Chapter Forty-Nine
H e might not be a master chef, but his spaghetti looked great. As did the garlic cheese toast Thatcher had thrown together at the last minute. Two plates—his only matching set—sat on the counter ready to be filled. Buster was in his normal spot underneath the table, waiting to see if any morsels of food fell within his reach. All that was missing from the scene was Thatcher’s dinner guest.
He paced the length of the kitchen. Should he go upstairs and check on her? It had been at least twenty minutes since her phone rang. Maybe she was embarrassed about the kiss they’d shared and didn’t want to face him. He was a little uneasy about that himself.
Footsteps on the wooden stairs announced Vickie’s impending entrance. Thatcher began stirring the spaghetti. He didn’t want it to seem like he’d been waiting impatiently.
He looked up from the pot as she walked into the room and her sorrowful expression alarmed him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand frozen mid-stir.
“My Gram. She’s visiting my aunt Rose in Texas. Earlier today, she fell and broke her arm.” Vickie’s voice wavered. “She’s in the hospital.”
Thatcher dropped the pasta spoon and it clattered against the side of the pot. He crossed to Vickie in one long stride and pulled her to him. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, smoothing her hair.
“She’s just so fragile. She never should’ve gone to Texas anyway.” Vickie nestled her head against his chest.
Thatcher enjoyed the feeling of her against him, but wished it could’ve been under happier circumstances. “Do you think you could’ve stopped her from going?”
She shook her head. “No. She’s quite stubborn.” Vickie pulled out of his embrace and met his gaze.
“Is that maybe a family trait?” he asked.
Her mouth twisted into a grin. “Could be.”
“I’m very sorry about your grandmother.” He walked back to the stove. “Do you feel like eating or should I put a lid on this for later?”
“I’m starving.” Vickie took a plate from the counter.
Thatcher removed the plate from her hand and shook his head. “Nope. You go sit down.” He motioned to the table. “I’ll be your waiter tonight.”
She sank into the wooden chair. “I won’t argue with that.”
He fixed two heaping plates of spaghetti and sat them on the table. “Is bottled water okay?” He grinned. “Because if not, you’re kind of out of luck. Although, I might have an old bottle of Gatorade somewhere.” He opened the refrigerator door and peered in.
Vickie laughed. “Water is fine.”
Once they were settled, Thatcher said a prayer for the food and for Vickie’s grandmother.
“Thanks for that,” she said, once he finished. “And if you wouldn’t mind adding her to your personal prayer list, I’d appreciate it.”
“Already done.” He grabbed napkins from the holder and handed her one.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. “Well?” Thatcher finally asked. “Does it taste okay?” He was pleased with how the food had turned out, but wanted to make sure she was suitably impressed.
Vickie paused her fork, mid-air. “It’s yummy. Who knew you were such a good cook? And here I was feeling guilty taking so long upstairs.” She grinned. “You didn’t need my help at all.”
Thatcher shrugged. “Pasta and grilled meat. Those are my specialties.” He nodded upward. “And I was wondering what was taking so long up there. I started worrying that maybe you were secretly going through my things.” He winked. “Thought you might have some kind of pickpocket gene.”
Vickie laughed. “I promise I don’t. I didn’t even look in your bathroom cabinets.” She took a sip of water. “I had to call my mother and let her know about Gram.”
Thatcher frowned. “I guess she was pretty upset, huh?”
“You would think. But she’s far more concerned with what to pack for her upcoming Christmas cruise.” She wrinkled her brow. “Let’s just say that my mom and I aren’t exactly as close as we could be.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m learning to live with it.” She turned her attention back to her food.
Thatcher knew all too well what it felt like to have to learn to live with failed relationships. He also knew there was nothing he could say to take her pain away. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, carrying his plate to the sink.
“Maybe later.” Vickie rose from the table. “Since you were so nice to fix dinner, I’ll do the dishes.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Nope. Don’t give them another thought. I’ll take care of it later.”
“Well I’m certainly not going to put up a fight.” She returned his smile.
As they made their way to the living room, Thatcher noticed that Vickie’s arms were crossed over her body. “Are you cold?”
She nodded. “A little. It’s okay though.” She grabbed her bag. “I have a jacket in here.”
“That isn’t necessary.” He walked over to the fireplace. “This is one of the reasons I ended up buying this place. I’d always wanted a gas fireplace.”
In a few moments, warmth filled the room.
Vickie sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace and leaned against the couch. “This way I’m a little closer to the heat.” She grinned.
“Looks like you aren’t the only one with that idea.” Thatcher laughed as Buster curled up beside her on the rug.
“Smart dog.” She pulled out a notepad from her bag. “Now. Let’s start making a list of all the places to include in your presentation.” She looked up at him, pen poised.
Thatcher shook his head and dropped down next to her. “Nope. No more work tonight.” Truthfully, he’d like to pick up where they left off when her phone rang earlier, but didn’t know how she’d feel about that. “Tell me something.”
She looked at him with puzzled eyes. “What do you want to know?”
He was close enough to her that he could see the tiny freckle underneath her eye again. Since the moment he’d first noticed it, weeks ago at the pizza place, he’d wanted to trace it with his finger. “Why are you alone? I mean, why is it that someone like you is spending her Saturday night trying to help someone like me with work? Why aren’t you on a date to the theatre or the ballet or an art gallery opening?”
Vickie looked away, her gaze fixed on the fireplace. She was silent for a moment. Finally, she turned toward him, propping her arm on the couch. “I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Not that I haven’t dated, because I have. My friends actually call me the queen of first dates.”
“Well I’m the king of no dates. So I’m intrigued.” And very much attracted. He wanted to know what made her tick.
She shrugged. “I guess I do go on a lot of first dates. But there’s always a reason not to go on the second one.” She sighed. “You’ve been around Dawn and Jason. She describes him as feeling like ‘home’ to her. I guess that’s what I’m looking for.” She glanced up at him, her green eyes serious. “Home. And I’ve never found it.”
Thatcher frowned. “You really think you can tell if someone’s going to fill that expectation from a first date?”
“Why not? If it’s there, it’s there.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Maybe in a movie, where there is someone to write the script. But not in real life. In my opinion, first dates are awkward. Neither party is really acting like themselves. The poor guy is afraid of messing up by saying or doing the wrong thing and the girl is worried about how she looks.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to find out if someone is your soul mate under all that pressure.”
“That’s the same thing my friends say. They seem to think I’m too picky.”
“Are you?”
She shook her head. “No.” She grinned. “Okay, maybe sometimes I have a tendency to write people off after a few minutes. But I don’t think it’s picky. Just selective.”
“What about me? Remember when we first met? What would you have written me off for? I mean, if we’d been on a date?” He knew it was a gamble for him to bring up their first disastrous dinner together, but figured he may as well stay out on the limb he’d been on ever since he’d decided to kiss her.
She twisted her mouth into a smile. “Well. . . if it had been a date, I probably would’ve gone home thinking I wished you’d gotten a haircut and worn a suit.” She shrugged. “But now I’m used to your longer hair and relaxed style.”
“Hey.” He feigned a hurt face. “For your information, I wear a tie to work most days, so in my free time I like to dress down. And I’ll have you know that last spring on my class evaluations, one of my female students said that with my hair a little longer, I could be Patrick Dempsey’s brother.” He laughed. “Of course, I had to use Google to find out if that was a compliment or not.”
Vickie giggled. “I can totally see the Dempsey comparison.” Her face grew serious. “I guess I’m just looking for something really specific. You’d be amazed how difficult it is to find a guy who is really honorable. You know? So many people, especially these days can’t be trusted when it’s all said and done.”
Thatcher was quiet. He wondered what would happen if he opened up to her right now. Told her the whole truth about himself, including the mistakes he’d made in the past. Would she accept him or would that knowledge drive her away? Because the ‘home’ that she’d described sure described how he felt when he was with her. And coming this close to that feeling only made him realize how much he wanted to keep it. For as long as he could. No. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. But soon.