It's a Waverly Life (2 page)

“So you’ll send it over by five?” Ivy said.

I took a sip of hazelnut coffee and adjusted the wireless ear-piece to my phone. “Yep. I’m almost done, just putting on the final touches. I hope Larry likes it.” It was around two o’clock the next afternoon, and I was sitting at my desk in my home office, editing my column.

“I’m sure he will. I know you’ve only written a couple of pieces so far, but they’ve been a big hit around here.” Ivy was an editorial assistant at the
San Francisco Sun
daily newspaper.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. They’ve made us laugh amid all the depressing news we have to cover.”

I smiled. “I’m so glad to hear that. I love writing them.”

“Get any good e-mails this week?”

“Oh yes, a virtual mountain of bad date stories. One woman down in San Jose wrote that a guy took her to Chuck E. Cheese’s…on a first date.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, and he’d told her he was taking her somewhere special, so she was wearing a cute dress and heels.”

“No way.”

“She said when he pulled into the
strip mall
, she thought he was stopping to ask for directions.”

Ivy laughed. “Unbelievable.”

“Exactly. I will never understand people.”

In a fortunate turn of events, I’d recently been hired as a weekly columnist for the
Sun
. It all started after I’d quit my job in sports PR and launched a line of “just because” greeting cards for women called “Honey Notes.” To my surprise, the cards took off, even landing in
People
magazine. When the features editor at the
Sun
called and offered me a position as a humorous relationship advice columnist, I thought it would be a fun diversion as I figured out my next career move. Who knows—maybe I’d even
learn
something. I had one high school boyfriend, one broken engagement, and about a billion bad dates to my name. I hardly felt qualified to be doling out advice, but then again, I guess I did have quite a bit of experience in the dating arena at this point.

I said goodbye to Ivy, then poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and scrolled through some new e-mails. By the time I finished reading the last one, from a freaked-out guy who had just discovered that a woman he’d been dating for two weeks had changed her Facebook profile to say
in a relationship
AND changed her picture to one of her with him, I was dabbing tears with a tissue, laughing and cringing. Was I really getting paid to read these crazy stories? Who
were
these people?

I continued tinkering with my column for a while, then decided a chocolate break was in order. I grabbed a fleece and headed out the door to stroll around the block for some fresh air…and to buy a fat chocolate chip cookie at Peet’s Coffee & Tea on the corner of Sacramento and Fillmore, a regular destination of mine conveniently located a mere half block away.

On my way home, I stopped to check my mailbox in the lobby of my building. My back was to the staircase when I heard an unfamiliar voice.

“Well, hello there, I was wondering when I’d meet you.”

An older man with pitch black skin, dark-framed glasses, and white hair smiled down at me from about ten stairs up. He was wearing a gray fedora, a white-and-green checkered dress shirt, and dark green pants held up by a pair of black suspenders, a newspaper tucked under one arm. I’d never seen him before.

“Hi.” I put the remainder of my cookie back in the bag and slid it into my pocket.

He slowly descended the remaining stairs, using the railing to steady himself. When he reached the bottom he took off his hat, then approached me and extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Red Springfield, new to apartment 2A. I’m from Springfield, Missouri, and no, there’s no relation.” He laughed, displaying a row of bright white teeth. I wondered what kind of toothpaste he used.

I took his hand. “I’m Waverly Bryson. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Springfield.”

“Please, call me Red. Everyone calls me Red.”

“Well, okay then, Red. You can call me Waverly. Everyone calls me Waverly.”

He smiled and slightly bowed his head. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Waverly. I saw your name on the mailbox and have been looking forward to meeting you. That’s a lovely name you have there.”

I laughed. “Lovely? That’s a new one, but thanks. What brings you to San Francisco?”

“Family.” He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.

“When did you move in?”

“Last month.”

“Really? Last month?” It amazed me how I hardly ever saw my neighbors. After nearly nine years in the building, I still felt like I was the only person there who ever did laundry.

“Yes, my dear, nearly four weeks now.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. “Curious that I should meet you today, because I just received this letter in my mailbox. I was on my way down to give it to you, in fact.”

“A letter for me?” I never got letters. “Is it junk mail?”

He chuckled. “I didn’t open it, my dear.”

I glanced at the envelope, addressed to me in bright red ink. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address. Maybe it was from Jake?
Who writes letters anymore?

“Thanks, Mr. Springfield.” I was drawn to his brown eyes, which looked friendly and familiar, almost as if I’d seen them somewhere before.

“Please, call me Red.”

“Oops, I mean thanks, Red.”

He smiled. “My pleasure, Miss Waverly. It’s time for my crossword now.” He patted the newspaper under his arm. “I hope to bump into you again soon.” He put his fedora back on, tipped his head slightly, and headed out the door.

Back in my apartment, I opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. One word was written in red, in the same neat handwriting:

Be

Be?

Be what?

I squinted at the paper. It had to be from a reader of my column, but who? I tried not to think about the fact that whoever had sent it knew where I lived. Sort of creepy, but I guess that comes with the territory when you put your name out there in public.

I tucked the letter into a drawer in my office, then sat down, finished my cookie, and e-mailed my column off to Ivy. I leaned back in my chair and glanced over at my calendar.

Just a few more hours until I see him.

That night I couldn’t sleep. My flight to Atlanta was at eight, which meant I had to get up at five if I wanted to take a shower. I watched the clock beside my bed.
One fourteen.
I never slept well before an early flight, the fear of oversleeping always weaving its way into anxiety-riddled dreams. Add to that the anxiety of seeing Jake again, and I might as well have gotten out of bed and started running laps.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the weekend ahead.

Jake McIntyre.

I’d met him at a tradeshow party about a year earlier, back when I was still working at KA Marketing. My fiancé Aaron had called off our wedding only a year before that, and Jake was the first person I’d felt a true connection with since the whole debacle. He was a physical therapist for the Atlanta Hawks, himself a former Duke basketball player. We ran into each other a few times in the months that followed at various work-related events around the country, and though I was usually too tongue-tied around him to speak coherently, he didn’t seem deterred by my awkwardness. Even though I’d only seen him intermittently, there was an undeniable chemistry there. Although at first I was convinced I was the only one feeling it, I was wrong (lucky for me). Our flirtatious banter evolved over time, and after yet another unexpected encounter, this time on a warm night in New York, he finally kissed me. For that brief moment, I think I forgot my own name.

That was two weeks before McKenna’s wedding. My fear of getting hurt waned briefly in the afterglow of the kiss, so I rolled the dice and invited him to fly out to California and be my date. Everything that day and into the evening went perfectly—until I froze and screwed it up. And now my romantic pessimism was making an unfortunate comeback.
Ugh
.

My mind wandered to our contact since that awkward goodbye. Our interaction had gradually turned playful again, and he’d finally invited me to visit for what I was hoping would be a complete do-over. I was so grateful for a second chance, because I could feel in my bones that he was worth caring for.
Really
worth caring for.

After a while I opened my eyes and checked the clock on my nightstand.

Two twenty-three.

Ouch.

Thank God for coffee.

Eleven hours later I was in the restroom at the Atlanta airport, standing in front of the mirror and trying—unsuccessfully—to camouflage the puffy dark circles under my eyes.

“Maybe I could wear sunglasses all weekend?” I said to my reflection.

“Excuse me?” A plump, gray-haired woman at the adjacent sink gave me a confused glance.

“Sorry, just talking to myself.” I grimaced as I dug through my makeup kit. “I didn’t sleep very much last night, and now I’m paying for it.”

“Sugar, you look lovely,” she said with a smile on her way out. I love Southern hospitality.

I pulled my long, dark hair out of my low ponytail and brushed it, then put on some sheer plum lipstick. Maybe that would distract attention from the puff? I stood up straight, smoothed my hands over my jeans, and took a deep breath.

Keep it together.

I checked to make sure I had nothing stuck in my teeth, then grabbed the handle of my carry-on and headed out the door.

I saw him before he saw me. He was leaning against the passenger door of a dark green Tahoe, scrolling through messages on his phone. His sunglasses were perched on top of his thick, wavy brown hair. He wore a khaki canvas jacket over a lightweight blue V-neck sweater and white collared shirt.

So cute.

“Hey there, stranger,” I said.

He looked up and broke into a grin. “Hey you, come here.” He opened his arms, and I trotted over to hug him. His blue eyes were as gorgeous as I remembered.

“Mmm, you smell good,” he whispered into my hair. “Really good.”

“So do you,” I whispered back and lifted my head to kiss him. Good thing his arms were around me, because when our lips touched I think my knees buckled a bit. Now
that
would have been embarrassing.

The ice was broken. Thank God.

“Welcome to Atlanta.” He grabbed my bag and opened the back hatch of his car. “I’m sorry it’s so cold here.”

I laughed. “Cold? It’s got to be sixty degrees out. That’s like a heat wave in San Francisco, remember?”

He opened the passenger door for me. “Ah, yes, how could I forget? Wasn’t the cold weather in San Francisco the topic of our first conversation?”