Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  “You wouldn’t be opposed if he asked you out, would you?” Maddox thumps me back to earth.

  The automatic response of “What woman wouldn’t accept a dinner invite from Stephano?” is flattened by the realization that our conversation has once more taken a turn toward the personal. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

  His left eyebrow strolls up his forehead. “You’re right.”

  Of course I am. It’s only his business if he’s the one asking me out. Which he’s not. And I’m glad.

  He hooks a thumb in a belt loop. “So where were we?”

  “Uh…? Oh!” I bend near the computer and hit Print. When the flier pops out, I head for the door. “I’ll just run off copies for insertion in Sunday’s bulletin.”

  “I’ll come too.” He follows me down the hall.

  As I near Harriet’s desk, she raises her eyebrows. “Having a good day, Harri?”

  “As good as can be expected.” I give her a meaningful look.

  “And you, Maddox?”

  “Excellent. Harri promised to show me how the copier works.”

  Ha-ha. I step past Harriet’s desk as she reaches to a stack of phone messages.

  “You have three messages, Maddox. One sounded important.”

  And that’s how I lose my shadow. When I emerge from the supply room fifteen minutes later, Maddox is nowhere to be seen.

  “He headed outside to make his calls.”

  Hopefully, he’ll stay there. I lower the fliers to Harriet’s desk. “These are for the Sunday bulletin.”

  She scans the flier, then glances up and smiles. “Stretching you a bit, is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This seems fun. In fact, I might have to free up Friday and join you ladies.”

  Which she rarely does outside of quilting circle. And I can’t help but resent the implication that my programs aren’t fun.

  She settles back in her chair. “You and Maddox make a good team.”

  “No, we don’t!” I stalk past her and, shortly, close my office door. “This seems fun,” I mimic. “Fun! As if left in my hands, the women’s ministry is boring!” I drop into my chair. “We do not make a good team.”

  An hour later, Maddox has yet to reappear, so I head for Stephano’s office.

  “Come in,” he calls in answer to my knock on the door.

  To my surprise, he’s hunkered in front of his desk, poring over… paint chips. “Hey, Harri. Whatcha got for me?”

  “The request for funds we discussed.”

  His smile fades. “Ah.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Deciding what color to paint my office.”

  That’s odd. He’s always up to his eyeballs in church business. I’ve never seen him show interest in anything related to interior decorating.

  He motions me forward. “I’m leaning toward Cocoa Crème”—he taps a dark brown paint chip—“but I also like Tuscan Summer.” He places a golden brown paint chip alongside the other. “What do you think?”

  “They’re both nice. Um, when did you decide to paint your office?”

  “Yesterday. I was staring at the walls and they struck me as drab. As much time as I spend here, I really ought to have something more restful.”

  Staring at the walls… restful… Neither fits Stephano.

  He raises his eyebrows. “So which one?”

  “It’s a matter of personal taste.”

  “But which would you choose?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “The Tuscan.”

  “Nah. Definitely the Cocoa Crème.”

  I press my lips inward to hold back a sarcastic, Glad I could be of help.

  Stephano pulls out a pen. “Let’s see the damage.”

  I pass the form to him, and after perusing the six-hundred-dollar request, he signs his name. “I hope Maddox knows what he’s doing.”

  “You don’t think he does?”

  “This whole church consultant thing… It doesn’t feel right. Too calculated.”

  “Yeah.” Of course, prior to Maddox’s arrival, many of the things that Pastor Paul spearheaded and Stephano supported didn’t feel right either.

  He holds the form out to me. “There you go.” No sooner do my fingers brush it than he pulls it back.

  I frown. “What?”

  “Just wondering when you’re going to ask me to ask you out.”

  As I stare at him, working his words forward, then backward, I feel my eyes bug. He’s asking me out. Stephano Fox is asking me out. Just as Maddox predicted. But wait! He’s not exactly asking me out. He’s wanting me… to ask him… to ask me… out. I think.

  What kind of line is that? It’s weird. And arrogant. As if I would be so desperate to ask a guy out. Though I’ve had my share of boyfriends in the past, I never asked the guy out. Call me old-fashioned, but no matter how good-looking Stephano is, I am not asking him out.

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe you—”

  He throws a hand up. “It was a joke, Harri.”

  “Oh. Then you… don’t want me… to ask you… to…”

  “Of course not.”

  Then he doesn’t want to go out with me. On one hand I’m disappointed, on the other relieved. That “line” of his was off-putting.

  “Actually”—he turns up the volume on his puppy dog eyes—“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  A girl could fall for those eyes. If they weren’t joking! I thrust my hand out for the form. “Give over.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Look, Stephano, I don’t have time to stand here being the butt of your jokes.”

  “I’m not joking. I’d like you to have dinner with me.”

  Then he’s actually asking me out without my having to ask him to ask me out?

  “What do you say?”

  I watch his mouth form the words and, in a moment of weakness, consider the thin upper lip relative to the lower lip. In another moment of weakness, I try to imagine what it would be like to be kissed by those lips. In yet another moment I’m tempted—

  Oh no! Not that! “I can’t. Um… the quilting circle. It’s tonight.”

  “But aren’t you usually done by seven thirty?”

  Right before The Coroner—another reason to bow out. Actually, the main reason, because I’m no longer the needy, gullible teenager who was afraid to say no. If Stephano did kiss me after a romantic, candlelit dinner, that’s as far as it would go. Maybe I should accept his invite.

  “Harri?”

  “Yeah, we’re usually finished by seven thirty.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up afterward.”

  “No! I mean…” I clear my throat. “I follow The Coroner, and tonight is a rerun of last season’s first show.”

  His eyebrows leap. “You’re turning me down to sit at home and watch a rerun?”

  It does sound pathetic. “I’m… hooked.”

  He sighs. “Wouldn’t want to come between you and your show. Have fun tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I reach for the form he extends, only to have it flutter from my fingers. We both bend to retrieve it, our hands meet, and a spark jumps between us, not unlike what I felt when Maddox saved me from taking a fall in the Feteralls’ kitchen.

  So what do you think about that, Maddox? You’re not the only one with electricity in your veins. In fact, I’m certain Stephano has more than you!

  I pull my hand back and return his smile. I catch movement to my left, and my eyes meet Maddox’s before he passes by. And I can just imagine how this might appear.

  “Sure you don’t want to take me up on my dinner offer?”

  I pull the form from Stephano’s hand. “Can’t, but thanks.” I jump up and head for the door, only to glance over my shoulder.

  Shaking his head, handsome, utterly eligible Stephano returns his attention to the paint chips.

  Harriet Bisset, the man just asked you out—twice! And after all these years
of cozying up to the spine-tingling, albeit dubious, possibility of him showing an interest, you turned him down—twice! Are you nuts?!

  Don’t forget The Coroner. Last season’s first show. But as I point myself in the direction of my office, the truth nips at my heels: temptation…temptation…

  And more of the same is sitting in my office when I step inside.

  Maddox looks up from the chair before my desk. “So where is he taking you?”

  “He’s not.” I plop down in my chair and roll close to my desk.

  He leans back. “Let’s see… Since I’d be surprised if he didn’t ask you out, that would mean—”

  “That it’s none of your business.” Do not want him analyzing my reason for turning down an opportunity I should have jumped at. And why didn’t I? What would it have hurt? Of course, Maddox would probably say I turned down the invite for fear I’ll go bad again. And he’d be right.

  “Right again,” says the man I’m staring through.

  “What?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  Whew. “No, it isn’t.”

  “So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”

  I check my watch. “I need to make preparations for tonight’s quilting circle.”

  Maddox clasps his hands between his knees. “While you’re doing that, you can fill me in on all it entails.”

  So he can mess with another of my events? I angle nearer my computer screen, placing it between me and Maddox lest I bare my teeth. “What do you want to know?”

  “How it’s promoted, how many ladies attend, age range…”

  This is going to be one long afternoon.

  Scrapbooking? Phooey! I’ll take needle and thread over glue sticks and polka-dot paper any day.” Bea’s lips purse so tightly they whiten. “If those missies want to learn a true art form, they’re welcome to come watch me quilt, but I want no part of being told how to fancy up my pictures.” She glares around the table at the nine of us who’ve gathered to piece a quilt that will be auctioned off to benefit our local domestic violence shelter. “Besides, I put my pictures in albums years ago.”

  I scan the others’ faces for their reactions to Maddox’s suggestion that we combine the quilting circle with scrapbooking, the latter holding a wider appeal for younger women.

  Elva pauses in the midst of drawing her needle through a seam that binds her Hole in the Barn Door quilting block to the others. “It might be fun. Draw in a bigger crowd—”

  “And what’s wrong with our crowd?” Bea lowers her block to the table.

  While several of the others hurriedly return to their needlework, Elva stares at the woman across the table. “Nothing’s wrong with our crowd, Bea. I’m just saying it’s not a bad idea to get together with younger ladies.” Her eyes widen. “Why, now that my granddaughter’s married, she’s gotten into this scrapbooking craze herself. I’ll bet she’d come.”

  All that’s missing from Bea is smoke curling out of her ears.

  Elva shifts her gaze farther down the table to her daughter. “What do you think, Maria? Would my granddaughter come?”

  “Not for quilting, but scrapbooking…” The slightly less round version of Elva smiles. “Just think, Mom, three generations and it wouldn’t even be Thanksgiving.”

  Mrs. Feterall clears her throat. “My niece doesn’t attend First Grace—doesn’t attend church at all—but she’s hooked on this scrapbooking. Maybe she’d come.” She touches her scarf-bound head. “She and I have gotten close this past year.”

  “And who knows, we might just convert some of those diehard scrapbookers,” pipes up Jack Butterby.

  Yes, Jack, the lone male in our group. Before being widowed four years ago, he attended with his wife and sat outside the circle, reading a book. When her health deteriorated, he took to sitting beside her and guiding her hand as she made her stitches. Near the end, she could only lean against his shoulder and instruct him in the placement of those stitches. And Jack persisted despite thick, awkward fingers, the tips of which were so rough they often snagged the material. After his wife passed, he surprised us by continuing to attend, and now he’s one of our better quilters. In fact, when he’s not working on a “project” quilt, he’s often constructing one for a grandchild.

  Harriet looks up from the far end of the table. “Sounds like a fine idea. It would give us an opportunity to minister to one another.” As Bea gasps, Harriet centers her attention on me. “That Maddox McCray is something else. Full of ideas—first the Sabrina movie marathon and now this Quilt Till You Wilt/Crop Till You Drop event.” She nods. “A fine young man.”

  Bea stands. “Minister to one another—bah! As if we need young missies telling us our business.” Her eyes roll past me, stop on Elva, then jump back. “As for Maddox McCray, you’d do well to keep your eyes to yourself, Harriet Bisset, or that fine young man will land you in the kind of trouble that made you go wrong when your poor daddy was struggling to hold this church together.”

  I catch my breath twice, the first in response to the pain caused by her words, the second in response to the pain caused by my needle. I whip my hand up to reveal the silver shaft embedded in my index finger.

  “Blood!” Mrs. Feterall sounds the alert. Moving faster than I would have thought possible, she lurches out of her chair and pulls my wrist aside. And disaster is averted as the drop of red falls to the linoleum rather than my painstakingly pieced block.

  A nearly unanimous sigh goes around the circle. Nearly, for at this moment, Bea couldn’t care less about the quilt.

  Mrs. Feterall removes the needle from my finger and presses a scrap of material to the welling prick—standard procedure. “You okay, Harri?”

  “I’m fine.”

  An air of curiosity descends, and I know everyone’s thoughts have returned to Maddox and me. Thankfully, they know better than to water the weeds Bea planted in my corner of the garden. Although Maria…

  I glance at her where she leans forward, eyes locked on me as curiosity strains the seams of common sense. And I’m not the only one watching her. However, when Maria doesn’t pull out the watering hose, Bea grunts. “Gotten too warm in here for me. Think I’ll head home.” Abandoning her quilting block, she gathers her sewing items.

  Jack rises to just shy of his stooped six feet. “I’ll walk with you, Bea.”

  Gratitude momentarily softening her face, she nods, and he follows her across the gymnasium.

  “So, what’s this about you and Maddox McCray?” Maria finally pops, but not before Bea turns the corner.

  She whips around, nearly causing Jack to fall over her.

  Oh no! “Uh, nothing.”

  “Nothing!” Bea shrills. “For the past three years, you and every other single woman have mooned over Stephano. Finally, he asks you out, and you turn him down.”

  How did she find out? Though Maddox was suspicious, I can’t believe he’d say anything to Bea.

  “Stephano asked you out?”

  The Katharine Hepburn warble pulls my attention to Harriet, who stares at me over her glasses. “Yeah.” Should I mention that it started with him asking me to ask him out?

  “The poor thing is heartbroken,” Bea accuses.

  I turn in my chair to face her. “Stephano’s heartbroken?”

  “That’s right. Kroger’s frozen dinner aisle.”

  Stephano was at Kroger’s? Yes, he needs to eat, but I’d never have placed him in a grocery store. Doesn’t he have a housekeeper who does things like that for him?

  “There he was. Staring at a box of meatloaf and peas.” Bea gives a sorrowful shake of her head. “Three times I had to say his name before he heard me. Well, I can tell you that when I found out he’d been reduced to cardboard fare because you have eyes for this Maddox McCray, I couldn’t have been more disappointed.” She points an arthritic finger at me. “You’re passing up an opportunity you’ll regret.”

  Jack steps alongside her. “It’s late, Bea. Let me walk you h
ome now.”

  She squares her shoulders. “Mark my words, Harriet Bisset. Mark. My. Words.”

  As Jack leads her away, I brave the stares of those who remain around the table. Eyes bright with the caffeine of curiosity, they await all the stimulating details.

  I make a face. “Stephano is not heartbroken, and I do not have eyes for Maddox.”

  None of them looks convinced, least of all Mrs. Feterall who was privy to the water fight between Maddox and me in her kitchen.

  I pick up my needle. “Now where were we?”

  “Your love life,” Maria pipes up.

  “I do not have a—” Determinedly, I focus on my quilting block.

  Harriet clicks her tongue. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Amid the murmurs of assent, I jab my needle into the material, jerk it through, and jab again. Twenty minutes later, quilting block in place, I grab my sewing box. “Show’s on in fifteen minutes. Gotta go.”

  “Have a nice evening.” Mrs. Feterall gives me a smile that I do my best to return before looking at the others, who nod and murmur their own good-byes.

  As I cross the gym, I feel them watching me. Wondering. Pronouncing judgment. And the moment I’m out the doors, the buzz will start.

  I swing around. “Nothing is going on between me and Maddox, okay?”

  They smile.

  I turn on my heel and gain all of three feet before catching the sound of voices. No sooner do I identify them than Maddox and our youth pastor, Chip, appear in the corridor outside the gym. Oh no.

  They draw up short and look from me to the ladies at my back. Ladies who have just been handed a golden ticket.

  Chip slings his hands into pants pockets that extend the length of his thighs. “Done for the night, Harri?”

  I trudge the last few steps to the doorway. “Yeah, I’m heading home.”

  Maddox tilts his head to the side. “On foot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  Call me a doofus, but I didn’t see that coming. “Oh, I don’t want to put you out.”

  “I was just leaving. Since we’re both going that way, we might as well go together.”

  Why does that have to make sense? I peer at the ladies who aren’t making the slightest attempt to appear uninterested, least of all Harriet, whose eyes are twinkling over the tops of her glasses.