Ivy laughed. “Unbelievable.”
“Exactly. I will never understand people.”
In a fortunate turn of events, I’d recently been hired as a weekly columnist for the Sun. It all started after I’d quit my job in sports PR and launched a line of “just because” greeting cards for women called “Honey Notes.” To my surprise, the cards took off, even landing in People magazine. When the features editor at the Sun called and offered me a position as a humorous relationship advice columnist, I thought it would be a fun diversion as I figured out my next career move. Who knows—maybe I’d even learn something. I had one high school boyfriend, one broken engagement, and about a billion bad dates to my name. I hardly felt qualified to be doling out advice, but then again, I guess I did have quite a bit of experience in the dating arena at this point.
I said goodbye to Ivy, then poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and scrolled through some new e-mails. By the time I finished reading the last one, from a freaked-out guy who had just discovered that a woman he’d been dating for two weeks had changed her Facebook profile to say in a relationship AND changed her picture to one of her with him, I was dabbing tears with a tissue, laughing and cringing. Was I really getting paid to read these crazy stories? Who were these people?
I continued tinkering with my column for a while, then decided a chocolate break was in order. I grabbed a fleece and headed out the door to stroll around the block for some fresh air…and to buy a fat chocolate chip cookie at Peet’s Coffee & Tea on the corner of Sacramento and Fillmore, a regular destination of mine conveniently located a mere half block away.
On my way home, I stopped to check my mailbox in the lobby of my building. My back was to the staircase when I heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Well, hello there, I was wondering when I’d meet you.”
An older man with pitch black skin, dark-framed glasses, and white hair smiled down at me from about ten stairs up. He was wearing a gray fedora, a white-and-green checkered dress shirt, and dark green pants held up by a pair of black suspenders, a newspaper tucked under one arm. I’d never seen him before.
“Hi.” I put the remainder of my cookie back in the bag and slid it into my pocket.
He slowly descended the remaining stairs, using the railing to steady himself. When he reached the bottom he took off his hat, then approached me and extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Red Springfield, new to apartment 2A. I’m from Springfield, Missouri, and no, there’s no relation.” He laughed, displaying a row of bright white teeth. I wondered what kind of toothpaste he used.
I took his hand. “I’m Waverly Bryson. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Springfield.”
“Please, call me Red. Everyone calls me Red.”
“Well, okay then, Red. You can call me Waverly. Everyone calls me Waverly.”
He smiled and slightly bowed his head. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Waverly. I saw your name on the mailbox and have been looking forward to meeting you. That’s a lovely name you have there.”
I laughed. “Lovely? That’s a new one, but thanks. What brings you to San Francisco?”
“Family.” He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.
“When did you move in?”
“Last month.”
“Really? Last month?” It amazed me how I hardly ever saw my neighbors. After nearly nine years in the building, I still felt like I was the only person there who ever did laundry.
“Yes, my dear, nearly four weeks now.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. “Curious that I should meet you today, because I just received this letter in my mailbox. I was on my way down to give it to you, in fact.”
“A letter for me?” I never got letters. “Is it junk mail?”
He chuckled. “I didn’t open it, my dear.”
I glanced at the envelope, addressed to me in bright red ink. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address. Maybe it was from Jake? Who writes letters anymore?
“Thanks, Mr. Springfield.” I was drawn to his brown eyes, which looked friendly and familiar, almost as if I’d seen them somewhere before.
“Please, call me Red.”
“Oops, I mean thanks, Red.”
He smiled. “My pleasure, Miss Waverly. It’s time for my crossword now.” He patted the newspaper under his arm. “I hope to bump into you again soon.” He put his fedora back on, tipped his head slightly, and headed out the door.
Back in my apartment, I opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. One word was written in red, in the same neat handwriting:
Be
Be?
Be what?
I squinted at the paper. It had to be from a reader of my column, but who? I tried not to think about the fact that whoever had sent it knew where I lived. Sort of creepy, but I guess that comes with the territory when you put your name out there in public.
I tucked the letter into a drawer in my office, then sat down, finished my cookie, and e-mailed my column off to Ivy. I leaned back in my chair and glanced over at my calendar.
Just a few more hours until I see him.
That night I couldn’t sleep. My flight to Atlanta was at eight, which meant I had to get up at five if I wanted to take a shower. I watched the clock beside my bed. One fourteen. I never slept well before an early flight, the fear of oversleeping always weaving its way into anxiety-riddled dreams. Add to that the anxiety of seeing Jake again, and I might as well have gotten out of bed and started running laps.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the weekend ahead.
Jake McIntyre.
I’d met him at a tradeshow party about a year earlier, back when I was still working at KA Marketing. My fiancé Aaron had called off our wedding only a year before that, and Jake was the first person I’d felt a true connection with since the whole debacle. He was a physical therapist for the Atlanta Hawks, himself a former Duke basketball player. We ran into each other a few times in the months that followed at various work-related events around the country, and though I was usually too tongue-tied around him to speak coherently, he didn’t seem deterred by my awkwardness. Even though I’d only seen him intermittently, there was an undeniable chemistry there. Although at first I was convinced I was the only one feeling it, I was wrong (lucky for me). Our flirtatious banter evolved over time, and after yet another unexpected encounter, this time on a warm night in New York, he finally kissed me. For that brief moment, I think I forgot my own name.
That was two weeks before McKenna’s wedding. My fear of getting hurt waned briefly in the afterglow of the kiss, so I rolled the dice and invited him to fly out to California and be my date. Everything that day and into the evening went perfectly—until I froze and screwed it up. And now my romantic pessimism was making an unfortunate comeback. Ugh.
My mind wandered to our contact since that awkward goodbye. Our interaction had gradually turned playful again, and he’d finally invited me to visit for what I was hoping would be a complete do-over. I was so grateful for a second chance, because I could feel in my bones that he was worth caring for. Really worth caring for.
After a while I opened my eyes and checked the clock on my nightstand.
Two twenty-three.
Ouch.
Thank God for coffee.
Eleven hours later I was in the restroom at the Atlanta airport, standing in front of the mirror and trying—unsuccessfully—to camouflage the puffy dark circles under my eyes.
“Maybe I could wear sunglasses all weekend?” I said to my reflection.
“Excuse me?” A plump, gray-haired woman at the adjacent sink gave me a confused glance.
“Sorry, just talking to myself.” I grimaced as I dug through my makeup kit. “I didn’t sleep very much last night, and now I’m paying for it.”
“Sugar, you look lovely,” she said with a smile on her way out. I love Southern hospitality.
I pulled my long, dark hair out of my l
ow ponytail and brushed it, then put on some sheer plum lipstick. Maybe that would distract attention from the puff? I stood up straight, smoothed my hands over my jeans, and took a deep breath.
Keep it together.
I checked to make sure I had nothing stuck in my teeth, then grabbed the handle of my carry-on and headed out the door.
I saw him before he saw me. He was leaning against the passenger door of a dark green Tahoe, scrolling through messages on his phone. His sunglasses were perched on top of his thick, wavy brown hair. He wore a khaki canvas jacket over a lightweight blue V-neck sweater and white collared shirt.
So cute.
“Hey there, stranger,” I said.
He looked up and broke into a grin. “Hey you, come here.” He opened his arms, and I trotted over to hug him. His blue eyes were as gorgeous as I remembered.
“Mmm, you smell good,” he whispered into my hair. “Really good.”
“So do you,” I whispered back and lifted my head to kiss him. Good thing his arms were around me, because when our lips touched I think my knees buckled a bit. Now that would have been embarrassing.
The ice was broken. Thank God.
“Welcome to Atlanta.” He grabbed my bag and opened the back hatch of his car. “I’m sorry it’s so cold here.”
I laughed. “Cold? It’s got to be sixty degrees out. That’s like a heat wave in San Francisco, remember?”
He opened the passenger door for me. “Ah, yes, how could I forget? Wasn’t the cold weather in San Francisco the topic of our first conversation?”
“Indeed it was. That, followed by a discussion of why men around the globe continue to wear jean shorts.”
When we got in the car, he reached over and lightly caressed my cheek. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I smiled. “Me too.” His touch was gentle and warm, and suddenly I was even more nervous than I thought I’d be. Don’t freak out on him again.
We drove from the airport into the late afternoon sun, first chatting about my flight, then his latest developments at work, then the Hawks game the following evening. I wasn’t much of a basketball fan, but he had courtside seats for us. He’d be with the team during warm-ups and halftime and timeouts, but unless someone got hurt, he’d be able to sit with me the rest of the time. How could I not enjoy that?
“What’s going on with the Honey Notes? Are they still flying off the shelves?”
I shook my head. “They’re on the shelves, but not exactly flying off them anymore. Still, enough to pay the bills for now.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I think I need to come up with something new, but I don’t know what it is yet.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
I nodded. “I’ve been thinking about the idea of new ideas.”
He laughed. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “I guess you could say I’m in the idea stage. There’s just not much on the stage yet. So how about you? Seen any crazy ankle sprains lately?”
He laughed. “Are you changing the subject on me?”
“You catch on fast, Mr. McIntyre.” I grinned at him.
He briefly removed his hands from the steering wheel. “Okay, okay, I’ll back off the Honey questions. What about the newspaper column? How’s that going?” We were driving by yet another identical strip mall. I made a mental note to count the number of T.G.I. Friday’s I saw during the weekend.
I smoothed my hair with my hand. “I don’t see a Pulitzer Prize in my future, but so far, Honey on Your Mind has been a lot of fun. It’s amazing what people write to me, Jake. I mean, they share some nutty stories.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
I spread my hands wide in front of me. “Like everything. Some of them hold nothing back in their e-mails. It’s like they’re the same people who post what they ate for breakfast on Facebook. I mean, who CARES what you ate for breakfast? WE DON’T CARE.”
“Honestly, I think you should learn to enjoy knowing what people had for breakfast.”
I looked at him. “What?”
“I made a tasty omelet today, red peppers and jack cheese, some nice onions in there. Even posted a photo of it online.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, like you even have a Facebook account. You barely use e-mail.”
“Well maybe I’ll just have to get one. And that reminds me, I need to tweet about that omelet when we get to my place.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t go there, Mr. McIntyre. No tweeting, or you can turn around right now and take me back to the airport. I’m serious.”
“No can do, Miss Bryson. I’ve got you all to myself until Sunday, and I don’t plan to let you go a minute earlier.”
I could feel myself blushing. “You don’t?”
“I don’t.”
I smiled and looked out the window. We were passing the eighteenth strip mall, the eighteenth T.G.I. Friday’s. I stole a peek at Jake and thought about the weekend ahead. Thank God it’s Friday, I thought.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to a tidy, white Tudor-style house in a quaint part of Atlanta Jake told me was called Virginia Highlands. The house had brown shutters and a real mailbox on the sidewalk. He got out of the car to grab my bag, and for a moment I stayed in the passenger seat, studying the house. I’d known he lived a few miles outside of downtown, but I was unexpectedly struck by the difference in our living arrangements. He was a full-fledged homeowner. I was a perennial renter. He had a driveway, a garage, a front yard, and a backyard. I shared a coin-operated washer and dryer with the strangers in my building.
Although I was only three years younger than he was, I suddenly felt like he was a whole lot older.
Jake McIntyre was already an adult. Waverly Bryson was still trying to become one.
“Hey, you there?” He tapped on the passenger window and opened the door, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I blinked. “Sorry, I spaced for a minute. I love your house, Jake. It’s really pretty.”
“It’s not fancy, but it’s perfect for me. I’ll give you the grand tour when we get inside.”
We crossed the stone walkway to the front door, which he held open for me to pass through. I stepped inside the foyer and took a look around. The house wasn’t huge, but the ceilings were very high, so it made everything look bigger. The walls were a pale beige with crisp white crown moldings, and the handsome oak furniture reminded me of a Restoration Hardware store. The place smelled a bit like Pine-Sol—I wondered if it had just been cleaned.
I loved it.
Jake walked into the living room and set my bag down on the dark hardwood floor. He took his coat off and tossed it on the couch, then began to turn in circles, pointing to the various rooms around him.
“Living room, kitchen, dining room, bedroom, bedroom, office, garage, backyard. There you go, the grand tour of Chez McIntyre.” He took a little bow.
“Well done. How much do I owe you for that?”
“Come over here, and I’ll tell you.”
I slowly stepped toward him, and he put his arms around me.
“I’m glad you’re here, Waverly.”
“Me too,” I said softly, lifting my head.
I closed my eyes as he leaned down to kiss me. I could feel my face flush the moment our lips touched, and the floor underneath me went a little wobbly again. I breathed in the scent of his skin and kissed him back, melting into his warm lips.
When we finally broke apart, I stood back and exhaled.
“That was quite a welcome.”
He pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gently kissed the top of my head. “Are you hungry? Did you eat lunch on the plane?”
“Yes to hungry, no to lunch. Shame on those airlines for not feeding us high-calorie, highly processed food anymore. I did buy a high-calorie, highly processed poppy seed muffin at the airport for breakfast though. It was yummy.”
“There’s a little Italian place not too far from here that I’ve been wanting to
check out. You game?”
“Sir, I’m game for anything.” I pretended to swing a bat.
He scratched his eyebrow. “Did you just pretend to swing a bat?”
“Apparently I did.”
“I’m guessing you’ve had a lot of coffee today?”
“Indeed I have. I think maybe it’s time to switch to wine.”
He picked up my bag. “I can help with that. Let me put this in the guest bedroom and pour you a glass. I need to make a few work calls before we head out. Do you want to take a shower or anything?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Are you saying I look dirty?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Oh my God, you totally think I look dirty!”
He laughed and disappeared into a bedroom, then quickly reappeared and walked past me. “You’re crazy. Red or white?”
I followed him into the kitchen. “I swear I took a shower this morning. Damn recycled airplane air. And red please.”
He opened a bottle of merlot and poured me a glass, then handed it to me and put a hand on my head. “Make yourself at home, okay? I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
I pointed at him and walked toward the guest room to change. “Okay, but I’m not taking another shower.”
“What do you think of Atlanta so far?” Jake asked as he refilled my wine goblet with pinot noir. Classical music played lightly in the background of the quiet, dimly lit restaurant.
I took a sip and set the glass down. “So far it’s great, but to be honest, I’m a little disappointed that you chose this place for dinner.” I gazed at a beautiful painting of Venice on the wall.
“You don’t like it?” He seemed surprised.
“Well, the food was really good, but…the ambiance is so…charming and warm…and so…well…romantic.”
He laughed. “And you have a problem with that why?”
I played with my earring. “It’s just that, well, after driving by so many strip malls on the way from the airport, I sort of had my heart set on T.G.I. Friday’s. That’s all.”
It's a Waverly Life Page 2
