Flirting With Pete: A Novel (20 page)

She wanted to touch it again, as she had while they were riding, but feared he would think her too forward. Instead, she pointed toward the hall. “The bathroom’s out there. On your right. Want a beer?”

“Sure.” He disappeared into the hall.

Jenny slipped the pans into the oven and left the door ajar. Heat rose. She stepped away and put her palms to her cheeks. They were hot on their own, beet red, she figured. Not that she cared, not tonight.

I didn’t see anyone else. I couldn’t. Not once I saw you.

She tried to keep calm, but she felt all bubbly inside, bubbly and brimming and so near to exploding with excitement that she was practically dancing as she opened the fridge. Four six-packs of Sam Adams stood there, bought at Darden’s order in anticipation of his return. She didn’t figure he would miss one bottle. If he did, she would tell him where it had gone, and if he had a problem with that, he could take it up with Pete.

Pete wouldn’t put up with his crap— not Pete, whose return came at that very moment, announced by confident bootsteps and a smoky baritone. “I’m impressed. From the looks of that mirror, you’re a popular lady.”

His appearance startled her all over again. Now it was the fresh-washed look around his eyes and the finger-comb marks in that thick, dark hair. He kept getting better and better.

“Lots of parties,” he said. “You must have a pack of friends.”

She gave him Miriam’s stock line. “Friends come from nowhere when you’re the one making the food.” She handed him the bottle of Sam Adams.

He took it by the neck, but didn’t rush to take a drink, just held it and looked at her. “A catering business, huh?”

Tell him the truth
. “Neat Eats.”

“Cute name. How long have you had it?”

The truth, Jenny.
“I’ve been working”— she searched the ceiling—“ohhh, five years.” No lie there. She had been a year late graduating high school on account of her mother dying and all. Dan had set her up with Miriam right after that. “We started with local things. Then people from outside started calling. Now we sometimes drive two or three hours. We did a party in Salem. That’s down by Boston.”

He skimmed her kitchen. “You don’t do all that cooking here, do you?”

“Oh, no. We have a big place in town. And cars and a van,” she tacked on, because he had to be wondering. “I keep this kitchen old-fashioned on purpose. It’s a reminder of my roots. I learned to cook here.” She didn’t know why she’d said
that
. Okay, it was the truth. But it wasn’t something she liked remembering.

He looked pleased. “It’s a refreshing woman who admits to cooking these days. You’re one of the few I’ve met who’ll do it, besides my sisters. You’d like them.”

Jenny would; of course she would. She had always wanted a sister and would have been happy with just one. Pete had even
more
.

“I’ll bet you have a book of old family recipes,” he said.

“No. Most everything was passed word of mouth.” She heard the yelling clearly, like her mother was standing right there, not gone for years.
For God’s sake, MaryBeth, it doesn’t take brains. Just cut up whatever we have, throw it in the fry pan with eggs and butter, and you got a meal.

Jenny fought a choking sensation. “What’s Wyoming like?”

“Big and open.”

She took an easier breath. “How many in your family?”

“At last count? Three grandparents, two parents, five siblings, four siblings-in-law, and eleven nieces and nephews. How about you?”

“None.”

“None?”

“My parents are dead.”
Shame on you, Jenny!
“No. That’s not true.” She studied her hands. “My father’s alive. But he’s been gone a while.”

“Whose things are on the coat tree?”

In the front hall. She had forgotten. Darden’s two jackets, his raincoat, and, underneath, his boots, all looking clean and fresh because they
were
clean and fresh. She had taken them from the garage and aired them and brushed them and put them on the coat tree a week ago so Darden would think they had been there all along, the way he wanted them.

She heard a sizzle.

“Oh Lord,” she gasped. She wheeled around and opened the oven. The meatballs were more than ready. She set them on the stovetop and grabbed a plate and a fork.

“Can I help?”

She shook her head and pointed him into a chair. Seconds later, she set down the piled-high plate.

He ate every last bit of that, plus seconds and thirds— not that he crammed it in. He had manners. When he paused, it was to say how good the food was.

Jenny was content to sit and watch him eat, to smile when he looked at her, to refill his empty plate, and all the while she kept pinching that inner elbow, because she had never had good fortune like this before and she wanted, so wanted it to be real.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in years,” Pete said when he finally pushed back in his chair. He glanced at the pans. “I ate every last meatball. Are you sure I haven’t messed you up for tomorrow?”

“We won’t even miss them,” Jenny said and took his dish to the sink. She soaped it and rinsed it, and was setting it on the rack to drain dry when he called her name. She looked around. He was frowning at the backs of her legs. She swished her dress lower. “What?”

“What are those marks?”

“Oh, nothing. An accident when I was little.” She brightened. “Want to see something?”

“Sure.”

She led him into the hall and up the stairs. They had to pass through her bedroom, but that couldn’t be helped. So she acted normal, like she had men in her bedroom all the time, and it did look that way, what with the big bed and silk sheets that Darden had bought her. Those had just come out of storage, too.

She glanced back at Pete for reassurance. Then she opened the closet door, pushed aside the old quilt that hung in the way, and lowered the attic ladder. From the top, it was a short way over rough planking to the front gable. The window went up easily. Lord knew, she opened it often enough. She sat on the sill and swung her legs out.

“Jenny, what are you doing?” Pete asked from behind her.

She straightened her body and slid.

“My
God,
Jenny—”

Her bare heels caught the gutter with practiced ease. She inched sideways until she had cleared the gable and reached the open slope of the roof, then went farther to make room for Pete.

“Jenny,” he warned from the window, just as Dan O’Keefe did every time someone saw her on the roof and reported it to him.

She grinned. “Look at this view, will you? Isn’t it
wild
?”

One long leg came out. A boot heel caught the gutter. “I see fog.”

“Wait. The fog shifts.”

Another leg came out and straightened. He joined her with no effort at all, and propped himself up on his elbows, just like her.

The fog shifted then. “It looks like a little toy town,” he said. “Tell me what’s where.”

She pointed. “The even line of lights is the center of town. Odd little ones are side streets. Over there? That’s the school. And there? The library. And the church steeple.”

“What’s that?” He was pointing off to the east.

“The quarry. A hundred years ago they were cutting granite. When they finished, the big hollow just filled up with water, so the town had a place to swim. Legend says in order for a marriage to be blessed, the proposal has to be made there. Me, all I want is a midnight swim, moon and stars and all. The lights you see are taillights. People park just back of the rim.”

“To swim?”

“Not likely.”

He gave her a knowing grin that made her stomach flutter. “Ah-ha. Lovers. So. Ever been up there yourself?”

“Dozens of times,” she said nonchalantly, like she was popular. Then she thought of the Selena Battles of the town, who really
had
been there dozens of times. She didn’t want Pete thinking she was like them. So she confessed. “I lied. I was only there a couple of times.” She paused and added a quiet, “To swim. In the daytime.”

He smiled at her then, a big, bright, toothy smile that tugged every heartstring inside her. “I’m glad,” he said.

She loved hearing that. She wanted him to like her in the worst way. And since he smiled when she told the truth, she said, “And I lied about being a caterer. I work for one. I don’t own the business.”

“But you cook.”

“Yes.”

“And serve and clean and do everything else your boss does.”

She nodded.

“So you’re a caterer,” he concluded. “And anyway”— he looked out over the town—“you don’t need to own a business when you own this view.”

“Yes,” she said with a smug smile. “I do own this view.” She had known he would understand. That was why she had brought him up here. She crossed her ankles, took a deep breath, one that stretched her lungs for the first time in ages, and enjoyed the moment. “They say it’s dangerous coming up here. That I could slip. But I’m not afraid. Besides, I’m a somebody here. It’s my view. I can look at it or close my eyes or even turn around. I can do what I want. Up here, I’m the one who decides.”

“Most people call that power,” Pete said.

Jenny said, “I call it freedom.”

“Like being way, way up in the hills above the ranch with firm ground underfoot and unlimited sky and stars and moon. Kind of like your quarry without water. You’d like it there.”

She would. But the freedom would be different if she were there with Pete. Like it was different up here with him now. Less solitary. More complete. The freedom to be
and
the freedom to enjoy.

“Stay the night,” she whispered. When his eyes found hers, she added a quick, “Just to sleep. You said you were tired. I have the room.”

“I’d be imposing.”

“No.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

She slid over him—
shocking heaven!
the heat and hardness of his body under hers— and eased back into the attic. But he was the one who went down the ladder first, then held the old quilt aside to see her safely back into her room.

She settled him in the spare room and returned to her own. Leaving the door open, she took off the dress that had done such a fine job that evening and carefully hung it up. She put on her nightgown and slipped into bed, imagining him sleeping down the hall.

But the silk sheets grated, so she climbed back out, wide awake now. Her eye landed on the magazine open on the chair. She picked it up and, turning page after page, revisited Jeffrey City, Shoshoni, Casper, and Cheyenne. In time, she closed the magazine and put it on the shelf.

The night was still. Standing in the middle of the floor, she listened for his heartbeat. But her own was too loud, reflecting a clamoring inside. In the past it would have been from fear and distaste, but tonight it was from something new and wondrous.

She drew the nightgown over her head. She touched the pads of her fingers to the shallow between her breasts. Her eyes closed. Her head fell back. She imagined that Pete saw her, that he loved her, and with the imagining came such an inner fullness that she nearly cried.

But she didn’t want to do that. She didn’t want to wake him. So she took out the old quilt he had touched and, still naked, wrapped it around her from top to toe. Then she stretched out on the floor and settled her head on that padded pillow of hope.

Jenny woke with pillow lines on her cheek and the knowledge that Pete was gone.

“Well, what did you
expect?”
she asked the reflection in the mirror through a mouthful of toothpaste froth. “Why would he stay with you when he can get anyone he wants, and they’re ten times prettier and smarter and cleaner?” She spat into the sink. “You’re lucky he stayed as long as he did!” She rinsed her mouth, then did it a second time, and a third time, because the sick taste of dread was back.

Three days to go.
Do something, Jenny
. But what?

She scrubbed the already clean bathroom. She scrubbed the already clean kitchen. She emptied the hall closet, shook everything out, then put it all back.

Finally, wearing the pale blue polo shirt, walking shorts, high socks, and sneakers that were Neat Eats’ uniform for casual events, she took the pans of meatball skewers from the fridge and packed them in Miriam’s insulated case. Hiking the case to her shoulder, she set off for town.

The fog was lighter than usual. She hadn’t gone far when Merle Little’s Fairlane sputtered past. She kept her eyes on the side of the road so as not to see the greeting that wasn’t forthcoming, but the Booths’ mongrels greeted her, all right. She was barely abreast of the house when they lit off the porch and hurtled across the grass in full bark. There was no befriending them. She had tried hundreds of times. She imagined that they knew everything about her and, being dogs, were simply less restrained in their dislike than a human would be.

“Oh hush,” she grumbled in passing and looked ahead down the road. The Johnsons’ front gate creaked, and beyond that came a treat. As the fog lifted, she could see the Farinas’ flowers glowing in their yard.

Jenny loved flowers. The best—
the
best— days were when florists for their catered affairs left discards by the door. Sometimes the blooms were past saving. Other times, when Jenny reached them early enough, she had a bouquet to take home. They turned her kitchen into a place of dreams.

The Farinas’ flowers were beautiful, bed after bed of different colors and shapes and heights that changed by season. Jenny couldn’t say that she loved the spring pinks better than the summer reds and blues or the yellows and purples of fall. There they were now— marigolds and her favorite black-eyed Susans.

She gasped and nearly dropped her bag of food when old man Farina rose straight up from behind the asters. “Think you could do any better?” he challenged. “Well, you couldn’t. Summer’s been so dry
everythin’s
wilted.” He jabbed a cane her way. “So don’t go lookin’ down your nose at
me,
little lady. You don’t have one
bit
of color in that whole yard of yours. It’s a disgrace. Whole
thing’s
a disgrace.”