Crazy Sweet Love: Contemporary Romance Novella, Clean Interracial Romantic Comedy (Flower Shop Romance Book 3) (36 page)

Chapter 2

I walked to the parking lot later that night, clutching my cardigan around myself and wishing that I'd brought a proper jacket. Winter was just about over, and there had been a string of warm days, teasing me with the promise of spring. But winter was still being moody, and today's frigid weather was just another mood swing before the season went back to sleep until the end of the year.

A few students I knew waved at me as they passed, saying, “Have a nice night Mrs. Patil!” I smiled at them and wished them well, but I hurried on without stopping to chat, wanting to get out of the weather. I crossed the employee parking lot, already digging my keys out of my purse so I could get into my car as quickly as possible. It wasn't quite dark yet, since the days were starting to get longer, but the shadows were growing long and the darkness was quickly approaching.

When I got to my car, my ex-husband was there, leaning against the hood.

“Sharada,” he said, stepping away from the car. He stood there with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. The cold wind ruffled his dark hair. He had the dark skin common to the Indian heritage on his mother's side, but stunning blue eyes inherited from his white father. His parents had named him Sunil after the Sanskrit words for “very blue,” in honor of his eyes. I had once loved the way those eyes seemed to gaze into my very soul.

Now I couldn't stand the sight of them.

“You aren't supposed to be here, Sunil,” I said.

He stepped forward, pulling his hands from his pockets. I flinched and stepped back, half-expecting him to be holding a weapon. He had never been violent with me, but I knew he owned a gun.  His hands were empty, but I didn't let myself relax.

“I'm just here to talk, Sharada,” he said, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace.

My eyes moved from his hands to his face. I took another step back, clutching my sweater tighter. “Sunil, I've told you to leave me alone. I have a restraining order. Do you want me to call the police?”

He lowered his hands and took another step towards me. I wondered whether I'd be able to get my phone out and call 911 before he closed the distance between us. Not that he would hurt me. He had never once, not during our entire marriage, hurt me.

But I knew he had hurt other people, and that frightened me.

“Look, Sharada, I'm tired of going through lawyers. I want to settle this issue about the land. I want it over and done with, okay? Then I'll leave you alone. I promise.”

I started circling around him, heading for the car. “If you want to talk about it, you have your lawyer call my lawyer, Sunil. I don't want to see you. I don't want to be around you anymore.”

I reached for the car door. Sunil grabbed my arm and yanked me close to him. “You're my
wife,
Sharada,” he said, clenching his teeth. “You will not speak to me this way.”

“I'm not your wife anymore, Sunil.” I reached into my purse, closing my fingers around my bottle of pepper spray. “You have no rights over me. Now leave me alone.”

Sunil glared at me for a long moment, not letting go of my arm. His fingers dug into me like daggers. “You've become a real bitch,” he said, finally letting me go and shoving me away from him. “I knew that coming to America was a mistake. All of their Western ideas getting into your head, changing you. We should have stayed in Mumbai. We could have had a family. You always said you wanted children.”

“Not with you,” I said. “Not anymore.” I had wanted children once. Part of me still did. But that part of my life was behind me. At least as far as Sunil was concerned. I pressed the unlock button on my keychain remote, then yanked the car door open, carefully watching Sunil the entire time.

I got into the car, started it, and drove away before Sunil could say another word to me. He stood there in the parking lot, glaring at me as I drove off. I was only able to drive a couple of blocks before I had to pull over. My hands were shaking. My breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. I tried to take deep breaths to calm myself. It was a struggle not to break down completely into sobs, though a few tears managed to escape and slide down my cheeks.

Sunil had never hurt me, this was true. But there had been a time in our marriage when I never would have believed he could grab me like that or raise his voice to me. Ten years together had changed both of us. I had become more independent. Stronger. He had become more distant. And gotten himself involved in things I couldn't be a part of anymore.

I pulled some napkins out of the glove compartment and blew my nose. I grabbed a few more to wipe away my tears. Then I took a deep breath and centered myself. As soon as I was sure I could drive without my hands shaking, I pulled back into traffic and headed home. Though the entire way home, I kept checking my rear-view mirror to see if Sunil might be following me.

Chapter 3

I got home and locked all the doors and windows, just in case. Then I poured myself a cup of tea, and added a splash of cognac to help soothe my nerves. I put on some music and tried to relax, separating myself from the stresses Sunil had brought into my day.

I wasn't really worried about him coming to the house. He hadn't been back here since he moved out over a year ago, before we got divorced. But still, I couldn't banish my memory of the angry look on his face, and I could still feel his iron grip on my arm.

Looking around the house brought me nothing but memories of him. We'd bought this furniture together. Spent time picking it out and quibbling over the right upholstery for the sofa. Argued over the choice between paint or wallpaper for the living room walls. He was a part of this house, no matter whether I liked it or not.

When my attempts at relaxation failed, I tried to get some work done. Sitting at the computer was always a good way to distract myself. I spent some time going over some notes for a research project I was working on, then sorted through the junk in my email inbox.

I found about a dozen unanswered messages from the dating site I'd signed up for a month ago. I had thought that after a year being single, I might be ready to start dating again. After what I'd dealt with today, however, all thoughts of romance were banished from my mind.

I deleted all of the messages without bothering to read them. All of the messages I'd gotten before today hadn't been worth my time anyway. Half of the men who contacted me said that they weren't looking for a serious commitment, which was just a coded way of saying that they were just looking for sex. A few of the others had been boys half my age, some of them still in college! I spent enough time around immature college boys; I wasn't planning on becoming a cougar and trying to date one of them.

I emptied my trash folder and the inbox refreshed. When the page loaded, I saw another message from the dating site. I sighed and went to delete it, but paused when I saw the subject line:

When we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

I stared for a long moment, reading the line again. I recognized it. It was a Sylvia Plath quote. I was stunned that any man on an online dating site would be quoting Sylvia Plath. I clicked on the email and started reading it, curious enough to see what this man had to say, despite the bad day I'd been having.

When I was a young man, I wanted everything in a relationship. I pictured myself with a loving marriage to a beautiful woman, a house full of kids, and a successful career. Everything was perfect. We never fought, our kids were perfectly well-behaved and got straight-A's, and we barbecued every Sunday in the summer.

I kept wanting everything in all of the years of my youth, and I was always disappointed. I'd set the bar so high that I could never let myself be happy. After awhile, I started wanting nothing, and I gave up on love.

A more tragic ending I couldn't have imagined. So I decided if wanting everything was too much, and wanting nothing was too little, then I needed to come up with a third alternative.

And here it is: just wanting one thing, and that's someone who knows what it's like to have wanted everything, to have wanted nothing, and who is ready to want just one thing with me. Maybe a cup of coffee, that's a simple thing to want. And it's something easy to get, without setting our sights so high that we can never reach the things that we want.

And maybe after coffee we'll find that we want something more, which would at least be better than the loneliness of wanting nothing.

So if maybe you want a simple thing, well, that's me. I'm a simple man. And it'd be nice to hear back from you.

Yours,

Harold

I re-read the email again, wondering who this man was. He spoke with such simple honesty that I felt a twinge in my chest, imagining the loneliness he might be going through. I knew what that loneliness felt like. And I knew just what he meant about wanting everything. It had been that way with Sunil.

We'd moved to this country because we had high hopes for the future, for a family and a place to raise our children, living simple lives. It hadn't worked out that way. And the dozen unread messages I'd just deleted moments ago showed that I had been dangerously close to wanting nothing, nothing at all.

I thought that would have been most tragic indeed.

I searched online for an appropriate quote of my own to lead off my response, then I wrote a short and simple reply:

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Dear Harold,

I think once I wanted the same things you described. Maybe that's simply the folly of youth. I'm older now, and I certainly hope a little wiser, and I think I'm ready to want something simple. I'd be happy to share my wants with you over coffee, and maybe see if I might want something more.

Yours,

S

I never signed these messages with my full name. I'd heard too many horror stories about internet stalkers. I sent the message, then leaned back in my chair, sipping the last of my tea. My nerves had settled, and I'd managed to banish my fears about dealing with Sunil.

I'd call my lawyer in the morning and see how things were progressing with the dispute over the land. And maybe, I hoped, I'd get another email from the only true gentleman I'd ever yet found in the world of online dating.

Chapter 4

The next day, I went to work with a smile on my face. I walked into the library with a lightness in my step. Sylvia Plath watched me from the glass case by the entrance, and I gave her a wink on my way by.

“Someone's in a good mood,” Jessica said as I stepped behind the front desk. “What, did you get laid last night?”

“Jessica!” I shook my head at her. Jessica was a good ten years younger than me, and a lot more open about certain things.

“Well, you're obviously in a good mood about something.” She smiled at me, giving me a knowing look.

I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of my chair. “Maybe I am,” I said. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She knew me too well, and I was sure she was going to get it out of me, one way or the other.

“So are you going to spill?” she asked as she sorted through a stack of returned books. “Or do I need to keep guessing?”

I sat behind the desk and booted up the computer to go over my morning reports. “There's nothing to tell, yet. There might not be anything to tell at all.”

“But that means there might be something.” She lifted a stack of books onto a cart, still watching me for any sign of what had me in a good mood.

“Maybe.” I smirked, refusing to make eye contact.

“Uh-huh.” She shook her head at me as she wheeled the cart around the desk. “All right, I'll let you off the hook for now. But you're gonna spill!” She pointed an admonishing finger at me as she rolled the cart away to get started on the returns.

I was busy with my reports for awhile, stopping every now and then to assist a student who needed help finding a book. Even though the university gave all the students a seminar on using the library's computer system to search for what they needed, they all seemed to come to me for help. I was never sure if they had all simply forgotten what they learned in the seminar, or if they were all lazy. Probably a combination of the two.

It wasn't even like they had to know how to use a card catalog, since everything was computerized. Kids these days were so spoiled.

I was settling back into my seat to get back to work after the umpteenth interruption when a voice said, “Morning, Sharada.”

I looked up and saw the lumberjack standing there with a book.

A beaming smile spread across my face. The lumberjack rarely spoke to anyone on the staff, other than wishing us all a good morning or a good day as he came and went. He somehow knew all of our names, even though we'd never been formally introduced. I supposed he had learned our names from the placards sitting at the front desk.

“Good morning, sir.” I hated not knowing his name. Jessica and I made guesses about it sometimes. We figured he had to be a Hank or a Chuck. Or maybe Finn. Some kind of woodsy, outdoorsman name. Jessica insisted on calling him Paul and claimed she had seen him driving out of the parking lot in a big blue pickup truck she had dubbed Babe.

I brushed a strand of black hair over my ear and asked, “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you could order something through the Inter-Library Loan service?” he handed me the book he was holding.

I looked at the cover and read the title.
“Little Women?”
My smile widened. It wasn't often that I saw men reading a book like
Little Women.
Though the lumberjack's tastes were so varied that it didn't really surprise me.

“I heard there was a sequel?” he asked. “I figured if I was going to read one, I might as well read both.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “There's two sequels, actually.
Little Men
and
Jo's Boys.
Though come to think of it, I don't believe we have either in stock.”

“I looked,” he said. “Didn't see them. Was hoping you could help me with that.”

“I'd be happy to.” I checked through the computer, searching the Inter-Library Loan system. I found copies of both sequels, each at a different library in different states. “I can order both of these on loan today. They take about two weeks to get here, sometimes a little less.”

“That'll be just fine,” he said. “You'll let me know when they come in?”

“Of course.” I finished punching in the order, though when I got to the end of the form I had to pause at the “Borrower's Name” line.

“Thanks so much,” the lumberjack said. He turned and walked off. I opened my mouth to stop him, then hesitated. Did he know that I didn't know his name? I'd spoken to him enough times, even if it was always in passing, that it seemed rude to ask him now. There was a point where you couldn't just ask someone's name without making a complete fool out of yourself.

By the time I got over my hesitation, he was already out the door.

I sighed and typed “Lumberjack Paul” into the name line, then hit “Submit.” I felt a little foolish, and I hoped that he wouldn't see the name I had put for him. I'd have to hide the receipt when the books arrived.

A few minutes later, Jessica returned from putting away returns. “You'll never guess what our lumberjack is reading now,” I told her. I held up the copy of
Little Women
and showed it to her. We both had a little giggle over it.

We were still laughing over the lumberjack's unpredictable reading choices when a woman in a smart gray pants suit walked into the library, carrying a briefcase. I stood up from behind my desk as she approached, giving her a professional smile. She didn't look like any of the professors or staff I knew. “Hello,” I said. “How may I help you?”

“Sharada Patil?” she asked.

“Yes, that's right.” I glanced at Jessica, wondering what this was about.

The woman reached into her briefcase and pulled out some papers. “Consider yourself served.”

I stood there gawking at the papers as the woman walked out. Jessica came over and stood by my side, looking over my shoulder at the papers. “What's going on?” she asked. “What is that?”

I flipped through the pages, skimming for the key points. I sighed when I realized what it was about. “This shouldn't be a surprise at all,” I muttered.

“What is it?” Jessica asked.

I threw the papers down on my desk and said, “Sunil is suing me over the land we inherited.”

The land had belonged to Sunil's uncle on his father's side. We'd moved to New Jersey when we came to America because of Sunil's extended family in this area. His uncle had left us a sizable plot of land which for years had been a huge cranberry farm. Neither Sunil or I had any interest in becoming farmers, and the land wasn't useful for much else, since it was mostly bogs.

Cranberries were easiest to harvest using a process they called “wet harvesting,” where the bogs were flooded, so that the best, healthiest cranberries floated to the top. Because of this, the land was heavily irrigated, and during the harvest season it could be flooded up to waist deep. This was great for cranberry farmers, but it made the land pretty undesirable to anyone else. Sunil and I had been there a few times to inspect the land, but otherwise it had sat empty since the inheritance.

“I thought you got the land in the divorce?” Jessica asked.

“I actually had it in my name before that,” I said. My voice took on a weary tone. “All part of Sunil's fabulous real estate scam.”

My ex-husband had gotten involved in a number of unsavory things in our time in America. Mostly money-making schemes that skirted the boundaries of the law. I hadn't known a lot of the details of what he was doing until several years into our marriage, and even then he had kept me in the dark about most of the specifics. I'd suspected, but never been able to confirm, that some of his schemes and gone beyond dishonest into downright illegal.

One of his scams had involved buying up real estate and trying to make quick profits by fixing up the properties as cheaply as possible, giving them a paint job and covering up anything that was wrong with the places, then trying to sell them at a higher price. He'd started the whole thing by taking out a loan and using the cranberry farms as collateral. But in order to try to avoid the risk of foreclosure, he'd transferred the deeds to the land to my name, while taking out the loans in his.

I'd later learned that a lot of people had lost a lot of money, thanks to being tricked into buying homes that were worth far less than they'd paid for them. Eventually, the entire scam had collapsed on Sunil and left him bankrupt, but I'd managed to come out with my own finances intact after the divorce. I'd also kept the land, and Sunil's creditors hadn't been able to come after me. The whole thing had been a legal nightmare, and Sunil had barely managed to keep himself out of prison.

Ever since the divorce, Sunil had been trying to get his uncle's land back from me. I didn't want the land. I had no use for it. It was nothing but a sore reminder of what a mistake I'd made in marrying such a dishonest man. After what he had put me through, I wasn't much inclined to turn over the valuable property to him. If he got the property back now, after his bankruptcy, the creditors wouldn't be able to stake a claim to it anymore. He'd be free to take the money and do whatever he wanted with it. That wasn't fair, as far as I was concerned. I didn't want to let him get away with his crimes and come out with a big payoff. Or worse yet, invest the money in yet another scheme to cheat innocent people out of their money.

“What are you going to do?” Jessica asked.

“I...I don't know.” I rubbed my fingers against my forehead. “For now, I guess I'll have to send this to my lawyer and see what he thinks. Other than that...” I shrugged and tossed the papers on my desk. The entire situation was a mess that I didn't want to deal with, but I didn't know what to do about it.

The good mood I'd had at the start of the day had completely vanished. It seemed that even now that we were no longer married, Sunil had his ways of making my life miserable.