Iris in Bloom: Take a Chance, Book 2 (6 page)

He reached for his robe and discovered it wasn’t on the hook behind the door where he always kept it because this bathroom door didn’t have a hook and he hadn’t got around to putting one up. Which meant his robe was in his bedroom. Which meant he was going to have to walk past Iris in a towel.

He wrapped the largest towel he could find, a navy blue bath sheet, around his waist, tying it securely. Then he walked out into the living area wondering who the hell designed a layout where the bathroom was all the way across the living room from the bedroom.

She glanced up when he emerged and he saw her eyes widen slightly as she took in his half naked state. “I’ll just, ah, go get dressed,” he said as he started to walk toward his bedroom. A flash of – something – arced between them. Awareness? Connection? Then he realized she was starting to unpack boxes, seemed to have got caught up in reading one of the books, which was exactly the kind of thing he would do. He walked as quickly and in as dignified manner as a man, naked but for a towel, can walk. He ducked into his bedroom and quickly threw on well-worn jeans and an athletics shirt from his last school.

When he emerged she was still engrossed in the book. She sipped her wine and barely seemed to notice him as he drew closer. Curious, he leaned in to see what had caught her attention. Slow Sex. He investigated the contents of the box she’d opened and the books she’d shelved. Sex and psychology -- and half the psych books were about sex.

She must think he was a pervert.

“You know, I have boxes of books all about philosophy, most of the classics and an entire box devoted to horror novels.”

She glanced up. “This is fascinating. All I’ve ever known abut tantric sex is that Sting and his wife go at it for something like thirty-six hours at a time.” She rested the book on her knees. “I bet that’s not even true. I hope I like sex as much as the next girl, but thirty-six hours?” She sipped wine. “Did you ever—” Then she shook her head. “Sorry. Engaged mouth before brain. I do that sometimes.”

He felt the knot that had twisted his guts since he’d read that email start to ease. “Not thirty-six hours. No. But there’s something to be said for taking your time.”

She nodded. “This should be required reading for every man.” Then, “I can’t believe I did it again.” She snapped the book shut. “It’s this book getting me into trouble.”

If anyone had asked him three months ago if he’d be sitting in an apartment which he alone occupied discussing tantric sex with a pretty woman who was not his wife, he’d have said they were crazy. Now he wondered if he was the crazy one being married to someone he obviously hadn’t known at all.

He poured himself a glass of wine, brought the bottle over and topped up her glass.

“I’ve got music, somewhere.” He glanced around, knowing he had one of those apartment sized sound systems in one of the boxes. Also an iPod full of tunes. Somewhere.

“Maybe if I help you unpack a few of these boxes we’ll find it.”

“Or some other remnant of my past sex life.”

She grinned at him. “Come on. You can tell me which boxes to avoid. We could at least get the book cases filled.”

“You don’t have to help me unpack. You already saved my life tonight.”

“That might be a slight exaggeration. But I’m glad I came along when I did.”

“Me, too.”

“Okay, you heft this heavy one and you can tell me if you have a particular system for books.”

“Sounds good to me.” He did have a sort of system but he figured he could always rearrange things when she was gone.

By the time the pizza arrived, they were halfway through the second box. They’d have finished all the books except that she kept stopping to say, “Oh, I love Sherlock Holmes,” or “this book changed my life.”

She came across an Alice Munro book of short stories and held it to her breast like she was giving an old friend a hug. “Alice Munro is the most brilliant short story writer. I was so happy when she won the Nobel Prize.” She placed the book,
Progress of Love
, carefully on the shelf. “I had a copy of this but I lent it to someone and never got it back.”

“I hate it when that happens.” Then he glanced over at her. “Do you want to borrow this one?”

“God, no. I don’t want to forget to give it back and one day you tell the story about me forgetting to give a treasured book back to you.”

When the pizza arrived he collected it, generously tipping the kid – who he thought might be a student at Jefferson High, though not in any of his classes.

He carried the box to the kitchen and lifted the lid. “What kind of pizza is this?” It was so loaded it was hard to tell.

“I wasn’t sure what you like so I got everything.”

“Excellent choice.” He pulled his new plates from the cupboard and carried everything over to the couch and put it on the low table he’d bought.

He offered her the box and watched her take a piece of pizza, dragging it straight to her mouth and biting off the end.

He grabbed his own slice and discovered that she’d told the truth. It was really good pizza. He didn’t realize how hungry he’d been. They ate the better part of a piece each, too blissed out by all the cheese and sauce and every possible topping, to talk. She was easy company, restful.

Until she glanced over at him and said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He swallowed and suddenly the pizza was all crust.

“You mean the email?”

“I mean whatever got you racing twelve miles to the middle of nowhere.”

He did want to talk about it and he didn’t. Maybe simply talking the pain through would help him process. So, he said, “I was married for six years. I thought it was a pretty good marriage. Not maybe the greatest love story of all time, but who gets that? I don’t know. You go to work, you pay your mortgage, you live your life. Is it really supposed to be a constant never-ending honeymoon?”

“Is that what she expected?”

He tried to think about whether what he was saying was even true. “I don’t know.” He stared at the dark red liquid in the bowl of the wine glass. “We never even talked about what was wrong. I was out of town for a school trip and on my way home I got a text from her saying she’d moved out. Our marriage was over. I was on a yellow school bus with a bunch of high school kids and she ended our marriage.”

He looked over at Iris and found her quietly watching him, felt her sympathy. “She ended a six year marriage with a text message?”

“Yeah.”

“That is harsh.”

“It was like having a car accident or getting shot or something. One minute you’re going along and your life is on a path you can see ahead for miles. And in an instant the path’s not there anymore. It’s a cliff and you’re going over it and there’s nothing you can do.”

“You didn’t have any clue at all?”

He winced. “I know. It makes me sound like I was completely out of touch with my own wife. My own marriage.” He shifted back feeling the weight of his own discomfort. “Maybe I was and didn’t even know it.”

“And today?”

“I really think I tried to be an adult about the break up. She didn’t want to be married anymore. She’d moved out. I knew I couldn’t stay in that town anymore and risk bumping into her or see her dating guys I probably knew. It was too crazy. So I took this job and moved. And today I got an email basically saying she doesn’t trust me and I verbally attacked her. I completely lost it.”

He shook his head.

“Did you verbally attack her?”

“There were some heated words when I tried to figure out what was going on and she wouldn’t even talk to me. But I didn’t call her names or anything. No.”

“Did you reply to her email?”

“Started to but it was like the unfairness of it all was choking me. I had to get out and run off some of the frustration. I left it half written.”

“Okay, I know you are hurting and you’re mad. I have no idea what’s going on obviously but you’ve got to be strategic. From now on, you have to make an unbreakable deal with yourself that you let at least four hours go by before you respond to any email from your wife or about her.”

Even in his black mood he had to smile. “Four hours? Is that the rule?”

“It’s my rule. And it’s unbreakable. You will save yourself a world of pain.”

“Experience talking?”

“Common sense. And watching other people do stupid things because they were angry and in pain.”

“You’re right. I can’t believe I almost sent off something filled with rage. Stupid.”

“Rage tends to make people stupid.”

He reached out with his bare foot and nudged her crossed ankles on the table. “Where did you learn to be so smart?”

“Oldest girl? Ten brothers and sisters? There is nothing you can teach me about drama. Or stupidity.”

“I’d have said the same for me having taught high school for so long. Truth is, I’m shocked this happened to me.”

He saw her hesitate, choose her words carefully, then their gazes met and she said, “Could she have met someone else?”

“It was my first thought. She denied it, blew up at me for suggesting it, and none of my friends have said anything.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“But you have your suspicions?” She must have read it in his tone.

“Yeah. I do. Why else would she break up so fast without so much as a conversation, a few counseling sessions, something.”

She reached out. Put her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”

He turned his hand palm-up, clasped hers. “Thanks.”

The warmth of the connection that sprang between them from their clasped hands shocked him. He glanced up and found her looking startled.

She eased her hand slowly away. “I should get back. I’ve got an early start in the morning.” She made a production of closing the pizza box. “I have to bake muffins.”

“I definitely want you fresh tomorrow since I will be coming in for one of those muffins.”

She rose. “Thanks for dinner.”

He followed her to the door and opened it for her. “Thanks for hanging out with me tonight.”

“Hope I helped a little.”

“More than you know,” and he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She smelled so good, as though all the spices and sweet ingredients she used in her cooking, plus a hint of the coffee she spent her days dispensing had somehow become part of her. The skin of her cheek was silky against his lips. He wondered what would happen if he took the kiss to her mouth, was thinking about it when she pulled away.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, and was gone so fast she left a jet stream.

Interesting.

Chapter Seven

The espresso machine steamed and hissed its good morning greeting, the first batch of muffins was baked, the cinnamon rolls minutes away from done. All her familiar routines settled Iris as she prepared to open Sunflower the next morning.

Dosana arrived, a new streak of cranberry slicing her jet black hair so she looked, at first glance, like the victim of a hatchet attack.

“What do you think?” she asked, seeing Iris stare.

“It looks very -- red.” What could she say? Suggesting to an employee that her new hairstyle looked like the result of a botched murder attempt was not going to be conducive to harmonious owner/staff relations.

“Thanks. I needed a change. I’ve got papers due and exams coming up. So I dyed my hair. Figured if I’m going to procrastinate, I should do something fun that won’t get me hung over.”

Dosana was in her final year of her business degree. Since she was entirely self-funded she had to juggle school and her nearly full time hours at Sunflower. Iris planned the schedule around her busiest times and it worked for both of them. She’d be sorry to see Dosana go when she graduated and went on to greater things.

“I still want to make this bakery my case study for graduation. What do you think?”

“Will I have to give away all my secrets?”

Dosana looked amused. “You think a bunch of college kids care about your recipe for morning glory muffins?”

“I meant my finances smart ass.”

“I think we can work in general terms so you only divulge what you’re comfortable with.” She moved in for the sales pitch. “And, you know, in return you’re going to get advice from business pros who help mentor students.”

“I could definitely use some advice.” She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Dosana hugged her. “That’s fantastic. Thanks. I’ll email you with everything I need. Speaking of which, I think we’re short on those organic brown sugar packets.”

“Really? Check the next delivery. It should be on my computer.”

Dosana returned in a second carrying Iris’s laptop with her. “What is this?”

“Oh, right. That.” She’d forgotten to log out of the sperm bank website. Damn. She tried to act completely casual. “I’ve been playing with the idea of maybe having a baby.”

“Alone?” Why did she make it sound so pathetic? A decade from now Dosana might find out that being a single business owner in a small town meant there was a pretty small pool of eligible men.

“Like I said, I’m only toying with the idea.”