Blue Roses (7 page)

But time takes away everything.

Rory shows up at my place on Saturday afternoon. She lugs in enough food to cater a party of ten.

“This is way too much,” I tell her. “I’m only cooking dinner for myself and Luca.”

“Tell me more about this meal that you’re cooking, all by yourself.”

I chuckle. “Okay, fine. But just so you know, he’s a big guy, but he’s not that big.”

“Use the leftovers to make sandwiches.” She reaches into a canvas bag and pulls out what appears to be half a cow.

“Sandwiches? Sure. I’ll just use those ten loaves of bread I always keep in the house.”

“Ha ha.” She rolls her eyes.

I help her unload the other groceries, keeping an eye on the roast in case it tries to make a getaway.

There’s very little counter space in the micro-sized kitchen, so I haul the table closer for a makeshift prep area.

“What’s all this crunchy dust?” Rory asks, scowling at the table surface.

“Housekeeper’s day off,” I joke, grabbing a cloth to give it a quick wipe. The crunchy dust is from one of the dried rose petals.

After my ritual on Wednesday night, I left everything out, right up until an hour ago. Unfortunately, the sun streaming in the window degraded the rose, and two petals fell off. I’ll have to be more careful from now on.

“I have something to tell you,” Rory says.

“Oh?” I get out the cutting board and start chopping carrots.

She whispers something so softly I can’t hear it.

I turn to find her pressing her lips together tightly, her face red with effort. What is she up to?

She whispers the word again. “Panties.”

I almost laugh, but catch myself.

She says it again, louder. “Panties.”

“That’s great, Rory! You’re making so much progress. Is this from the hypnosis tapes?”

She shakes her head, no.

“Did my sister drag you to her support group?”

She shakes her head, no. She’s grinning, like this is a new game for her.

I ask, “Can you say any of the other no-no words besides
panties
?”

“No.”

“That’s still really good, Rory. I’d hug you right now, if it wouldn’t send you screaming for the hills.”

She gives me a serious look. “I’m still not normal. I’ll never be normal.” She grabs some herbs and tosses them my way. “Now get to work, or date number four will be the one where you serve raw meat and carrot sticks.”

“Yes, Captain.”

For the next hour, we chop and sear and baste.

Rory works for a caterer, so making a gourmet meal is well within her skills. I don’t know what I was thinking when I offered to make Luca dinner.

Actually, I was probably thinking about the things
Cosmopolitan
magazine promises will happen on the fourth date.

Sex.

Right over there, on my fold-out sofabed.

That is, assuming I still remember how it’s done.

I look over at Rory and sigh. I wish I could talk to her about how I’m feeling right now, but she can’t handle any discussion of sex.

With my last boyfriend, I wasn’t this nervous. I can’t even remember what our first time was like, or even the last time. It was all just a blur of awkward grinding and apologies.

Oh, no. What if Luca is terrible at sex? What if that’s the reason he kept sending women flowers? What if he does some horrible, disgusting thing that makes them never want to see him again?

Rory stands up from checking the roast in the oven and looks at me. “Now what?” she asks. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“It’s our fourth date. That’s the date where people traditionally… play Scrabble.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks get pink, but she doesn’t run for the door. “And do you want that to happen?”

“Yes, but I’m worried that maybe he’s terrible at Scrabble. Like he puts the words in the wrong places, or he goes right for the triple word score immediately, instead of starting in the middle.”

She grabs the bottle of wine we were using for the sauce and pours a glass for me and one for her.

We take the glasses over to the couch and sit down.

She speaks carefully, “Maybe before you get the Scrabble board down from the closet, you should be very clear with him about the house rules.”

“As far as I know, I prefer the standard rules. Nothing fancy.”

She glugs down half her glass, then takes a deep breath.

“Have you guys played any warm-up games before tonight? Did you two… share the crossword puzzle?”

“Is that one you do with your hand, or is it more verbal?”

She covers her flushing face with her hand.

I rush to say, “Doesn’t matter, because I didn’t do either. I mean, a couple of times while we were kissing, I did brush up against his wildcard tiles, but I didn’t put my hand inside the velvet bag and grope around for anything special.”

“I think you’re going to be fine,” she says. “Just take it slow.”

I giggle into my wine glass. “It’s just that… most people play with seven tiles at a time, because they fit on the tile rack. I think my tile rack is standard, but what if he plays with eight tiles? Or nine, or ten? Oh my god, what if he plays with eleven letter tiles, and they’re wide ones?”

Rory leans forward, sets the wine glass on the coffee table, and then runs out of my place so fast, she leaves a little cartoon dust cloud behind her.

I pour her wine into my glass and keep thinking about letter tiles.

Luca arrives right on time for dinner.

This time, he pays attention to my instructions and comes around the side of the main house, right to my door.

He’s got flowers in his hands—a beautiful mixed flower arrangement, in a vase I recognize from my shop.

“You’re kidding,” I say, taking the flowers.

“Read the note.”

He comes inside and glances around quickly before turning his beautiful blue eyes back on me.

Blushing, I find the envelope and pull out one of the standard cards from the shop.

The card reads:

SORRY I’M A JERK. - LUCA

I look up, confused. He’s grinning like crazy.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

He shrugs. “I’m sure I’ll do something hideous tonight. For example, I might look around your place and ask to see the rest of it. Then you’ll tell me it’s a renovated garage, and we’re standing in all of it.”

“Oh, I have five more rooms here. They’re behind that door. Go have a look.” I point my thumb at the coat closet.

“Maybe later.” He takes the flowers and note from my hand and sets them in the middle of the table. Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in for a kiss.

We kiss until I get dizzy and stumble back, almost tipping us over.

He licks his lips, his gaze on my mouth. “Are you going to offer me some of that wine you’re drinking?”

“I’m afraid that particular wine is all gone. It went into the, um, sauce. But I have another bottle I can open.”

He picks up a bag from just inside the door and hands me an unopened bottle. “Let’s try this.”

“The bottle’s dusty.”

He chuckles. “It’s from my wine cellar.”

I point to the closet door. “I have a wine cellar, too. It’s right through that door.”

“Sure you do.” He grabs me and kisses me again, then nuzzles his cheek against my neck. His cheek is smooth, like he shaved minutes before coming over. The feeling of his skin against my neck, along with his hot breath, makes my knees weak.

“You smell good,” he murmurs. “You smell like roast beef, which is one of my favorite smells.”

I squeal and pull away. “That’s your dinner.”

He points his finger in the air, like he’s just remembered something. “Right, dinner. I should confess. I actually ate dinner before I came over, because I knew it was just an excuse for you to get me into your lair.”

My mouth drops open in disbelief. “Did you really eat before you came over?”

He laughs. “No. I’m famished.” He plucks the notecard from the table and points to the inscription. “Now you see why I needed this. Classic jerk move, making you worry like that.”

I hand him the wine opener, and he gets to work opening the bottle.

I pull the enormous roast from the oven and leave it on the stovetop to rest before slicing. Rory left me specific instructions for the final preparations, and I do my best to follow them.

Luca hands me a glass of wine and offers to help. He and his large frame barely fit inside the micro kitchen, let alone both of us. I shoo him out and tell him to snoop around.

He looks around my place with interest, first at the finishing details of the garage conversion, and then at my collection of framed photos on the mantle above the electric fireplace.

“I didn’t know you were married,” he says.

My throat tightens, and I regret not going through my photos before Luca came over. He holds my prom photo in his hand, studying it with a frown on his face.

“That’s not a bridal gown,” I tell him. “My prom dress was pale blue, but everyone else was in much brighter colors, so I look washed out.”

“You’re beautiful.”

I grab a hot tray without an oven mitt and burn my fingers. I curse under my breath and quickly dunk my hand in cold water.

“Who’s the guy?” he asks.

“My prom date.” I pull my hand out of the cold water, dry it off, and immediately grab the hot tray again.

The burn sends a shock through me, and I drop the tray with a clang. I swear again, shaking my hand, and turn on the tap, full blast.

The pain strips away my defenses.

Everything hits me at once, memories flooding back. My hand throbs from the burn. I collapse forward against the sink, and the tears come.

I feel a hand on my back. Sobbing, I tell him to leave me alone. I need a minute. By myself.

He pulls me into him. I crush my face against his chest to avoid meeting his eyes. He wraps his arms around my back and holds me.

The sobs slow down, and soon I’m breathing calmly again. And feeling very foolish.

I pull away and look at my fingertips.

“That’s not too bad,” I say. “Just a little red. Probably won’t even blister.” I point to the offending pan and explain that I stupidly grabbed it without an oven mitt.

“Is that the only thing you’re upset about?” he asks.

I wipe my eyes with a paper towel and put on a cheerful face.

“I’m fine.”

“Tina, what’s wrong?”

I sigh and grin up at him. There’s so much worry in his blue eyes that it rips my heart into even more pieces.

“Nothing,” I say. “Except for the obvious—I’m a cheap drunk, and an emotional one.”

I grab the glass of wine he poured me and glug it back as proof.

“Anything else?” he asks.

I point to my face and whisper-yell, “SORRY I’M A JERK.”

His smile turns into a grin, and then a laugh.

“Apology accepted. Can I help you with anything in here? Now that I’ve wedged myself into your kitchen, I don’t know if I can get out again.” His eyes go to the meat. “What is that, half a cow?”

“That’s what I said when Rory brought everything over.”

“Rory? That’s your best friend, right? The one who can’t say panties?”

I gasp. “Don’t ever tell her I told you that.”

“And she works for a caterer, right?” He looks over all the food, realization dawning on his face.

I hand him the salad bowl to take to the table. “Nope. She drives a garbage truck. You must be thinking of your other girlfriend’s best friend.”

He chuckles and helps me bring the rest of the food to the table—or at least as much as will fit on the small surface.

We sit down, and he refills my glass.

“This is really nice of you to make me a home-cooked dinner,” he says. “It’s been a while since somebody took care of me like this.” His eyes are shining.

I feel something in my chest, like my soul is trying to tell me something.

He clears his throat and raises his glass, smiling and blinking rapidly.

“A toast,” he says.

I raise my glass and wait.

His voice low and soft, like a prayer, he says, “May every loving heart hear its song returned across the lake.”

We clink our glasses, and drink in the moment.