Plain Jayne (33 page)

I addressed and stamped the letter, but decided against sealing it. Instead, I walked down the street to the convenience store and picked up a glossy magazine with a “Best Dressed” section before going back home.

Once I was behind closed doors, I perused the pages and found the parts I thought Sara would like most. I pried the staples from the magazine before cutting out the pages.

I folded the contraband to fit inside the letter, slapped on another stamp, and headed outside to the mail drop.

People don't usually whistle at me when I show up for work, but the next morning I received two before arriving at my cubicle.

Once I saw my desk, I understood why.

“Those are some serious flowers,” said Laura, who apparently decided to make my reaction her next story.

Thing was, she wasn't exaggerating. On my desk sat a bouquet of a dozen light pink, long stemmed roses.

Upon closer examination, I realized it wasn't a dozen, but a baker's dozen. There was a card tucked among the blossoms. I opened it to find a printed message:

Because I couldn't climb through your window, the least I could do was send you flowers. Have a good day at work.

Levi

I smiled and put the card back into the envelope before sliding it into the top drawer of my desk and away from the prying eyes of my colleagues.

I worked with a roomful of investigative reporters. I knew the only thing stopping Laura from going through my desk was the threat of what I might find in hers if I returned the favor—rumor had it she kept quite the chocolate stash and the odd prescription medication in her left-hand drawer.

Calling Levi at that moment would have provided more fodder for the entertainment section of the office, so I opted to wait until lunchtime rolled around.

It wasn't raining at noon, so I stepped outside, taking my phone and my jacket with me.

“Did you see your surprise?”

I couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, me and every one of my coworkers.”

“Hope it didn't bother you.”

“Not too much. Hey, I hope you don't mind. I told your sister about us.”

“She wrote you already?”

“She did.”

“I don't mind. She'd have to find out eventually, and she likes you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I talked to my mom the other day.”

“Always a good way to continue the relationship.”

“She said you're welcome to come with me this weekend.”

“Only if you want me to.”

A bitter breeze nipped at the edges of my jacket. I tucked my free hand deeper into my pocket. “Sure.”

“You sound excited.”

“It's the right thing to do.”

“Your decision, Jayne.”

“I mean, I'm feeling kinda pressured here.”

“Whoa, whoa—where is this coming from?”

“You send me a dozen roses—”

“Thirteen. I wanted to be unique.”

“Whatever. Thirteen. You send me this big statement in front of all my coworkers and you think that will smooth the way for you to insinuate yourself into my weekend and my life. What if I'm not ready?”

“Then you're not ready. And that's okay.”

“You won't resent me?” I stepped aside as the door behind me opened and two women from archives emerged from the building, cigarettes in hand.

“Nope.”

“Do you want the flowers back?”

“Jayne, the roses had nothing to do with me meeting your family. I don't see you often because we don't live in the same city. The roses were me trying to, I don't know, make up for that in my clumsy guy way. I told you. I'm not good at dating. I thought girls liked roses.”

“I do like the roses!” I shouted into the phone. The archive ladies backed away even farther.

“The weekend thing is really bothering you, isn't it.”

My shoulders slumped in defeat. “It feels too fast.”

“And that's fine.”

“I want you to meet my family.”

“I'd like to. But only when you're comfortable.”

“Then come with me this weekend.”

“But you don't want me to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Because I won't get to see you this weekend otherwise. Because I know it's the right thing to do. And I want to go to church on Sunday, and Miss Lynnie is getting old, and I know she'd like to meet you.”

“Who's Miss Lynnie?”

“My Sunday school teacher.”

“And you want me to go to the coast with you this weekend because she's old and you want me to meet her before she dies.”

“Yes!”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

He was exhausting.

“Why don't I drive to your place on Friday and bring your bookcase?”

And then he'd go and do nice things like that. “That sounds good.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't want you to feel about the bookcase the way you felt about the roses. This isn't a manipulative bookcase. It's a thank-you bookcase.”

“I consider myself adequately thanked. And I like the roses.”

“Miss me?”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“I miss you too.”

Friday couldn't arrive soon enough.

I dreaded the arrival of Friday with all my heart.

In the meantime, I finished up part two of the urban garden story with the help of my police insider. Joely was more than willing (for the price of
a coconut cupcake) to get me past the red tape and into the initial police reports and list of witnesses present when the crime was reported.

I interviewed community members, took pictures, and wrote up a nice yet haunting story of senseless vandalism to conclude the piece I had written earlier.

Wednesday, I readied my study for the arrival of the new bookcase. I tidied up the papers that managed to cover every flat surface and vacuumed into the corners of the room.

When I finished, the study was spotless. The rest of the apartment was not.

I don't know where all the clutter came from. Seriously. I was a professional, not a slob. Maybe little messy elves came out when I slept. I don't know how else my jackets found themselves stacked up on the chair by the door, and how I'd taken to playing a round of hide-and-seek every morning with my keys, finding them under banana peels or inside my laundry closet.

When did I last buy bananas, anyway?

Thursday I came up with the brilliant idea of cooking dinner for Levi before we left for the coast.

Martha cooked dinner every day after spending the day working—why couldn't I? I tracked down Gemma that afternoon at her desk.

“Got a minute?”

“Always.” Gemma turned her chair around and folded her hands in her lap. “What's up?”

“I want to make dinner.”

“Noble.”

“Tomorrow. After work. For Levi.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment.
“Oh.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You're cooking for a
man
.”

“Which means he'll eat anything in large quantities, right?”

“Usually. Not always. If he's related to me, yes, but I've never seen Levi eat.”

“Do you have to observe someone eating before you can cook for them? Are there hidden cameras involved?”

She rolled her eyes. “You're funny. Does he like Italian?”

“Yes. He took me to Pastini in Corvallis.”

“Last weekend?”

“Yes.”

“So that's why you've avoided me all week.”

I folded my arms. “I haven't avoided you.”

“Returned any of my calls or emails lately? Or clothes, what about clothes?”

“You know, of all of us, people say you're the nice one.”

“I am the nice one. So, you went on a date with Levi.”

“I didn't say it was a date.”

She tapped her pencil against her desk. “A man took you to an Italian restaurant in a town separate from the one he lives in. It's a date. And it was nice, otherwise you wouldn't be cooking for him.” She tapped her hands on her desk. “Are you sure you don't want me to bring over some of the food from the restaurant? It'd be like having a catered dinner.”

“That's sweet, but no. I want to cook.”

“Okay.” She thought for a moment. “He's a meat eater, right?”

“Yup.”

She began scribbling notes on a piece of paper. “Good. That's good.”

“What are you doing?”

“Writing out your recipe. That's why you came, right?”

“It's a simple recipe?”

“It is. Add a salad and a box of Rice-a-Roni, and you're done.”

“You eat Rice-a-Roni?”

“Don't tell my mom. I'd be disowned.”

“Your dad wouldn't care?”

“He doesn't believe in Rice-a-Roni the way adults don't believe in Santa Claus.”

“Interesting. Family is complicated, isn't it.”

“Kind of like men,” Gemma said, sending me a significant glance. “But both are very, very worth it.”

I
shopped for groceries Thursday night, following Gemma's list like a scavenger hunt guide.

Pork. If only she had been more specific! She did say boneless, but there was the thin cut pork that was light, and the thick cut pork that was dark. Most of the time, the thick cut was cheaper—did that make it lower quality?

I stood there in the meat section for five minutes, a package of light pork in one hand, dark in the other.

Not one of my prouder moments.

I called Gemma and explained the problem. She said, “Go with the pork sirloin—the darker one.”

“You've decided on that?” I asked.

“I've listened to my parents debate about the finer points of recipes since I was in my mother's womb. Don't argue with me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I hung up.

Cream. Pretty straightforward. I didn't see any difference between the store-brand cream and the name-brand cream, so I stuck with the store brand and figured the cows weren't stamped with a product name, so why should I care?

Unless they selected the cows differently…

I pushed my cart forward before I could talk myself out of the store-brand cream.

I checked the rest of the list—one lemon, one bunch parsley, one package hazelnuts, four red potatoes…for Pete's sake, I was going to be there all night.

Parsley—I found it in the produce section. Trouble was, there was Italian parsley and flat-leaf parsley.

I pulled out my phone again. “Gemma?”

“Tell me you're not still at the grocery store.”

“I'm not at the grocery store.”

“Are you lying?”

“Yes. It's the parsley.”

“What's wrong with the parsley?” She sounded frustrated.

“Italian or flat-leaf?”

“They're both green, you know.” Her voice grew practical again. “Use the Italian.”

“Thanks!”

“Anything else you've got a question about?”

“I don't know yet. I don't grocery-shop that often.”

“It builds character.”

“And you really can't come down and help me?”

“I'm thirty-five-minutes away. By the time I'd get there, you'd be done.”

“No, I wouldn't. I'd wait.” Really. I meant it.

“You can do this.”

“I am a skilled person.”

“Very true.”

“I can order off a Chinese menu with agility and accuracy.”

“I don't know if I've ever ordered Chinese takeout.”

It boggled the mind. “If you ever need help, you can call me. I'm great with Indian and Thai too.”

“I will defer to your vindaloo knowledge. Until then—keep shopping.”

I sighed and hung up.