Homecoming (11 page)

“What does your heart say?”

“Run. Well, maybe not run, but maybe ‘be careful.’”

“My advice too. He’s not your typical small town kind of guy, Cory. You’ve said so yourself. He’s not going to be around that much longer. Maybe you just need to keep yourself too busy to be distracted.”

“You’re right. It was just a friendly little kiss.”

The baby monitor on the kitchen counter sprang to life, and a cooing sound drew Sara’s attention. “That’s Molly. Want to see her?”

“More than anything.” Cory followed Sara into the nursery, shushing her own biological clock and banishing all fantasies about Jake from her consciousness.

***

The springtime rains continued for days, causing Cory to perform a major overhaul of her Master Plan lists.

Jake didn’t tell her that nothing had changed for him, and how every time he looked at the tiny neat writing in her notebook, the letters tended to swim in front of his eyes and he got a very specific pain in his forehead from the strain of scrutinizing her organized schedules.

Instead, he usually coaxed her into reading the day’s agenda while he made the morning coffee—which had become his job when she’d admitted she liked his better than hers. He memorized what he needed to, asking leading questions to get her to reveal key information that simply reading the entry aloud hadn’t provided. If he was really desperate, he found a quiet corner—minus any outward stimuli—and took the time to read the information himself, which took him four times as long to decipher. It was just as difficult as it always was. As it always would be.

Over the years he’s honed his coping skills needle sharp, and he no longer fumed about his learning processing problems. He’d finally found relief in knowing it had nothing to do with intellect; his brain was just wired differently and the incoming data got scrambled. And he’d learned to create plenty of “helpers.” He surrounded himself with people who were good at all the things that were difficult for him.

He’d learned to survive, developing a myriad of ways to keep his problem well hidden. And he’d been scrupulous in making sure no one at Think Tank knew he’d graduated from high school functionally illiterate.

Me and Tom Cruise.
When he’d heard coworkers discussing the actor’s coming out about his struggle to read, he’d Googled it at an internet café on an extended lunch hour. Though it had taken more time than he’d had to spare that afternoon, he’d felt a deep connection. Here was someone else who had privately struggled as he had. At least he was in good company.

“Jake?”

He looked up from the garden tools he was oiling and poked his head out the doorway of the newly refurbished garden shed, glad he’d at least finished repairing and replacing the walls before the monsoons arrived. “Coming.” He pulled his shirt over his head and sprinted to the back porch.

“I thought I’d start working on the dining room table and the chair molding this afternoon and I’m almost out of that orange oil. I thought you might like an excuse to go into town, but looks like you’re busy...”

“I’m at a stopping point anyway. The walk will do me good, and the rain’s lightening up.”

“Great.”

He followed her into the kitchen, stopping to pull some cash out of the cookie jar where she kept the “house money.” He’d teased her at first, but later realized she’d probably done it so he wouldn’t just write a personal check for expenses. She kept reminding him that Tillie had set aside the money and would have expected it to be used instead of his own.

Yet again...her reasoning revolved around “it’s what Tillie would have wanted.”

“Here, you better take this.” Cory handed Jake an umbrella at the door, and as he took it, she felt the strangest urge to give him a peck on the cheek. Acting like any young couple would. She stopped herself just in time. They’d had no more dance lessons, and she’d been careful to keep some distance between them, concentrating on her tasks and keeping busy.

God, did he know how adorable he looked with his damp hair glistening, him shrugging himself into a clean blue denim work shirt? She shuddered as a delicious tingle went up her spine.

“Just the orange oil?”

She nodded and he walked out the door. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass on the door, sneaking a last peek as he fell into a quick jog. He’d rarely taken his fancy convertible into town, preferring, he’d said, to get some exercise.

She pictured him speeding on the highway, wind blowing through his hair, then cruising down Michigan Avenue with a tall, thin blonde cuddled up next to him; he’d probably have to put the top up so her hair wouldn’t get mussed.

He’d alluded to the type of women he dated—models, career women, Chicago television personalities. All high maintenance women, she’d commented.

“High maintenance, but also women who want the same things I do.”

“Like....”

“Low on commitment, high on fun. They know I don’t make a good boyfriend, so we see each other when it’s convenient. There’s no fighting; I know where I stand, and they do too.”

“Sounds comfortable...like a pair of
really
expensive shoes,” she’d teased.

“Touché. But it works for me...and for them. I’m just not cut out for what most women want, and just because I know it doesn’t make me a bad person, you know.”

She knew. Actually, he was being very smart about his life...and his heart. His seemed as well shielded as hers. Maybe she should strive to be one of those kind of women. Maybe that was the secret to happiness that no one talked about.

She sighed, picking up the bottle of polish from the kitchen, just enough to finish the banister. The dark wood soon gleamed from her steady rubbing. She worked until she reached the top of the stairs where she heard the definite electronic ring of a cell phone.

Should she get it? She listened, then it stopped. He probably had voice mail and would pick up any message the caller had left. She poured more polish into her cloth and resumed her rubbing.

The phone started up again. Maybe it was important; she could just take a message for him. He’d be glad, wouldn’t he? It would make up for all the times he’d groused about there rarely being a cell signal in the house.

Maybe it was fate.

She draped the rag over the rounded top of the banister and wiped her hands on her jeans, hoping the phone would be easy to find.

She followed the ringing to the dresser, picked up the tiny phone and punched the talk button.

“Hello?”

“Oh. I was trying to reach a Jake Randall? Perhaps I punched in wrong—”

“He’s not here right now, may I take a message?” She hoped her voice sounded professional to the man, not as unprepared as she felt now that she had committed to handling the call. She spun around the room, looking for something to write on, finally dashing out the door and into her own room where a pad and pen was always on the nightstand.

“Oh, well, I guess I could leave a message. I’ve been calling this number for days—the service seems unbelievably unreliable there—”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. You know small towns....”

“Yes, that’s what they say. It’s going to be quite a long message....”

Did he think she was incapable of managing to take down some information? “May I ask who’s speaking, please?” Who
was
this guy?

“Oh. Right. Say the message is from Mr. Shelton via Rod Thomas.”

“Got it.”

“Jake needs to represent the company at a dinner dance on Friday night at the Sheraton.”

“The one on the river, close to Navy Pier?”

“You know that area of Chicago?”

He probably thought she was the maid or...it didn’t matter. The point was to get the message down. “Yes, please go on.”

“We’re being thanked by an organization we sponsor here in the city.”

“Called?”

“Oh. It’s called Pathfinders.”

“The time?” she prompted. Whoever this guy was, he was neither personable
nor
organized. The whole process was beginning to feel like she was pulling teeth.

“Eight, I think.”

“Black tie or business attire?”

“Oh. I don’t think it matters.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh, and he needs to talk for a few minutes—maybe fifteen minutes or so. And I’ll need to see the speech beforehand and get Mr. Shelton’s approval on it. He can email it to me or fax it in. Or, I suppose he could snail mail it, but there really isn’t time—”

He was starting to sound a little peculiar. “A speech on....”

“Uh...the company, its history, that sort of thing. And tell him he’ll have to call
me
if he needs some of the factual stuff. Oh, and tell him his secretary had some kind of emergency she had to tend to, so I just approved her request for an open-ended amount of time off since she couldn’t get in touch with him.”

Was he purposely being evasive and vague, hoping she’d get things wrong? “All right. Let me see if I have everything.” She’d at least make him verify the information.

She made some final additions on the pad, then read her notes. “Dinner dance, eight o’clock on Friday evening at the Sheraton; the event is being held to thank the company for sponsoring Pathfinders. He should be prepared to speak about the company and its history for fifteen minutes.

“And he has to have the speech pre-approved.”

“And he should email or fax the speech in to Mr. Shelton’s office for approval; and his secretary is out for an undetermined amount of time.” She purposely didn’t say that Jake was to send his speech to this Rod-Thomas-jerk; maybe he could be bypassed altogether. Jake must really shine at Think Tank compared to the dolt on the other end of the phone.

“By, George, I think you’ve got it.”

His phony British accent was enough to send her over the edge. “Hello...hello? You’re breaking up—sorry.” She punched the off button and made her way back to Jake’s room.

She rewrote her note and put it on the bed first, then reconsidered since Max was likely to take a nap on it, and there was the possibility Oscar would scrunch up the paper as a new play-toy.

So instead, she tucked the note into her back pocket to take downstairs with her. She’d give it to Jake when arrived with the polish.

People that hate cats will come back as mice in their next life.

Faith Resnick

Chapter 7

“Hey, hon, I’m home!” Jake added an exaggerated and cartoonish tone to his greeting, hoping to catch Cory’s face in her infamous eye-roll. She wasn’t on the stairs, so he’d missed any expression he might have garnered.

The thing was, he liked saying it. Tillie’s was starting to feel like home, just a little. Probably what he needed was a city-fix. Time away from the peace and quiet of the small town that was threatening to get under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Maybe it was something in the water. Something pickling his brain. Maybe a high speed ride in his car would do the trick; get his heart jumping and his adrenaline flowing again.

“Hi. Your phone kept ringing so I took a message. It’s on the table. That mine?” She took the paper bag from him and reversed her steps back toward the dining room. At the last second, she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “And who said you could call me ‘hon’?”

So she
had
heard him. He’d been trying to keep things light...since the kiss. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, fantasizing about it—where it could have led if he’d had the courage to develop it a little instead of keeping it a chaste kiss between...what? Friends?

They’d made it clear to each other that they would only ever be that. Friends. But, friends who live together? The thought made his heart skip a beat and he scowled at his childishness.

So she’d answered his phone. That was nice. Or, maybe nosy. Curious? Efficient, he finally translated.

“Where’s the note?”

“Kitchen table.”

“You know I’ve never been able to read your handwriting. Just tell me what it says.”

She came out of the dining room into the hallway and threw her polishing cloth at him, grinning. “
Lazy
, it’s right there. I’m busy. Someone has to keep up with the schedule, you know.”

“C’mon, Cory. Just tell me.”

Why was he making such a big deal out it? And how could he justify that crack about her handwriting when she printed more neatly than any first grade teacher.

She scrutinized him carefully. Though his eyes were bright and twinkling from their banter, there was something more. Eagerness? No. Impatience, maybe, with just a touch of panic thrown in. Maybe he had been expecting the call, or thought he’d missed the event.

“Jake, just go read my note.”

His eyes darkened to indigo and she saw a muscle in his jaw tighten. He walked past her and she watched him drop into a chair at the kitchen table, then pick up her note. Instead of retreating back to her work, she leaned against the kitchen door frame and watched him as he seemed to labor over the note.