Chapter 16 #2
I sighed. It had been foolish of me to think the charm offensive would wait until we were standing in Lia’s kitchen across town. Bonnie was so used to people-pleasing that she probably didn’t even see what she was doing.
After she’d placed the final baking dish—some sort of cheesy hashbrown casserole—on the counter, I approached.
I turned Bonnie to face me, gently tugged off the oven mitts, and then pulled her into a tight hug. “You don’t have to try so hard, Clyde. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t like you. Lia is . . . she’s gruff and opinionated. She’s not soft, but she is an excellent judge of character.”
I smoothed a hand up Bonnie’s nape and cupped the back of her head before leaning back to meet her gaze. “You’re going to get along just fine.”
Obvious disbelief and self-doubt bloomed across her features. That little vee between her brows emerged—the one that I felt like a divot in my heart.
“I just want to make a good impression,” she admitted.
A strand of blond hair had come loose from her little bun.
With a soft smile, I tucked it behind her ear, letting my touch linger.
“You know how to talk to anyone. I’ve seen it so many times.
You’re good with people because you care—because you have a good heart.
It’s not just you being friendly. You put people at ease.
They want to know you, and so they let you know them. ”
Her lips parted, and she released a shaky breath.
“But in case of emergency,” I offered, “just compliment her birdhouse collection and tell her she makes the best scrambled eggs you’ve ever tasted.”
“She collects birdhouses?” Bonnie despaired. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gotten her one from—”
I shook my head. “No.”
“We probably have time before breakfast to stop by and—”
“No way. You already made enough food to feed an army. No presents. If you overdo it, she’ll be able to tell. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
Her fingers toyed idly with the waistband of my boxers, and I had to work hard to stay focused.
“Okay,” she murmured grudgingly.
“Okay,” I echoed. “Good.”
She smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Jack.”
I nodded. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”
Bonnie
Everything was fine. Just like Jack had promised.
But just to make sure, I’d blurted out, “I love your birdhouses!” as soon as the door had opened.
Lia’s shrewd gaze had slid from me to Jack and then back to me again before she’d ushered me inside—leaving Jack standing on the porch—and showed me even more of her collection.
The birdhouses lined the perimeter of the kitchen. They stood in all shapes and sizes at intervals above the scarred wooden cabinets.
It was a little surprising. This no-nonsense woman with her gray hair and stern features collecting something so delicate and charming.
But maybe that was why I liked it so much.
The habit had endeared her to me right away.
Even if she hadn’t been Jack’s grandmother, I would have wanted to know the sharp-tongued widow who had a soft spot for birdhouses that looked like whimsical cottages and decorated her life with them.
Jack had reiterated that it wasn’t necessary to contribute to the meal, but instead of arguing with me, he’d suggested that I bring the batch of blueberry muffins to share. Everything else had gone into the fridge or the freezer.
That was probably smart. I’d definitely overdone it. I could see that now. But when I’d woken up early, anxious over the prospect of meeting someone so important to Jack, I’d wanted to do everything I could to make our first interaction a good one.
I’d nearly burnt the popcorn last night when he’d invited me, surprise and hope freezing me in place.
Obviously, I was curious how many women Jack had introduced to his grandmother, but I wasn’t about to ask.
It spoke of desperation and was, maybe, a little too honest. Not to mention, pretty telling about where my head was at.
But now our plates were scraped clean and we were sipping our second cups of coffee at the small round kitchen table while Lia asked me questions about teaching and my family and even Oreo.
Most of my nervousness had come to rest, settling into all the tiny cracks in my armor, but no longer overwhelming me.
Jack was right. I did know how to talk to people.
Maybe it was from spending over a decade as an educator.
I’d been dealing with parents and administrators and peers for a long time.
Plus, you never knew what ridiculous thing was going to come out of a kid’s mouth.
Teachers had to be quick on their feet and able to do a lot with a little.
Even if Lia had been tight-lipped and grouchy, I probably could have coaxed some conversation out of her.
As it was, she was curious about me and obviously cared a lot about Jack.
I could see it in her sharp glances and her quick tongue, the teasing between them that spoke of history.
Even the indulgent way he called her Lia instead of grandma.
Their relationship was unique. Maybe not overly affectionate, but it was still love.
Something timeworn and tethering. Loyalty, plain and simple.
And that was something I could understand.
Jack and Lia had survived hardship. They’d experienced loss together, and sometimes there was nothing more binding than that.
Their relationship was different than the ones between my family members, but no less impactful. The Clarks were a demonstrative bunch who gathered often and burrowed into each other’s lives and business. But that wasn’t the only way to show someone you cared about them.
Family filled any shape you put it in, like the air we breathed. It fit itself into the mold it was given. Through time and circumstance, loss and love. There was no perfect configuration or the right arrangement.
Jack and Lia had made a family out of what they had left, and bonds like those were often the strongest of all.
“You know Jack made that one,” Lia said, drawing me out of my musings. She lifted one finger from the edge of her mug and pointed toward the top of the cabinet over the sink. “The one you were admiring just now.”
My gaze focused on the birdhouse she’d indicated.
It was a little bigger than the others, nearly grazing the textured popcorn ceiling.
It looked like the perfect stereotypical family home that every child has probably drawn at one point or another.
There was a door in the center with windows on either side.
The dark roof, an inverted vee. But where the birdhouse’s design was traditional and fairly basic, the details really shone.
The shutters on either side of the windows had been engraved, each line etched perfectly in a beautiful imitation of wood grain. There was a white picket fence that surrounded the house, obviously hand-painted with care and attention to detail.
“Jack made it?” I asked, eyes still soaking up every part of it.
“Yes, he built it,” Lia replied.
Finally, I turned to him. “Are you a secret carpenter?”
Jack said no at the same time his grandmother said yes, causing me to laugh and Jack to roll his eyes affectionately.
“It’s a hobby,” he clarified and then took a sip of his coffee. “Nothing special. I’m out of practice anyway.”
“Too busy with that bar,” Lia murmured. Her comment had the smooth edges of an old argument. Something that had been sanded down with time and regularity.
Jack stiffened, and I could sense the conversation wandering into a hornet’s nest.
That, too, was familiar. Conversations that repeated due to family members who wanted the best for one another, but maybe didn’t quite know how to make that happen. So they just said it louder and more often.
Before the silence could stretch uncomfortably, I steered us to safer waters. “Okay, but back to the carpentry thing. What else have you made?" I asked Jack.
But it was Lia who answered, the note of pride in her tone obvious. “Oh, lots of things over the years. Shelves and cabinets. Mailboxes. Coffee tables. And the prettiest garden bench you’ve ever seen. I’ll show it to you before you leave.”
I was watching Jack as his grandmother spoke, so I witnessed the slow climb of pink into his cheeks. My heart—big and clumsy in the face of that blush—took a tumble over the sweetness.
Then something occurred to me. “The picture frames,” I said softly and looked to Lia.
“That was how it started,” she confirmed. “I took a painting class and asked Jack if he could make a frame for me. He’d had some experience from his woodshop class back in high school.”
Her gaze drifted over my shoulder, like the memory was right there in the room with us.
The firm line of her brow softened when she spoke next.
“The first few frames weren’t anything to write home about, but neither were my paintings.
So we made a fine pair.” Then she directed her attention back to Jack and smiled, her weathered cheeks creasing in new, unfamiliar lines. “But his craftsmanship improved.”
“And so did her artwork,” Jack added.
I grinned. “I’ve seen some. Of the paintings,” I clarified. “In Jack’s apartment. They’re everywhere.”
Two matching pairs of hazel eyes snapped to me.
“Is that so?” Lia asked.
Worry descended. Fear that I’d revealed a secret that wasn’t mine.
At my panicked expression, Lia’s gaze warmed, and she explained, “It’s been a while since I’ve been over there. Jack usually visits me here.”
“Oh,” I said, then looked at Jack.
If he was upset, he didn’t show it. Just calmly sipped his coffee while I fought the urge to backtrack or placate.
Instead, I stood and gathered the plates. “I’ll help with the dishes, then you can show me that bench.”
Lia rose as well. Nodding, she offered, “I’ll wash and you dry. And then I’ll show you my whole garden.”
After breakfast and my tour of Lia’s property, Jack drove me home.
Part of me thought he might want some space after sharing so much of himself with me, but to my surprise, he’d parked his truck in the driveway and turned to face me, asking, “How would you feel about learning to drive my bike? It’s going to be chilly today, but the sun is shining.
We could give it a try if you’re interested. ”
“I’m interested,” I replied, perhaps a little too eagerly, but I didn’t care. I did want to learn. I loved riding with Jack, but it would feel good to do something myself for a change.
He nodded. “Want to go in and change into something warm? I can check on Oreo.”
I ignored the way my stomach somersaulted and replied simply, “That sounds great.”
And that was how we spent the afternoon. In the empty parking lot at the community college with Jack instructing me how to drive a motorcycle.
I could remember helping Danny install a ceiling fan in our bedroom years ago. As he’d strained to hold the motor and screw everything into place, he’d gotten so irritated at me, snapping out instructions before finally telling me just to leave if I couldn’t be of any help.
But Jack was so patient, even when I got frustrated or needed another moment to practice with the clutch.
He explained things simply and took the time to make sure I understood.
Jack encouraged me to ask questions. Then he trusted me to be able to handle the bike on my own.
He’d never once seemed nervous about me damaging his vehicle.
I hadn’t expected it, but I could see now that Jack would make a good teacher.
And it was a nice feeling, realizing someone had more than a little faith in you.