fully love him. Now I felt more empty and isolated than ever. Mattie was busy, Ken was being obtuse and Jane was doing who-knows-what. And I was all alone.
I built myself up for a great pity party and was planning the exact moment I’d open the Chunky Monkey ice cream in my freezer—should it be before or after I finish the Oreos and the fruit salad? Then a cold, wet nose nudged itself into my palm. Beady black eyes peered at me through a fringe of taffy-colored bangs and a raspy tongue laved my hand.
I knelt and took my dog’s gigantic fluffy head in my hands. “You’re my best buddy, aren’t you, sweetie? I don’t need anybody else when I’ve got you. How about a brushing?”
Unfortunately facing an evening of dog brushing and eating two quarts of Black Persimmon Surprise fruit salad didn’t exactly fill my social calendar.
“The city isn’t that much different from Simms, Winslow. I’ll do exactly what I always did in Simms when I was in the doldrums. Remember how we’d take a plate of Mattie’s cookies to the neighbors and have a visit?” But I didn’t have any homemade cookies. I would have to make do with what I had on hand.
I wondered how Adam Cavanaugh felt about tangelos and persimmons.
I almost lost my nerve when I saw that the door to his apartment was open. I smelled frying bacon and heard the coffeepot gurgling. My cheery idea to be neighborly rapidly withered. After deciding that Cavanaugh was probably the last person who would want to see me, I decided instead to offer my salad to the people who lived on my floor. Unfortunately, no one was home. Adam’s was the only apartment in the building with any signs of life.
Pepto lay in the doorway like a palace guard waiting to attack anyone with designs on the king. I studied him from a distance, gauging my safety. One incisor hung over his bottom lip, and his mauled, droopy ear made him look like the feline version of a marauding pirate.
Still, the door was wide open and I could see Adam hovering over the stove in overlarge gray sweatpants and an equally washed-out red sweatshirt. His dark hair was damp, his feet bare, and if I had to judge by the sound of pans and lids clanging harshly as he flung them about, his mood was foul.
When I’d moved in, the landlord had assured me that the occupant of this apartment was “a nice guy who works for a newspaper or something.” I probably should have paid more attention. That’s hardly a ringing endorsement for a person’s sterling character, but the landlord also told me that if I ever got into a jam I could safely knock on this guy’s door and ask for help. Since I’d had no intention of doing anything that I couldn’t handle on my own, I hadn’t asked any more questions. Now I wished I’d given my curiosity full range.
Maybe I’d just take my salad home and eat it all by myself.
Unfortunately, the cat chose that moment to yowl like a banshee. I looked down to see if I’d stepped on his tail, and when I looked up again, Adam was at the door staring at me with those disconcerting eyes of his. On the front of his faded sweatshirt were the words Don’t Mess With Me.
Wishing desperately I’d heeded that advice much earlier in the day, I did the only thing I could manage. I thrust the bowl into his hands and blurted, “Salad. I made too much. Since you just came home, I thought you might not have anything in your refrigerator.”
“But you brought me flowers already. You’re too generous.” He was laughing at me, so I laughed, too.
“Sorry I’m being such a hick, but this is how we do it back in Simms. I’ll just go back to my place now and spend some time getting sophisticated. I’ll be back in twenty years or so.”
An odd expression flashed in his attractive eyes. “Don’t get sophisticated. I hate it when that happens. It ruins perfectly nice people.” He stepped back, and with his hand indicated that I should enter. “Want some eggs and bacon?” he offered. “I don’t have any bread, so I made a few pancakes to go with it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“No bother. Come in. Scram, Pepto.” The cat slithered away, looking back at me with a disgruntled expression.
Adam pushed his door wide open and beckoned me in. He made no move to close the door after me. Sometimes I surprise myself, but I’m still an old-fashioned girl at heart and I appreciated his thoughtfulness.
He moved to the cupboard, took out two pottery plates and handed them to me. “You’ll have to move the mail to one side while we eat.”
The table was piled high with important-looking letters and a gargantuan stack of magazines, most of which were news publications and journals, with the occasional glossy print piece.
He peeled back the foil on my bowl and peered curiously inside.
“Fruit salad,” I offered, hoping to clarify.
“Not like any I’ve ever seen.” He stared at the oddly colored stuff for a minute before picking out a piece of star fruit. He bit into it and his eyes narrowed. “It reminds me of a soft-shelled crab.”
“I went a little crazy in the produce section and bought one of everything.”
“I thought that was how you shopped for flowers.” He put down the bowl and went to retrieve the frying pan and a stack of pancakes. He set the hot pan on a pile of magazines, his version of a trivet.
“It’s getting out of hand. My new hobby is trying out everything exotic in the grocery store—and compared to Simms, it’s all exotic. You can’t be picky when shopping at a combination grocery store, post office, feed supply, hardware, beauty parlor, pawn shop, you know.”
“No wonder you’re having fun.” Adam slid scrambled eggs and three slices of bacon onto my plate and some onto his own. He rolled an unbuttered pancake into something that looked like a soft-shelled taco, put it beside his plate and reached for my salad. As he dished it up, I winced. The persimmon dressing was not an appetizing color.
“It’s not bad,” he said finally. “You want some?”
“Since you haven’t grabbed your throat and fallen off the chair, I suppose I’ll try it. Frankly, I wasn’t quite sure I was brave enough to taste it myself.” Actually, the prayer I whispered to myself was more a petition for safety—from my own cooking.
“I’ve eaten stranger things lately,” he said enigmatically. He poked at his chipped plate. “I don’t have much in the way of dishes. I usually use paper.”
“These are fine. I never ate on a paper plate at home. My grandfather didn’t believe in waste.”
“No kidding?”
“He also hated throwing anything away if he still considered it ‘good.’ Once we got something, we used it until it fell apart. Then we repaired it and used it some more.”
“Why didn’t you just buy new?”
“Psalm 41:1.”
He stared at me blankly until I remembered that outside my family, giving only a Bible reference was rarely enough.
‘“Happy are those who consider the poor. The Lord delivers them in the day of trouble.’ My grandfather wouldn’t spend an extra dime on himself if he thought he could give it away. My grandmother still jokes that the widows
