Mine (9 page)

“Rachel Hart.” The voice was crisp and professional, and for a split second, Courtney thought maybe she did actually have voice mail. Until Rachel spoke again. “Hello?”

Well aware that beginning a conversation with the clearing of your throat was less than classy, Courtney did it anyway. “Um, hi. Rachel? It’s Courtney. Courtney McAllister.”

“Oh, hi, Courtney. How are you?”

“Good. I’m good. You?” God, did she always sound this much like a fifth grader?

“I’m good.”

“Good.” The thump of Courtney’s shoe as she kicked at the doorjamb seemed inordinately loud in the quiet of her house.

“Did…you need something?” Rachel prodded after several seconds of silence went by, and Courtney squeezed her eyes shut, unable to focus on anything other than what a bad idea this had been.

“Well, I was just wondering…if…” She cleared her throat once more, then sucked in a huge lungful of air. “If maybe you’d be interested in getting some coffee with me sometime. Or something. Sometime.” A phone to the forehead seemed in order, so Courtney rapped herself once. Twice.

“That would be nice,” Rachel replied, and Courtney speculated whether or not she’d just imagined the hesitation. “Can I get back to you? I don’t have my schedule handy, but I’ll take a look at it and let you know when I’ve got some free time. Is that all right?”

“Sure. That’d be great. You have my number, so I’ll wait to hear back from you.”

“Perfect. Thanks for calling.”

“Thanks for answering.”

They both laughed and hung up.
In the history of date proposals, that was pretty much a disaster,
Courtney thought, shaking her head in self-deprecation.
“Let me check my schedule and get back to you” doesn’t seem to be filled with promise.
God, I’m out of practice.
Fully expecting never to hear from Rachel again, she was surprised by the disappointment that settled over her, and for the first time, she realized that she really would like to see the realtor again. Blowing out a resigned sigh, she flopped down on the couch and reached for the remote.

*

The mouthwatering smell of garlic wafted down the first-floor hallway as Rachel opened the foyer door on Tuesday evening. She inhaled deeply while fishing in her shoulder bag for her keys. She knew immediately that Jeff was cooking, and her stomach overtook any other order-giving organ in her body, forcing her feet away from the elevator and instead down the hall to the first apartment on the left. She tapped lightly on the heavy wooden door.

“Jeff?”

The door was opened in mere seconds, the warmth and comfort of home cooking washing over Rachel in a wave.

“Well, what do you know?” Jeff said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. “It’s that skinny beggar-girl from the top floor looking for food again.”

“Ha ha.”

“Come on in, gorgeous.”

Jeff Porter was quite attractive in a rugged, ordinary-guy kind of way. His sandy hair was buzzed into an almost-crew cut and he had the most interesting eyes Rachel had ever seen on a man…sort of a light brown with flecks of green and gold. He’d moved into apartment 1A after his seven-year marriage had disintegrated. Rachel had owned the building for just about a year then and they’d hit it off right away. There was something about him that drew her…safety? Kindness? She wasn’t ever able to put a finger on it. She just knew Jeff was like the big brother she never had. He was the closest thing to a best friend in Rachel’s life and she often wondered if he knew that.

“I’m trying something new with my sauce,” he said as he led the way into the galley kitchen. “I could use some fresh taste buds.”

Rachel smiled at his white, stain-spotted Kiss the Cook apron she’d given him for Christmas the previous year. “This isn’t yet another one of your devious ploys to win me over to your side, is it?”

“It might be.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Lose that thing between your legs and the scratchy whisker face and I’ll think about it.”

“Tease.”

He held out a wooden spoon coated with red tomato sauce, cupping his hand under both the spoon and Rachel’s chin. She blew gently, then tasted.

“Oh, wow.” She nearly swooned as she savored the fresh, warm blend of flavors. “Jesus, Jeff. That’s incredible.”

“Yeah?” He was very pleased. Rachel never lied about his cooking. If it was awful, she’d tell him. She’d done so in the past.

“Oh, yeah.” She took the spoon from his hand and helped herself to another, larger taste. “Oh, my God,” she muttered, closing her eyes again.

Jeff smiled. “I call it Orgasm in a Pan.”

“You would.” She chuckled and wiped the corner of her mouth with a fingertip. “Seriously. Incredible stuff. You’re a god in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well…” He blushed and quickly picked up a new wooden spoon, stirring the sauce. “So…tell me about your day. Sell any houses?”

“Two,” she said with a smug grin as she dropped her bag on a kitchen chair and helped herself to the open bottle of merlot Jeff had left breathing on the counter.

“Nice!” He touched his glass to hers, the ping zipping around the room like a firefly.

He pulled two boxes down from the cupboard. Holding one in each hand for her to see, he asked, “Ziti or rigatoni?”

She smiled affectionately at him, loving him for taking her in with only a split second’s notice. “You already know the answer to that one.”

“Rigatoni it is.”

They worked in companionable silence, familiar with the ritual of sharing dinner. Jeff continued to prepare the pasta while Rachel set the table, poured more wine, and sliced the bread. It was a routine they’d mastered and enjoyed, and Rachel loved his company, often thinking “Who says men and women can’t just be friends?” She knew a lot of people who would argue that it was an impossibility, that while she was busy being proud of their platonic friendship, Jeff was probably wishing she was straight, and that was fine with her. By unspoken agreement, she and Jeff never talked about it. They were simply good for each other, like ten-year-olds, the athlete and the tomboy, best friends until they hit their teens and realize boys and girls don’t mesh that way.

“I need your advice,” Rachel said once they sat down to eat. She buttered a slice of fresh Italian bread and immediately plunged it into her sauce. She avoided looking up at Jeff. Asking for help was not something she did often, and she was a little uncomfortable even saying the words.

If Jeff was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. He knew better. “Okay. Shoot.”

She had filled him in briefly when she first began business dealings with Courtney McAllister—the abrupt end to their first meeting, the apologetic phone call. She hadn’t seen him over the long weekend, so she told him about her spontaneous visit on Sunday.

“Classy move,” he said, impressed. “That was nice of you.”

“It was uncharacteristic of me.”

“So what?”

“I also came out to her.” Rachel poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue before grabbing her wineglass and taking a healthy sip.

Jeff studied her closely, seeming to know that she was bothered by the admission. “Again, I ask, so what? You said she’s gay, right?”

“Yes.” She sighed, feeling a tingle of frustration building up inside her. “I just…I don’t know
why
I blurted that out. It was so bizarre. And so pathetically obvious. Jesus.”

Jeff chuckled as he chewed. “Raich, you need to relax.” He reached across the table and tapped on her forehead. “You spend too much time in here. Stop thinking so much and just…live.”

Rachel inhaled deeply and blew it out. “She asked me out.”

Jeff’s eyebrows lifted in an attempt to meet his hairline. “Seriously?”

“She called me last night.” She tried to suppress the grin. “It was cute. She was kind of stuttery and nervous and asked if I’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime.”

“This is good.” Jeff’s eyes on her made her squirm and she worried that he could see too much, that he knew her too well, and that he realized she’d never actually had this reaction before, this uncertainty. “This is very good. You said yes, right?”

“God, this is delicious.” Rachel shoveled a forkful of pasta into her mouth with a pleasurable groan.

Jeff smiled at her, his expression telling her that yes, he did notice her avoidance of the question. “Raich?”

“I told her I’d get back to her.” Rachel felt heavy with indecision. “I don’t know, Jeff. She’s got so much…
baggage.
”

Jeff snorted. “And? I’ve got news for you, babe. We’ve all got baggage.” He waved his hand in the air. “Hello? Heart broken by college sweetheart. Has a hard time trusting anybody.” He pointed at her. “Parental issues stemming from childhood divorce. Control freak who worries too much, has trouble getting close, and overanalyzes everything.”

Rachel glared. “I am
not
a control freak,” she muttered.

Jeff snorted again, his way of telling Rachel she was very nearly the epitome of the phrase. “She’s not asking you to marry her. It’s
coffee
, for God’s sake. Relax. God, reasoning with you is like reasoning with a brick wall.”

Rachel made a face at him. “I’ll think about it.” She sipped her wine.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “You do that.”

After several beats of silence, she said, “It could be fun, right?”

“Sure it could. It could be a blast.”

Rachel mulled that over as she looked off into space. Then she sighed with feigned weariness. “I don’t know. She’s probably not prepared for me. I’m a lot of work, you know. There’s a lot of crap to chip through.” She winked at Jeff and took another bite.

“You never know,” he said with a grin and a shrug. “Maybe she’s got a good chisel.”

Chapter Six

Courtney was reasonably sure her head was about to explode. Any minute now:
Blam!
Brains all over her chalkboard. The poor cleaning woman would have quite a mess to clean up.

It was to be expected, though, and after thirteen years of teaching, Courtney was almost used to it. The first couple weeks of school were always bumpy. New kids, new staff members, often new rules or policies, once in a while there were even new textbooks. It was a lot to take in after more than two months off. She was hauling a lot of stuff home, trying to get lesson plans and classes organized in the middle of the living room at night. By early October, she’d be fine.

It was midafternoon on Friday of the first week of school. The kids had only been there for a three-day week, but they were antsy to get the hell out for the weekend, as were most of the teachers. After the summer break, a three-day week felt like a month. The weather was balmy and Courtney had her classroom windows open, allowing the smell of the impending autumn to permeate the stale air of twenty-five breathing, sweating teenagers.

Andrew Gray, one of the new students, was in the very back of her Shakespeare class and was very obviously text-messaging somebody on his phone. The invention of cell phones and pagers had wreaked havoc on classrooms everywhere, and Courtney had implemented a strict policy in hers. Students were welcome to hold on to them during class, but she expected them to be off. The first time one rang, buzzed, or beeped, she confiscated it until the end of class. If she caught anyone using one, she confiscated it until the end of class. If anyone was text-messaging or taking pictures with it, she confiscated it until the end of class. No ifs, ands, or buts. After three offenses, the student and the phone were excused from class altogether.

As she laid out the assignment for the weekend, she strolled down the aisle casually. Stopping at Andrew’s desk, she simply held out her hand for the phone. She continued to talk as she made eye contact with him and he glared back. She was often amazed by how much older the kids could look. Andrew was a senior, so he probably wasn’t more than eighteen, but as he stared up at her, all heated glare and five o’clock shadow, she saw a thirty-year-old, very angry man. She had to force herself to continue talking about the homework, refusing to let him see that she found him even a little bit intimidating, as she reached across and snatched the phone from his grasp. He made no move but to narrow his eyes at her. She could feel them boring holes into her back like laser beams as she returned up the aisle.
Occupational hazard
, she could hear Theresa say about the lack of respect kids had for their teachers these days.

And just like that, she felt the now almost-familiar pang of heartache as she dropped the phone into her desk drawer where two others had been relegated, never once missing a beat in her detailing of the essay they were going to write after reading
Hamlet
. She and Theresa used to spend hours talking about their various students, offering one another advice on how to handle each individual problem or issue or subject. It was an aspect of their relationship she had treasured and she missed it immensely.

The subtle shifting of bodies in seats clued Courtney in to the fact that the bell was about to ring, so she wound down her lesson. “All right, that’s enough for today. Don’t forget the reading assignment over the weekend and the essay due next Thursday.” The bell rang, sounding like the most obnoxious of alarm clocks, and the kids sprang from their desks like jacks-in-the-box. Courtney pulled the three cell phones from her desk drawer and held them out as the offenders sheepishly claimed them on their way by. Andrew Gray was last, lumbering slowly up the aisle as if he owned the room. He was an enormous guy, and Courtney stood as tall as she could in her modest heels, determined to look every inch of 5’6” that she could. She took his glare and sent it right back to him, unwavering in her attempt to not be unsettled by him.
You’re the boss
, she heard Theresa say.
Don’t let him know he’s getting to you
. He said nothing as he approached, just held eye contact as he stepped inappropriately into her personal space. She held her ground, despite the almost panicked instinct to take a step back from him and the pounding of her heart. She was certain he could probably hear it as loudly as a tribal drum, but she didn’t move. He was so close she could smell him—sweat, aftershave, and cigarettes—and he stayed there for several seconds, their bodies no more than an inch apart. Finally, he took his cell from her hand, broke eye contact, and moved away, exiting the classroom just as calmly as he had strode up the aisle, no hurry at all. She expelled her breath in a whoosh of relief.