Читать книгу The Oldest Virgin In Oakdale - Wendy Warren - Страница 11

Glancing at his watch, Cole arched a brow. “We had an appointment at six-thirty.”

Relaxed, as if he didn’t mind at all conducting this discussion in Eleanor’s doorway, he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “I haven’t been stood up in years.”

“I told Chloe to tell you—”

“Ah, yes, the ‘prior engagement.’ Did you know Chloe’s neck itches when she lies?”

He reached out a hand. Eleanor stood rooted to the threshold as his index and middle fingers grazed her just below the jaw.

“Right there,” he said, folding his arms again. “Copious scratching.” He shrugged. “It’s a dead giveaway.”

His tone and words were pleasantly ironic, but his kaleidoscopic eyes darkened from Pacific blue to stormy gunmetal gray.

Eleanor cleared her suddenly dry throat. “I asked Chloe to tell you I forgot I had a previous engagement, because I do.” The aroma of Szechuan eggplant called her a liar. “Did,” she amended awkwardly. “I had plans, but…now I don’t.”

She should probably wash her mouth out with soap. She hadn’t lied since the third grade when she broke her father’s favorite petri dish and told him the dog did it.

“My plans were canceled,” she ended in a small voice.

“Yours, too?” Cole glanced toward the living room. “Mind if I come in, then?”

He straightened away from the door frame and walked past her without waiting for a reply. Stopping a few paces into the room, he made a brief study of Eleanor’s small home.

When his gaze found the coffee table, where her solitary meal awaited her, she blushed.

Cole turned to regard her, noting the heightened color in her cheeks, the way she fiddled with a pearl button at the top of her sweater. He felt a measure of satisfaction in her discomfort—unchivalrous, he knew, but he wasn’t used to being stood up. He didn’t like it.

Worse, he had not been stood up by just any woman, but by Eleanor Lippert.

A lot had changed in the dozen years he’d been away from Oakdale, superficial changes like the landscape around Quinn Park and new businesses along California Street. Other things appeared to be exactly the same, and he found himself wanting, fairly or not, for Eleanor Lippert to be one of those things.

He had not returned to Oakdale for pleasure or because he’d had a sudden urge to stroll down memory lane. He was not a sentimental man.

Moodily Cole gazed at Eleanor, who looked hopelessly awkward, then glanced again at the food laid out on the coffee table. Plowing a hand through his hair, he shook his head. Maybe she’d had a prior engagement, after all.

“I’m interrupting your dinner.” The words emerged more gruff than graceful.

“How did you find out where I live?”

Cole tried not to wince visibly. Eleanor hadn’t given him her home phone number, let alone her address. Arriving uninvited, he’d invaded her privacy as well as her home. He could have retreated at that point; he probably should have. Instead he felt his lips curve into a smile. Easily—a little too easily—he shifted to the slick charm he used to persuade boards of directors across the continental U.S.

“I coerced it out of your assistant. She was very reluctant,” he assured, then paused, musing. “There are two ways we can handle this. One, I can apologize for barging in here, leave and get something to eat on my own…”

Ducking her head, Eleanor mumbled the response she knew he was waiting for. “What’s the second way?”

Cole felt his muscles relax. “You always did like multiple choice, Teach. The second way involves a bit more participation on your part. I still apologize, of course, but then you take pity on me, pull another plate out and invite me to share your Chinese food.”

“Where’s Sadie?”

“Sadie? I dropped her at home on my way here.”

“Oh.” Eleanor nudged her glasses. “Does she have a soft, clean place to rest? I don’t think I’d leave her unattended so soon.”

Cole grinned.

Eleanor blushed, unsure of whether she was being a responsible vet or simply stalling for time.

“There’s a housekeeper in residence,” Cole informed her. “Jasmine loves dogs. Sadie’s being looked after.”

Jasmine, the housekeeper? Eleanor blinked. Cole had changed in more ways than one over the years.

It had been common knowledge when they were kids that Cole lived in “Butcher’s Row,” a distressed area of company-owned housing for the employees of Orly’s Meat Packing and their families. There’d been terrible stories circulated about Butcher’s Row, the kind kids told to distance themselves from their less fortunate peers. The most enthusiastically whispered rumor was that if you spent a night in Butcher’s Row, you could hear the haunted moo’s of deceased cattle. Or worse, that everyone who lived in the row smelled like raw meat.

No one had ever taunted Cole, though, with such gibes. By tacit agreement, the young people with whom he attended school each day either forgot or overlooked the fact that he returned to The Row each night. And yet to Eleanor even this had seemed somehow discourteous. Ignoring the situation had made it impossible to help when his clothes clearly had suffered one washing too many or when he’d appeared exhausted again after working the graveyard shift at Orly’s on a school night.

It was hard to reconcile the memory of that boy with the man who stood before her today. Cole had clearly become a man of substance, someone who had seen and, no doubt, sampled the world well beyond Oakdale.

Silently she studied his broad frame, clothed beautifully in a suit that must have been tailored especially for him.

It was all too easy to imagine the contemporary Cole Sullivan hiring some gorgeous young woman, some Jasmine, to putter around his kitchen. Jasmine. Right. Eleanor might be naive, but she wasn’t born yesterday. No one had to tell her that women named Jasmine had a lot more on their minds than ridding the world of dust bunnies.

“Okay, stop frowning, Eleanor.” Cole sighed. “If you’re that concerned, I’ll go back and check on her.”

“Why?” Unable to help herself, she scowled. “Doesn’t Jazz-min like to be alone?”

Cole shook his head. “Jasmine? I was talking about Sadie. And you’re the one who’s worried.”

Eleanor grimaced. Sadie! Of course. She shook her head. This was no good, no good at all. Barely two days back in his company and already she was on the fast track toward making a fool of herself.

“Still the most responsible woman in Oakdale,” Cole observed quietly, mistaking her frown for concern. “Some things do stay the same.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible, and the lines on his forehead gave way to fine crinkles around his light eyes.

Eleanor’s scowl deepened. He made her sound like Miss Crumrine, the Oakdale High librarian: tidy, constant, prim.

“I’m not responsible,” she protested in a tight grumble.

Cole quirked a brow. He said nothing, but his lips began to curve. He didn’t believe her.

Eleanor bristled. Did he think she was so predictable? That he could walk away twelve years ago and return to find her unchanged?

“I’m responsible in my professional life, of course,” she restated, raising her chin. “But not in my personal life. Not at all.”

His lips curved a bit more. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “I’m way too impulsive for my own good.”

“Tell me.” Placing his hands on his hips, Cole leaned forward. “What awful, irresponsible things have you done, Eleanor Gertrude?” His voice was silky smooth and baiting.

Oh, how she would love to wipe that smile off his face. She’d love to tell him something really disgusting. “I…”

Cole’s brow raised a notch.

Eleanor dragged the recesses of her memory for one shocking indiscretion, the kind everyone had tucked away somewhere in their closet. She chewed her lower lip.

The best she could do was the time she’d clipped an article about mad cow disease from a library copy of Farm Companion Monthly. But she’d felt so guilty, she’d returned the next week with three dollars and change so the library could purchase a new issue.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he murmured. “Will I have to make a citizen’s arrest?”

Eleanor ground her teeth, an old bad habit. “Never mind!” When deep grooves appeared in his cheeks, she waved her hand like an irascible crossing guard. “Come in, come in!”

Pretending to ignore his amusement, Eleanor retreated to the kitchen to fix another plate of food while Cole took a seat in her living room. Stealing a quick sideways glance as she placed rice, eggplant and egg rolls on serving plates, she saw that he was watching her. Ducking her head, she searched a drawer for cutlery.

Feeding a man take-out Chinese was a simple thing, but suddenly Eleanor felt like she was in competition with every woman who had ever served Cole dinner—and had done it better. And how many women would that be? she wondered.

The thought came suddenly: What if she and Cole had become a couple in school? How many meals might they have shared by now? How many of the small details of his everyday life would be as familiar to her as her own? She’d spent so many hours thinking about him and yet she didn’t even know if he preferred cereal or eggs for breakfast, or how he whiled away a quiet evening at home.

Who are you now, Cole Sullivan? she mused, unable to deny a rush of longing. So many things could have been different if he’d asked her to that prom.

“Mind if I take off this jacket and tie? I’ve been sitting in meetings all day.”

Eleanor shook her head.

And watched him.

It was impossible to disregard his shoulders as the jacket came off. He’d filled out well in the years since high school. Tonight Cole wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, but Eleanor could see clearly that his body was still perfectly conditioned and much, much broader than she remembered. Removing his tie, he unbuttoned his shirt collar, exposing a tanned neck and a grove of dark chest hairs. The sight was hypnotic.

As he sauntered toward the kitchen, Eleanor realized he had a most unnerving way of holding a person in his gaze while he moved.

She released her breath slowly. “So. What kind of business are you in?”

Cole stopped before her, frowning at what she considered a fairly innocuous question.

“You said you were in meetings all day,” she prompted.

Leisurely he nodded. “That’s right. But business is the last thing I want to talk about right now. I haven’t seen you in twelve years, Teach. We have a lot to catch up on.” His smile seemed to move him closer without his taking another step forward.

Eleanor felt her face and neck prickle with heat. “Well, telling each other about our careers is part of catching up, isn’t it?” And it was a lot safer than having him ask about her love life!

“I’m in business,” Cole answered after a moment’s deliberation. “Nothing too interesting. Just your typical type A career.”

“What kind of business?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “It’s dull, Eleanor. I acquire other people’s businesses. It’s a little complicated and not very interesting.”

What he didn’t realize was that she found everything about him interesting. “Have you found a business you want in Oakdale?” There were a couple of modest factories and lately some light industry moving in just outside of town, but nothing really impressive yet. Nothing she could imagine anyone moving in from Los Angeles to acquire.

Again Cole deliberated obviously before answering. “We’re in the negotiating stages. Nothing’s definite yet, but yes. There is a company I’m interested in acquiring.”

Eleanor felt her breathing grow labored. “You’ll be staying awhile then?” Forced out on a puff of air, her voice rose an octave. Wonderful. She sounded like an asthmatic mermaid. Maybe where Cole was concerned, there were no casual topics.

“I’ll be here a short time, yes.” He fingered one of the serving spoons she’d set out.

Eleanor studied the back of his hand, tanned from all that California sunshine. His nails were clean and trimmed, and she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover he had them professionally manicured nowadays. So different from the clean but rugged appeal of his youth. And yet for all his polished sophistication, he was still intensely masculine.

“Need any help here?” He gestured to the meal she was about to set out.

Yes. Blinking, Eleanor fought to collect her thoughts. It was far too warm in this room. “Ginger ale.” She pressed the word through dry lips. “In the refrigerator. And ice—” she waved indistinctly “—in the freezer.”

Cole extracted an ice cube tray, and Eleanor moved aside as he approached the sink, watching his strong hands twist the plastic tray. Ice cubes popped up.

“Glasses,” he requested, and she passed him two tumblers.

Using his hands, he scooped out the ice. Almost on contact, it seemed, the cubes began to melt in the grasp of his long fingers.

So would I, Eleanor thought dazedly, her skin beginning to tingle in a way that was wholly unfamiliar and not at all unpleasant.

Glasses filled with ice, Cole turned his amazing incandescent eyes on her again. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” You.

Shocked for a minute that she’d spoken part of the thought out loud, Eleanor slapped a hand over her mouth.

Cole regarded her bemusedly. “Want to let me in on the punch line?”

Lowering her hand, Eleanor shook her head. Pouring ginger ale into the tumblers, she listened to the ice cubes crackle and realized she felt the way they sounded. The punch line is going to be me unless I get a grip on myself.

She’d never been the master of her thoughts—or her tongue—where Cole was concerned. That last day in the library, she’d run outside, hiding behind the building as she tried to stop crying before her next class. She’d sworn then and there that she was going to change, no matter what. Forget physics, forget calculus; she was going to learn something useful, namely how to become sexy, alluring, flirtatious. And the next time, the very next time she fell in love with someone, she would be prepared to do something about it.

A pall settled over her as she stood in her kitchen, pouring soda for two. If she’d known it was going to take this long to develop sex appeal, she could have had herself cryogenically frozen in the interim.

“Whoa! That’s going to spill.”

Cole nudged the neck of the soda bottle just in time to prevent Eleanor from overfilling the glasses.

“You all right, Teach?” His soft query had the most alarming effect. Eleanor felt like melting into a happy puddle…and screaming in frustration.

Teach again!Teach. It was the only nickname she’d ever had, and she’d loved it. Until that last day.

She’d bet a dollar to a doughnut that the women Cole dated had nicknames like “Bunny” or “Kitten,” endearments evocative of small cuddly creatures, not one’s high school algebra teacher.

Who could imagine murmuring sexy endearments to a “Teach”?

Glumly, Eleanor shoved serving spoons into the food. “Let’s eat.”

Before they moved to the dining room, Cole spied today’s edition of the local paper lying on one of the bar stools. The Oakdale Sentinel. He lifted the thin paper. “‘Our commitment,”’ he read from the top of the front page, “‘to educate, inform, illuminate.’ The good old Sentinel.” He grinned. “Always a leader in gritty journalism. What’s the big story today? Mayor grows two-pound zucchini?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to read it yet.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

She shook her head. “I should reheat this food, anyway. It’s probably cold by now.”

Perching on one of the kitchen stools, Cole snapped the community paper open and laid it on the counter. “New skateboarding area opening in Quinn Park. City council approves longer parade on Labor Day. Looks like the hometown is still hoppin’.”

Eleanor depressed the latch on the microwave door and placed their dinner inside. “I suppose Oakdale seems pretty tame after living in Los Angeles.”

“Oakdale seemed pretty tame when I was living right here. Ah, this item hot off the press,” he quipped, “‘Nun passes away at the age of eighty-nine.”’

Standing at the microwave, Eleanor turned around. “What?”

Cole read the front page. “‘Sister Marguerite Bertrice died peacefully at her niece’s home in Oakdale late Sunday evening.”’ Quickly he scanned the rest of the article. “It says she was from an abbey in Mount Angel. I wonder what she was doing in Oakdale?”

“She had a hip replacement four years ago and moved here to be closer to her family.” Abandoning their meal, Eleanor scurried to the counter and spun the paper around. Her lips moved silently as she read the article.

“She was a friend of yours?”

Raising her gaze slowly, Eleanor nodded. “I took care of her cat. Mr. Winky.”

“Mr. Winky.” Cole suppressed a smile.

The full impact of Sister Marguerite’s passing settled on Eleanor bit by horrifying bit. “Oh, no,” she whispered, then groaned. “Oh, no!” She leaned over the counter. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Her breath began coming in gasps. Immediately Cole crossed to her side. “Hey. It’s okay, Teach. Take a deep breath. You’re hyperventilating.”

With effort, Eleanor lifted her head. “It is not okay!” She continued to suck air in choppy gasps.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Teach, but you’ve got to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick. Come on. Try to take a deep breath. In—” he breathed with her “—out. Shooo.”

Straightening up, Eleanor nodded and followed his instruction. Three deep breaths in, three slow breaths out. Her body quivered like the bow of a violin. She rubbed beneath her tearing eyes.

Cole handed her a paper napkin. “You want to talk about it? Maybe that’ll help.”

Grimly Eleanor studied the man who’d passed her by on prom night twelve years earlier. He met her gaze with intrinsic kindness. Pressing the napkin to her nose, she shook her head automatically, then changed her mind and nodded. “Yes. All right. Sure. Why not? Talking helps.” Carefully she daubed her eyes. “You see, Sister Marguerite turned eighty-nine in March. Her family threw a party at Der Schnitzel Haus. Lots of fondue. Good cake.”

Folding her makeshift tissue, she took a shaky breath and looked into Cole’s impossibly warm and attentive eyes. Pressure built in her chest and throat. Forcing herself to continue, she spoke with as much control as she could muster. “Sister Marguerite has passed on, and that must mean—” her voice caught as the tears began again “—that must mean…”

“Go on, Teach, let it out. What does it mean?”

Eleanor’s chin quivered. Her brow began to pucker.

“If Sister Marguerite is dead, that must mean that I…that I’m—” It took three tries before the next sentence emerged, but then it burst forth like an uncorked geyser: “I’m the oldest living virgin in Oakdale!”