wasn’t until she’d made sure she hadn’t left a bookmark or a smudge or anything that might lessen the book—or her—in Ron’s eyes that she noticed the neatly penciled letter A marked on the inside back cover of the paperback.
An A and then a line of equally neat handwriting. It said: Book that began a genre. Masterpiece?
She loved the question mark at the end of masterpiece, as though he didn’t want to give out superlatives too easily. Was the A a letter grade like a teacher would give a student paper?
She traced the comment with her fingertip. She thought of the way so many people throw out words like masterpiece, genius, brilliant, groundbreaking and so on and how rarely the rave was deserved. She’d often heard ridiculously over-the-top praise for her own efforts. But then, Laurel, who was modest about most things, knew that some of her cakes were, in fact, masterpieces. Which suggested that not only mastery of one’s medium of work was necessary, but also something more. Some whiff of the creative, the unusual, that took a creation to a new level.
She’d never thought of herself in the same realm as artists—she made bakery goods to be consumed, her works of art were no more permanent than a sand castle or an ice sculpture.
And yet, she liked to think that she lifted the mere cake to a new level, infusing it with meaning and giving joy to those first viewing it and then consuming it.
A shy woman, she spoke through food.
Usually.
Sometimes other forms of communication were necessary and she never found it easy to converse. She was shy, loath from a child to put herself forward. She’d always admired bold women, like Karen, who could go out and meet new people, sell products and services, fight when she had to. Laurel was much happier alone in her corner of the kitchen putting her thoughts into icing rather than words.
Somehow, she recognized in Ron a kindred spirit. The fact that he’d made this short and measured judgment of a book appealed to her. She couldn’t imagine him in a book club arguing the merits of chaining oneself to a stranger of the opposite sex as a way to solve crime, or discussing the sexual undertones of the book and how they related to the mores of the time. The very notion of Ron arguing in public about sexuality made her want to giggle.
And if he did want to discuss the book with her over coffee she knew she’d find herself tongue-tied and stupid.
But she had to say something. In the end, she took a Post-it note, so impermanent it wouldn’t even leave a mark in the book, and below his A and comment she put her own. She said, after much thought and the wanton waste of half a dozen yellow sticky notes:
He’s an ordinary man who, when forced to save his country, can do extraordinary things. As in so many thriller novels, things aren’t what they seem to be on the surface. I think that’s true of people, too.
She realized that her note was hardly significant literary criticism, but she didn’t care. Her last line was more of a personal observation that had nothing to do with the novel but she was trying to tell Ron, in her own way, that she wasn’t exactly what she appeared either. She hoped there was more to her than she could articulate.
As the date approached, she realized, she wanted to be different from all the other women he’d had a first date coffee with. Well, it stood to reason she would be because she was different from pretty much everyone she knew. But ever since Karen had told her that Ron started all his relationships with a coffee date, she’d decided that she wasn’t going to tell her grandchildren that she and Grandpappy had got together over coffee in cardboard containers.
Nothing as permanent as love should start over anything involved in takeout.
Laurel wasn’t a bold woman, but she was intuitive and if she’d learned anything in the years she’d studied and practiced yoga and meditation it was to honor her instincts. Of course, she could be wrong. Ron might be entirely wrong for her in the long term but she wasn’t willing to ignore the strong feeling she had that the way they began would be important to their future.
Wanting to respect his idea of a first date, and yet still make it special, she called him.
When she picked up his business card to call him on Friday she accidentally left a purple icing thumbprint on the pristine card stock. When she identified herself he sounded instantly distressed. “You’re not cancelling, are you?”
“No. I’m not. I have an idea. Instead of meeting at a coffee shop, I thought we might have a picnic.”
There was a tiny pause. “A picnic coffee?”
“Yes. I will meet you at JFK Plaza.” She didn’t call it by its more familiar name, Love Park, named for the famous red-and-blue sculpture that spelled LOVE with the O tilted sideways.
“But it’s almost winter.”
“Wear something warm. I’ll bring the coffee.”
She was inordinately pleased with herself when he agreed. A first date at Love Park was the kind of outing to tell her grandchildren about. Even if the fountain wasn’t operating, there was a great view of the city by looking northwest down the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, which was supposedly modeled after the Champs Elysées in Paris.
Laurel had no idea whether that was true or not. She’d never been to Paris, but she liked the idea that she could pretend. Besides, the art museum was at the other end of the plaza and she never tired of going there.
As she imagined their first date, thought about Ron, she began to create a perfect first cake to go with a perfect first date.
DEX HAD TAKEN TO texting her. She had no idea why, but the short, sexy, sometimes funny texts were getting to be a bad habit. Of course, it would be rude not to respond, so they began exchanging increasingly steamy messages.
Every time I see a takeout container I get hard, he texted.
She shut her phone and tried to ignore the surge of lust his words invoked. After her next appointment, she texted back: I can still feel your lips on my nipple.
The texts continued in this manner until she got one that puzzled her. Have dinner with me Friday night.
That’s not sexy, she texted back.
Trust me, it will be.
She laughed aloud from the parking lot where she’d picked up the message. Replied, I don’t trust you.
Hardly a minute had gone by when she had her reply. I know.
Even though a text message couldn’t have a tone, she felt sadness coming from the words. As she looked at her phone, wondering how to reply, it rang.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“So, dinner on Friday night is with the building owners and their wives. What do you say?”
“I’m not your wife anymore.”
“I know. But you’re a beautiful, interesting woman and I’d enjoy
