Chapter 8
Alex
Things are not always what they seem;
the first appearance deceives many.
~ Phaedrus
My bed is a slice of heaven—warm, soft, a nest of blankets in the cool of the house. I’ve never been one to sleep in, but today is my second day off in a row, and I’m taking advantage.
I roll over, curling into the pillow and dreamily staring at nothing.
My mind rolls through last night like I’m replaying movie highlights.
Jesse at the party—his watchful eyes always tracking me, reminding me of his presence.
Jesse driving me home—holding my door, smiling through the dark, laughing with abandon.
Jesse at my doorstep—protective, warm, manly.
Now I’m waiting for a preview of the sequel to that movie reel—something that tells me what comes next.
I don’t know what possessed me to step closer and give him that hug.
He hugged me back. We weren’t on a date, but gazing into his eyes at the end of the night made me wish we were.
When I leaned close, the scent of winter clung to him—crisp air, a warm hearth, and the faintest trace of spices. It wasn’t cologne. It was just … him.
I lingered in his arms a little longer than I should have. I wonder if he noticed. I normally read him well, but through the darkness and the way he shuttered his expression, standing back until I made it inside—I couldn’t get a read on him.
Even remembering it now sends a flutter low in my stomach, the kind that’s half anticipation, half warning.
Is it wrong to be thinking about him as more than a colleague? I’m here to prove myself—to fit into this community. I didn’t come here for romantic complications.
I left a painful breakup behind me in New York, and I still carry pieces of the fallout. I promised myself I wouldn’t repeat that mistake here.
I’m smiling. I shouldn’t be, but thoughts of Jesse draw up a contented smile and a warmth that’s even cozier than my bed. I love the way he becomes a little awkward at the most unexpected times, and yet at others he’s all strength and serious lines. He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
He doesn’t see himself the way I see him.
This town has taken him for granted. It upsets me to think of it—him living here all these years, the brunt of jokes, as he said himself.
I want to shake the whole bunch of them.
Could I be the person who makes a difference?
Should I? Or is it wiser for me to focus on my original reasons for coming here?
Maybe I’m imagining all of it. He might not feel a thing for me outside a camaraderie at work.
If this is one-sided, I’ll feel foolish.
And I’ll have stuck my neck out for nothing, making our workplace interactions more awkward than they were the day after he cuffed me.
I smile wider at those memories. Only Jesse.
As cozy as my bed is, I start to feel antsy, so I get up and slip my feet into my slippers, grabbing my phone and scrolling through social media, landing on posts of my friends in NYC.
Seeing them on streets and at shops that were home to me for my whole life should send a pang of homesickness through me.
Instead, I’m eager to get dressed to do something here, in Bordeaux.
I want to stop in on someone, so I shower, get in my car and drive the few blocks to a one-story white house with a smaller porch. When I knock, the door swings open and Memaw’s face lights up brighter than the lights on the town square tree.
“Well now, Alex. I’m so glad you came by. Bill’s out with his friends. They grab coffee in town on Monday mornings. Gives me a little time alone.”
“Oh. Is this bad timing?” I ask Memaw.
“No, dear. It’s perfect.” She widens the door and I step in, tugging my boots off in her entryway.
The smell of coffee, furniture polish, and something faintly floral—like powder and lace doilies—wraps around me, warm like a hug.
A slow, sly smile spreads across Memaw’s face. “You can tell me everything about you and that partner of yours and it will just be between the two of us.”
“My partner?”
Memaw looks up at me through her lashes, her lips slightly pursed. “Let’s not hide the plain truth from one another, dear. I’m too old for all that nonsense.”
“Are you some sort of mind reader?”
“I’m an old woman in a small town. I guess there’s not much difference between the two.”
I spend the next fifteen minutes in Memaw’s kitchen while she makes each of us a coffee and offers me a muffin. I’ve been warned against her casseroles, but heard her baking is always prize-winning. If the lemon cupcakes were any indication, I’m hopeful.
I tell her all about Jesse—the way we met the night of the scavenger hunt, how he treats me as an equal, the way he feels like a safety net, but also my heart sometimes feels like I’m on a high wire when he’s nearby.
We take our drinks to the kitchen table. Everything in here’s frozen in time. Formica, tile, linoleum—all in colors of avocado, yellow and an off-white that probably started far more white than it is now.
Memaw listens intently, only asking the occasional question, while I sip coffee, nibble on my muffin and spill my thoughts.
“Well now,” she says after I seem to have run out of details. “This is a lovely development.”
“Is it?” I sound miserable.
“Of course it is.” She smiles warmly. “First of all, I wondered if you’d be hightailing it back to New York after a while. Maybe the plan was to cut your teeth here, then take your place there.”
“It had occurred to me.”
“Naturally.” There’s no condemnation in her tone. “That’s your home. A small Ohio town is a big adjustment coming from that sort of setting. Always something to do, people everywhere, though they don’t all know your business the way people around here do.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say with a laugh.
“We gossip because we care, dear,” she smiles and winks.
“I’m sure boredom and nosiness have nothing to do with it.”
“Exactly.” She gives a curt nod and we both laugh.
“But back to Jesse,” Memaw says. “He’s a good young man.
A little quirky at times, but who isn’t?
He’s been a loner for years. He’s got his family.
A few friends. But he keeps to himself. Nothing wrong with that.
Introversion isn’t a disease to be cured.
It’s a natural state for some people. We extroverts need those deeper souls like a ship needs an anchor.
Jesse’s watchful. He sees things. That’s because he’s not always running his mouth.
And he’d literally die for any of us. Thankfully we don’t really have much crime to speak of.
But if we did, he’d run into danger—not away from it—if he thought it would protect anyone in town. ”
“I know.” I can’t help the smile that warms my face.
“And he’s a nice-looking young man too,” Memaw adds. “It’s the kind of good-looking you don’t notice all at once. It kind of grows on you.”
“I know.” I’m a parrot, repeating myself, but what else can I say? “What if this is one-sided?” I risk voicing one of my fears, hoping Memaw has the answer. “We work together. In a small town. Talk about awkward.”
“Well, I’d say the women in my generation discovered the solution to that predicament years ago.”
“What is it?” I probably sound as desperate as I feel.
“Let him chase you, dear. But don’t make him work too hard.
We courted men too. Only they never knew it.
The key is to keep the man thinking he’s the one in hot pursuit.
The women of my generation played hard to get on the surface.
But underneath it we were as reliable as Hansel and Gretel, a breadcrumb trail of flirtation leading straight down the path to where we wanted them. ”
“That sounds like a lot of work,” I admit.
“And a lot of fun,” Memaw wags her brows. “Let the man pursue you. It’s in his nature. Something about him wakes up as he chases you. And when he catches you, he’ll have earned it.”
I think about Marco. I made it way too easy on him. And he took me for granted. But maybe that’s more due to who he is than how we ended up dating. I can’t see Jesse ever taking me for granted, regardless of what happens between us.
“Don’t play games, dear. I’m not talking about manipulation or dishonesty. I’m talking about letting him know the door is open, but not standing on the porch. Does that make sense?”
“Oddly enough, yes. It does.”
Maybe I’ve gotten so used to standing on my own that I’ve forgotten how to let someone walk beside me.
I remember the day I decided I didn’t need a man telling me what to do.
But Jesse’s different. He’s not Marco. He wouldn’t ever dismiss my opinions or dreams. I’ve only known him a short time, but we’ve been immersed in one another’s company. And I already know that much about him.
“The lost art of flirtation,” Memaw muses. “It’s good for the goose and the gander.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell her.
“Not as glad as I am that you are. When Lexi told me you had taken the position … well, I did a little jig.”
“Actually?”
She stands up and raises her hands in the air, the sagging, wrinkled skin under her upper arms wiggles with her movements as she waves her arms around and shimmies her hips.
“Woo hoo!” she shouts and I nearly break into tears for some unknown reason.
Memaw steps closer, leans down and gives me a hug.
She smells like cold cream and coffee and I hold on to her for a few seconds before letting go.
She’s claiming me—just like she did at the salon.
And here in this kitchen, I’m getting a glimpse of what it’s like to be folded into the story of this town.
When she steps back, her face is warm and serious. “Thank you for trusting me with your secrets.”
“Thank you for helping me sort through all of this.”
“I’m always just a few blocks away,” she reminds me. “And I’ve got very little taking up my time, so you’re always welcome.”