Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
LORELAI
My eyes pop open as soon as the alarm on my phone goes off. There’s nothing quite as menacing as the opening strains of “Phantom of the Opera,” which is the tune I’ve programmed to help me greet each new day. The haunting composition adds drama and helps compensate for the placidness of my existence. While I love my hometown, it doesn’t exactly ooze excitement.
The first question I have after opening my eyes is Why is it still dark out ? I never wake up this early. Or is it late? Did I take an afternoon nap? Looking at the clock, I discover it’s five a.m. It takes several more seconds to figure out what day it is, and I’m more confused than ever when I realize it’s my day off. That’s when it hits me: Luke Phillips is coming back to Elk Lake today and he’s staying at my house!
Jumping out of bed, I hurry to run a brush through my hair before tying a do-rag around the fiery-colored mass. It’s been ages since I last cleaned, and I’m bound to stir up a storm of dust. With all the work I have ahead of me, I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to shower before Luke comes, and I want to look my best when he sees me after so many years.
I don’t bother getting dressed before tearing down the stairs. As soon as I hit the landing, I scan the living room to assess the damage. It’s not messy as much as it is dingy. My first stop is the kitchen where I put on a pot of extra-strong coffee before gathering my cleaning supplies.
Once the Italian roast comes down, I pound a cup back before retracing my steps to the living room. If this were my house, instead of my parents’, I would decorate very differently. As in, less traditionally and with a brighter, more modern flare.
Picking up old family photos, I run my feather duster over them. They’re still in the wooden picture frames they were first put into many years ago. I gave my parents a digital photo frame one year for Christmas thinking they’d like a wider variety of memories flashing before them. After several months of not seeing it, I offered to set it up for them. My mother hemmed and hawed and tried to change the subject several times before finally confessing she had given it to charity. That’s when I had to accept my parents were happy being trapped in the last century and were not looking to embrace anything new.
I make quick work of the living room and get everything done except for the fireplace. If it were up to me, I would replace the old wood-burning element with a nice gas insert so I didn’t have ashes to clean up. But again, my parents like things the way they’ve always been. Which means I have a messy job ahead of me. I decide to put that chore off until I’m done with more important things, like cleaning the bathrooms and figuring out which bedroom to put Luke in.
If he were a paying client, I’d set him up in my parents’ room, but those quarters are currently being used by me. Even though I’m thrilled Luke is going to stay here, I’m not motivated to make the effort of hauling all my stuff out of my current digs. That leaves either Noah’s old room—which still sports a pair of bunk beds along with the faded aroma of a teenage boy—or mine, which has a queen-size bed. I decide that regardless of the frilly pink décor and Spice Girls posters, a grown man would appreciate something more than a twin-sized mattress—especially a man as tall as Luke.
After climbing the stairs, I open the door to my room, and I’m immediately filled with the comforting familiarity of my early years. I’ve thought about redecorating now that I’m an adult but being that I spend as much time living in my parents’ room—when they’re in Florida—as I do here, I haven’t quite pulled the trigger. Also, I’m twenty-eight, and even though I tell Noah there’s nothing wrong with me still living at home, I have started to wonder how much longer I’ll be here.
Once again, I let my feather duster take flight and when it gets to the posters, I perform a ritual from my teenage years. I swipe it across Mel B’s face and sing, “I tell you what I want, Luke Phillips. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna go out on a date with you!”
I’m so busy jamming around my room that I jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t even be eight o’clock so I have no idea who it is. I know it’s not Luke because he won’t be here until ten. That leaves old Mrs. Bing from next door.
My bluish-haired neighbor isn’t generally a bother, but ever since her husband went into the nursing home, she regularly stops by when she needs a jar opened or a spider killed. One time she told me that our weeds were growing out of control and kindly offered to send her gardener over. I let her do that once but then she hit me with a bill for a hundred and fifty dollars. Now we all just live with the weeds.
I run down the stairs with the Spice Girls still ringing in my head, and apparently out of my mouth because as I swing open the door, I practically shout, “If you wannabe my lover …” And that’s when I realize Mrs. Bing isn’t my guest.
All six-foot two inches of Luke Phillips is standing in front of me, and man, does he look good. It’s March in Wisconsin so he’s dressed for winter in a bomber jacket and wool scarf. Nicely fitted jeans showcase every gorgeous inch of his long legs.
I know I should say something to him, but my mouth pools with so much saliva that if I don’t swallow it soon, I’m liable to drool on the man. Swallow your spit, girl.
Once I manage that monumental, and embarrassingly audible, task, I blurt out, “Hey … Hello … Hi there!” Oh yeah, I’m a real orator.
“Hi.” Luke’s beanie-covered head tips to the side. His gorgeous brown eyes narrow like he’s inspecting a moldy piece of cheese. “I’m looking for Lorelai Riley.”
This is my chance to tell him she’s not here and that he should come back at ten when he was supposed to arrive, but my synapses aren’t firing. That must be why I throw my arms into the air and practically shout at him, “I’m Lorelai!”
Luke takes a step backward like he’s going to make a run for it. Instead of fleeing, he moves his gaze from the top of my purple bandana all the way to my bare feet. This of course means he’s aware I’m wearing a pink flowered flannel nightgown from Lanz of Salzburg. A favorite with grannies everywhere.
“Hi,” he repeats. Yet he makes no move toward the door. In fact, there’s no movement at all. It’s like he’s turned into a marble statue. He even stays put after I step back and gesture for him to come in.
Well, this is awkward. I start stammering, “I didn’t expect you until ten. I mean, that’s when Noah said you were coming so that’s why I’m not dressed.” He looks borderline terrified, so I hurry to add, “I was cleaning. Getting ready for you.”
He lifts his foot like he’s going to take a step forward, but the action is so slow it’s like he’s trying to push his way through a wall of frozen molasses. “I can find a hotel or something …”
“What? No! Come on in! You’re staying here!” The image of Kathy Bates from that old movie Misery pops into my mind. From the look on Luke’s face, he’s thinking something similar. I want to assure him that I won’t hobble him, chain him to the bed, and keep him as a hostage, but I think that might scare him more. Instead, I go with, “I’m going to close the door if you don’t come in. My feet are getting cold. ”
That seems to startle him out of whatever haze he’s in. “Sorry about that.” He cautiously comes into the house which gives me a chance to check out the other side of him. Luke has always rocked a pair of jeans, and it’s clear he still does. Wowza!
“I was just tidying up your room. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait? Maybe some breakfast?”
He looks more relaxed as he drops his bag next to the stairs. “I wouldn’t mind both. I got an earlier start than I was expecting, and I didn’t eat.”
Leading the way to the kitchen, I once again tell him, “I didn’t think you’d be here until ten. You must be excited to see your dad.”
He ignores my comment, and says, “So, you still live in Elk Lake.”
Not him, too? Prickles of anger stab at the back of my neck. “A lot of people who grew up here still live here. Is there something wrong with that?”
I turn around in time to see him grimace. Good. He should feel bad for trying to make me feel bad. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making small talk.”
I suppose that’s possible, so I let it go. “Noah says you opened your own restaurant.” The truth is my brother didn’t have to tell me anything. I’ve been cyber stalking Luke on and off for years. Less so when Michael and I were together, but even then, I checked out his social media at least bi-monthly. At the time I told myself it was out of curiosity.
“Capon,” he tells me, though I obviously already know that.
“I thought it was pronounced Capone, like Al Capone?”
“Nope Cay-pon, like the chicken.” Luke shrugs out of his jacket before sitting down at the counter. He teepees his fingers under his chin and focusses on me with a laser stare.
Hurrying to the cabinet, I grab the closest mug. It’s one of the many art projects I’ve made at a local pottery place. It says, “I’d rather be in Barbados,” and it’s accompanied by a snowy scene I painted on the front. The thing about Wisconsin winters is they can last nine months. Around month five, I’m ready to walk to the nearest tropical island.
“How do you like your coffee?” I ask Luke as I pour the remains from the pot into his mug.
“One sugar.”
Tearing open a little green packet, I ask, “Stevia okay?”
He shakes his head. “I prefer sugar.”
My hand stops midair before pouring in the fake stuff. “I’m not sure I have any.” I turn around and open the door to the pantry before stepping inside. Being so close to Luke after all these years is seriously messing with my equilibrium. I inhale deeply before looking at the shelves. That’s where I find a five-pound pack of unopened granulated sugar which must have been purchased by my mom. I pull it off the shelf and carry it to the kitchen counter.
“Not much of a baker, huh?” he asks.
“Not really.” Is he judging me for my lack of culinary pursuits?
Neither one of us says anything else while I prepare his coffee. When I put it in front of him, I watch while he sniffs it. His face contorts in such a way as to suggest he’s not impressed. Then he takes a tentative sip before nearly spitting the contents across the room. “Gah!”
“Too hot?” I ask nervously.
His face wrinkles into a righteous scowl. “Too bitter. When did you brew this?”
So much for making a good impression. “Three hours ago,” I tell him. “I made it extra strong so that I’d wake up faster.” I hurry back to the coffee pot to start a new batch. While refilling the pitcher I ask, “Would you like a Toaster Strudel, or do you prefer frozen waffles?”
He releases a sound like I just offered him a choice between worm stroganoff or battery acid soup. “Why don’t I make you breakfast while you go and get dressed?” he asks.
I should be grateful, but I’m not. Clearly, he thinks I’m a subpar hostess who can’t manage the smallest of tasks. What’s wrong with Toaster Strudel? “I guess you can, if you want.”
He stands up and shoos me out of the kitchen. “Come back in twenty minutes.”
Walking out of the room I start to question why I spent so much of my life swooning after Luke Phillips. The man is rude. He should have drunk his coffee and eaten his Toaster Strudel like a normal person. After all, everyone knows that Toaster Strudel is the caviar of prepackaged breakfast treats.
As I climb the stairs, I remind myself that despite his surliness, Luke is the best eye candy I’ve seen in ages. I’m not sure that’s enough to reinstate my childhood crush, but I suppose I’ll make an effort to fix myself up just in case.