A Chance of a Lifetime (10 page)

“Is it a support group?”

“Yeah, it's a lot of that. It's a sisterhood. An adventure club. A steady supply of work and relationship advisors, babysitters, shoulders to cry on, caretakers, caregivers, prayer warriors. Our youngest is twenty-three, and the oldest is in her fifties. We've got Christians and agnostics, with kids and without, and we cover the spectrum in pretty much every other way.”

“Sounds…depressing.”

She shrugged. “When a person's gone through an experience that's out of the norm, it always helps to find someone else who's been through it and not just survived, but flourished. Why should every one of us have to struggle to learn things that those ahead of us have already learned?”

“Makes sense.” Delivered with a shrug that said he wasn't convinced but wouldn't argue. “Look, I, uh, have to go. I'll…see you later.” With a nod, he turned on his heel and strode off down the street before she might argue. Surely he found death to be depressing, too. He'd damn well better have been depressed by J'Myel's death, if for no other reason than it meant their last chance to salvage their friendship had been forever lost.

She watched him for a moment, then returned to the craft store, pushing his words out of her mind. Her days of having to convince anyone of anything were long gone. When it came to the margarita girls, all that mattered was that she loved them, and they loved her right back. Anyone else's opinion or discomfort belonged entirely to that person, and it was their loss, not hers.

But, Lord, did her losses have to be so impressive?

Balancing a twenty-five-pound bag of sugar on one hip, Lucy slid her key into the back door of her new shop, shoved the door open with her foot, and made it to the nearest stainless table before the bag slipped free. It landed on the metal with a thump, then she slung her purse over her shoulder and went into the kitchen, turning on lights on the way. The room was filled with the kinds of equipment and space she had only dreamed of. There would be no more locking Norton in the bedroom while she baked, no more storing goodies in the guest room for safety. When her parents came for their next visit, she would once again have a bed for them to sleep on…and something wonderful to show off to them.

A couple of thuds sounded from the store room, then footsteps came to the kitchen door. She was standing at what would be her primary workspace, rubbing her hand lightly over a mixer that made hers at home look like a shrinky-dink model. There were ovens, burners, prep tables, sinks, fridges, freezers—plural. More than one of each.

She knew she was grinning ear to ear. She had been for the past week.

Hands propped on his hips, Joe watched her with his own grin. “As soon as we finish unloading the car, it's time to baptize this place by fire.”

“Ouch, fire and bakery don't belong in the same sentence.” She imagined the scene covered with soot, debris, water running everywhere, and firemen zapping down hotspots. “I prefer to think of this room as my pool, and I'm about to dip my toes into it for the first time.”

“Well, whatever you're doing, you've got a lot of stuff to fix for tomorrow, and I'm your only help.”

A few dozen miniature cupcakes, three dozen blueberry muffins, two large pans of cinnamon rolls, an assortment of fruit turnovers, and enough cheese Danishes to tempt her to sample. A small portion was going to her own church; the rest had been ordered—her second bona fide sale—by the church one of Joe's assistant coaches attended.

“You know, I can call the girls to help.” All of them had volunteered at dinner Tuesday night, albeit in a wonderful rushed,
Me, too!
sort of way. Because they were the kind of people who always helped whenever they could, she had no doubt they'd show with one phone call.

“Or I could call the boys,” Joe said with a broad grin. He was as confident of his team jumping when he called as she was of her margarita sisters. The only thing the Tallgrass Eagles loved more than football was their coach. If learning to bake, decorate cupcakes, and do dishes would make their coach happy, they would bake, decorate, and do dishes.

“Let's see how far we get on our own,” Lucy said, thinking how those boys could inhale two dozen cupcakes in two bites. She headed outside, lifting her face to the blue sky and warm November air, breathing deeply as she slung a large canvas bag over one shoulder, then hefted a box of supplies. For two days, she'd planned what she needed at the shop—that was what she'd decided to call it instead of bakery or kitchen; it was quainter. She'd gone over her recipes, listing every tool, spice, bowl, toothpick, ingredient, whatever. She'd added every baking pan she owned, every tray, bought new brooms and mops and buckets, dish detergent and soap, washcloths, towels, paper towels, toilet paper, everything she could possibly use. She was convinced she'd forgotten something vital, but with her gaze skimming over the box filled with every natural and artificial flavoring known to woman, she couldn't think what it was.

Once her car was emptied, Joe asked, “Where do we start?”

“Unpacking and organizing, I guess.” She had spent every night but Tuesday—margarita club—and Friday—Joe's football game—at the shop cleaning and envisioning what would go where. All that envisioning hadn't gelled into a plan yet. “Every time Mike and I moved, we rented a two-bedroom house with a decent yard and a patio or deck, but each house was just different enough that our stuff didn't quite fit. The kitchen cabinets would be configured differently. The new living room would be ten feet longer and four feet narrower than the old one. And curtains…In my attic, I have enough window treatments for four or five houses, tall windows, short ones, formal, casual, sheer, blackout. This is like unpacking into a new kitchen on a giant scale.”

“You're making too big a deal of it.” Joe plopped a stack of baking trays on the top shelf, turned, and picked up a stack of dish towels.

Lucy went to stand beside him. “Too big a deal?”

“What's the problem?”

She looked up to meet his gaze, then kept tilting her head until she could see the trays. For extra emphasis, she rose onto her tiptoes and stretched her right arm as far over her head as she could. Her fingertips were still a foot short of the trays.

She was lowering back to her soles when she caught a whiff of his cologne. She wasn't one of those people who could identify every spice or flavoring by smell, but whatever fragrance he wore was perfectly suited for a kitchen. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, it brought to mind a toasty fire, spiced coffee, chocolate, something sweet and buttery. It was homey and sexy and warm and shivery, and if one of them didn't move soon, she was going to swoon—or worse—right there. She was actually leaning toward him, drawn as if she had no will to resist, her nose seeking the source of the fragrances, sniffing up the length of his arm to—

“Okay, I see your point.” Joe stepped away so quickly that it was a wonder she didn't lose her balance. Had he realized she was getting too close? Had he wondered what she was about to do? Or had he been totally unaware of her savoring his scent right next to him?

Joe could be totally clueless at times, no doubt about that. And her tender ego preferred to believe that than to think he'd moved away deliberately.

He went into the store room, returning with a stepladder. Collapsed, it fit neatly between the wire rack and the wall; unfolded, she could reach any shelf in the room. Then he moved the trays down three shelves, where she could retrieve them without risking her dignity or her life. “Better?” he asked.

Four feet and a stepladder between them? Enough space that she couldn't be sure she still smelled a hint of his scent or whether it was memory tempting her? So far apart that if she swooned, she would face plant right onto the cushy rubber mat that fronted the worktable instead of his arms?

She smiled weakly. “Yeah.”
So much better.

 Normally, Calvin didn't sleep worth a damn, but Saturday night was an exception to the rule. He'd conked out on the couch while watching TV, staggered into the bedroom somewhere around midnight, and would still be snoring if the ring of his cell phone hadn't woken him shortly before one in the afternoon. As far as he could guess, he'd slept about fifteen hours. Who knew that could make a man feel as crappy as only two or three hours?

He'd showered and just finished dressing when the bell sounded at the door. Trying to rub away the thickheadedness that plagued him, he opened it without checking the peephole. His mom, dad, and Gran, all dressed up from church, stood together, broad happy smiles on all their faces.

Something surged deep inside him. Not happiness exactly. Maybe it was pleasure. He'd gotten so far from good emotions that when they occasionally reappeared, it was hard to identify them precisely. But seeing his family smiling like that, so obviously glad to see him, made him want to smile in return.

Elizabeth stepped forward first, hugging him, running her fingers through his hair as if there was enough of it to need straightening. “You look like you just got out of bed, son, and here it is dinnertime. You're getting lazy in your old age.”

“Huh. Don't malign all us old folks. I'm seventy-six, and I don't sleep till afternoon.” Gran moved his mom aside, and he bent low to accept her hug, the brim of her hat flopping against his face. She kissed his cheek, then pulled a white handkerchief from somewhere and wiped away the lipstick. “You're a handsome boy, but harlot red just isn't your color.”

“Mama!” Elizabeth exclaimed, but Justice just shook his head as he extended his hand. “You missed a good service today.”

“I bet you say every service is a good one.”

“I wish I could, but this pastor doesn't often hit the target, and on the rare occasions he does, he still bores the congregation to sleep before he does it. Today was one of his better days.”

“Justice!” Mom exclaimed, then shook her head before linking her arm with Calvin. “Give us a tour of your new place, son.”

It was a one-bedroom apartment, nothing much to see: living and dining room, small kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. It was a world away from his last apartment, though, back in Washington. Chaplain Reed, the only person to ever visit him there, had taken one look around and known that something had gone seriously wrong in Calvin's life. That was how low he'd sunk.

Pushing that thought away, Calvin extended his free hand toward the living room. “That's where I watch TV. Over here is where I microwave the food you sent home with me last week.” He gestured toward the kitchen, then led them the few feet to the bathroom door. “Here's where I shower. Notice—no wet towels on the floor. And here's the bedroom.”

“Not nearly inviting enough to sleep away the whole day,” Gran muttered after poking her head through the door.

“Hey, I'm up in time for dinner. That's what matters, isn't it?” he retorted.

“I'm sure your mama would say it's church that matters, but you can't nourish the spirit if you don't nourish the body.” Gran gave him a poke. “And my body's in need of nourishment. Come on. If we don't get to the restaurant before the  Mount Zion congregation, they'll polish off the buffet like a flock of vultures.”

Calvin blinked. “Restaurant? We're going out to eat?”

“Don't act so surprised,” his mom said. “We do that from time to time.”

“Not on Sunday. Never on Sunday.” The first time in his entire life that he'd ever sat down to a Sunday dinner at anyplace besides his mom's table or a church basement table was at basic training. It hadn't seemed right at all.

“The benefit of eating out on Sunday is the same as every other day,” Gran put in. “No planning, no cooking, and no dishes to wash.” She grinned. “And the buffet at Zeke's is a thing of beauty. Now let's go before the Mount Zioners beat us to it.”

Calvin followed them out, locked up, then offered to show Gran to the elevator. She flashed him a chastising look, grabbed hold of his arm, and made her way regally down the stairs. It was a nice day, the sun shining, a little chill in the air. Brown leaves clung to the trees, and acorns crunched under their feet as they walked to the car.

On the drive off post and across town to Zeke's, Elizabeth and Gran chatted about who'd been at church and who'd missed, who had worn what, said what, and acted how. Idly he wondered if Bennie had been there, if she was still a regular or if time and circumstances had made it easier to occupy herself elsewhere on Sunday mornings.

Running into Rickey Duncan yesterday had been a surprise. Turning at the sound of the store bell and seeing Bennie had seemed…right. He'd never known her to have a creative bone in her body, though she threw one hell of a fastball and could outfish everyone he knew. Though she'd been dismissive of any potential crafting talent, he tried anyway to imagine her knitting or sewing, but nope, the image wouldn't form. The Bennie he'd known had liked to be on the move, not stuck inside doing girly things.

If she had a more girly nature now that she was grown, it was only fair, because she'd certainly grown into a girly sort. Her curls, her flawless skin, her laughing eyes, her curves…he would never be able to think of her as just one of the guys again. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to remain oblivious to her charms back when they saw each other every day.

The parking lot at Zeke's was mostly full, though Gran noted with satisfaction that she didn't recognize any cars from the Mount Zion congregation. “That pastor of theirs tends to be long-winded. It takes a lot to get him to shut up.”

“Speaking of people who don't shut up,” Justice murmured to Calvin as they followed the two women across the lot.

Calvin grinned. Elizabeth and Emmeline were both talkers. An awful lot of his childhood memories included one or both of them going on about something, while Justice read his newspaper, worked his crossword puzzles, or watched his football games.