Читать книгу Love Sign - Susan Kirby - Страница 10

It had been a while since Jake had met a woman who interested him enough to make the day stretch long. He played catch-up all afternoon and fell several jobs short of completing his service calls. By the time he returned to the Bloomington shop, his crew had left for the day.

Two brothers-in-law worked with him in the erecting and servicing of signs. A third oversaw the computerized banners in the Liberty Flats shop while Paula shaped neon for custom-made signs. It was a skill both she and Jake had learned from their father, John Jackson.

A two-car automobile accident had claimed Jake’s parents’ lives when Jake was nineteen. Colton, Paula’s husband of just a few weeks, had been at the wheel of the second car, and had escaped with minor injuries. With his parents gone, and Paula’s marriage on the rocks as quickly as it had come together, it was only by the grace of God that Gram Kate had kept the family together, and the sign company, too. Now, a dozen years later, Jackson Signs was thriving.

Recently Paula had transferred all their records onto computer. She had taken some classes and was at ease with the new system. Jake wasn’t. But he did appreciate the options gained by linking the sign shops and their home offices. Now, he could go home and relax a while before entering the day’s business.

Jake locked up the shop, stopped for chicken and the fixings, then took the highway south. Once home, he put supper in the oven on low, set the table and climbed the stairs. The second-story landing circled past the guest room. Shelby’s door was closed. Jake grabbed clean clothes and closed himself into the upstairs bathroom to shower and change.

The whistled rendition of a catchy advertising jingle penetrated Shelby’s subconscious. By and by, the hum of an electric razor muted the cheery tune. Shelby sank back into to her story only to emerge again when the whistling ceased. The razor was quiet, too. Focus broken, she rose on cramped limbs and crossed to the door.

Jake was at the top of the stairs. A short-sleeved navy-blue shirt hugged the contours of muscles that flexed as he tucked his shirttail into his jeans. The denim, faded and softened by wash and wear, suited the lean, fit lines of his body as he turned and surprised her watching him from the open door.

“I heard you whistling.”

“Was I?” He smiled. “Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Shelby said.

His dimples deepened. There was a sheen to his clean-shaven jaw that caught the light. His hair was damp from the shower and bore the tracks of a comb. “Are you ready for dinner?” he asked.

“If you’ll let me help,” she offered.

“No need, it’s on the table.”

“Next time, call me and I’ll help,” said Shelby, flushing. “I guess I should have warned you—when I’m writing, everything fades away. Time. Good intentions, everything.”

“It’ll stand you in good stead in this house,” Jake replied. “Family tracking in and out at all hours. It can turn into a regular zoo if you don’t hold your mouth just right.”

Shelby noted his was nicely held. His eyes, too. The dark shirt heightened their striking hue. The observation was part of her craft, a writing thing, as natural as breathing. She smelled soap, and something else, too. Something tantalizing. Or was that dinner? Since the breakup, Shelby had almost forgotten what hunger felt like. Her stomach gave a sharp reminder. “I’ll be right down.” Quickly, she retreated to tidy up after herself.

Jake waited for her, watching from the open door as she gathered the paper wads strewn about her chair. In contrast to those carelessly scattered papers was the precision with which she aligned her notebook, pen and reading glasses on the dresser.

“You write in long hand?” Jake asked as she snapped off the reading lamp.

“Not as a rule. But my laptop is on the fritz.”

“Not another crane casualty,” he said and clucked his tongue.

“There’s not a scratch on it,” replied Shelby. “It may just be a glitch. I’m not much good at troubleshooting.”

“I’ll take a look if you like,” he offered.

“Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it,” Shelby said.

“After dinner, then. I hope you like chicken,” he added.

“I do,” she returned, closing the door behind her. “But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

“I didn’t. It’s carryout. Except for the tomatoes.”

“I noticed the garden from the window,” Shelby told him.

“Green-thumb therapy,” Jake said. He held up his thumb and motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “What about you? Do you garden?”

“I live in a third-floor apartment. But I planted blue lobelia and vincas in a window box this year.”

“Flowers, right?” he asked, and followed her down, momentarily distracted by the muted flame of red-gold curls against her slim white neck. He caught himself wondering if her skin was as soft to touch as it was to the eyes, and admitted, “Mostly what I know about flowers is that mowing them down gets you in trouble.”

Flowers. They had been Patrick’s passion. Shelby caught herself one foot down memory lane. She took her mind by the edges, gave it a shake and followed Jake into the kitchen where he introduced her to his grandmother, Kate Grisham.

Kate had hair like spun wool and a round face, powdered and wrinkled. Her lips were painted outside the lines. They tilted as she greeted Shelby, saying, “How lovely to meet you.”

“Shelby works with books,” Jake told her.

“You’re Jake’s bookkeeper!” Gram Kate set a pitcher of tea on the table and came to Shelby with hands outstretched.

“She doesn’t work for me, Gram. We met at the bank.” Jake went on to explain about the accident.

“Thank goodness you weren’t hurt,” Gram said, slow to release Shelby’s hands. “Jake, dear you must be more careful! Why, I hate to think what might have happened if that… Joy needs… Next time you mustn’t…”

The flow of Gram’s words stopped. She peered more closely at Shelby, dismissed her lost train of thought and patted her hair.

“Ready to eat, Gram?” Jake asked gently, and seated her. Declining Shelby’s help in transferring food from the oven to the table, he seated her, too, and when the food was in place, took his own chair.

Shelby spread her napkin over her lap. Gram Kate reached for her hand. “Would you ask the blessing for us, dear?” she asked, and patted Shelby’s fingers.

Shelby tucked her chin. “Heavenly Father…”

“Dear God,” rumbled Jake.

They both stopped and looked up.

“Don’t tease your sister. Take her hand, now Jake, and say grace before the ice me—me-malts,” said Gram Kate, her tone sweetly chiding.

It was no hardship for Jake. He took Shelby’s hand, and thought it a nice perk to accompany the dinner blessing.

Jake’s callused palm imprinted itself upon Shelby’s skin and her thoughts, too. This was to be her wedding dinner. Her wedding night. And here she sat with a sweet dotty old saint who thought she was family and a stranger with a foreign touch.

Jake began passing dishes her way, giving her hands something useful to do and her thoughts a safe place to light. The chicken was moist and tender, the potatoes delicious and the sliced tomatoes, wonderful.

“Did you remember crochet thread, Wendy?” asked Gram Kate, looking at Shelby.

Shelby paused, fork in hand and lifted her eyes to Jake.

He smiled reassuringly and said, “I’ll put it on the list, Gram.”

“Thank you, dear. Have another biscuit. It’s my special reci— Tea. More tea? You must have another piece of chicken, you’re a growing boy.”

Gram Kate passed everything Jake’s way. He set the tea pitcher and the serving dishes to the center of the table, but she kept returning them to him. At length, he transferred the dishes to the counter.

“I’ll wash,” offered Shelby, coming to her feet.

“No need. I’ll put them in the dishwasher later after we’ve had coffee,” Jake replied and waved her down again.

Shelby was nursing a second cup when Paula and Joy let themselves in the back door. Paula was carrying a chocolate cake. Joy bumped Jake’s chair and held out her hand.

“You owe me for fifty-seven weeds, Uncle Jake.”

“She has been paid. Don’t even think about it,” Paula warned, as Jake reached for his wallet.

“Fifty-seven cents. You call that pay?” complained Joy.

Jake fished a five from his wallet.

“I mean it, Jake,” Paula asserted.

“It isn’t for weeding, it’s a consulting fee. This is Shelby Taylor. Shelby, my niece, Joy and my sister, Paula.”

Paula exchanged smiles with Shelby. “We met earlier.”

“I heard Uncle Jake wrecked your car,” Joy said, a lively interest in eyes a shade darker than Jake’s.

“Her laptop was in the front seat. Seems to have suffered some injuries. It’s upstairs in the guest room,” Jake said. “Take a look, would you?”

“I’ll go with you.” Shelby thanked Jake for the meal, excused herself, and followed Joy up the stairs.

Jake loaded the dishwasher, left Gram in Paula’s capable hands, and joined them there.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Joy replied. She poked keys in a freewheeling frenzy.

Shelby stood by looking on, lip caught, expression apprehensive.

“Relax,” soothed Jake. “Blondie’s a regular computer chip.”

“Not tonight, Uncle Jake. I can’t get this thing to chirp.” Joy glanced at Shelby, “Sorry, Miss Taylor.”

“Please call me Shelby,” said Shelby. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“Me, too,” chimed Jake. “Thanks, sport.”

“It sure pays better than weeding your garden.” Joy tugged the wrinkled five-dollar bill from her pocket and gave it a snap.

“Any word from Mr. Wiseman?” Jake asked.

“Not yet. We drove by his house on the way over. His van is there, but no one answers the door.”

“Joy got a job cutting weeds out of soybean fields. But her boss seems to be lost,” Jake explained.

“He owes us for sixty hours,” Joy said. “Dirk’s steamed.”

“Who’s Dirk?” asked Shelby.

“One of the guys on the crew. He’s betting we’ve seen the last of Mr. Wiseman. Gave me a funny feeling right here,” admitted Joy, hand on her midriff.

“You sure it isn’t chocolate cake weighing you down?” teased Jake.

Joy twisted in her chair and tilted her chin toward Jake. “Did you try it?”

“Not yet.”

“Chocolate’s your favorite, right?” she asked.

“Second only to lemon chiffon,” he claimed.

“Last time I baked cherry chip, and you said it was your favorite second only to chocolate,” Joy reminded him.

“That so?” Jake grinned and said, “How about you, Shelby? You ready for dessert?”

“Maybe later. I’d like to work a while.”

“I have a computer downstairs. You’re welcome to use it,” Jake offered, seeing Shelby reach for her tablet.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Jake answered. “I’m not up to speed on it, yet. But if you have any questions, Joy can help you out.”

“Sure. Come on. I’ll get you started,” agreed Joy.

The word processing program was strikingly similar to Shelby’s. With Joy’s help, she soon had the basics down well enough to work.

“Keep it, Uncle Jake already paid me,” Joy reminded, when Shelby tried to pay her for showing her the ropes.

“I want you to have it,” Shelby insisted. “Please? It’ll free me to ask again, should I need more help.”

“All right then.” She thanked Shelby, tucked the money into her pocket, and ventured in the same breath, “Winny Penn’s mom says you were supposed to get married this weekend. So did you change your mind or what?”