Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  I force a smile. “Sorry I missed it.”

  Maddox turns his helmeted head toward Jack. “We should get you home.”

  The older man beams. “Grandson’s comin’ to take me to lunch.”

  Wonderful. Two motorcycles in our senior community. I narrow my lids on Maddox’s profile. “Tell him hi for me, will you, Jack?”

  “Will do.”

  Maddox catches my gaze. “I’d offer you a ride, but two’s the limit.”

  To my dismay, a thrill shoots through me. “And I’d accept, but…” I turn my attention to the muscular 1298 cc, liquid-cooled, 16-valve, in-line four-cylinder machine and convert my momentary breathlessness into a shudder of what I hope appears to be distaste. “I don’t care for motorcycles.”

  I ignore Jack’s rumble of dissension, knowing it’s taking his all not to point out that once I cared very much for motorcycles.

  Maddox arches an eyebrow. “That surprises me.”

  “Oh? I suppose the tattoos fooled you.”

  His mouth tugs. “Tattoos?” He draws out the plural s, and Jack chuckles.

  Ugh. Did not mean to pluralize. However, rather than rise to his curiosity, I say, “I think Mr. Butterby’s ready to go home now.”

  He nods and eases his motorcycle past me and down the street, observing the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit all the way out of sight. And I almost wish he wouldn’t so I’d have one more reason to dislike him.

  As I resume my trek down the street toward Red Sea Lane, I thank God that He set aside Sunday as a day of rest—rest I’ll need if I’m to get through the week ahead. Thankfully, I’m Maddox-free for the remainder of the day.

  Oh, good.” Mrs. Feterall peers into the pot. “You brought enough chicken and dumplings for all four of us.”

  Always do, as they insist I join them when I cook.

  She lowers the lid and motions for me to follow. However, at the entrance to the kitchen, I halt. “Did you say four of us?”

  “Oh yes. After the service today, we invited our new neighbor to join us. You know, that nice young man you took a walk with the other night.”

  I’m being stalked!

  “I was certain he was going to turn me down, but when I said you were joining us, he accepted.”

  So much for being Maddox-free. I prop up a smile. “Great.”

  “Mr. Feterall and Maddox are out back on the porch.” She steps forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, adds, “You do know he’s a bachelor?”

  That’s what his ringless left hand says, but I am not interested. When I marry, it will be to a “courting” man who won’t hinder my relationship with Jesus—meaning he won’t be of the type who gets kicked out of seminary, gets fired from a job, or rides a 1298 cc, liquid-cooled, 16-valve, in-line four-cylinder motorcycle. “Yes, I did notice the absence of a ring.”

  “As did every one of our unattached ladies.” She smoothes the scarf around her head. “Did you see the way they ogled him during service? Second only to that dear boy Stephano.”

  Stephano, who rebuffs their advances. Not that it stops us—er, them from hoping. “I’m afraid I missed out on the ogling, had to leave early.”

  “Oh me! That’s right. How is Bea?”

  “Fine, though I’m sure she’d appreciate a call.”

  “I’ll call her after dinner.” She gestures for me to precede her into the kitchen.

  I start past her only to falter. “You didn’t say what you thought of today’s service. Was it good?”

  “Oh, you know Brother Paul—always delivers an excellent message.” She presses a hand to her heart. “Your father couldn’t have chosen a better replacement.”

  Groan! “And the music? What did you think of it?”

  “Outside of Bea’s hissy fit? The new instruments are a bit harsh, but they weren’t as bad as expected. And they did hold the young folks’ attention.”

  Which is what I heard from several of those whose calls I returned this afternoon, as well as the park residents who showed up at my door. As for the ones who thought the music was odious—a surprising minority—I’d assured them it would get better with practice.

  “Let’s get the chicken and dumplings on the table, Harri.”

  I move ahead of Mrs. Feterall into the kitchen and only then notice the absence of her cat from between her feet. “Where’s Pucker?”

  She crosses to the screen door that lets onto the back porch, and my heart sinks at the prospect of eating outside. Despite the awning that offers some relief from the early June heat, it’s going to be hot and humid. Especially eating chicken and dumplings!

  “Strange thing, that.” Mrs. Feterall shakes her head. “Though Pucker doesn’t put much store in men, much like you, Harri—”

  The rest of her words slip through my ears like water down a drain. “What do you mean I don’t put much store in men?”

  “When was the last time you had a date, young lady?”

  I snort. “Just because there’s a shortage of decent men—”

  “There’s Stephano.”

  Who, as evidenced by the past three years that have been dry with regard to sharing anything other than First Grace’s workload, is out-of-bounds. Which is good. I’m not sure what I’d do if he were “in bounds.” That could lead to things I do not want to be led to.

  “Well, Harri?”

  “As I was saying, just because I’m not dating doesn’t mean I don’t put much store in the opposite sex.”

  Mrs. Feterall gasps. “You know I don’t like the s word, Harriet Bisset. Even if it is in the context of gender.”

  I do know, as she made radiantly clear to the teenage girls who attended her Sunday school class years ago. “Sorry.”

  She parts her deeply creased lips; however, it’s her husband’s voice that wends its way from the back porch. “Mmm-mmm! I can smell that chicken from here.”

  Oh no… If I can hear him, they heard us.

  Mrs. Feterall holds the screen door wide for me as I step out onto the back porch.

  Pushed back from the table, Maddox once more balances on the back legs of his chair—the juvenile! “Hey, Harri.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes that shows he enjoyed my exchange with Mrs. Feterall.

  “Hey.” As I carry the pot to the table, I catch sight of the creature sprawled across Maddox’s slanted lap. Never has the nearly earless feline looked more content.

  The emotion that springs on me—envy!—makes me startle so hard that I nearly drop the pot.

  “Whoa!” Mr. Feterall says. “Nearly lost it there, Harri.”

  Avoiding Maddox’s gaze as he lowers his chair to the porch, I mutter, “Must have miscalculated the distance.” I sidle toward the chair beside Mr. Feterall, but his wife gets there first, and I’m forced to take the chair next to Maddox.

  As I mull over the emotion that nearly saw chicken and dumplings splattered all over the porch, Pucker repositions himself on his new friend’s lap.

  That was not envy! I mean, imagine envying a cat. And all because of his position on that man’s lap. Now were it Stephano’s lap—different story. But Maddox’s—preposterous!

  “Oh me!” Mrs. Feterall rises. “I forgot to make a salad. I meant to, but… I don’t know why I didn’t.”

  Mr. Feterall lays a hand on her arm. “No need, dear. We’ll get our greens from Harri’s chicken and dumplings.”

  “Mr. Feterall’s right.” Maddox levers up to peer into the pot, much to Pucker’s distress, which he makes known by sinking his claws into his host’s pant leg.

  That thing about a woman scorned? Regardless of gender, it’s ten times worse when the species is feline, as evidenced by my mother’s spoiled-rotten cats, Dumplin’ (named after Mom’s favorite dish) and Doo-Dah (named for an old song that was playing when she and Dad met). Thankfully, my brother took in both cats when my parents went on mission.

  Maddox winces. “Though I’m sure you make a fine salad, Mrs. Feterall, Harri has plenty of greens in her dish.” He sits b
ack down, and Pucker resettles.

  She looks at me. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Oh yes. No need.”

  “All right.”

  Mr. Feterall’s hand continues to rest on his wife’s arm. “Would you say grace, Maddox?”

  “Certainly.”

  I bow my head, but the only part of his prayer I hear past my self-talking attempt to explain away my misplaced envy is when he concludes with, “Harri putting chicken and dumplings on our table and not in our laps. Amen.”

  Mr. Feterall chuckles. “Thank you, Maddox.”

  “Okay,” I say in a bright voice. “Dig in.” I lift the lid and, out of habit, rise to ladle for Mr. and Mrs. Feterall. Thus, I’m compelled to ladle for Maddox.

  “You’ll be needing lots of this.” Mr. Feterall pushes salt and pepper toward Maddox. “No one does bland as well as our Harri.”

  Were I trying to make a good impression on the man, I’d be mortified.

  Mrs. Feterall turns her scarf-covered head toward her husband. “Now don’t you give Harri a hard time. She makes it just the way I like it.” She looks at her guest. “Can almost always keep her cookin’ down.”

  A grin breaks out on Mr. Feterall’s face. “Trust me, Harri’s a good cook, but you’ll still want some seasoning.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Feterall, but one of my shortcomings is assumptions.” Maddox meets my gaze. “Unfortunately, it occasionally lands me in trouble.” He scoops up a spoonful of chicken and dumplings, chews without change of expression—

  That’s good.

  —and swallows. “I see what you mean.” Maddox reaches for the shakers. To his credit, he only sprinkles a little of each before retrieving his spoon. To his discredit, he goes back for seconds. Then thirds.

  “Not hungry, Harri?” He gives the salt another vigorous shake.

  I look at my meal, which is too hot to eat in the stuffy, still air. “Uh…yeah.”

  The meal seems to last forever, not only because of the man beside me whose foot my own restless feet bump several times, but because of the warm air that moistens my brow and neck and chest. Fortunately, the bulk of the small talk is between Mr. and Mrs. Feterall and their new neighbor, with the highlight being Mrs. Feterall’s news that she has only one more round of chemo. Praise the Lord! A few other interesting items emerge, among them that Maddox has never married, his father passed away two years ago, he’s close with his mother, and he’s the youngest of three siblings.

  As Mrs. Feterall is more than willing to impart information about me, some of my past is also revealed. Maddox learns that, with the exception of a couple of bumpy preschool years, I was “the sweetest little girl” (he smiles), that I was clever and smart (he looks impressed), and that I went through a “rough time” when First Grace nearly split during my teen years (he studies me long and hard).

  At last, an opening to conclude the meal presents itself when Maddox sits back and compliments me on my chicken and dumplings.

  “Thank you.” I scoot my chair out. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Feterall starts to rise. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No! I mean…my legs could use a stretch. You just sit there and relax.”

  “But you made the meal, and it hardly seems fair—”

  “I’ll help her.”

  Heart making a beeline for my throat, I jerk my gaze to Maddox as he deposits an indignant Pucker on the porch.

  Mrs. Feterall beams. “Well, aren’t you sweet!”

  I shake my head. “That’s not necessary. I’ll clean up while the three of you visit.”

  Maddox winks at me—the good-for-nothing!—and lifts the pot. “I appreciate the offer, but my legs could use some stretching as well.”

  Lovely. As he carries the pot inside, I stack the dishes and silverware, putting my waitressing skills to good use to ensure that his further assistance won’t be needed.

  “Nice young man,” Mrs. Feterall says.

  Mr. Feterall nods. “Yes.”

  The creak of the screen door alerts me to Maddox’s return. I heft the dishes, and he holds the door wide for me.

  “Thank you.” I step past him into the kitchen. To my dismay, he follows and reaches to assist in lowering my burden to the counter.

  “I’ve got it.” I turn so sharply that the pile teeters. Fortunately, my reflexes are in top form, and I set the dishes alongside the sink without so much as a nick.

  “You’re good,” Maddox says as I turn on the taps.

  “Better than good. You should see me balance six different orders while—” Eek! What possessed me to engage in banter?

  “I look forward to it. Gloria’s Morning Café, right?”

  “Um-hmm.” Wondering what else he knows about me, I grab the dishwashing liquid and, with more force than necessary, squeeze a stream into the water. Thus, I have no reason to be surprised when the cap bursts off and shoots a dollop in the water with the enthusiasm of a kid cannonballing into a swimming pool. And just like with the kid, the displaced water slops over the edge. I jump back, but not before the front of my jeans takes a hit.

  “Whoa!” Maddox pulls the bottle from my hand.

  I felt nothing—nothing at all!—when his fingers swept mine. That was surprise. Not attraction.

  He looks down my damp clothes, then hands me a towel.

  “Uh… thanks.” I blot at the moisture.

  “So you’re one of those hand-wash people.”

  I glance over my shoulder at where he leans against the sink. “What?”

  He gives the dishwasher a pointed look. “Prefer to wash dishes by hand rather than machine.”

  I make a face. “I’m a dishwasher junkie. Unfortunately, the Feteralls’ machine has been out of commission for the last few months.”

  “In that case, why don’t I wash and you dry?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I insist.” He gazes out the window above the sink. “Especially as it appears the Feteralls are enjoying a private moment.”

  Sure enough, Mr. Feterall’s chair is near Mrs. Feterall’s, his arm draped around her and her head on his shoulder. “Oh.”

  Maddox turns off the taps and begins easing the dishes down through a foot of sizzling bubbles.

  Wishing there were some way out of this Norman Rockwell-esque moment, I retrieve another hand towel.

  “I apologize for waking you last night.” He hands me a plate that nearly slips through my fingers.

  “Sorry?”

  “I saw your light come on and figured my return must have woken you.”

  What was he doing looking down the street at my mobile home? Staking it out? Keeping an eye on me?

  Whoa! Am I overreacting? With a smile that feels puckered, I say, “You did wake me. And, I suspect, others, which means you might want to rethink the motorcycle. This is a senior community. In fact”—Oh, Harriet, you’re a genius!—“you might want to consider an extended-stay suite. Not only are they comfortable, but you can come and go as you please.”

  He laughs. “Eventually, I’m going to win you over, Harri.” Then he flicks suds at me, a glob of which lands on my nose.

  As I stare cross-eyed at the bubbly stuff, a choked sound exits my mouth. And a moment later, something comes over me that shouldn’t. I thrust a hand into the sink and splash sudsy water in his face. At once shocked and pleased with myself, I steel myself for anger… rebuke… anything but the grin that widens across his wet face as he does unto me as I did unto him—after he did unto me!

  The slopping handful douses me head to shoulders, and with a yelp, I do unto him. As he does unto me. As I do—

  At least, I try. But as I lunge toward the sink, I slip on the slick floor.

  “Gotcha!” Maddox jerks me upright, causing me to stumble into him. And for a moment, we stand toe to toe, chest to chest, eye to eye.

  He’s the first to blink, and I’d be pleased if not for the unwelcome realization that I am attracted to him.
That was no ordinary current. That was raw electricity.

  Maddox releases me and pushes a hand through his wet curls. “Bad timing.”

  What does that mean? That he also felt something? That because of our positions at First Grace, now is not the time to feel things like that?

  He grabs the towel I used to blot my clothes. “I’ll clean up. You go back out and—”

  The screen door creaks, and in walk Mr. and Mrs. Feterall, followed by Pucker. “Well, look at this, Mrs. Feterall. They done had a water fight.”

  Her smile is weak. “Looks like.”

  I step toward her. “Are you all right? The chicken and dump—”

  She waves a hand. “Stayin’ down fine. I’m just tired. Came on suddenlike. Think I’ll lie down a spell.”

  “Would you like me to help you to bed?”

  “That would be nice, Harri.”

  I put an arm around her and lead her from the kitchen. It takes a half hour to get her into her nightgown and settled in, but when I leave her bedroom, her breath has taken a turn toward deep and restful.

  Mr. Feterall comes down the hall toward me. “How’s she doing?”

  “On her way to sweet dreams.”

  His sigh expresses the weariness that he hides from his wife. “Thank you, Harri.”

  I give him a hug. “My pleasure. Now I’ll finish cleaning the dishes and get out of your hair.”

  “Maddox and I took care of them. You get on home and get some rest yourself.”

  Then Maddox left? Good. “I’ll do that. ’Night.” A few moments later, I walk into the warm night air.

  “How is she?” Maddox stands at the base of the steps, my pot tucked beneath an arm, dusk forming a halo around him.

  “Resting fine.” I descend the few steps. “I thought you’d gone home.”

  He tilts his head to the side, and I notice that his formerly damp hair is mostly dry. “And leave you to walk these big bad streets by yourself?”

  I reach for the pot. “Good night, Mr. McCray.”

  “Maddox,” he corrects, ignoring the cue to relinquish my property.

  Fine. I move past him. “Don’t you have a motorcycle you ought to be revving up?”

  I sense more than see his grin as he draws alongside. “I walked. Took me all of a minute. Speaking of motorcycles, I assure you that, in future, if I’m out later than nine, I’ll cut the engine and walk it in.”