Where You Least Expect (5 page)

The look of relief that crossed her face was almost heartbreaking, as was the fact that she didn’t even pretend not to want his help. She stepped aside to let him pass and then locked the door behind him.

“You’re in luck, Jojo. It’s time to swab the decks,” she said with a tired-sounding laugh.

“Not quite, but this is a lovely little flashback.”

“Right this way,” she said.

After she drew a pail of warm, soapy water and handed him an extra mop, they made quick work of the floor, working in silent tandem like they’d done this a thousand times before. It was odd, being with Verna without her chatting away, but he chalked it up to her tiredness, something that became more apparent with each minute that passed.

“So you can lock up and we’ll head out?” he asked once they’d finished.

“Not yet. We have a delivery coming”—she looked up and watched as a small delivery truck drove around the building—“right now. A quick inventory, and then I’m done. Thanks for your help, Joe. I really appreciate it,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity.

“You’ve had a long day. Can’t someone else handle the inventory tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “There is no one else. And it won’t take but a minute. I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll stay.”

“There’s no need—”

“I’m staying, Verna.”

She nodded and walked toward the back as he followed, noting that her step had no spring at all, let alone the energy that he was accustomed to seeing from Verna. Although she’d barely insulted him and had given him the peace and quiet he’d thought he wanted, he decided he didn’t like this energy-sapped version of her and found himself rather unhappy that her usual sparkle, as annoying as it could be, was dimmed. When they reached the back door, they found the delivery driver leaning against his truck waiting, dolly at the ready.

“Evening, Verna. Here’s this week’s load,” he said as he handed her an inventory list.

She hoisted herself into the truck, moving with surprising agility, and began checking off items on the list.

“Wait,” she called to the driver. “I ordered a different brand of flour. We made the change last month.”

“Uh, Mr. Love called and changed it back, said we needed to deliver the old stuff.”

Verna rubbed her forehead, considering for a moment. Then she looked over to the driver and nodded.

“I need you to take this back and bring the other brand. We have enough for two days, so can you run it by tomorrow or the day after?”

“No problem.”

“Thank you,” she said.

The rest of the list proceeded without incident, and when she’d checked off the last item, Verna grabbed a box, a heavy one from the look of it, and started to jump off the truck.

“What are you doing?” Joe said, snapping into action.

“I’m getting off the truck,” she said, brows knitted together in confusion.

“Put that box down, Verna,” he said gruffly.

When she did, he extended a hand toward her. She stared at it and looked at him, his expression, he knew, unyielding. After a moment, she took his hand, and he helped her off the truck. Once she reached the ground, she glanced at him, her face a mask of confusion that only intensified when he jumped up to take her place.

“We’ll unload the truck; you make sure the stuff gets where it needs to be,” he said.

She nodded, and, with the help of the delivery driver, Joe unloaded the truck and Verna directed him where to go, them working together with that same coordinated efficiency the origin of which remained unknown to Joe. When they finished, Verna saw the driver off with a reminder about items they still needed. Joe walked over to her, and she gave him a faint smile, her gratitude undeniable.

“So are we done now?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Thank goodness,” she said wearily. “And thank you again, Joe.”

He shrugged. “You just have to promise to tell Poole what a nice guy I am.”

He waited for the inevitable retort, and felt himself frowning when she simply said, “I promise. Let’s get out of here.”

Once she’d checked all of the doors, she headed toward her car, her steps slower than they had been before, her shoulders drooping, and the sight of her so muted and beaten down that his chest ached with sympathy.

“Verna,” he called, and she stopped and turned. “You’re practically out on your feet. I don’t think you should be driving.”

“Joe, I’m fine.”

“Verna…”

“Okay. If you insist.”

“I insist,” he said.

She changed course and walked toward his truck.

“This is so not fair,” she said as she got inside.

“What?” he asked as he cranked the truck and then drove off.

“I’m getting to ride in this thing, and I don’t have the energy to talk about how it’s an…” She trailed off, her mouth seeming to fail her for the first time he could recall.

He laughed. “How does this sound? You don’t have the energy to talk about how my truck is an embodiment of my masculine insecurity and how I use it to deflect from my tiny penis.”

She brightened and for a moment felt like the Verna he was familiar with. “Exactly,” she said with a brisk nod.

“Ha. Well, lucky me.” He glanced at her and smiled. “And besides, we both know neither of those things is true,” he said.

“I know nothing about your penis, Joey.”

“I guess you’ll have to take my word for it,” he said.

She laughed but then went quiet, resting her head on the headrest with her eyes closed. They popped open immediately when he pulled into the driveway, but she appeared a little disoriented.

“Home sweet home,” he said.

“Seriously. Thanks again, Joe.”

“Night. Get some rest, Verna.”

“Night,” she responded as she walked over to her house and entered the front door.

Once she’d closed it, Joe went inside his own home feeling conflicted. He was halfway convinced that Verna viewed driving him insane as a part-time job, so he couldn’t quite decide why he’d gone out of his way to help her, or why he’d been so disappointed that she’d been so quiet, what he would have considered nice if he hadn’t known how tired she was. Or why he’d reacted, briefly, but so strongly, to the sight of her bathed in light and standing on tiptoe.

A few minutes later, he peeked out of his window and saw that Verna had her guest room light on. He knew exactly what she was doing and reached for his phone, dialing her number, which he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten. She answered on the second ring.

“You’re going to put your eye out if you try to sew right now,” he said before she could speak. “Go to bed, Verna!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she said sleepily.

He hung up and about thirty seconds later, the light snapped off.

As he fell asleep, it occurred to him that mopping floors with a nearly silent Verna was the most fun he’d had in as long as he could remember.

Chapter Four

“Verna!” her father yelled the next morning, clearly upset about something. She didn’t have the energy to try and guess what, though she was sure he wasn’t planning to wish her a happy birthday.

After counting to ten and then counting to ten again, she turned and went toward the sound of his voice. What she really wanted to do was go home and sleep and then sew; in fact, she’d considered calling in this morning but had decided to come in. She usually took her birthday off, but the restaurant was shorthanded today, so marching through a shift half-asleep was preferable to trying to explain to her dad why she couldn’t be bothered to show up, as he’d no doubt see it.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. She usually tried to enjoy her birthday, but the sheer exhaustion had sapped her to the point that she couldn’t even perk up for her special day.

“Don’t ‘hey, Daddy’ me, girl,” he snapped.

Verna felt her nerves fray, but she tried to push it aside. Greetings, like everything else, were a no-win proposition with her father. If she was too chipper, he accused her of being fake, too dour, he accused her of moping. Today, it appeared, would be no different, so she steeled herself for the incoming onslaught.

“What the hell is this?” he said, waving a piece of paper in the air.

“I don’t know,” she said, “let me see it.”

She’d tried to keep her tone even, respectful, but Vernon’s eyes bulged and he pulled himself up to his full height. He was formidable in every right, but even more so for a man in his early seventies, and Verna had clearly inherited her stout build and height from him. When he wasn’t nitpicking every little thing she did or said, Verna would sometimes remember how she used to look up to him, think he was the strongest, bravest, greatest man in the world. Now wasn’t one of those times.

“Here,” he said, shoving the paper toward her.

Reading it quickly, she saw that it was the weekly order sheet.

“It’s the order sheet. Looks okay to me,” she said with a shrug.

“‘Looks okay to me,’” he responded, disgust tingeing his words. “It would.”

The insult hit its mark, and Verna felt herself tear up before she quickly got her emotions under control. The hum of conversation that was the soundtrack in Love’s had faded to a murmur, and Verna decided that they should move this friendly family chat elsewhere. Vernon Love was legendary for his rants and tantrums, but he was next-level mad today, and she didn’t want the customers to be uncomfortable. She turned on a heel and walked toward the storeroom, certain her father would follow. When they reached the room, she turned back to him.

“Now, what is the matter? The truck came by yesterday; I unloaded it myself.”

A white lie, but she felt entitled to it.

“What kind of flour did I order?”

“Good Golden.”

“And what kind was delivered?”

“Good Golden.”

“So then why did you send it back?”

“That stuff is more expensive and not as high quality. The brand I ordered is cheaper and better, so I sent the other back. We’ll have it today or tomorrow, so we won’t run out. Don’t worry; it’s all taken care of.”

“Oh, so now you decide what gets bought in my restaurant? This is my place, Verna.
Mine.
I say what goes on here, no one else. Do you understand me?” he said, voice almost earsplitting.

Ordinarily, she’d just nod and smile and let him blow off steam, but not today. No, today she felt like pushing back, if only just a little.

“I don’t understand, Daddy. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s not your place to understand; it is your place to do as I say.”

She was defensive and insulted that he wouldn’t even relent enough to allow her to make this, something that was only the smallest of decisions, and her frustration won the moment.

“You let me open and close, do your books, but you don’t trust me to pick a brand of flour?” Her face twisted into a grimace. “That makes no sense.”

“Verna…” he said, his voice thick with rage and warning.

“I’m just saying, you should trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Uttering those words was like flipping a switch, and she could see the exact moment he completely lost his cool.

“Dammit, child. Don’t you tell me what you know!” He threw the piece of paper at her face, where it hit her chin and then fell to the ground. “You know what,” he said after a moment, the instant calm in his voice chilling her. “I’ve had enough of you and your crap. You lord around this place like you own it, but I’m not dead, and as long as I’m still above the dirt, nobody, and I mean nobody, is gonna contradict me. You’re done. Go get your shit out of my office, give me my keys, and don’t come back.”

He held out his hand expectantly, but she just gaped, her gaze moving from his face to his extended hand.

“Come on. I ain’t got all day. Now, Verna!” he said sharply.

She reached into her pocket and gave him her key ring. He removed the restaurant’s key, and the key to his and her mother’s house and then tossed the others at her. She caught them without thinking, shock at what had just transpired leaving her frozen. He turned to leave, and she finally found her voice.

“But, Daddy…” she said, her voice strained.

“Uh-uh. Don’t ‘Daddy’ me. You wanna act grown, be grown and find someplace else to work. And I want you off my property in the next ten minutes, or I’m calling the sheriff.”

With that, he stomped out of the storeroom, slamming the door behind him.

Long moments passed as Verna tried to understand what had just happened.

“Five minutes,” her father shouted, banging on the door.

That spurred her to action.

She left the storeroom and grabbed her stuff before exiting out of the back door, feeling like a criminal even though she’d done nothing wrong. Her father had always been a hothead, but this was extreme, even for him, so the best thing to do was wait until he calmed down. With nowhere else to go, she got into her car and headed toward home, and her cell phone rang before she’d made it five hundred yards.