The Perfect Blend (3 page)

Toads and rugby

I
fell asleep over my paper at 2:15 a.m. Still, I thought, I just might make it. Until I remembered the toad.

Not just any toad, my nephew, Charlie the toad. More precisely, Charlie's mom, my sister Cathy, whom I promised, in a fit of virtuous auntmanship, that I would come see Charlie in his toad costume. Today is Charlie's vacation Bible school play, The Wetlands, God's Delicate Treasure, and as his aunt and godmother I have-have-have to be there. I've seen the script. Cathy and I didn't privately rename it
Habitats for Insanity
for nothing. It would have been hard to stay awake through it on a full night's sleep, much less the night I just had.

So, surrendering to the enormous pressures surrounding me at every turn, I called in sick to my af
ternoon shift at the flower shop where I work and spent half the morning applauding a toad.

And the printer malfunction at 2:25 p.m.? Let's not even go there.

All of which is a rather lengthy explanation as to why I am currently sprinting down Thirty-Fifth Avenue. Racing the clock, highly nonathletic sandals in one hand and paper in the other, to get myself through the bank doors by 5:00 p.m.

At 5:10 I hop through the lobby, bending over sideways to get my last shoe back on, and skid to a halt outside William Grey's office door.

William Grey's dark,
locked
office door.

Oh, come on. Who actually gets to leave their job at five anymore? Even in banking?

“You must be Miss Black,” says a female voice behind me. I turn to see a woman who could be everybody's grandmother looking at me from over a stack of files. “He waited as long as he could, but you just missed him.” She has a face that should be behind a plate of oven-fresh biscuits, not a pile of papers.

I slump against the wall and nearly strangle my paper. “So close.”

“And you ran all the way here from the looks of it. That's a shame.” For a moment I thought she was going to say
dearie
at the end of her sentence. I
have
been up too long. She motions toward her desk at the end of the hallway

“It's a shame all right,” I mutter. “A big, fat, sad turn of events, that's what it is.”

Grandma Biscuits applies a
let's just pretend you
didn't say that
look to her face and offers me a chair. “Can I get you a glass of water?” she says, setting down her files. She's dressed in one of those knit suits all older women seem to wear and she looks at me over bright silver half-moon spectacles.

“Does it come with a few thousand dollars in start-up funding?”

“No, but it could come with ice.” Her charm bracelet rattles as she holds up a single finger. “And a little useful information.” She bustles off to the water cooler and returns with ice water. “Bea Haversham,” she says, extending her hand along with the glass. “You must be Margaret Black.”

“Maggie. Thanks.” I take the water. “Formerly of the small-business incubator program.”

“The coffee lady.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I have to say, that was one of the more interesting applications we've had in quite a while.” She peeks at me from over the top of her glasses. “You're not one for filling out forms, are you?”

I down the water. “You read my loan application?”

“I read them all. How else could I pull the files together correctly?” She hands me a tissue from a needlepoint-covered box on her desk. “You're perspiring, dear.”

“I just ran from the auxiliary parking lot. I'm lucky I'm still breathing.” I wipe my forehead and stare at my paper. “For all the good it did me.”

Bea cranes her head over the edge of her desk to look at my feet. “You ran from the auxiliary parking lot—in
those
shoes—to turn in this paper?”

“The sprint to the finish line was not part of the original plan.”

“Well, now,” she says, taking back the empty water glass and handing me another tissue, “I think we simply must take that into consideration here. You'd have made it well under the wire had you been in a pair of sensible shoes. And been able to park closer to the bank. Honestly, I've got senior customers who'll turn around and go home before they make the three-block trek from the auxiliary parking lot. I've told Will we need a shuttle bus. And you, honey, look at you. Have you got any blisters? Do you need a bandage?”

She looks like one of those people who has everything you'd need—ever—in the bottom drawer of her desk. “No, really, I'm okay. I just tried to run too fast. Just give me a minute and I'll be okay.”

“I'll do better than that. I'll give you eleven minutes and an alibi.” Bea gives me a wink and reaches into the candy jar on the other corner of her desk. She pulls out a fistful of peppermints and calls out in a melodic voice, “Oh, Hal? Hal dear, could you come here for a moment?”

I sit perfectly still, baffled by this twist of events.

Hal, who looks like he walked off the set of
Mayberry RFD,
saunters over with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. “Whassup, Mizz Haversham?”

Bea presses the candies into Hal's beefy palm with an air of pure conspiracy. “You didn't realize you gave Miss Black here the wrong directions now, did you?”

“Huh?”

“When she came in to give her paper to Mr. Grey a few minutes ago. You gave her directions to the upstairs conference room because you thought Will was up there, didn't you?” She puts her hand back in the candy jar and rustles around enticingly in the cellophane wrappers.

“I did?”

“And it was 4:48 when you did it, wasn't it?”

Hal's eyes shift from side to side, straining to follow her lead. “Well…I…”

“I'm quite certain. It's
our fault
Miss Black didn't make her deadline. We'll have to do something to set things right, won't we?”

Hal gives up. “Sure, Bea, whatever you say.”

Bea hands him three more candies. “You just let me handle everything. I'll see to it that Miss Black gets her paper where it needs to go. Bless you for being such a dear, Hal. I always know I can count on you.”

I'm now officially at a complete loss for words. However, Bea Haversham has just won herself a lifetime of free coffee when my shop opens.

“Sweet boy,” she whispers to me. “Now, let's get you settled.” She opens her top drawer to fetch a notepad. “Mr. Grey's playing rugby at Sand Point,” she writes down the address of a nearby park. She leans in toward me. “I think he'd have actually stayed and waited for you if it weren't a game day. They'll be the fellows in the blue-and-yellow shirts. 'Course, you already know what a handsome fellow
Will is so you'll have no trouble at all finding him. Head on over there when they break between halves which should be,” she checks her watch, “in about ten minutes.” She gives me another wink. “I'll back you up all the way.”

I don't know what to say. “Bea Haversham, you're an answer to prayer.”

She waves me away in a rattle of charms. “So I keep hearing from Will. Now scoot or you'll have to wait until the game is over.”

 

Huge. This park is huge. Where'd she say they play again? I've been to three parking lots and I have yet to find the…the what? Field? Pitch? What actually is rugby anyway? I only know it's something manly English guys play involving a ball and lots of mud.

Finally, following the sound of men yelling, I find them up over a hill behind the tennis courts. I encounter a small army of grungy, grunting men, hurling themselves at each other over an egg-shaped ball. Blue-and-yellow striped shirts slam into green-and-gray striped shirts, but I have no idea who's winning. From the intensity on the field, however, I'm certain they're keeping score. These guys look out for blood.

So this is rugby. William Grey III plays this? I'm a bit stunned; this doesn't really look like the kind of pastime ultra-tailored Earl Grey would get into.

Just as I'm ten yards or so from the blue-and-
yellow sideline of the field, the whistle blows. Bea knows her stuff. Men jog off to their respective sidelines, chug bottles of water and toss each other numerous ice packs. Only half of them even bother to wipe the mud off their faces with grimy towels. Blood, mud and testosterone: it looks like a living macho deodorant ad.

I spot Grey in a heartbeat. Which is a good way to put it, because he looks shockingly different from the usual Mr. Grey. Talk about your hundred and eighty-degree turns. He's in a striped shirt with a swath of mud down one sleeve, a pair of black shorts, mud-soaked socks and even muddier shoes.

The biggest shock of all, however, is how he looks. Most guys look rugged when dirty, hitting truly handsome when you clean them up. William Grey, on the other hand, goes from dashing to downright dangerous when you get him out of that suit coat.

I remind myself just how inappropriate that thought is, that I know nothing of the personality, spirituality or even the rationality of William Grey III. I take a deep breath and walk calmly toward him. Which isn't as easy as it looks, especially with my heels sinking into the turf with each step.

“Mr. Grey?”

He looks up from a water jug, his eyes wide when he recognizes me. “Miss Black?”

“Ms. Haversham sent me over. I didn't find you at the bank when I came to deliver the paper.” That's not a lie. I don't lie, but I do admit it took me the
whole drive over to come up with a non-condemning truthful statement.

I watch him try and reconcile facts. Evidently Bea is as good as her word, for he walks toward me with his hand out. “You're determined, I'll grant you that. But you'll find I am rather serious about my deadlines.” Some of his teammates start buzzing around behind him, shouting, tossing the ball back and forth, gearing up for the next half.

I don't have much time. “I came to the bank and she…”

The world goes completely, instantly black.

One way to get an A…

P
ain.

The most pain I have felt, ever. An enormous boulder has just slammed into my face, breaking it into a million screaming pieces. Explosions go off behind my eyes and the ground comes up behind me until I am curled sideways on the wet grass, clutching at my face, howling.

“Sumners, you great lumbering oaf!” It's a voice I dimly recognize, seeming to come from miles away. My hands are wet, my face is wet, I can barely pull in enough breath to fuel my gasps of pain. There is a hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me upright but I remain curled in agony. I want to swat the large hand away, but I refuse to move either hand from my exploding face. “Miss Black? Miss Black, can you hear me?”

Some part of me recognizes the voice. “Owwww.”

“I'll assume that is a yes.” From out of the darkness something rough and moist comes up against my hands. “This is a towel and ice. Come now, you'll need it.”

Through the pain's fog, my female side registers that I must look pretty awful based on the number of bodies I sense standing around me. I have enough brothers to know nothing draws attention like a gruesome injury. With a sticky sadness I realize the wetness on my hands and face is blood. I've broken my nose. Or my eyes. Or both. Can you break your eyes? My current pain level says oh, yes, definitely.

The voice comes into the fog again. “You could be seriously hurt. Let me have a look at you.”

“No.” I reply, half whining, half crying. I attempt to upright myself, with poor results. The world keeps spinning under me.

“No time to be brave, Miss Black. You've had quite a knock. You're most definitely hurt.”

I pry one eye open to peek at Mr. Grey from between my bloodied fingers. With my tiny slice of vision I snatch the towel from his hand, careful to keep the other hand over my throbbing face. I feel as though I've just had all my teeth polished by a jackhammer.

“Yes,” Grey says as he gestures his burly teammates to back away, “I do believe that's our Miss Black in there somewhere.” He comes closer and softens his voice. “All right then, up with you. If you don't sit up we'll never get that bleeding to stop.”

“I…”

A set of arms scoops me up without any further ado and I find myself unable to stop them. I'm too dizzy, for starters, and I'm using both my hands to hold the ice and towel on my face. In that weird detachment that comes with an injury or accident, I wonder just how clean this towel is. Am I stemming blood loss or facilitating infection? “What hit me?” I moan as I am deposited on a picnic table bench. Gentle hands guide my elbow onto the table so I can slump against it and achieve some semblance of verticality. I feel him pull the stray hair out of my face and touch my hands and arms, testing for further injuries. The explosions of pain have dulled into a tremendous sense of pressure, as if my face were swelling up like a beach ball.

Which, I'm guessing, isn't far from the truth. I'm already having to breathe through my mouth because my nose feels like it's the size of a potato.

“Arthur Sumners, who has just seriously jeopardized his standing as my best mate, hit you with a ball.”

I run a tongue over what feels like bulging split lip. I must look like I was in a brawl. “Ball of what? Concrete?”

He manages a chuckle, reaching behind him for a new towel some teammate just handed him. “Rugby balls aren't exactly soft, it pains me to say.” He holds out his hand, gesturing for me to swap the clean (and I use that word loosely) towel for the one on my face.

“Pains
you?
” I'm about to continue when the sheer volume of blood on the towel I hold sends the world spinning again. “Oh…”

I feel Mr. Grey's hand catch me as I slump forward. “And that would be our cue to go to the hospital.” I feel his arms scoop me up again, only this time I put up a bit of resistance. “'Nuff of that,” he says, tightening his grip. “I'll not add falling down to the list of injuries. Art!” I feel him call over his shoulder (and now mine), “Grab her shoes and my coat and go start my car.”

“I didn't see you there. Really. Sorry,” comes Art's slightly panicked voice a few seconds later as I am being lugged toward the parking lot.

“Oh, that's not the half of it, Sumners,” William Grey growls. “I'll think of ways for you to settle this up later. Right now, Miss Black, watch your head here,” his voice strains a bit as he deposits me in the passenger seat of his car. His really nice car I'm about to bleed all over—and maybe worse, given the current state of my spinning stomach.

“I'm…oh…owww. I think my face is broken.”

“Lean back against the seat. Put your head here. Hang on to this. There you go.” He guides my hand on to the armrest and shuts the door gently before dashing around the car to slip into the driver's seat. He checks me again, gingerly peeling back a corner of the towel. “Well, I think it's not as bad as I first thought.”

“I diffagree. Whaf's bleeding? Everything?” I look
at him with one eye, because the other one won't open anymore.

“You've got a nasty gash just above this eye and a scrape here,” he points to my left cheek which is slowly swelling into my field of vision. “I don't think you broke your nose. Just bloodied it a bit.” He pinches the bridge of his own nose as if in sympathy. “I'm dreadfully sorry. The man's a brute. An idiot. I don't know what to say.”

It came over me in an instant. “I want an A for this.”

“A what?”

“You're going to gib me an A on my paper for this. I deserbe an A. I'm going to look like a cabe woman with gowilla eyebrowf for a week, or a wacoon with two black eyes, I fink that gets me an A.” I stare as hard as I can at him. “Owwww,” I add, just for emphasis.

“We don't cover negotiation until week six.” He's trying to look stoic, but a laugh percolates behind his eyes.

“Oh really. What week do we cover litigation and liability?”

The laugh escapes. “I'll let you know, but it seems you already know the material.” He puts the car in gear, but stops for a moment to dab at my forehead. “Miss Black, I am truly sorry about this.”

I'm momentarily astounded by the tenderness in his touch. I didn't expect that. I blink at him for a stunned second, until I notice he has a large blotch of red on the corner of his shirt. “Maggie,” I reply, working hard to make the
M
sound like an
M
and
not a
B.
“I've bled all over you, you might as well call me Maggie.”

“I'm Will,” he says. You'd think I'd be in too much pain to notice the indescribable something that changes in his voice and in his eyes. “And the shirt will wash.” He pulls out of the parking lot with a cautious turn. “Now let's get you taken care of.”