you join me?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so.” Jolie had had enough with improbable plot lines in her own reality to want to watch them on television. Besides, she had lemonade to make. “I have errands to run. I’ll be back in time to take Todd’s tray in to him.”
“All right. Just plop Jonathan on my lap, then. Have a nice time, dear.” It was probably the fact that the vixen decided to pull the trigger that had Mrs. Gray so distracted to call Boots after her old cat. She must really miss him.
***
Melanie zoomed Jolie on over to the local mall in search of figurative lemonade. With Todd’s house as sterile and empty as it was, her first step if she wanted to envision herself in his life (and she did), was to be able to envision herself in his home. But at present, it wasn’t really a home. Just a shell where he bided his time. So, as an investment in her future, albeit small (to be in line with her budget), she was setting out to make his house a home.
In a fine arts store she found a nice selection of discounted art deco pictures, two of which would go in Todd’s den, another for the dining room, and another for her bedroom. His landscapes were understandably off-limits, but surely all pictures couldn’t be.
Just as she was leaving, she found a group of decorative plates with a French bistro theme that would be perfect in the kitchen.
A fabric store down the way had some pre-made tab curtains in a bold splashy material that would look really cute in the studio. Not feminine at all and certainly busy enough to hold her attention during four hours (groan) of sitting.
Next door to that was a bath store. She loved scented candles and potpourri. Niceties she never had growing up, which was why she’d had a large selection in her apartment before the fire, so she picked up some lavender candles for her bathroom, some sandalwood ones for Todd’s (not that she’d been in there, but, as Mrs. Gray said, one could always hope) and some vanilla ones for the kitchen. Boots should like those.
She returned in time for the dinner preparation. She looked in on Mrs. Gray (a familiar theme song blaring away on the telly), and found that the older woman and Boots had decided to take a nap. Mr. Gray was in there on the sofa, too. No wonder Todd offered them a room. Picture-hanging was out for the moment, though the candles did make it to their respective rooms, which was more than she could say for the three sleeping in the den.
She threw together a light and fluffy dinner of a Spanish potato omelet, tomato/cucumber salad, and focaccia with pesto.
“It smells wonderful, dear,” Mrs. Gray said, rubbing her eyes, waking at just the right moment. “Is there anything you need me to do?”
“Nope. We just have to wait for the omelet to cool to room temperature. That’s how it’s best. In the meantime, I’m going to hang the pictures I bought.”
“Earl, go help the girl.”
“That’s okay, really. I can do it.”
“Nonsense, Jolie. We want to help.”
Jolie shared a smile with her. She knew all about the help Mrs. Gray wanted to give.
“Perhaps I could use a step ladder,” Jolie conceded.
Mr. Gray went on his merry way to get a ladder while Mrs. Gray gave her a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” Jolie really did not want the hug to end.
“For trying to make this house a home.”
“Oh, well, they’re just a few things, nothing—”
“I’m not talking about the pictures, Jolie, though they are a nice touch.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” Mrs. Gray smiled and stepped back, linking their hands. “I’m thanking you for loving him, of course.”
“How… how do you know?” Was it written on her face? Jolie hearts Todd?
Mrs. Gray cupped her cheek just as her breath hitched and her throat closed with something suspiciously like tears.
“It’s perfectly obvious and perfectly understandable, dear. And perfectly acceptable.” Boots twined around their ankles as Jolie’s insides went all warm and mushy. “Even your gua—er, kitty here can tell.” Mrs. Gray picked him up. “Right, Boots?”
Boots stretched out to lick Jolie’s nose. There was something weird with this animal.
“So.” Mrs. Gray handed the kitten to Jolie then assembled a dinner tray for Todd. “Why don’t you take this up to him? Earl and I can handle hanging the pictures.”
Somehow the woman made the switch of kitten for tray all the while ushering Jolie toward the door which, conveniently was opened by Mr. Gray at just the
right moment.
“Have fun,” he said with a wink.
***
Jolie opened the door to the attic and saw Todd’s face shadowed like a black and white photograph in the light cast by the chrome floor lamp. He was bent over the canvas, one paintbrush between his teeth, another whipping over the canvas, a palette in his other hand, deep lines of concentration crisscrossing his forehead. He dabbed at the palette, then back at the canvas, and that lock of hair fell forward again. He flicked his head to move it out of his way.
His eyes met hers.
Wine sloshed over the edge of the glass as the tray trembled in her hands. “Dinner.”
Eloquence personified.
“Gweat.” He slid the brush from his mouth. “I mean, great.” Down went the palette and brushes onto the stool, and he headed toward her.
She held out the tray like an offering at church, and, yeah, worship came to mind. She couldn’t help it. He looked so darn yummy all rumpled like that, with a rainbow of paint slashes on his t-shirt, mussed hair, and another pair of brushes sticking out of his shorts pocket. But most of all, there was peace in his eyes. The haunted look she’d first met was gone.
“I didn’t realize it was that late.” He took the food, his fingers brushing hers. “Thanks. This looks delicious. Want to join me?” He looked around, then smiled sheepishly. “I guess I need to get a table. Sorry, I hadn’t thought about eating in here.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I’ll, um, eat later. I’ve got some writing to do.”
He raised the tray, tomato salad corner a tad higher than the rest. “This?”
“What?”
“Are you including this in the cookbook?”
Yeah, guilt razored down her spine. “The cookbook. Right. Yes.”
He squinted at her, all six-foot-four of him hunkering down to meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”
Define okay. “Certainly. Fine. Why do you ask?”
“You’re not your usual foaming-at-the-mouth self. And I mean that in the best possible way.” A dimple glimmered in his cheek.
