Cookie Cutter (3 page)

“Did you know we have a nudist in the neighborhood?” I ask.

It’s the first thing that comes to mind and I almost regret saying it until the surprise in her eyes makes them sparkle and I can’t seem to pull my attention away from them while I think up the next thing to say. When she barks out a short laugh unexpectedly, I’m snapped out of my thoughts and into her smile.

“I told the board there was no way he’d pay one bit of attention to that letter.”

“Letter?”

She nods and pulls a bag of tin cookie cutters from one of her drawers.  She tosses it onto the top of her stove and bumps the drawer shut with her hip before going back to search the grocery bag for something.

A multi-tasker. Nice.

I lean against the counter. “What letter?”

“The by-laws are pretty clear. This is not a nudist colony,” she says while she starts to take things out of her bags. I feel useless standing here like this, doing nothing, so I start pulling stuff out of bags too.

“It’s not like he was hurting anyone. I mean except for my eyes.”

Her chest heaves like she’s about to laugh but she covers her mouth with her hand to stop it.

“That’s beside the point.” She starts to put her things away. “I’ve told
Paul, several times, that--”

“Paul, huh?”

She stops to give me an impatient look, like she can’t stand being interrupted or something.

“Yes, Paul.”

“You and the naked guy are on a first name basis!”

Iris sets the wooden spoon she recently picked up onto the counter, deliberately, and turns to me with a hand on her hip.  It makes her appear even curvier than she already is.

“I know every person in a ten block radius Mr. Blackwood,” she says, proudly. “Even the nudists.”

“Fair enough.” I know she’s irritated, but I smile like she paid me a compliment, anyway.

I’m curious about the things she’s unloaded onto her kitchen counter, suddenly.

“So, watcha making here?” I empty the last of my own bag and fold it for her.

“Cookies.”

“Cool.”

“And I need to make two-hundred before tomorrow morning, so . . .”

I whistle. “That is a lot of cupcakes.”

“Cookies,” she says, like she doesn’t care that I got it wrong.  If I wasn’t paying attention to the evil eye she’s giving me, I’d believe her. As it is, she does care, and for some reason I feel the need to do damage control. “Need some help?”

Need some help, Carter? Seriously?
I have no idea why I even offer. I do not bake.

Ever.

The laugh that escapes Iris kind of makes it worth it. She removes the last items from a bag and forces her lips into a thin line.

“Listen, I appreciate your hands but I really don’t need any--”

“What?” Now it’s my turn to laugh.

Her eyebrows curl upward, creating this crinkle in between them. “What?”

She’s clearly agitated, but I’m still having a good time here. She’s adorable when she’s flustered. “You appreciate my hands?”

She shakes her head, like she’s trying to get the words straight in her head before she says them. “I said I appreciate you
giving
me a hand.”

“No.” I lean against the counter and look straight into her eyes. My voice feels strained, for some reason. “You definitely said you appreciate my hands.”

“Well.”  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. Her chest heaves and makes it hard to keep my eyes on hers. “You know I mean, I was just--”

“Appreciating my hands.”

She stares at me, baffled. I can tell by the rapid blinking syndrome she’s got going on, and the way she sounds like she’s got something stuck in the back of her throat, making it impossible to talk, that she’s embarrassed. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips and her teeth trap her bottom lip for a split second. For me, the lighthearted moment is over. Something happened in between my wanting to make her squirm and the sensuality that just peeked out from behind her eyes.

I clear my throat.

“Okay well, on that note, I’m gonna …” I hook a thumb over my shoulder as opposed to finishing the thought. She seems relieved. I turn and head toward the front door but I don’t want to leave this on too serious of a note. Plus I hate not getting the last word in.

“Oh and Iris?” I turn and walk backwards.

She wipes her forehead and tries her best to appear interested in what I have to say.

“Anytime you need a hand.”  I show her my fingers and wiggle them for her.  

Her jaw slightly drops and a single eyebrow raises itself above the other. I don’t need her to say anything. This silent reaction is priceless.

I wink and leave, letting her stew on my words.  As much as I’d love to stay and banter with the woman for a while longer, I’ve got a house to fix up.
 

Chapter 3. Iris

Baking doesn’t come as easily as it should once my neighbor leaves. As long as I can remember it’s been considered among my favorite things to do when I need to calm my nerves and clear my head, but not tonight.  No, tonight it’s having the exact opposite effect. I’m frustrated and can’t think straight to save my life.

I have to completely trash the first batch of dough I’m working on. I’ve added baking powder where it should have been sugar and completely forgot the eggs in my second batch. I’m determined to get this third one correct but even so, at this rate I’m going to have to make another trip to the grocery store.
And maybe the liquor store.

It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I see Carter Blackwood’s smile and hear the distinct sound of his chuckle behind my right ear lobe where it sends a slight shiver up my entire body. And those hands.

Those stupid, stupid hands.

Strong hands.

Hands that look like they could handle a thing or two.

I roll the cookie dough into a ball. I coat it with flour, then absentmindedly fist it a little bit. It’s not necessary, but right now my hands need something to do while I think about the things I’d like Carter Blackwood’s hands to do. Then the phone rings. I jump at the sound and my heart leaps out of my body.  I can’t quite pull myself together as I answer.

“You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.” My daughter’s agitated voice from the other end of the line reminds me of one errand I overlooked today.

I groan, defeated for the evening. “Shhhh . . .oot.”

I am a horrible mother. Between the work hang-over I have today, Carter Blackwood, and the fiasco that is my baking abilities tonight, I completely forgot about Ally. Not to mention, leaving to go pick her up is going to set me back at least an hour.  Not because we live all that far from her school but because she always . . .
always
has at least two friends that need a ride home as well. And they don’t always live in Spangler.

This is what I get for putting off her Driver’s Ed Class another few months.

“I’ll be there in--”

“Don’t bother,” she says. “Blake’s taking us home.”

“Hold the phone, what? Who’s Blake? And who is
us
?”

Allison makes that disgusted noise in the back of her throat that only teenagers can do without any effort at all; like I’m supposed to know who these kids are.

“I’ll see you at home, mother.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. A trait she unfortunately inherited from me, then she ends the call.

I could kill her. I could honestly kill her.

Not really but ever since the divorce, she’s been testing my patience more and more.  It has mostly to do with her wanting to live with her father, which has mostly to do with his lack of boundaries when it comes to our daughter. I didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t interested, so I let her believe I won that
battle. It’s been an uphill struggle with her ever since.

After a few minutes of reviewing my list of the pros and cons to driving out to the school, I resolve to stay home and wait for Ally.  My issues with her tone can wait, plus, she’s with Karen. At least I’ve got that going for me. For now.

The good news is, I finally got a batch of dough right and
I’m past my illicit thoughts of Carter Blackwood and what his hands may or may not be capable of on an intimate level. The bad news is, this batch of dough still needs to chill and I’m going to be up very late baking cookies.

* * *

Every second of every hour that Ally is not home weighs on me.  Not just tonight but every night since she’s been old enough to go out on her own. Even when she’s under the parental supervision of people I’ve known for years; it’s the curse of being a mom. I realized a long time ago, no matter how old she is, I will always worry. At sixteen, it’s worse than ever. So when she walks into the house an hour later, I breathe easier. Then I jump right into curious mom mode. 

“So, who’s Blake?” I try to keep things nonchalant. At least I think I’m being nonchalant.

I’ve got three batches of sugar cookies successfully baked, one burned due to a setback that is all Carter Blackwood’s fault for taking his trash out with no shirt on, and about six more to go. Once I frost them, I can wrap it up, put them in the fridge and pass out in my nice comfy, king sized bed that awaits me down the hall. Then I can make a mental list of all the things I need to take care of at work in the morning.

“Just some guy, mom.” She lets her backpack drop from her shoulder and onto the floor. She plops herself into our lazy-boy recliner and turns on the T.V. The iPhone is out shortly after and she begins to text the very friends she most likely just said goodbye to.

“Some guy who?” I want to know this boy’s age, date of birth, parent’s names, address and maybe even his social security number.  You can never be too careful.

“Hmm?”

Either the late hour gets to me, or the flippancy of her attitude; I’m not sure.  Either way, I slam the cookie sheet down and that grabs her attention.

“What’s your problem?” she asks.

“I’m talking to you, Allison.  That’s my problem. And when I’m talking to you, while in the middle of baking cookies . . . for
your
school event, that
you
volunteered me for, I expect you to look me in the eyes when I’m doing it.” I take a breath after my rant.

Ally sets her phone down, gets up, walks over to where I’m standing and leans in to take a cookie that hasn’t been frosted yet.

“Everyone loves your cookies,” she says, matter of factly. Then she takes a small bite.

My fury dwindles at the way she says it. She knows how to soften me up, that’s for sure. I pick up the cookie sheet and push it into the oven, then set the timer. Before I start again, I swallow down any anger or irrationality that might be lingering.

“I get it, Ally, I do, but I don’t like you riding home with people I don’t know. If something was to happen--”

“He’s friends with Karen’s cousin. He’s cool, mom,” she says. And okay, Karen I know – and her mom. I feel better now.

It doesn’t escape my attention the way she says, he’s cool
.
This
is code for:
he’s totally cute mom and please don’t tell me I can’t ride home with him anymore it will be the end of my LIFE.

“Think you can manage to speak to your mother with respect next time you’re on the phone in front of Blake?”

Ally rolls her eyes, which does not impress me one bit but it’s all the rave these days with teenagers. I overlook it this time; mostly because I don’t feel much like arguing all night. And believe me when I say we will argue,
all
night.

“Okay,” she finally says.  

She must not want to argue either. Lucky for me. I smile. “Okay.”

And that’s that.

She steps toward me and smiles, slightly. Then she kisses me on the cheek and heads back to the living room. This time, she doesn’t plop down into the recliner. Instead, she picks up her book bag she slings it over her shoulder.

“I’m gonna go do my homework upstairs.”

I’d answer her, but she’s already texting her friend again and nothing I say will penetrate past the barrier that is friend texting.  She laughs at something as she walks up the stairs and I take the ten minutes that my cookies will bake for to try and decompress a little bit. I lean against the sink and stare out our front room picture window, toward Carter Blackwood’s house.  I’m half hoping he’ll make another trip to the curb side trash can again; half wondering exactly how long he’ll be here in Spangler. The lights are all still on and the faint buzzing of whatever tool he’s using hums from somewhere inside.

I momentarily think of the woman who used to live across the street.  It would make her absolutely crazy if she knew he was over there, messing with how she’d had things. My heart sinks because we were close once.  Of course that was before her husband died and my husband became dead to me. The timer on the oven goes off and I’m brought back to the task at hand.  I tell myself not to worry about Carter Blackwood anymore.  He’ll be finished with his “flip” soon, selling it to the highest bidder and then I can spend my energies getting to know the new occupants.

Only five more batches to go.

* * *

“Allison!”

I sit and breathe, and make sure I have everything while I wait for my daughter to come downstairs.

Every. Damn. Day with this girl.

I check my watch. I’ve timed this morning out perfectly so I won’t be late even with the cookie drop off at Ally’s high school, but if she doesn’t get down here soon, I’m going to have a heart attack.

Just as soon as I think it, she’s hurrying down the stairs.

“Thank you,” I say. She doesn’t bother replying but she grabs one of the trays of cookies off of the table and takes it to the car. As we get everything situated on the back seat, I sneak a peek over at Carter’s house but I don’t see him outside today. I’m glad. Really I am.

“Can we listen to 102.9 this morning? They’re supposed to mention the bake off.”

“What? No, I don’t care, go ahead.” I pull out of the driveway and take one more look at my neighbor’s house but there’s no movement going on whatsoever over there, so I press on the gas pedal and off we go to another fun filled day at the office. Not.

When I pull onto the campus of Ally’s school, she looks around. She’s calm at first but it’s not long before she becomes restless in her seat, shifting to search behind us.

“Crap, Lilah said she would wait for me; can you help me carry the cookies in, mom?”

“I don’t have time for this today, Ally.” I grab a hold the steering wheel, tightly.

“Mom,
please
.”

I sigh. Her desperate pleas get me every time. It won’t be the end of the world for her if she has to take the cookies in,
gasp
, alone. But I help her because I’m her mother, dammit, and because it’s either wait in the car while she makes several trips or suck it up, park, and make this go as fast as I can. I park and suck it up.

We hurry ourselves into the school and once Ally has placed her tray of cookies onto the counter in the office for me, I tell her to go ahead and get to class so she doesn’t get marked late. She has too many tardies as it is, this year. I head out to the car and grab the last two trays. It’s difficult to balance the both of them with my purse over my shoulder and my phone in my pocket, but I manage. Until I get to the front door again, that is, because it’s stuck.

“For the love of . . .” It happens. A lot actually, but I don’t have the patience for this and when I’m finally able to push it open, I nearly drop every cookie I’m holding. It shuts on me and I reach out to try again, but before I can, someone pulls it wide for me.

I smile and am about to thank the Good Samaritan but when I see who it is that’s holding the door open for me, I stop short.

“What are you doing here?”

It’s Carter freaking Blackwood. Of course.

He smiles that ridiculously bright, white smile of his and lets out a soft snicker. “I’m fixing a floor for a friend, what are you
doing here?”

It’s completely obvious what I’m doing here, seeing as I’m carrying two huge trays of sugar cookies in my arms.

“A friend? You just moved in. How do you have friends already?” I say it a bit harsher than I probably should but honestly, how does he have friends already?  James and I were here a good six months before people started really talking to me.  It was a year before I could call any of them friends. The edges of Carter’s mouth turn down and his head dips to one side as his shoulders hunch then settle.

“People like
me, I guess.”

The smug look on his face is enough to make me want to slap it.  Or kiss it. Wait. Not kiss it. I didn’t mean kiss it. Why am I staring at his lips?

“People who don’t want to kill me that is.  Are you okay?”

I blink and search my brain, but I’m still not quite sure what to say to him, so I extend my arms. “I brought cookies.” As soon as I say the words, I hear them. I sound ridiculous and Carter’s bright eyes crinkle with amusement.

He closes his lids and he breathes the baked goods in. Then hums. The sound of his voice sends a vibration through me and I shiver. I am eternally grateful that he doesn’t see it happen.

His eyes open slowly. When they reach mine, I’m glued to his stare like a deer in headlights.

“Those cookies smell really fucking good, Iris.”

The bedroom eyes catch me off guard and my mouth falls open so I snap it shut. I’m a buffoon with no ability to speak.

“Can I have one?” He reaches out and I balance the platter with one hand and slap his fingers with the other while I find words.
A
word that is.

“No.”

“Ow.” He pulls his hand away, like a child getting reprimanded, only when we make eye contact again, he doesn’t seem child like to me.