Читать книгу Norah's Ark - Judy Baer - Страница 11

Now that Lilly had announced her new project—the unsuspecting Connor Trevian—it was time for me to get back to work.

“Sorry I don’t have time to help you plan your wedding, but I have a tuna fish cupcake to make. It’s Mr. Tibbles’s birthday today and he’s coming to stay a few days.”

“You mean that pompous black cat, the one that acts like he’s Winston Churchill?”

“That’s him.”

“You’d rather do that than plan my wedding?” Lilly said incredulously.

“Let’s just say that I know for sure that Mr. Tibbles is coming. I’m not so sure Connor is going to go willingly down the aisle.” I met Lilly’s gaze with my own. “What’s up with you, anyway?”

Lilly pouted a bit, threw her blond hair back from her face, stomped in her high-heeled butter-colored boots to a chair behind the counter and sat down. Her starlet persona, no doubt about it. “Do you think I’m flighty?’

Uh-oh. Trick question.

“Ah, well, it depends on your definition of the word flighty.”

“Airheaded, dizzy, short attention span, blonde jokes, erratic, unreliable, capricious.”

“If you know the definition of capricious you probably aren’t flighty.”

“Be honest, Norah. You’re the only one I can rely on to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

“First I need to know who called you flighty.”

“Oh, that accountant I’ve been seeing. He says we can’t continue a relationship because I’m much too erratic and impulsive.”

No wonder Connor is looking so good.

“In that case, you are flighty. Look at how you are dressed. You strive for erratic and impulsive.”

“And cutting edge fashionwise,” Lilly defended, already looking a bit happier. “You’re right. I like what I am. If he doesn’t, he’s not the man for me.” She jumped up and gave me a hug, swathing me in the fragrance of lavender and something mossy. “I’m so glad we’re friends, Norah. I can trust you. You tell me the truth and never go behind my back. Thank…thank…”

“…God?” I finished for her.

“Yeah. Him.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “If you’re the kind of product He turns out, then I do want to get to know Him better…someday.” Then she threw her head back and swept out of the store like a runway model. No wonder she’d made her accountant nervous. Lilly was a full five fingers, a definite handful.

So she was watching me, looking for God in me. My grandmother said I might be the only sermon someone like Lilly ever hears. That should keep me on my toes.

When I pad around in my pajamas and big white bunny slippers, Hoppy goes crazy. She thinks she’s got company and keeps returning to my feet to sniff them. Her little nose practically vibrates with excitement. I’m thinking of getting a second rabbit so she’ll have some company. It’s easier to put two does together than two bucks, so I’ll have to get another female. If I introduce a male, within weeks, I’ll have way too much company in the house.

I leaned down to touch her soft fur. “You bunnies are just like humans, aren’t you? Two women can get along fine, but put a man in the mix and—poof!—there’s trouble.” We eyed each other soulfully, human and rabbit, and for a moment, I was sure Hoppy knew exactly what I meant. Then she tried to bite off my slipper’s nose and I snapped out of that daydream.

When my doorbell rang, my attack powder puff, Bentley, slid off the couch, rolled on the carpet, staggered to his feet and took what he thinks is an aggressive stance. It might be aggressive, if he’d ever learn to stop wagging his tail. Bentley, for all his former woes, is an optimist. “Sure,” his posture says, “I’ll protect my mistress even if she is wearing stupid slippers, but, no matter who you are on the other side of the door, I’d rather just lick your face.”

Then he must have gotten a whiff of pizza, because he raced to the door wriggling like an otter on a waterslide.

Lilly was on the other side of the door with a double pepperoni and cheese pizza, bread sticks and a liter of soda. She walked in without invitation and plopped the food down on my table. “Girl’s night,” she announced. “I’ll get the plates.”

Never one to turn away a delivered pizza, I gathered glasses and napkins and settled into one of the cushioned chairs in my dining room.

“What’s up?” I finally got around to asking as Lilly doled pizza onto plates.

“Oh, nothing. Want a bread stick?” She waved them under my nose.

“‘Nothing’? You brought a family-size pizza for ‘nothing’? Lilly, we could solve the world’s problems over this thing. What’s wrong?”

“I saw Connor after work.”

I watched a piece of mozzarella make a tightrope between my mouth and a slice of pizza. “And?”

“And he’s perfect for me, Norah. Absolutely perfect. I love the way he looks, the sound of his voice, his aftershave….”

Smitten. Deeply smitten. Besotted. Love-struck even. I reeled in the cheese with my teeth and tongue.

“…but I’m not sure how to get him.”

“‘Get’ him?” There was a tone in Lilly’s voice that I hadn’t heard before, especially where men are concerned. Anxiety.

“You know. Make him realize I’m the one for him.”

“Lilly, you do that all the time. You can do that unconscious! You’re sweet, beautiful, funny….”

“I can be,” she agreed, “but not this time. This time it feels like I’m a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the football team. I can be all those things because I haven’t really found anyone I want to spend my life with. Now, when it counts, I’m scared stiff!”

Lilly, scared stiff, is a sight to behold. Her blond hair was in a loose halo around her head, she wore snug designer jeans, high-heeled boots, a frothy peasant blouse and a thick, silver-studded belt that nipped in her slender waist. Her earrings matched her belt which matched the chain around her neck, which matched her thick silver bracelet…scared stiff looks great on Lilly.

“I really care this time, Norah, and as a result, I’m like a clumsy, unsophisticated kid who doesn’t know what to do with her knees and elbows, let alone the rest of her!”

“Sounds quite charming to me.” Sometimes I wonder if Lilly only likes guys who don’t initially show much interest in her. I sprinkled red peppers on the pizza and then surreptitiously slipped Bentley a piece of crust. “Maybe Connor likes that kind of woman.”

“I don’t think so.”

Something in her tone made me look up sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, he’s nice to me, it’s not that, but I don’t feel any spark coming from him.”

“‘Spark’? As in lighting a fire?”

“You’ve got it. The reason I recognize his lack of interest is that I’ve given off that same vibe myself, to men I know are crazy about me but that I’m not terribly interested in.”

Ah. The root of the matter. Lilly is one of the most competitive people I know. She is unwilling to lose anything she sees as competition. She can give the off-putting vibes but she can’t take them when they’re aimed her way.

“Why don’t you give it a chance, Lilly? Connor doesn’t know you and, frankly, you don’t know him. Allow yourselves a little time.”

Lilly fluttered her long French manicured nails in front of her face.

“Who knows?” I offered. “Maybe you won’t like him as well as you think you will—and he’ll like you even better.”

I studied her and was surprised to see a glaze of tears in her eyes.

“Sometimes I get sick of being a strong, independent woman, Norah. I want to be swept off my feet and carried into the sunset. Do you understand that at all?”

Do I? Me, who’s waiting for Cupid’s arrow and shimmery shivers and wedding bells? “Of course I do, Lilly. Just don’t panic. Desperation is not a scent you want to give off, you know.”

“It’s more clear-cut for you,” she said accusingly, wiping her eye with a stiff paper napkin. “You think God’s going to clunk you on the head with a guy some day. I don’t think I want to wait for that.”

It would certainly expedite matters if God just dropped my ideal husband into my lap. No wondering if or when Mr. Right comes along. No insecurity about myself because I’d know that this man is meant for me. No wearing makeup every day of the week just to make sure I don’t scare Mr. Right off with pale cheeks and no mascara on my lashes. The idea had merit, although I was wise enough to keep that idea to myself.

Still, Lilly was feeling better when she left sometime later. Pizza therapy is one of my favorite medical prescriptions.

On my way to the post office on Tuesday morning, my step slowed as I neared the new toy store. The door was open yet I was reluctant to stop in, considering the odd reception I’d had last time I was there. But fools venture where angels dare not tread, so I mounted the steps and went inside.

What a transformation! What had been dingy and drab had been changed into a scene from one of my favorite books as a child, The Secret Garden. The walls were freshly papered in muted pink Victorian cabbage roses that gave off an aura of a musty but elegant past. There were dolls everywhere—Madame Alexander dolls, Barbie dolls, fat baby dolls and collectibles with delicate porcelain faces and bemused expressions. A huge round crib hung with thick mauve ribbon and delicate rosebuds was piled high with teddy bears. Another crib was full of jungle creatures—fat, jolly monkeys, floppy-necked giraffes, lions with wild manes. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the jungle display that I realized the room had been divided in half. Behind the area filled with dolls was the “techno” room. PlayStation consoles, video games, cars on racetracks and everything that either plugged in, used batteries or made loud obnoxious noises was displayed here.

“What do you think?”

I was so engrossed that I gave a startled squeak and spun around to find Julie Morris standing behind me. Though she looked a little strained, today she had a smile on her face.

“You’re a phenomenon! I had no idea this place could look so good.” Meeting Julie and her husband the other day, I hadn’t believed there was a playful bone in either of their bodies. Heartened, I pressed on through the fantasyland they’d created.

“Would you like to see my favorite part?” Julie asked shyly.

I wonder how a person gets so timid—especially one who intends to be a business owner dealing with the public all day long.

Julie led me to a table filled with baskets. In the baskets were tiny toys and packets of candy. Diminutive dolls, race cars so small their wheels would make M&M’s look large, little coloring books and paper dolls. My particular favorite, for a dime apiece, was fake fingernails on green plastic fingertips with hair sprouting from the first knuckle.

“I had these when I was a kid! I played an ogre in a school play in third grade.” I picked one up, popped it on my index finger and quoted, “‘I’m sure you’ll be delicious, little girl, I’ll save you for dessert.’” Why is it, I wonder, that we allow kids to read fairy tales as violent as the evening news?

Without thinking, I picked up a Chinese finger puzzle. It was the kind I could never get my fingers out of when I was a child, poked a finger in each end and recalled the panicky feeling that I’d have to spend the rest of my life with my index fingers connected by a little straw tube.

“Uh-oh, I think I’ll be buying this. Do you have scissors?”

Julie laughed, pressed my index fingers toward each other and showed me the trick to getting my fingers free. “That’s why I love this table. It has things on it cheap enough for children to buy on their own, and gadgets old enough to appeal to their parents.”

Covertly I studied her. Julie is a pretty woman, if one can see through the premature frown lines and deeply carved grooves around her mouth. She doesn’t seem a likely candidate to own a toy store but she certainly knows how to devise a charming one.

“What made you come to Shoreside and start an old-fashioned toy store?”

I felt, rather than heard her hesitate.

“We needed a change of scenery and I wanted to do something fun.”

“Well, you got that part right, I…”

The back door opened and closed again with a slam and a teenage boy bolted into the room. He wore baggy jeans with more pockets than there were in my entire closet, a black T-shirt with some bizarre figure on the front with its mouth open to reveal fanged teeth and a hairdo that spiked into needle-sharp tips embellished in orange. All he needed were the fake monster fingertips to complete his ensemble. He opened his mouth to say something to Julie, saw me and snapped it closed again. Without a word he clomped on heavy black boots to the back and up a set of stairs to the second floor. Had I not known it was a fifteen-year-old boy on those stairs, I would have thought it was a team of Clydesdales making their way up the flight of steps.

“Your son?” I ventured. The stricken look on Julie’s face told me it could be none other.

“You’ll have to excuse Bryce. He can be…difficult.”

Bryce looked as if he were born to be “difficult.” The creases and worry lines on her face began to make sense. I’d have them, too, if I had to live with an attitude like the one I’d seen in the few seconds Bryce Morris and I had been in the same room together.

I didn’t speak, sensing that there was more that Julie wanted to say.

“We’re hoping that this move to Shoreside will be good for our family. A fresh start.”

She saw the question on my face.

“We…Bryce…needed to start over…another school district.” She looked pained. “He got in with a bad crowd. We felt it would be a good idea to move someplace farther out of the city. You understand, of course, that we don’t want this to be public knowledge. He’s a good boy, really. A kind heart.”

I squeezed Julie’s hand and silently determined to put the Morrises at the top of my prayer list.

Connor was sitting at a small table in front of the Java Jockey, sipping espresso from a small china cup and staring toward Lake Zachary. When he saw me, he waved me over, jumped to his feet and gestured toward a wrought-iron chair.

I hate the cliché “Curiosity killed the cat.” Violence of any kind toward animals is abhorrent to me. But I figure curiosity isn’t going to get me without a fight, so I pulled up the chair and sat down.

“Funny, but even now I can’t get enough of the lake—or any water for that matter,” he said. “Sitting here, looking across it is still a delight to me.”

“It couldn’t hurt that you have six luxury cruise boats moored at the dock.”

He smiled and his even white teeth flashed in the sun. Tucked as they were into a handsome face with a perfect golden tan, it was quite a sight. I understand why Lilly hears wedding bells when she looks at him.

“Have you taken one of my cruises, Norah?” He said it so casually he might have been asking if I’d ridden one of his bicycles.

“A few times, for weddings.”

People around here often rent cruise boats for anniversary and wedding receptions. It’s a perfectly self-contained, no worries, floating restaurant. Only one time did I see a problem with having one’s wedding reception on board. We were sailing nicely around the lake celebrating the nuptials of our friends when someone realized that the bride and groom had not made it to the dock. They had become so lost in each other’s eyes that they also lost track of time and, literally, missed the boat. By the time the captain had turned the ship and sailed back to pick them up, the bride, still in her white dress, and the groom, looking like that little banker, Mr. Monopoly on the board game, appeared pretty dismal. She had tears tracking down her face while her groom was obviously trying to answer that age-old question of newly married men—What have I gone and done? Fortunately, a standing ovation, striking up the band—okay, string quartet—and a buffet cheered them considerably.

“I’d like to have you join me sometime. As my guest. Would you consider that?”

“How generous of you! I’d love to….” My brain went into gear two beats behind my mouth. Recalling Lilly’s building infatuation with this guy, I wanted to make sure she got the attention, not me.

Although he is probably asking me just to be sociable, Connor’s reputation for enjoying beautiful women precedes him. And I’m no doubt worrying prematurely. Look at Lilly and then look at me. Unless he gets a thrill out of women wearing their hair in an aquatic animal imitation—my whale spout of a ponytail—I’m not in danger of holding his attention for long.

“Will there be many of us from Pond Street on board?” I asked innocently, hoping he’d get the hint.

I could read nothing in his well-bred features. His tone was pleasant. “What a fine idea. A party. Brilliant. That would be a good way for all of us to get acquainted.”

A high, sharp sound coming from my shop caught our attention. Bentley stood in the doorway of Norah’s Ark holding his dog dish in his mouth, making the high-pitched squealing noises and staring accusingly at me, eliciting guilt in me from every pore. Little stinker.

“Looks like your dog is hungry,” Connor pointed out unnecessarily. “And who is minding the store?”

“Annie. Sometimes she works at the Java Jockey. Joe and I share her.”

“You love what you do, don’t you?” Smile lines crinkled pleasantly around Connor’s eyes.

“I do. I grew up knowing that I wanted to live with a menagerie around me and the more the merrier. Especially dogs. Norah’s Ark is perfect for me.”

“I felt the same way about the water,” Connor admitted. “I couldn’t get enough. I was sailing things in the bathtub before I could talk. It’s as though I was—” he fumbled for a word “—created to sail.”

“We’re all created for something,” I agreed affably, “there’s no doubt in my mind about that.” I glanced toward the store. Bentley was now lying on his back, legs straight in the air playing dead doggie, bowl still clutched in his teeth.

“I suppose I should take the hint and go feed my dog before rigor mortis sets in.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come running over here to get you.”

“Bentley? Oh, no. He’d never do that. He doesn’t like to cross streets.”

Connor looked at me incredulously. “A dog that refuses to cross streets?”

“It must have had something to do with his life before I got him. Bowled over by a car, maybe. A near miss of some kind. Of course, Bentley doesn’t like a lot of things.”

Like fireworks, staircases, heavy metal music, blenders, motorcycles, electric can openers, suitcases on rolling wheels, the doggie park or, believe it or not, fire hydrants. And those are just his more noticeable idiosyncrasies.

Living with Bentley is an adventure in paranoia. He sees himself in a mirror and goes berserk, ostensibly protecting me from himself. His phobias and suspicions are legion. Fortunately, his capacity for love is even greater.

Connor stared at me strangely. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who seems to like dogs, and every other animal, as much as you do.”

“Love me, love my dog,” I said cheerfully. Connor, who really didn’t know me very well, had no idea how serious a statement that was.