Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  “It’s from the guy at the Pansy table. You know, the one whose lap you nearly landed in.”

  I lift the bag printed with two of my favorite words in the English language: Jelly Belly.

  “He asked me to tell you to save some for him.” Gloria leans forward. “Is there something I should know about?”

  I drop the dreamy smile. “No! He was just being…nice.” Very nice. Though the little bag holds only 1.7 ounces of Jelly Bellys, they aren’t cheap. Even in bulk, they’re expensive, but handful-sized…

  Gloria narrows her all-seeing gaze. “And just how did he know Jelly Bellys are your favorite? And don’t tell me it’s coincidence, preacher’s daughter.”

  There’s that expectation again by which all PKs are manipulated. “Long story. Unfortunately, not one I have time to tell if I’m to keep our customers happy.” I start to turn away.

  “He also left you a five spot. It’s in your drawer.”

  Wow, a twenty-five percent tip on top of the Jelly Bellys! A man after my own—

  Oh, no he’s not!

  “What?” Gloria asks.

  “Er… just imagining how I’m going to spend my windfall.”

  From the look on her face, Gloria doesn’t believe me, and she shouldn’t. As much as I dislike Maddox, I like him. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy him shadowing me tomorrow.

  Harri’s Log: • Day of The Coroner rerun—yippee!

  • 2 days until the next showdown between Bea and the invaders

  • 22 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (Why, oh why, did I gobble down Maddox’s tip in one day?)

  • 206 days until the completion of Bible #8

  Of all days to be late, this is not the one. Rather than walking, I should have toodled over in my VDub. Of course, it wouldn’t have saved me more than five minutes.

  As I hasten toward my office, a curse comes to mind, but I squelch it. I don’t say words like that anymore. Unfortunately, they’re still in my head, and to add to my dilemma, Maddox is in my office.

  “Running late, hmm?” He glances at his watch as he straightens from where he’s been leaning over my desk.

  I halt inside the doorway and look to the framed pictures that held his attention—a five-year-old, pigtailed Harriet between Mom and Dad on her first day of kindergarten; a preteen Harriet with Mom, Dad, and Tyler; and Mom and Dad celebrating their thirty-fifth anniversary last year. I meet Maddox’s gaze. “I overslept. Sorry.”

  “Overslept?”

  “I had the six-to-eleven shift at the café.” I shrug. “Only meant to grab a quick nap, but I guess I was more tired than I realized.” And it’s his fault. No, he didn’t awaken me again last night with that obnoxious motorcycle. It was the Jelly Bellys. Having done without for six days, I’d watched my good intentions of portioning out the little red and white packet go south right before bed, when I succumbed to the remaining three quarters. The resulting sugar high saw me owl-eyed until midnight.

  “Insomnia?” Maddox asks.

  “Of sorts.”

  “Do you get it often?”

  I am not discussing my sleep patterns with him! “So, how do we do this? Should I ignore you while you follow me around? Or do you prefer an ongoing narrative?”

  He comes around my desk. “Generally, ignore me—if you can.”

  Well, doesn’t he have a high opinion of himself?

  He smiles, and that turning of his mouth, combined with the curls on his forehead make him look so cute in spite of his less-than-perfect nose.

  “From personal experience, I know it’s not always easy to do, but right now I’m just observing, so I’ll stay in the background as much as possible.”

  I give the hem of my button-up blouse a tug and smooth my skirt. “Let’s get started, then.” I step around him.

  “Did you enjoy the Jelly Bellys?”

  Oops. Should have thanked him. “I did.” I lower to my chair. “Thank you. It was sw—” No. Sweet is hardly appropriate. “It was nice of you.”

  “And?” He sticks out a hand.

  I stare at it and note that his fingers aren’t long, but not stubby either. Not too thick, nor too skinny. In fact, they’re just right. Nicely formed digits.

  He wiggles them, and I startle at the realization of where my thoughts have slipped off to.

  “Licorice,” he prompts. “Mango.”

  “Oh! The inedible ones.”

  “In your opinion.”

  I bite my lip. “Actually, there were only three licorice and one mango.”

  With a look of disappointment—maybe he really does like those flavors—he draws back his hand. “You didn’t chuck them, did you?”

  “No, I just forgot to bring them.”

  “You had me worried there.” He sits down in the chair in front of my desk. “Maybe I can drop by your place later and pick them up.”

  He’s got to be kidding! I may be slightly attracted to him, but that doesn’t mean I want him interrupting The Coroner. Yeah, it’s a rerun, but now that I know what the series was building toward, I can look for the clues I missed the first go-around. Plus, it would hardly be appropriate for him to “drop by” my place. “How about I bring the beans to tomorrow’s meeting?”

  He leans back in the chair. “I had my heart set on some JBs.”

  “Sorry.” Deciding it’s time to show him what’s involved in the women’s ministry, I pull phone messages from my inbox, all written in Harriet’s slightly shaky hand. While Maddox watches, I return seven calls, which range from concerns about tonight’s quilting circle to questions about this fall’s retreat.

  At length I hang up from the last call, having soothed one of our older ladies who has argued with her best friend and no longer wants to room with her at the retreat. I assure her I’ll find them other roommates, though I’m certain that before the week is out, they’ll want to room together again.

  I glance at Maddox, who smiles but says nothing, just watches me with his hands clasped at his waist.

  I’m struck by their emptiness. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Oh.” Is this how Mona Lisa would feel were she more than paint and canvas on display before gawkers? I turn to my computer and pull up the flier I created to promote next Friday’s women’s event—an “Oldies but Goodies” showing of the 1954 classic Sabrina. As I check the copy, Maddox rises. Bored? Good. But rather than leave my office, he comes around my desk and leans in over my shoulder.

  I glance up, but he’s focused on my computer screen. “I’ve created a flier to promote next week’s movie night.” I position the pointer over the Print button. “Everything seems in order, so I’ll just print it out—”

  “Sabrina, starring Humphrey Bogart.” The censure in his voice makes my teeth clench.

  Lord, please help me not to say something I’ll regret—even if Maddox offends me seventy times seven!

  “That’s right. The ladies love him and Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Then this women’s event is for older women?”

  “It’s for all of our women—old and young.”

  He frowns, the vague reflection of which I catch in the computer screen. “How many women usually attend movie night?”

  Why this feeling I’ve been handed a shovel to dig my own grave? “It varies, but usually between fifteen and twenty.”

  “And of those, how many are younger than… say… fifty?”

  That’s one shovelful of dirt. Dropping my gaze to the keyboard, I momentarily wonder why the letters aren’t in alphabetical order. “It’s not unusual for a couple of the younger women to attend.”

  “And those couple of women, do they stay through the movie?”

  Another shovelful. “Sometimes. However, most have young children, so they have to get home to them.”

  “Then you don’t offer child care for this event?”

  Yet another shovelful of dirt. “There isn’t enough need.”

  “A
h. And the ones who do show up, even if only for a portion of the movie, do they attend the next time you hold a movie night?”

  This hole is getting awfully deep. “I believe—” No, I don’t. And I am not going to lie! I lift my gaze to the onscreen flier. “I’m not sure any of them have returned.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  Once more catching his reflection, I nearly startle when he leans nearer. “How many of the younger women do you think have heard of Bogart or Hepburn?”

  “I’ve heard of them, and I’m only twenty-seven.”

  “All right. Let me rephrase that. How many are familiar with them outside of their reputation as stars of the silver screen?”

  “I know them. In fact, I’ve seen several of their movies.” I raise my eyebrows and boldly stare at him—well, his reflection. An instant later, I’m struck by the tickling suspicion he’s focused on my reflection.

  “I see. Well, either you’re a movie buff—”

  “Nope.”

  “—or you, unlike most of your contemporaries, are surrounded by older folks.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “You live in a senior community, Harri. For nearly eight years now, I believe. They’re your core group for socializing. You regularly visit with them, eat with them, and in many cases, place yourself at their beck and call.”

  Who has he been talking to? And what business is it of his—?

  “They’re safe. Nothing and no one to tempt you. Just ‘day in, day out.’”

  I’d argue, but I’m not talking to him anymore, especially not with all the angst he’s stirring up. Angst that might lead me to defend myself inappropriately.

  He leans nearer. “Entirely predictable.”

  His breath in my hair sends a shock down my center, and I whip my head around. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you said you were here to observe.”

  He looks at my mouth before straightening. “That’s right. However, it would be remiss of me to overlook something as glaring as a women’s event that should cater to old and young but leaves the latter out in the cold.”

  Now is not the time to get defensive. Cool it! I try. I really do. “Well, if you know so much about women’s ministry, what would you suggest we do to attract a younger crowd?”

  The smile that lifts his mouth evidences I’ve landed in his web. Which is sticky. And binding. And very dangerous. “Glad you asked. How about a movie marathon—the classic Sabrina, which your older ladies are familiar with, followed by the Harrison Ford remake, which ought to pull in younger women.”

  “But that would amount to four or more hours.” And on a Friday, if my memory serves me quite correctly. Not good, even if The Coroner has entered rerun season.

  “Actually, more than four hours, as you’ll want to discuss and compare the movies and address themes relevant to the Christian life.”

  I shake my head. “You’re crazy if you think old or young women are going to sit through two movies, which are basically the same, then hang around to discuss them.”

  “They will if you have a hook.”

  I drop back in my chair. “Okay, Mr. Marketer, tell me about this hook.”

  To my surprise, he walks away. To my greater surprise, he retrieves his chair and sets it next to mine. “First of all”—he pulls the keyboard toward him—“we’re going to call it a ‘miniretreat.’” With that, he takes off like a jet, and over the course of an hour transforms my cutesy flier into something approaching a work of art. Something far beyond the scope of the usual “Oldies but Goodies Movie Night.”

  He sits back. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds great, but making it happen… That could be difficult, especially as we’re only a week away.”

  “Then push it back a week.”

  I gasp. “No! The third Friday of the month is always movie night. For years that’s how we’ve done it.”

  He frowns.

  “And believe me, you don’t want to mess with these ladies’ calendars.”

  His frown reaches his eyes.

  “Movie night is kind of like a woman’s cycle, and since the majority of them are no longer menstru—” Cannot believe I said that! “It… uh… marks the passage of time.”

  After a long moment, during which I’m certain he’s fighting laughter, he says, “So we stay with next Friday.”

  “Next Friday.” Even if I don’t get any sleep.

  “All right, the first thing you want to do is coordinate child care with Chip.”

  Chip who, as youth pastor, should be able to supply names of teenage girls eager to earn spending money.

  “Then you need to enlist Oona to oversee the teenagers and coordinate the children’s activities. Lastly, you’ll have to coordinate the funds with Stephano.”

  That I don’t look forward to, as he can be tight-fisted. Refreshments? Fine. Door prizes? Possible, with the proper amount of groveling. But a drawing for a day at the spa for those who correctly answer all the questions about the movies? Not that it isn’t a great marketing idea. Just that it is a marketing idea.

  “It’s sad that a day at the spa, rather than God, is going to make this event a success.” I settle on Maddox’s dark eyes, which are swept by those boyish, good-for-nothing curls.

  There is nothing appealing about a man who still has the boy about him!

  He cants his head to the side. “Think of it as a door into a room you’ve only glimpsed through the window, Harri.”

  And while you’re at it, look at his nose. Nothing boyish or cute about that ski slope.

  “You have to turn the knob and open the door before you can walk in.”

  I return to his eyes. At the moment, they reflect nothing of the boy about them either.

  “However, once you enter, that’s when you start appreciating all you glimpsed from the outside. That’s what we’re doing—opening the door for young and old so that each can appreciate what the other brings to the experience of God. So if it takes giving away a day at the spa to start bridging the gap, so be it. Yes, it’s shallow, but on the other side of the pond lies deep water for those willing to wade out into it.”

  I’m drawn to a curl over one eye that seems to be the diameter of my pinkie.

  “Are you listening, Harri?”

  I jerk my gaze to the computer screen. “Sorry. I’m just a bit distracted.”

  “By what?”

  “Uh… lots to do. I’m going to be busy.”

  “Provided you enlist Chip and Oona and tap into volunteers, it’s doable. And, of course, I’ll help however I can.”

  Score another point for a man I never intended to like. I look over at him, which proves to be another mistake, as not only do those curls give rise to a pinkie itch, but his smile gives rise to a lip itch. Which gives rise to something in the space between us. Which causes his smile to falter and his gaze to waver. Which gives rise—

  —to a drawl that, in concert with the rap of knuckles, says, “Knock, knock.”

  I jerk my head around, and there stands Stephano in the doorway wearing a matched set of inquisitive eyebrows.

  I go into full body flush. Not that I should feel guilty. Though Maddox and I are sitting side by side, we aren’t even close to touching. In fact, I can’t smell his cologne. Not that he’s wearing any. He just smells like a man—you know, after the scent of a morning shower wears off and before the grind of the day leaves him all salty—

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Thankfully!

  Maddox rises. “Harri and I were putting the finishing touches to the flier she designed for next Friday’s women’s event.”

  The flier I designed?

  Stephano looks between Maddox and me, a glimmer in his eyes. “Movie night again, hmm?”

  I stand. “Yes, but we’re doing it different this time to appeal to the younger women—a movie marathon contrasting a classic movie with its remake.”

  “Meaning we need to hit you up for funds.” Maddox st
eps around the desk.

  Stephano nods. “Usually around fifty dollars to cover movie rental and refreshments, isn’t it, Harri? Well, just fill out the form, and I’ll have Joe cut a check.”

  “Actually”—Maddox halts before him—“it will be closer to five hundred dollars.”

  Stephano’s eyes widen. “Five hundred?”

  “Make it six hundred. Not only do we expect a larger-than-usual crowd, but there’s the added cost of child care, door prizes, and the day-at-the-spa giveaway.”

  “Child care? Door prizes? Day at the spa?”

  Not my idea! I long to trumpet, but a glance at Maddox reveals nothing in his demeanor to suggest he’s sidetracked by Stephano’s censure. Of course, neither should I be. Pressing my shoulders back, I meet Stephano’s gaze. “If we’re going to get the younger women involved, we have to give them something more than an old movie, popcorn, and soda pop.”

  His mouth curls into something that looks like a smile but feels like something else. “Of course it sounds like a wonderful idea; it’s just not what I expected from you, Harri.”

  Was that a dig? “How’s that?”

  He glances at Maddox. “It has marketing written all over it.”

  A four-letter word, even if only in spirit. One I can’t stand in the context of church.

  “We’ll get the paperwork filled out and on your desk by the end of the day,” Maddox says.

  “All right.” Stephano’s gaze nails me. “I’ll talk to you this afternoon.”

  I nod and stare at the doorway he vacates.

  “Where do you think he’ll take you to dinner?”

  I look to where Maddox stands alongside my desk. “What?”

  “You and Stephano.” Though his mouth turns up, he doesn’t show any teeth. “Dinner date.”

  I did hear right. And Maddox couldn’t be more wrong. “For your information, Stephano and I are not dating.”

  “I believe that’s about to change.”

  I roll my eyes. “And what makes you think Stephano is going to ask me—?”

  Hold up! Maddox did spend a day with him on the golf course. Is it possible Stephano talked about me?

  Flutter, flutter. Did he lead Maddox to believe that he was interested in me? Ooh. But what about the past three years? Why does he now—?