by Nancy Warren
“How long was it before you knew…” He didn’t know how to end the sentence without sounding like a sentimental fool.
“Before I knew she was the one? The love of my life?” Iris’s dad clearly had no issues about sounding like a romantic fool. “Let’s see. I climbed on a Greyhound bus north of San Francisco. Saw Daphne right away. By the time we got to Portland, probably, I knew.
“You fell in love within hours?”
The older man grinned. “Minutes if you want to know the truth.” He sent Geoff a look that suggested he saw more than Geoff wanted him to. Like he was sizing him up as a possible son-in-law. “That’s how it happens sometimes. If you’re lucky.” And he slapped Geoff on the back and heeded his wife’s call to help him in the kitchen.
After Geoff had eaten far too much and then been served a slab of strawberry shortcake the size of a road paver, Daphne announced that it was time for presents.
“No, Mom,” Iris protested. “Nobody wants to watch me open gifts.”
“Yeah. We do.” Cooper said in his boisterous way. Cooper was the youngest boy, he’d told Geoff when he introduced himself and though he was in grad school he didn’t seem like he took life too seriously. “And if I don’t get major kudos, my present’s going back to the store.”
So Geoff found himself part of a circle watching Iris open gifts.
There were the obvious no-imagination presents of scarves and bath products. A Kiss the Cook apron, some chocolates, but those were mostly from old friends and she acted delighted with everything. Her mother handed her a large box and said, “It’s for the café but if you don’t like it you know I won’t mind.”
Iris opened the box and cried out with unfeigned delight. She lifted out an enormous ceramic sunflower with a clock mechanism. “I love it. It will look perfect on that big blank wall.” Then she and Daphne posed for a photo with the clock.
From her sister Rose, the doctor, she got a card. When she opened it and read the contents she blushed and said, “No, it’s too much.”
Her sister shook her head. “The first one’s on me.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
He wondered what that was about. The first what? Figured he’d probably never know. It was likely some obscure cosmetic procedure he didn’t need to hear about.
When she got to his present, she glanced up in distress and said, “Oh, Geoff, you didn’t need to get me anything. Not when my mother roped you into coming.”
“Happy to be here. I wanted to.”
He found that he was excited to see her open the gift, as excited as he’d been when he spotted it. Okay, he hadn’t casually spotted it, he’d tracked it down online and driven all the way to Portland to pick it up.
He wasn't the type to wrap things obscurely to hide what they were so it was quite obvious the wrapping covered a book.
When she ripped off the wrapping she said, “Oh.” She held it up. “Progress of Love, Alice Munro.” She opened it almost as though she were going to start reading right there and then and she squealed. “It’s a signed first edition!”
The book hadn’t been particularly expensive but he’d wanted the gift to be special. He was pretty sure he’d succeeded in the birthday present department.
“Geoff.” Her face lit up as he’d hoped it would. “I can’t believe you found this. I love it.” And she ran across the room to hug him. “Photo,” she cried. “I need a photo.”
When he would have risen, she perched on his lap holding the book toward her brother who snapped pictures. He slipped an arm around her waist and posed.
Before she left his lap, she turned her head. Their faces were inches apart. “Thank you,” she said softly and kissed him briefly on the lips.
When the gifts were done people started to drift away, gathering coats and leaving. He judged it was time for him to take his leave.
“Thanks for a great evening, Daphne and Jack,” he said to his hosts. He turned to Iris, felt that sizzle once more. “Happy Birthday again.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you out.”
And so she walked him to the door. They found his coat and he hesitated, wanting to kiss her so badly it hurt but, knowing she’d made it clear she wanted to be friends, and besides her family was inside. He settled for a hug. A long hug that had a lot of sensations to it that did not scream friend.
As he trudged off toward his car, he heard her say, “Mom, Evan’s parked behind my car. Tell him to move it.”
He heard her mother respond, “He and Caitlyn have gone to bed already.” There was a short pause. “I don't want to disturb them.”
“No. They’re probably having sex.” She made an irritated sound. “How did he not know that was my car? How am I supposed to get home?”
Geoff felt the evening was about to take a decided uptick when he turned back to the house. “I can give you a ride home. It’s on my way.”
She stood in the doorway, backlit, so all he saw was her silhouette. Even the shadowy curves thrilled him. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Want me to wait?”
“No. I’m ready to leave.”
He headed back to the house. “I can do Sherpa duty then. Help haul the loot.”
So, he went back inside and helped her carry her presents to his car.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she said.
“It’s fine. I’m glad to you have you to myself for a while.”
He had a way of saying things like that in such a normal tone that it was hard to be completely certain that he was hitting on her, especially as they’d agreed to be friends.
“I hope that wasn’t too weird, getting steamrolled by my mother into coming to my birthday party.”
“I’m glad she asked me. I like your family, and your friends seem nice.”
“They are.”
“I’m happy to be one of them.” He said it with a sideways glance that she could take to be irony if she wanted to. Or she could assume he was being straight.
“I’m glad to have you as a friend too.” She sounded forced even to her own ears like she was trying too hard to believe the words.
Which would be the truth.
Since he’d never been to her house she gave him directions as they drove. When he pulled up in front of her place, she felt a tiny fritz of awkwardness. Invite him up for coffee? That would seem like she wanted sex. Lean over and kiss him on the cheek? What if he thought she was going for his mouth and lunged at her? Get out and slam the door behind her?
He opened his car door and got out while she was still trying to figure out how to say goodbye. He flipped the trunk and she recalled the gifts. Right.
Of course he was coming in. He was her gift Sherpa.
Between them they got everything in one load. She led the way up the two steps to her front porch and managed to unlock the door and get it open.
She flipped on a light switch with her elbow and walked through to her living area to deposit her gifts on the table in there. Geoff followed behind her and similarly bestowed packages and boxes.
When she straightened he was very close to her.
The door was still wide open and she could hear a neighbor’s dog barking. Probably telling the neighborhood that she was home.
“Do you want some coffee—that always seems like such a strange thing to offer a person this time of night. A caffeinated beverage. I have herbal tea.” She was babbling she realized.
“I would love some herbal tea.”
She was about to list off all the kinds she kept in the house, as though she were in the café, when she caught herself. “What kind do you like? I probably have it.”
She shut the front door as she walked toward the kitchen and he followed her. “Whatever kind you’re having is fine.”
“Chamomile?” Calming.
“Sure.”
Her kitchen was her favorite room and probably the reason she’d bought the house. Not large, it boasted top of the line appliances and extra wide granite countertops pe
rfect for a woman who loved to cook. The extra width meant she could leave the appliances she used most often – and there were a lot of them – out for ease of access.
The kitchen flowed through into a den with a fireplace. Geoff wandered in there now to check out the jammed floor to ceiling bookcases that covered every inch of wall.
She left him to it and got on with making the tea. When she had two cups of chamomile brewed to perfection she put honey and napkins on a tray and brought the whole thing over. By this time Geoff was settled comfortably on the couch, his feet up on the table reading. Exactly the way she read. He’d even flipped on the reading light. When she glanced to see which of her books he’d chosen, she noticed he had a stack of photocopied pages in his hand.
Photocopied pages look pretty much the same but the coincidence of him having been in her parents’ house and the appearance of this size stack of pages had her groaning. “Tell me she didn’t.”
“If you mean, did your mother share one of your published short stories with me then yes, she did.”
“Does every mother wake up in the morning wondering how they can embarrass their kids or is it only mine?”
The twinkle was back in his eye. “Probably only yours.” He thumbed the stack against his knee. “I haven’t read very far but this is really good stuff. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’re an author.”
“Mostly I make coffee and baked goods these days, but thanks.”
“Are you still writing?”
“Yes.” Sort of.
He shifted so he could see her more clearly. “Good. What are you working on?”
She blinked. “Don’t you know that most writers hate that question?”
“I’m sorry. I teach creative writing too. I get so used to grilling my students. I forgot.”
“It’s okay.” She settled on the couch beside him. “I’m working on a linked series of short stories set around the café. They’d be fictional obviously but every day there are dramas in that café. I’m having fun with it but obviously writing a full length novel is more work than a short story.” She shrugged realizing it had been a while since she had sat down and really worked seriously on her novel. It seemed too easy to let life get in the way. “Now that I’m thirty-three I should get more serious about my writing schedule.”
“You definitely should.”
“You doing the teacher thing again? Cause I gotta tell you that’s annoying.”
“You know what you should do?”
“Do not tell me to read Stephen King’s book on writing and then write ten pages every day. That only works if you’re Stephen King.”
“Okay. Point taken. Actually, I was going to ask you to come and talk to my creative writing class.”
He sipped his tea. She’d given him the most manly of Daphne’s pottery mugs but this one kind of listed to the side like the leaning tower of Pisa.
“You want me to talk to your creative writing class?”
“Yes.”
“But I run a bakery.”
“You’re a published author. You could encourage budding authors.”
“Are there any budding authors at Jefferson High? Must have changed since I went there.”
“You don’t know when a seed will bear fruit.”
“You want me to come and seed young minds.”
“I do.”
She really did need to get back to something she used to love. Maybe this would be the kick in the pants she needed. “Okay,” she said. “I will.”
“Fantastic. Class is an hour. Prepare something so you can teach them an element of storytelling, then maybe have a writing exercise and a few questions. It would be amazing to have a real author at the school.”
“It’s been a while since I thought of myself that way.” Maybe she needed to make time.
“You’re too good to let it go.”
“What have you read, a page?”
“Couple of pages. You caught me at the first line.”
“Thanks.” Okay, she was good. She knew she was good. But after the heady success of having two short stories published she then started getting rejections. Markets closed. Magazines stopped publishing. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped writing every day.
He interrupted her thoughts to say, “Was it a good birthday?”
“It was.”
They both sipped tea which caused a moment of silence.
“How’s this friends thing working for you?” he asked when he’d returned the leaning mug to the table.
“Fine.”
“Because I have to tell you it’s not working for me at all.”
She experienced a sudden pang of distress. Why didn’t he want to be her friend? Was it her embarrassing mother? Her family? Maybe he thought she’d taken too much of the spotlight tonight. “It’s not?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to be my friend?”
He seemed to mull over the question. “Friends isn’t top of mind where you’re concerned.”
“Oh.” She saw the man-woman thing in his eyes, the way he was gazing at her mouth and realized that whatever she claimed, it wasn’t friendship she felt when he was around, either. “What, um, what would be top of mind?”
“This.” He reached forward, slowly enough that she could pull away, but strangely she didn’t. She watched his mouth until he was so close her eyes drifted shut. When he pulled her into his arms she let herself go, melting into him. His lips took hers with command, passion, need. She felt an answering need in her body. Wrapping her arms around him she pulled him yet closer.
He felt good. Solid. He smelled like clean, healthy male with a darker note beneath that smelled like desire.
He made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a long while, and on this birthday when she’d felt bad about her first gray hair and compromised fallopian tubes he reminded her that she was still young and vital and the urges surging through her were strong and good.
When he deepened the kiss, she heard a soft sigh and realized it came from her. He tasted of the evening, of beer and a hint of strawberry overlaid with chamomile.
Not so calming tonight, that chamomile.
They kissed for a while and she could feel herself growing hot and restless. She hadn’t had sex since Rob and that had been more than six months ago. Her body reminded her that it had needs that weren’t being met.
Needs. And that a man currently on her couch kissing the sense out of her would definitely be up for the job. But all the reasons why she’d decided it was a bad idea got in the way.
“We,” she gasped, “Should--”
“Oh, yes, we definitely should.”
“Stop,” she said.
It took a second for the message to reach his brain. He pulled away, looking as horny as she felt. “I must have heard wrong, I think you said, we should take this to the bedroom, but I heard stop.”
She made a sound of frustration and want and why couldn’t this amazing man be free?
“I did say stop.”
He pulled back, ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. You want to tell me why?”
“It’s all the same reasons as before. You’re not free. And I don't want to be some transition woman or, even worse, the vehicle you use to get even with your wife.”
He looked as frustrated as she felt as he rose to his feet, and then picked up her story from where he’d left it on the coffee table.
“I’m trying to be understanding about this but there’s nothing I can do about the fact that I’m technically married. Believe me, I’m getting divorced as fast as I can.”
“What if she changes her mind?” she said, rising too. “What if she and your friend realize they’ve made a terrible mistake and she asks you to come back?” There it was. Her darkest fear around him.
As he was leaving he turned back and said, “I don’t know a lot about the future but one thing I can promise you. I am never going back to my wife.”
Chapter Ten
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nbsp; The smell was the same, Iris thought, as she pushed through the double doors into Jefferson High. She’d been back a couple of times for various events and once when she took an accounting course at night school. But she hadn’t really spent any amount of time here since she’d been a student. It smelled like a combination of teenaged sweat, anxiety, hormones and whatever they cleaned the floors with.
Since class was in session it was strangely quiet. She could hear her boots echo on the linoleum as she headed for the office as Geoff had instructed her.
After the awkward way he’d left, the night of her birthday party, she’d wondered if he’d come in for his usual coffee and what she’d do if he did.
And what she’d do if he didn’t.
He’d come in Monday morning like always and if he wasn’t exactly the same with her, he was almost the same. On Tuesday, he’d said, “How’s next Monday for you?”
“Pardon?”
“To speak to my class? You can come Monday in the morning or Wednesday last block.” He took his first sip of coffee as though it were the only thing between him and a coma.
So, here she was, hoping her two published short stories gave her some authority to share what little knowledge she had.
“I’m speaking to Mr. McLeod’s creative writing class,” she told the woman behind the counter who she didn’t recognize. She gave her name and received a visitor’s badge.
“Have a seat. I’ll page him.”
“Thanks.” She settled in one of a line of plastic chairs. At the end of the line a kid with a lot of hair and a jittery knee looked to be waiting to see the principal. She felt momentarily insecure. Were the jeans too much? Did she look like she was trying to fit in with kids half her age? Show them she was cool?
But she always wore jeans. It was as stupid to dress up for them as it was to dress down.
She had notes in her bag and resisted the urge to read them over one more time. She’d be fine.
It was Geoff himself who came to collect her from the office. She’d thought he might send a student. He smiled when he saw her, that warm, intimate expression she felt was only for her. “Hi.”
