A Date With Fate (12 page)

He finally smiled at me a little, or it could have been a nervous tic. Either way, he was no Justin Timberlake but his smile was rather adorkable. If he now resembled an owlet with his staring, round eyes and perpetually surprised expression, it wasn’t like he was a total dweeb. I had some material here to work with, given enough time.

Bob answered, sounding amazed. “You think I could help you? Sure…yes, I will help you with biology. There is no reason to be scared. Uh…maybe you can help me, too.” After taking a big gulp of air and sounding so dubious I had to grin, he said, “I would like being friends. You are very… interesting.” He ducked and blushed. His whole face and down the back of his neck was a deep, dark crimson again. I winced—it looked painful.

After we verbally shook hands on our deal--he adamantly refused to physically touch me on several grounds--I let him be. I was happy he had agreed without any more coercion needed; I only had a half a tank of gas and a few bucks on me.

After a few moments of companionable silence he peered out the windshield worriedly. “Um…where are we going? My mom is going to wonder when I don’t show up after school and will report me missing to the police.”

I laughed, until I realized he was not kidding.

Now, here he was ten years later, at eight in the morning on a Saturday. He was laying on the buzzer while swearing up an incoherent storm into my intercom like I’d taught him nothing over all these intervening years.

“Geez Louise, Crookie, hold on a blasted minute and I’ll be right there.”

I took the stairs down two at a time. I think I’d heard the name Reggie shouted by Crookie, but that only stumped me more because he and Reg have never been friends. Even as I wondered what could possibly be going on with Crookie, I was feeling a sneakin’ admiration at my ability to run so quickly and quietly in my high-heeled boots without breaking my neck—sometimes my talents astound me.

Sighing inwardly, I remembered at the last minute to turn back and lock my apartment door behind me. I had to think for two. After all, I had my innocently slumbering guest upstairs to protect and keep safe. Good god, the ongoing sleepover complications and responsibilities of last night’s fun just never ended.

Key ring in hand, I crossed the lobby and unlocked the deadbolt of the left door of the pair leading to the outside. I opened it a couple inches, but to be on the safe side I toed the rubber headed door stop down to prevent the door from being pushed further open.

I could have buzzed open the door from upstairs, but for all I knew Crookie may be a tweaker on a rampage. I highly doubted Crookie was a druggie, but it had been a couple years since we last really talked and he was acting spooky. Of course, he had also gotten married which could help explain the spookiness.

He had chilled out. He was waiting with arms crossed and a shoulder propped against the red brick wall. His mouth was a tight line, his whole demeanor grim and exhausted, but not insane or jacked-up.

I eyed him up and down. Aside from looking like his dog died, Bob had steadily improved with age. He still had the same golden brown hair and hazel eyes, but now was sporting an expensive haircut and his glasses were rimless. He had filled out a bit from working out steadily over the years. He was a tall guy, no doubt about that, but slim now rather than beanpole skinny. He was clean shaven with clear, pale skin and no visible tattoos or piercings. He was your very tall, average-looking, professional man--until he smiled.

Crookie’s smile was a little shy and a little slow, yet once it arrived it was so unbelievably sweet that any girl who caught a glimpse of it never thought of him as nondescript or average again. If he was a different type of man, he’d be getting some strange every night based on that little smile alone.

Today, his clothes were a little rumpled but actually fashionable. He wore a brown leather jacket unzipped over a tan sweater, and his jeans were a designer label that Stella would have a shitfest over if she saw them. I vaguely recalled her emoting something about sweatshops and chemicals.

Seeing me, he shoved off the wall and murmured my name. A quick glance around at the quiet street outside showed me it had stopped drizzling and the sun was semi-peeking out, but the air was brisk. Through the gap in the door, the coolness felt good on my face.

Even as obviously distressed as he was, I was still happy to see my old friend. Kicking up the door stop, I opened the door wide. “Hello, Crookie. Sorry for the delay. I was debating your sanity.”

Crookie cracked a smile and bent to give me a kiss on the cheek when he came into the lobby. “Hello, Bel.”

“Hey, what’s wrong, why so grim? Wait, never mind. That’s enough about you; let me show you how I’ve grown.” I reached my arms around his waist and gave him a big, dramatic squeeze. Then I attempted to lift him saying, “See? I’m so strong now I can lift a head as heavy as yours!”

I hadn’t been able to move him a centimeter, but I did manage to get him to laugh down at me in protest. He gripped my shoulders and held me away from him, looking me up and down. “Yes, I can see you have grown. Those heels may take you out of the dwarf tossing zone, but that is cheating.”

I laughed while I locked up again. Our disparity in inches has been a running joke between us for years. At parties, he insisted the top of my head was a perfect spot for his beer. I insisted his navel was a perfect spot for parking my chewed gum.

“Let’s go into the store and grab a coffee, okay? I know I need one.” Not waiting for an answer, I crossed the lobby to Bel’s Books doors. It is not safe to keep me too long from my first morning cup of coffee. I cannot be held accountable for my actions.

Genius that he is, Crooks agreed with a shrug. “Sure.”

He stood with slumped shoulders and a glum face as I keyed in the code to open the beveled glass, double doors to Bel’s Books. I moved them wide to each side, locking them in the open position.

I glanced at Crookie. Something very depressing was obviously heavy on his mind. Good money was on woman trouble. What else could have a man running the gambit of acting like a rampaging tweaker and then the walking dead, all within five minutes? I resigned myself to the fact I was going to be the lucky girl to hear all the gory details. So much for sneaking some work time in before Stella the Hun arrived.

The lifelong familiar aromas of thousands of books, lemon oil, ground coffee beans, and the spicy scents of herbs rushed out to envelope me. Closing my eyes and inhaling a deep, rejuvenating breath of this enchanted air was often all it took to right my world. I inhaled again.

Following me in with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Crookie paused. He pointed with an elbow at the huge refectory table a few feet in front of us. There were four cement troughs filled with lush, green herbs staggered down the center of the table. The weak, morning sunlight coming through the large display windows were spotlighting the troughs so they stood out in the otherwise darkened store.

“Those are different. The herbs smell great.”

“Yeah, I saw the idea for the troughs—a smaller version—in a magazine. They fired my creative juices right up. I had been envisioning something for the table old worldish and rustic, but didn’t want metal.” I shrugged one shoulder and smiled up at him. “You know me, once I got the bug up my butt I had to build them that day. Cool, huh?” I bumped his elbow with mine. “You likey?”

I recognized the spark of interest lighting up his eyes. He murmured absently, “I do likey.”

He wandered over and peered at the troughs. A lock of straight, golden brown hair fell onto his forehead. He became absorbed, lightly skimming his fingers over the planters as if he was a city inspector looking for code violations in the footings of a new construction.

The long table was placed in the open space that ran the width of the store, about fifteen by forty feet when you first entered. The front display windows were along the right, facing out to the sidewalk and Division Street.

If you Google Northfield and check out the Wikipedia website, my building is visible in the first picture shown. It’s the red brick one with the turret, taller than those around it. Bel’s is located across the street from the old bank, now a museum famous for the robbery attempt by the James-Younger Gang’s in 1876. During the week of Defeat of Jesse James Days in September, I have a front row seat in my apartment living room for viewing all the festive activities. Invites were coveted and I wielded much power. Heady stuff for sure.

“How did you make them? I have not seen cement look so textured before. What did you use? Did you at least make a mold first?”

At the last question, he sounded so accusatory I had to laugh. I rubbed my hand up and down an upright spike of French tarragon and breathed in the light licorice scent. “Sure, if you consider a mold two cardboard boxes from Just Food Co-op.”

He winced. My offhand approach to creativity drove him so crazy that I always exaggerated the details to shake him up. Super smart nerds need shaking up. They deserve some fun, and they need to remember being a genius isn’t everything in life. I’m just the girl to do this dirty job.

He tilted his head and motioned for me to continue. “Go on. I know I am going to regret asking, but I am curious how you made the troughs, Anabel.”

My brain yearned for its morning coffee, but I knew once he got all Crookie’d up on a subject he would not budge from this spot until his curiosity was satisfied.

He really was going to regret asking.

“I started by borrowing several things.” Sure enough, he was all ready shaking his head at me. He hates the incorrect term ‘borrowing’ Minnesotans use to cover any item they get from another person, regardless if it is returnable or not. If you want to drive him insane, ask to borrow a piece of gum or a piece of tape.

I hid my smile behind my hand. “Let’s see, I borrowed an empty five gallon, paint bucket from Reggie’s yard, and also borrowed his cute, blue Makita drill.” This last elicited a dismayed gasp. “Then, I jumped a fence and borrowed a garbage bag full of baled hay from a roll in a pasture. Straw, by the way, is what gives the troughs the texture you were asking about.” Crookie raised his brows and nodded. “Okay, now don’t ever tell Anna, but I borrowed a tin of loose, black tea leaves from the Fare. Next, I used Reggie’s drill to mix up the whatchamacallit cement stuff…”

Crooks moaned out loud, muttering under his breath. I heard the word ‘drill’ and ‘cement’. Then he supplied through gritted teeth, “QuikCrete?”

I snapped my fingers. “Yeah, the QuikCrete. I mixed it in the bucket with some of the water I had steeped with the tea leaves to give it that swirly, brown color. At the end, I threw in a bunch of broken up straw until I liked the looks of the cement.”

Because I don’t get out much, and I really do enjoying terrorizing my friends for my own private entertainment, I paused here. I held up my hand to the weak sunlight and experienced a blonde moment. I examined my manicure closely, as if checking for a broken nail or chipped polish.

He made a pushing, hurry up motion. “Go on. What next?”

I looked up. “Oh, sorry. Do you like this color of polish, Crookie, or is it too pink?”

A hunted look in his eyes, Crookie brushed his hair off his forehead impatiently and waved my hand off. “Uh, sure. It is real nice color. So, you decided on the consistency of the cement by looking at it, Anabel? You did not follow any instructions?”

“What instructions? I’d only seen a tiny picture in a magazine and a one-liner of a description mentioning the straw. I was totally winging it here, Crookie. What would you expect me to do?”

He practically pulled his hair out. “Anabel, there are instructions on the bags of QuikCrete for correctly preparing the cement.”

“Gee, I never thought of that. Huh.” I fluffed my hair with both hands. “Oh well, let’s see. Next, I filled the largest box on the bottom with globs and globs of the cement mixture. Oh yes, I stuck in a few plastic straws I also borrowed from the Fare to use as drainage holes.” Crookie had a hand under his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I placed a smaller box on top of the globs of cement. I weighed this down with a couple of big rocks I borrowed from the border of Aunt Lily’s flower garden.” I leaned in confidingly and lowered my voice. “Please don’t mention those rocks to anyone, okay? I guess they had insect fossils imprinted on them and it’s kind of a sore subject that they went missing. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, then it was a matter of eyeballing and filling up the four sides until they were kinda even.” I was having a hard time not losing it. His eyebrows were raised so high in disbelief at my decidedly unscientific approach to building the troughs, I felt like we were back in high school biology class. “I waited for a little bit until it looked, you know, kinda-sorta dry, then I removed the boxes. Voila! I made about ten of the troughs in one day, gave a couple to my sisters, and was spent.”

He was still frowning. “You know, Anabel, you cannot ‘borrow’ something you cannot return.”

I protested, laughter finally bubbling out of me. “Hey, no fair! I returned the drill. Reggie said it didn’t take too long to chisel the dried cement off.”

Revulsion dripping from every word, he asked, “You did not even wait the right amount of time for the cement to set properly, did you? Do these troughs leak?”

“Only when they get wet.”

Hearing my dry tone, I saw it finally seep in I had been having a go at him. He looked completely blank for a minute, and then his whole expression brightened when he flashed his incredibly darling smile.

Undismayed, he pointed an accusing finger at me. “You are such a ….how can I still fall for your tricks after all these years?”

“Obviously you aren’t getting enough teasing, that’s for sure.”

“Trust me, Anabel. I have never been teased by anyone like you in my life. I will have you know at work I am highly respected and revered.” Crookie then sighed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I have been doing nothing but work for about eight weeks straight.”

“Poor baby. It’s probably a good thing the brainiac women at your lab don’t tear you away from your microscope and tease you. They get one load of that super-hot little smile thing you’ve got going on and no more cats would get dissected that day.”