His and Hers (3 page)

Chapter Three

Misty watched the action in the parlor through a narrow crack at the kitchen door. That is, if her grandmother’s regular Tuesday tea party counted as such. The three old women regarded the fourth empty chair each in their own unique way.

This angle gave her a clear view of Mrs. Huckleberry pushing at her pinned, dyed red curls. Mrs. McMurphy drummed at her china cup, but Grandma Nona—a head taller than the other two, dressed to the nines in a bright green, silk dress with a chunky roped necklace obscuring her throat—held everyone’s focus.

Will I ever stop thinking like a film producer? She knew the answer.
Unlikely
. Misty found life far easier when dealing in terms of scripts, blocking, and edits. Blowing through her bangs, Misty fast-forwarded her thoughts through some memories she wished she could edit out, and focused on the scene at hand.

The cherry wood bridge table and sideboard gleamed from polish—the air tinged with the lemon oil rubbed on it earlier that day. A striped sofa hugged one wall, a pair of wingback chairs angled on the other side. Lace curtains softened the afternoon sunlight and brought out the vivid rubies and emeralds of the Persian rug at an angle over the hardwood floor.

Behind the group, a near life-sized portrait of Nona Darling smiled down on the room, a scene replicated from her first award winner—
His and Hers
, from 1957. A young, elegant, porcelain-skinned Nona Darling stared out across the parlor to the stately woman she had become.

Misty had yet to hear them speak about the lone empty chair, the elephant in the room. A slight push opened the swinging kitchen door wider, though it creaked under her hand.

Nona flicked her gaze, caught Misty looking, and finally broke the silence. “Tuesdays won’t be the same without Adele.”

“I’m hoping to win for once,” Rose offered then downcast a guilty glance. “But, I miss her all the same.”

Delores frowned at the other two. “Adele’s not dead! She just eloped with that man she met on the internet.”

Rose muttered something in reply a bit too low for Misty to hear. A clatter of dishes and a gasp followed, and a rush of whispers.

On cue, Mrs. McMurphy spills again, Misty thought, grabbing a towel. After a quick mop up, she removed their dishes and placed the dark blue game box open on the game table.

“Here you go.” Misty handed everyone their scoring pad for a rousing game of Rummikub.

Nona deftly plunked out ivory tiles and set them in her rack. “What are we playing for today, ladies?”

“Let’s play for pennies,” Del suggested, reaching into her purse. “Winner donates to the Nona Darling Film Festival!”

“I didn’t empty my piggy bank today.” Rose dragged tiles toward her. “But, I did notice they’re showing
His and Hers
.”

“Ooh…” Del formed an o with her mouth, and applied bright lipstick that matched her hair. “Isn’t that the one you starred in when you met John?”

Nona went damp-eyed, nodding. “Back in ‘57.”

“I remember.” Rose wagged a teasing finger. “You had that look in your eye when your character finally agreed to marry Gordon MacRae.”

“I remember seeing that with my sister.” Del leaned back into her seat, sighing. “The audience was up in arms because you’d changed your last name from Dysart to Darling in the film credits!”

“John Darling was worth all the grief the studio gave me.” Nona’s shoulders straightened with palpable pride. “And then some.”

“Speaking of, that’s about when he bought you that pretty car. The Buick?” Del’s brows rose over her glasses frames. “Did I hear you took it out of storage?”

“Grandma’s idea.” Misty shrugged.

“She needed something to drive.” Nona nodded and waved a hand at her granddaughter. “And…we were too trapped up here, both of us like house mice.” Her chin rose, her attention hanging on the painting for a long beat. She turned to her friends, smiling. “Now, if not pennies, what are we playing for?”

“Here’s an idea…” Del’s pencil-thin eyebrows rose above the rim of her glasses. “We’ve got two seats reserved for that art class at Evergreen Senior Center. The one taught by that florist girl from The Flower Field?”

“Good thinking.” Rose stifled a giggle.

“It’s been an age since a man sent me flowers.” Del focused on Misty. “Does your boyfriend send you roses? Or maybe daisies?”

Misty’s heart stuttered. Thoughts spun to the handsome stranger from earlier that day. Her brain looped around his lopsided smile, the tones of his laugh. Truth? The only man she’d flirted with in the past six months.

Looking up, she noted three gazes weighing heavily upon her. She could have been a butterfly on a pin. Misty cleared her throat. “I’m not seeing anyone. Not since I left the city.”

“Well, you should be.” Del smiled, adjusting her heavy glasses. “You’ve gotta make some memories now to keep you warm at night when you’re our age!”

“Unless you meet an old man and make some new ones.” Rose giggled. “Like Adele did.”

“She’s right, Misty.” Nona placed her last tile and looked up, a glimmer in her pale blue eyes. “I’ve got a great porch for swinging on a Friday night.”

Misty laughed aloud. “I’ve never had a young man on your swing!”

“Now, that’s a crying shame.”

“What I meant was…” Misty knew her face brightened red as Mrs. H’s hair. “Have you seen that swing lately? Lopsided, rusty chains, peeling paint, and—”

“What you need is a good handyman.” Rose elbowed Del. “You know. To fix the swing, and do other odd jobs around the place.”

“That’s right!” Del rubbed her hands together. “We just found the perfect one to send out Misty’s way!”

“Misty’s way? What about mine?” Nona offered, which brought a hoot of laughter from the bunch.

Off the hook, Misty refilled everyone’s teacups and retreated into the sunny-yellow kitchen. She dodged the butcher block in the center of the room and pushed open the windows for some fresh air.

Outside, Long Valley’s rooftops caught the late afternoon sun. Neat, tree-lined streets gave way to front yards dotted with abandoned children’s bikes and riding toys staged like props in a movie. A hurried mother shuttled her children in a tan minivan and took off to soccer, or dance class, or other points unknown to a single, thirty-something like Misty.

Her left thumb ran over her naked ring finger, absently searching and not finding Todd’s engagement ring. Had it really been six months since she’d flung it at Todd and come back to Long Valley, to the safety and silence of her grandmother’s house?

Come back. Misty pulled her hair into a long tail. Wasn’t that an interesting way to phrase running away from life as she knew it?

Head aching, she turned away from the suburban lifestyle, back to the kitchen, the heart of her grandma’s home.

A slight breeze set the green and yellow checked curtains to flutter. Misty inspected one at the corner. Years of Long Valley sunsets had faded the once-bright fabric. Upon further investigation, she noted the walls and frames needed updating as well. How many coats of paint had Grandpa John slathered on in the forty-plus years they’d lived there? He’d done all the maintenance and upkeep with his less-than-steady hand until he passed away, leaving Grandma with nothing but his memory. The curtain fabric fell from her fingertips, a pang of loss filling her senses.

Misty returned to Long Valley, the only stable home in her life. Sure, she’d come back under the auspices of aiding her grandmother, but she knew the truth. The breakup with Todd had shattered not just her dreams, but destroyed her once promising film production career, as well.

She fisted the curtains in her hand, thinking of how she refused to drag her once-famous grandmother’s name through the mud with his tabloid documentary ideas. She’d have no part in producing a piece that only dredged up dirt on one of America’s favorite fifties comedy stars. The fact her grandmother was the subject, to boot, made his proposal even worse. She and the studio parted ways, agreeing to disagree. The force of that agreement still stung, on a professional and personal level.

Now, caring for her aging grandmother was her only concern. Not that Grandma Nona would admit needing help. From Nona’s point of view the situation was reversed, and that was fine. Let her keep thinking that, if it kept her mind sharp.

“Misty! Bring some more towels, please,” Rose called from the parlor “Del just knocked over the pot.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Del’s muted complaint filtered through the doors. “You shoved it beneath my elbow.”

Misty sighed and straightened the wrinkled curtain fabric. She grabbed the roll of paper towels again, and entered the parlor. After cleaning up, she noticed the three friends squirming in their seats like schoolgirls. Hands on hips, she turned to face them. “Okay, ladies. Spill it. And I don’t mean any more Earl Grey, Mrs. Huckleberry.”

Delores snuffled a laugh and clenched her hand on Misty’s arm. “Your grandmother just won a month’s worth of art classes from me and Rose.”

“Art classes for two?” Misty turned to her grandmother, brows raised. “I take it we’re both going?”

Nona just shrugged her thin shoulders, gaze downcast and turned away.

They were definitely up to something, but she’d take the bait. “What’s the subject, Del?”

“Still life.”

“With music,” Rose added.

“Right.” Misty took a step back toward the kitchen door, wagging a finger. “You’re up to something, don’t think I don’t know that.”

Game forgotten, the three dissolved into girlish giggles as only the best friends could.

What in the world have I gotten myself into? Misty backed her way into the kitchen knowing she’d been had.

Chapter Four

The next morning, the streets of Long Valley, California bubbled with Wednesday Farmers Market activity. Mid-morning sun warmed her skin as Misty strolled along the pedestrian crosswalk, along the corners of Main and Third, toward the best in open-air shopping. Background music played on the breeze through a hidden speaker.

Fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers, and assorted crafts were shaded from harsh sun by multi-colored canopies. The vendors stood behind the displays, or called to passersby, with outstretched samples from their stores of goods. She plucked a strawberry from one, its succulent sweet, red juice dripped with each bite.

She searched for a large tub of plump berries to complement melted dark Ghirardelli chocolate. Grandma would love decadent, hand-dipped strawberries. Misty frowned at her watch, judging if she had time to swing by the raw-sugar display and add a bag to her purchases. She paid with a note of thanks, munched on an extra berry, and set off to see what else the day had to offer.

Misty strolled among the Long Valley crowd, some faces she recognized, but most she didn’t. She did incognito well, she thought, adjusting the white-framed, Breakfast-at-Tiffany’s-size shades against the bright day.

Twenty minutes later her basket overflowed with fresh vegetables and fruit looking like a character out of Beatrix Potter. Carrot greens lopped over the side of her wicker basket, along with bunches of purple grapes, and bags of Roma tomatoes. She added a sack full of bright gold, orange, and red peppers to complete her fare.

Rounding the corner, she found herself in the flower section of the farmer’s market. Bunches of bright blooms in a full rainbow of color explosion, gathered in buckets, baskets, erupting from open doors of delivery vans. Still, something else caught her attention. Each distributor checkout table displayed an identical, miniature pot of sunflowers, yarrow, and exotic-looking wispy green leaves that she didn’t recognize. Misty fingered the tag on one, tied by a raffia string. The brightly colored logo of Long Valley’s newest flower shop—The Flower Field. The very same shop that Grandma Nona and her friends discussed the day before.

“Beautiful…isn’t it?” a baritone voice asked from behind.

Misty spooked, toppling her basket. Vegetables tumbled and rolled haphazardly around her feet.

“Sorry.” He settled hands on his hips. “Did I startle you?”

“Something like that.” She darted a quick glance at him, then smiled in recognition.
Fountain guy
… “Hello, again.” She knelt to dust off and repack her purchases, inspecting fruits for bruising.

He slipped a brightly woven strap over his shoulder, and his acoustic guitar slid up his back. Without asking, he knelt alongside to assist.

His warmth radiated into her skin. Reggae music played over speakers, her heart thudded the beat in her ears as his suntanned, work-worn hands helped to refill her basket.

“I thought that was you.” He dusted off a bell pepper, and handed back the lumpy green vegetable, their fingers brushing. “Sorry I startled...”

“It’s okay. I was just lost in thought. Those little arrangements...” His touch was a million butterflies exploding into flight. She removed her lopsided glasses, pointing dumbly at the flowers. “I just wanted to see who designed them.”

Misty allowed him to pluck her off the ground. Again, she noted she could look him in the eye. She liked that. Non-threatening. He brushed back the tousled mass of auburn hair off his forehead. He held her gaze, mesmerizing with eyes of rich brown.

“Some cutie bopped through here about an hour ago, all smiles, tossing out flowers and cards like snowflakes. Excellent marketing idea, don’t you think?” He scratched at his stubble-covered chin.

Misty cocked her head at this guy. Long Valley wasn’t that big a town, maybe he was bent on becoming her own personal Good Samaritan.

Not merely attractive, he could have been deposited straight out of her little girl wish book. At the thought, her rusty heart double-pumped. She breathed him in like an ocean breeze. Dark, shaggy hair. A bit of shadow dusted his cheeks. Muscular arms tightened his t-shirt sleeves, but not overly so. His hands captured and held her full attention. Calloused. A musician’s hand, she mused, and guitar to match.

With one hand, he adjusted the instrument over his shoulder, mouth set in a widening grin. “Looks like you bought out the market.” He swung the brimming basket with ease as she still rubbed at her stiff fingertips. “I didn’t catch your name when we met before.”

“That’s right. Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Misty.”

“Nice to meet you—officially—Misty...”

His rich voice drew out the chord like a song, leading her to fill in the rest. Misty briefly glanced heavenward, as a blush warmed her cheeks. “Darling.” She watched his eyes widen.

“Sweetheart.” His laugh came, smooth as silver. “We barely know each other.”

“No, my name. It’s Misty Darling.” She held out her palm, a silent request for custody of her basket. “And thanks, but I’m still shopping.” She exhaled a small groan at the weight as he released it.

“Shall I call you a Sherpa?” His gaze danced with good humor.

“I’m good.” She shook her head. “Can’t have people hauling boxes and baskets for me forever. Thanks again, by the way.”

“My pleasure.”

His warm look showed he really meant it. For the first time in too long, her heart thrummed with the attention. “See you around, guitar man.”

Sure that he was laughing at her—and even more certain that he stayed to take in the view of her departure—she straightened her shoulders and walked with a spring in her step.