when she arrived at work. With two wedding cakes to bake and decorate and a birthday cake for an obnoxious-sounding twelve-year-old boy who wanted a Lord of the Rings theme, she knew she couldn’t waste any time. For a perfectionist, that was always difficult.
She changed her black boots for her plastic clogs, tied her hair back and slipped on a clean apron.
She was the first one in and the quiet kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel and hulking appliances still and quiet like sleeping giants, made her happy.
Her own small area wasn’t completely uncluttered, however. A paperback novel sat in the middle of her counter. Puzzled, she picked it up. The book was well-thumbed, an old paperback that was clearly loved by its owner. She knew because she had a shelf of books like it at home.
The Thirty-Nine Steps, by John Buchan. The novel had a lurid red cover and when she opened it inside was a yellow Post-it note which said, “From a fellow spy novel enthusiast. This is one of my favorites. Ron.”
If the man had sent her two dozen red roses she couldn’t have been more thrilled. There was something so personal, intimate almost, about the sharing of one’s own copy of an oft-read book. A tiny thrill went through her as she turned to the first page, imagining the times when Ron must have had his hands exactly here, turning the page for himself, perhaps in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, or maybe sitting up in bed at night before settling to sleep.
Then the fatuous smile on her face snapped off like a light that’s been switched off. What was she doing getting all romantic about this man? He was dating Karen. Chelsea had said so herself and Chelsea wasn’t a person to make things up.
She closed the book carefully and slipped it into her bag to take home after work. She’d misread the situation. He was simply being nice. He wasn’t showing interest in her.
He didn’t want to date her, he wanted to be her book buddy.
With a sigh, Laurel hauled out a tub of cake flour and got to work creating yet another artistic fantasy that would be gobbled up in no time by greedy twelve-year-old mouths.
Hours later, she was well into the decorating when a soft male voice said, “That looks amazing.”
She turned to find Ron looking over her shoulder. “Thanks. Do you know what it is?”
“The Eye of Sauron. From Lord of the Rings. I don’t know how you did it, but the colors look like fire.”
Like any artist, she was happy to have her work recognized. “Oh, good. I’ve got some really cool sparklers that will shoot red and orange sparks into the air. I figured a twelve-year-old boy is going to want something spectacular.” She glanced up to find him still admiring the cake, and for a second she could imagine what Ron must have looked like as a twelve-year-old. “Thank you for the book.”
“You’re welcome. Have you read it?”
“No. I saw the movie once. During a Hitchcock phase I was going through.”
He seemed pleased that she hadn’t already read it. “It’s a classic early spy thriller. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
“I will.” She continued piping red gel onto the rim of the eye.
“Maybe we could have coffee sometime?”
Her hand spasmed and splat: a great squirt of red spat out of her bag so the eye now had a huge red jujube of a tear hanging from it. “Oh, crap,” she cried, grabbing a spatula and easing off the mess she’d made.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Of course we don’t have to have coffee. I thought you might like to discuss the book.” He seemed as nervous and flustered as she felt.
She had no idea how to respond. She didn’t even know what he was asking her. Was it for a date? Which is what she’d first assumed, but now she wondered if perhaps he hadn’t meant anything more than a friendly coffee.
But what if she said yes, and it was a date, and then Karen might be upset and she loved her job here and didn’t want to cause any trouble to a woman she liked enormously.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t a date at all and she’d sound all stuck up and full of herself if she refused.
Which was why she pretty much stayed away from the whole male/female personal interaction thing. It was all simply too confusing, like a game whose rules she’d never grasp.
She’d attempted to play chess a few times and felt absolutely bewildered. When was a playing piece allowed to go sideways and which ones could only go forward, she’d never quite understood. And as for that horse thing that went over and up, it was enough to drive a creative brain crazy.
Silence seemed to echo around the kitchen. It had never seemed so huge, or so empty. “Of course I’d like to discuss the book sometime,” she finally managed to say, keeping her attention on the icing, but not daring to continue her task in case he said something that made her completely ruin her cake.
“You don’t drink coffee?” he asked seeming a little puzzled.
“I love coffee,” she snapped. One of them was being incredibly dense and she had a horrible feeling it was her.
“But you don’t want to go out with me?” he finally asked with a kind of humble tone that made her glance up from the cake and meet his gaze.
“No. I would like to go out with you.” She sighed. How could a woman spend so much time strengthening her core and believing in the essential oneness of all people and still be such a weenie? She decided to speak her truth. “But you’re seeing Karen. At least that’s what Chelsea said.”
The second the words were out she regretted them. She didn’t want Ron to think she’d been asking about him. How embarrassing.
He didn’t make the obvious conclusion, but a puzzled frown settled on his face. “Karen’s a wonderful person,” he began. “But I don’t think you could say we’re seeing each other. Not romantically. We both realized that we’d rather work together than,” he gestured helplessly, “you know.”
“Oh.”
“So, will you?”
The world made sense again. Speaking her truth was as wonderful as all the yogis in the world told her it was. “Go for coffee with you?”
“Yes.”
“I hardly ever date,” she admitted in a rush. “I’m not very good at it.”
He breathed what seemed to her to be a sigh of relief. “Me neither. I am so happy we both like books. At least we’ll have something to talk about.”
She turned to him, not even realizing she still held the spatula. The connection she’d felt the first time she saw him was only strengthened by his words and she felt a rush of understanding. “I know exactly what you mean. Isn’t that the worst part? Sitting there, racking your brain for something to say? And my mind always goes blank when I start to panic. I’ll blurt out something ridiculous.” He smiled at her and she suddenly recalled her brilliant conversational repartee of yesterday when she’d told a man she’d never met before that he could be a spy because he looked so innocuous. She supposed
