Ex and the Single Girl Page 10

  “No,” Mags said, waving her fondue fork in the air as she spoke. “You should have just walked away like you didn’t even see him. Like he didn’t even register on your radar. Serve him right.”

  I shifted in my seat and stared at my plate. There was a moment of silence. It was my turn to say something comforting, but I was drawing a blank. I figured Mags’s shoe was already aimed for my shin anyway, so I said the first thing that came to mind.

  “What exactly happened with you two, Vera?”

  Vera raised her eyes slowly to mine. Mags didn’t need to kick me; Vera’s pained expression was enough to tell me I’d said the exact wrong thing.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She grabbed another tissue, skirted around us, and left the dining room. When I looked up, both Bev and Mags were staring at me, their faces a blend of shock and horror.

  “What?” I asked. “I don’t understand what happened. Did he just leave her? Was he seeing someone else? I don’t understand why two people who seem to still love each other aren’t together.”

  “Do you know the point of a fondue?” Bev asked me. I rolled my eyes.

  “Of course I know the—”

  “The point of a fondue” Bev growled over me, “for those of us who have been hiding under the veil of education for twelve years—”

  “Excuse me? Hiding?”

  “—is to provide a soft, safe place for someone who needs comfort. What part of that is too difficult for you to understand, Professor?”

  I stood up and grabbed my plate. “It’s not difficult for me to understand, Bev, I’m just saying—”

  She stood up and grabbed her plate as well. “You don’t just say anything. You say whatever will make her feel better. If that means saying you believe that little men from Mars are stocking the shelves at the Piggly Wiggly, you say it. Are you really incapable of coming up with a single nice thing to say?”

  Anger pricked up the hairs on the back of my neck “Bev, you know I love Vera as much as anybody, but I mean, come on. It’s been eleven years. Maybe if y’all didn’t fondue her every time she and Bridge Wilkins bumped elbows, she might be over it by now.” Bev raised her index finger at me. “Let me tell you something, little miss—”

  Mags shot up between us.

  “Hey,” she said, grabbing Bev’s raised hand and lowering it, “who’s in the mood for a gin and tonic? I know I could sure use one right about now.”

  I put my plate down. My hand was shaking and my stomach felt like it was about to evict the three orange slices I’d eaten. I kissed Mags on the cheek before throwing my napkin on the table and beelining for the front door.

  I tossed on my bed and looked at my new alarm clock, blazing 11:45 at me in furious red. I stared at the ceiling.

  Hiding under the veil of education? What was that supposed to mean? So I’d gone to school. So I’d gone directly into grad school after undergrad and had stayed for eight more years. I was improving myself. Investing in my future.

  “If I was hiding, I wouldn’t be here, I can tell you that much,” I muttered, throwing back my new quilt and tossing my legs over the side of the bed. “If I was hiding it’s a safe bet you people wouldn’t know where to find me.”

  I sat there, staring at my toes against the old hardwood, wondering what Bev’s problem was, fearing I had been too hard on Vera. She’d needed a fondue, and I’d given her an inquisition. I’d just wanted to understand the problem. What was so wrong with that?

  I got up and walked into the kitchen, flicking on the gas under the teakettle. I leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle to whistle, staring down at my feet. It was almost midnight. I couldn’t stand the thought of another night counting the nail holes in the walls here, but I knew sleep wasn’t likely.

  “Hiding,” I muttered to myself. “What the hell is her problem, anyway?”

  I wiggled my toes against the hardwood again, then turned off the gas and went to get my sneakers.

  “Stop right where you are!”

  I screamed and dropped the hammer in my hand. It clattered to the cement floor, sharp reports echoing through the barn. A light was shining in my face. I held my hand over my eyes and squinted.

  “Ian?”

  The flashlight lowered. That’s when I saw the shotgun.

  “Oh, for Christ’s…” Ian staggered over to the sawhorse and leaned against it, gun at one side, flashlight at the other. I picked up my battery-powered lantern and walked over to him, trying to mask the smile on my face.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “No, I’m bloody well not okay,” he sputtered at me, accentuating his speech with jerks of the gun. “You scared the bloody hell out of me.”

  “Careful with that thing,” I said, nodding toward the shotgun. He tossed it to the ground.

  “It’s not loaded. I’d blast my own foot off, I’m sure.” He let out a sharp exhale and looked at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Working on the barn.”

  “Working on the...” He huffed. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought maybe working on the barn would help. I would have knocked on the door when I got here, but I didn’t want to wake you.” His eyebrows shot up. I raised my hand, motioning for him to settle down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think the hammering would be loud enough to wake you up.” He ran his hands through his hair, skewing curly brown tufts in all directions. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Writing.”

  “I thought you wrote in the mornings.”

  He shrugged. “When I’m writing, I write. All day. All night, if necessary. I’ve tried to limit it to just mornings, but...” He trailed off, ran his hands through his hair again.

  “In a bad place with the book?”

  He gave me a half-smile. “I’ll get past it.”

  “Well,” I said, picking up my lantern, “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I would have called, but…”

  His smile went from half to full. “Ah, so it’s my fault for not having a phone installed out here, is that it?”

  “Come to whatever conclusions you'd like.” I grinned and picked up the hammer. “Sorry to have bothered you. You can go on back to your book now.”

  I walked over to the support I’d been assembling and raised the hammer. I saw the beam of the flashlight move behind me, and then I heard Ian pick up a plank of wood. I turned.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m bloody stuck,” he said. “I can’t get past this one scene, and it’s for damn sure I won’t be able to sleep now.”

  I nodded, stuck a few nails in my mouth, and hammered them one by one into the support. Ian walked over to the back wall and flicked a switch. The barn lit up with a series of track lights that huddled on the floor against the back wall.

  “Oh,” I said, pulling out the last nail. “I didn’t even realize you had lights in here.”

  He plugged in the table saw and put the goggles over his eyes. “You’re not the only one who turns to barn restoration when insomnia strikes.”

  We exchanged smiles. He picked up a plank of wood and marked the angle on it. I watched him as he set it on the table, pulling the whirling blade down to cut. It wasn’t until he’d finished and pulled off his goggles that he realized I was still watching him.

  “What?”

  “Tell me about your block,” I said.

  He looked at the wood, then back at me. I picked a nail out of the pocket on my tool belt and placed it against the support plank I’d been working on.

  “No, your story. Maybe I can help.”

  I smelled coffee and opened my eyes to see a steaming I’D RATHER BE FISHING mug sitting on the coffee table. I rolled onto my back, adjusting my head on the couch pillow and noticing that at some point, someone had covered me with a blanket.

  Ian.

  He was sitting down at the desk facing the fro
nt window in his living room, his back to me. His laptop was blazing, as it probably had been all night. He placed his mug quietly down on the table and pulled out the chair, glancing at me over his shoulder.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” He nodded to the coffee next to me. “I decided to do as the Romans do. I hope I made it right.”

  I smiled. “How’d it turn out?”

  He sat, still facing me, and sipped his coffee. “I think it might be a little strong...”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “Tan and the smuggler. Did he jump in the harbor?”

  Ian smiled, glanced quickly over at the laptop, then looked back at me. “No, actually. The water’s too cold that time of year. He’d die of hypothermia, and then there’s the end of my series, and then I’d have to get a real job, and we can’t have that. But”—he waggled a finger at me—”I did use your idea to throw the disks on the boat before it explodes.”

  I sat up, grinning. “Only they’re not the real disks?”

  He nodded. “Right. It means I’ll have to rewrite that bit in chapter four, but I think it’ll work.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “For what? You’re the one who was up all night helping me slog through this mess.”

  “I had fun,” I said, stretching. “What time is it, anyway?” He checked his watch. “Quarter past seven.”

  “I’m gonna have to get back soon. The Page opens at nine.” He stood up. “I’ll get your jacket.”

  He walked into the hallway, and I heard the closet door open. I smiled to myself as I slipped my feet into the sneakers I’d kicked off sometime during the night. Ian returned with my windbreaker and draped it over my shoulders, his fingers lingering for a second before he pulled them away.

  “Sorry,” he said, his smile flickering.

  I kept my eyes on his. “No. It’s okay.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’d hate to inspire another hostile visit from your little redheaded friend.”

  I laughed. “I think you could handle it.”

  He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My heart went into a Sammy Davis, Jr., tap dance number. I felt a smile spread across my face as his hand landed lightly on my shoulder, sending a pleasant zing down my spine. His body was maybe an inch from mine and I was sure he was going to kiss me until he gave a small laugh and looked away.

  “All right. Time for you to go.”

  My face must have registered my disappointment, because he laughed again, and his eyes did a quick self-conscious jig.

  “I haven’t brushed my teeth this morning, and I’m rather firm on positive first impressions.” He picked up my hand and kissed my palm, his eyes on mine. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

  “Yes,” I said, barely whispering.

  “Seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.”

  “You don’t have to...”

  He put a finger against my lips. The warmth shut me up. I was one touch away from melting into a puddle at his feet.

  “First impressions,” he said. “Humor me.”

  I smiled. “Consider yourself humored.”

  His fingers traveled from my lips to my face. His arms fell around me, pulling me to him, and as I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, I felt that soul-deep comfort that you can usually only get from things like hot tubs and eiderdown. I’d never gotten that from another person before. I liked it. When he finally released me, I let out a small groan of grief.

  “Off with you, then.”

  I stepped back, pulled my windbreaker around me, and walked to the door. When I turned to look back through the front window, I could see him standing right where he was, watching me. I smiled.

  It felt good to be watched.

  Chapter Seven

  “Vera, I’m sorry about the fondue. I should have been more supportive.”

  Vera and I sat in the back office at the Page, sharing a lunch of veggie subs, lemon-kissed tonic water, and organic blue corn chips. Mags and Bev were busy gossiping at the coffee bar with Marge Whitfield, giving me and Vera some time alone.

  “No, darlin’, don’t you worry about that.” She sipped her water. “You’re right. I should be past it by now.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” I said. “I just wanted to understand what happened.”

  Vera looked panicked. I held up my hand. “Not now. Not if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m just saying, there are a lot of things I don’t understand that I wish I understood.”

  Vera picked up a chip and broke it in two pieces. “Such as?” I raised my eyes to her. Technically, pumping Vera for information was a violation of the truce with Mags, but Vera asked. Surely that was a mitigating factor.

  “Such as what’s going on with Mags. Why she’s disappearing in the mornings. Why she’s setting farm animals free.”

  Vera gave me a long look, not justifying my line of questioning with an answer. I huffed and grabbed a chip out of the bag.

  “Okay. Fine.” I sat back and watched her. “Tell me about Jack, then.”

  Vera blinked. “Why?”

  “He’s my father, and I hardly know anything about him. That’s why.”

  Vera looked down and brushed some crumbs off her shirt. “You know I can’t talk about that.”

  “No, I don’t. Why not? Because of the Miz Fallon code?”

  “Don’t be silly. We don’t have a code.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. She gave me a look and kept going.

  “It’s not my place, Portia. If you want to know something, ask Mags and leave me out of it.”

  I widened my eyes in sarcastic surprise. “Ask Mags? Gee, I never thought of that. What a simple solution. How could I have missed it?”

  She threw a chip at me. “Don’t be a smart mouth.”

  I picked the chip off my shirt and tossed it in the garbage. “Look, I’m not asking what went on with Mags and Jack. I’ve given up. I’ll probably never know. I just want to know...” I picked up my water and put it down again. “What he was like, I guess. What kind of man he was.”

  Vera studied me for a minute, then sighed. “He was a nice man.”

  “Nice? Nice how? Was he kind to animals and small children? Did he tip big at restaurants? Did he give blood? What?” Vera’s eyes glanced over toward the door as though checking for Mags, and then darted back to me. She grabbed a chip. “He was smart. He loved classical music. He read a lot. He was really into Shakespeare. You know he was the one who came up with your name, from that play...”

  “Merchant of Venice, I know.” That was one of the small bits of information I’d gleaned from Mags. I looked at Vera impatiently. She tossed the chip down and wiped her hands with a napkin.

  “He liked boats and the water. He used to take you down to the pond out off River Road to teach you to swim.” A small smile crept over her face. “He’d bring you back all wrapped up in a towel and beaming. He said you were the best little swimmer that Catoosa County would ever see.”

  I grabbed my tonic and took a sharp sip, blinking my eyes. It was the first compliment I’d ever gotten from my father, and it cut through me harder than any insult I’d ever received.

  “I knew we shouldn’t be talking about this,” Vera said quietly as she watched me wipe at my eyes. There was a long silence. Then, quietly, “He loved you very much. I know he did.”

  “Oh, really?” I felt the anger surge through me, and I knew none of it was Vera’s fault, but I turned a sharp look on her anyway. “Then why’d he leave?”

  Vera sighed and bit her lip, but didn’t say anything. I got up and shot my water bottle into the garbage.

  “You know,” I said after a moment of staring at the back of the computer monitor, “I understand why Bev’s not talking. That’s just Bev. And Mags was born clueless and will always stay that way.”

  Vera looked up at me over her half-moon reading glasses. I met her eyes dead-on.

  “What really gets me is that you’
re the one who’s supposed to know better.”

  I left without looking at her and sneaked out the back way so that Bev and Mags wouldn’t see I was upset. As long as we were keeping secrets, maybe I’d start keeping a few of my own.

  “Well, if Mags found him, I probably can. You’d be amazed at what you can find on the Internet.” Beauji adjusted herself again on her couch, then pushed into the top of her bulging stomach. “Foot out of the ribs, kid,” she grumbled.

  I sighed and leaned my head back on her big, fluffy couch. “I don’t know.”

  “Look, just give me everything you know about him and I’ll do what I can. Just because I get his number doesn’t mean you have to dial it.”

  I sat forward. She had a point. And it was a sure bet that she wouldn’t let up until I agreed. I grabbed a pen and a notepad from the coffee table and jotted down everything I knew about my father.

  Lyle Jackson Tripplehorn.

  Born February 28th, 1937, in Hastings, Tennessee.

  I handed the sheet to Beauji. She read it and sighed, then tossed it on the coffee table. “Okay. That’s settled.”

  She paused, cocking her head to the side as she watched me. “So...how are things with the Brit?”

  “When is that damn baby due, anyway?”

  “Eight days. Don’t change the subject. It’s rude. How goes it with Sir Ian?”

  “Fine, no thanks to you.”

  She waved her wrist at me. “Oh, please. If it wasn’t for me, you two would still be doing the is-you-is-or-is-you-ain’t-my- baby shimmy.”

  I fought a smile. “How do you know we’re not?”

  “Because I can read your face like a damn newspaper.” She reached over and picked up her ice water. “So, spill it, girl. What’s going on?”

  I looked at my watch. “We have an official date in three hours and twenty-two minutes.”

  “Great. I like him. You know”—she bit her lip—”I think he’s a really good guy.”

  I glanced up at Beauji. Her face was the picture of sincerity. Her face was never the picture of sincerity. An alarm in my head went off. “What’s going on?”

  She sighed and paused, watching me. Finally, she came out with it.