deepened.
“Ow, Mom.” Christopher squirmed beneath her hands. “You’re squeezin’ me.”
“How do you know I have the night off?” Carly’s eyes never left his, but she released her grip on the boy. “How did you find this place? How did you know where I live?”
“Go, Mom!” Christopher bobbed from foot to foot. “I’ll stay at Mrs. Schwartz’s. It’s Bunco night anyway. They’ll need me to write down the score if they drink too much wine.”
Carly gently covered Christopher’s mouth with her hand.
“What’s really going on here, Jake?”
Her blunt query startled him. Jake hesitated almost a split second too long before he held out his hands and shrugged. “Selma overheard me ask you to dinner yesterday. When you bowed out because of work, she told me she’d give you the night off, so I came by to ask you out again.”
Chris wriggled out from behind his mother’s hand. “Wow. Selma just called a couple of minutes ago.”
Carly remained silent, still watching him somewhat guardedly.
“Listen, Carly,” Jake shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Selma gave me your address. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this, but it was her idea. If you don’t want to go, just say so, and I’m out of here.”
“Aw, Mom.” The boy tugged on Carly’s hand.
“Chris is invited, too, of course.” Though asking her son along was an afterthought, time with them both would give him a chance to see how things really were between them. “He’d probably like to celebrate that home run.”
“Really?” Christopher looked up at him with such open admiration that Jake decided he should have “Scum of the Earth” tattooed on his biceps when he got back home.
He met Carly’s eyes, marveled again at the stunning deep green in them. “What do you think? Are you both up for some Mexican food? I saw a little hole-in-the-wall where the canyon road hits town.”
“Tacos!” Christopher yelled.
Carly took a deep breath, slowly let it out and smiled, finally opening the screen door. “Since it appears I’m outvoted, why not?”
Christopher raised both fists and victoriously cried, “Yes!”
Jake waited in the small living area while Carly went to change and help Chris clean up. The furniture was slip-covered in plain, heavy canvas, maybe painters’ drop cloths. A distressed wooden storage chest did double duty as a coffee table. An array of magazines that appealed to women, with headline articles entitled “Flea Market Decorating” and “Get the Most for Your Shopping Dollar,” along with recipes, housekeeping and organizational hints, were neatly fanned across the trunk.
A lopsided wicker rocking chair was piled high with so many pillows in bright floral prints that it actually looked inviting.
Toys including Transformer superheroes and Matchbox race cars were tangled up with some deadly looking plastic dinosaurs in a wicker laundry basket in the corner.
From where he stood, he could see most of the small kitchen, too. The appliances were old but clean, the refrigerator covered with magnets displaying kindergarten art and good citizen awards. A closed-in back porch served as her studio. An old, faded floral sheet covered a work in progress on an easel near the wall of windows. A small side table held her paint tubes, jars of brushes, and linseed oil. There was also a long sofa at one end of the room that was draped in a bouquet of tropical print fabrics.
Aside from a television the size of a postage stamp and a portable CD/tape player on a low brick-and-board bookcase, there was nothing of any real value in the living room. Nor were there any photographs on display except for one of Christopher in his T-ball uniform.
Not one of Carly’s paintings adorned the plain, faux wood paneling.
Except for the picture of Christopher, there was nothing personal in sight. Not one item that would give any hint as to the identity of the home’s occupants. Everything but the photo
“Ow, Mom.” Christopher squirmed beneath her hands. “You’re squeezin’ me.”
“How do you know I have the night off?” Carly’s eyes never left his, but she released her grip on the boy. “How did you find this place? How did you know where I live?”
“Go, Mom!” Christopher bobbed from foot to foot. “I’ll stay at Mrs. Schwartz’s. It’s Bunco night anyway. They’ll need me to write down the score if they drink too much wine.”
Carly gently covered Christopher’s mouth with her hand.
“What’s really going on here, Jake?”
Her blunt query startled him. Jake hesitated almost a split second too long before he held out his hands and shrugged. “Selma overheard me ask you to dinner yesterday. When you bowed out because of work, she told me she’d give you the night off, so I came by to ask you out again.”
Chris wriggled out from behind his mother’s hand. “Wow. Selma just called a couple of minutes ago.”
Carly remained silent, still watching him somewhat guardedly.
“Listen, Carly,” Jake shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Selma gave me your address. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this, but it was her idea. If you don’t want to go, just say so, and I’m out of here.”
“Aw, Mom.” The boy tugged on Carly’s hand.
“Chris is invited, too, of course.” Though asking her son along was an afterthought, time with them both would give him a chance to see how things really were between them. “He’d probably like to celebrate that home run.”
“Really?” Christopher looked up at him with such open admiration that Jake decided he should have “Scum of the Earth” tattooed on his biceps when he got back home.
He met Carly’s eyes, marveled again at the stunning deep green in them. “What do you think? Are you both up for some Mexican food? I saw a little hole-in-the-wall where the canyon road hits town.”
“Tacos!” Christopher yelled.
Carly took a deep breath, slowly let it out and smiled, finally opening the screen door. “Since it appears I’m outvoted, why not?”
Christopher raised both fists and victoriously cried, “Yes!”
Jake waited in the small living area while Carly went to change and help Chris clean up. The furniture was slip-covered in plain, heavy canvas, maybe painters’ drop cloths. A distressed wooden storage chest did double duty as a coffee table. An array of magazines that appealed to women, with headline articles entitled “Flea Market Decorating” and “Get the Most for Your Shopping Dollar,” along with recipes, housekeeping and organizational hints, were neatly fanned across the trunk.
A lopsided wicker rocking chair was piled high with so many pillows in bright floral prints that it actually looked inviting.
Toys including Transformer superheroes and Matchbox race cars were tangled up with some deadly looking plastic dinosaurs in a wicker laundry basket in the corner.
From where he stood, he could see most of the small kitchen, too. The appliances were old but clean, the refrigerator covered with magnets displaying kindergarten art and good citizen awards. A closed-in back porch served as her studio. An old, faded floral sheet covered a work in progress on an easel near the wall of windows. A small side table held her paint tubes, jars of brushes, and linseed oil. There was also a long sofa at one end of the room that was draped in a bouquet of tropical print fabrics.
Aside from a television the size of a postage stamp and a portable CD/tape player on a low brick-and-board bookcase, there was nothing of any real value in the living room. Nor were there any photographs on display except for one of Christopher in his T-ball uniform.
Not one of Carly’s paintings adorned the plain, faux wood paneling.
Except for the picture of Christopher, there was nothing personal in sight. Not one item that would give any hint as to the identity of the home’s occupants. Everything but the photo
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