8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Jon
"Come in," Loren says. "You made it just in time to have some lemonade with us."
I made it just in time to hear Sharon say, "I'm not interested in dating anyone."
I should've walked away, but I was frozen in place and heard every word.
"Sorry to interrupt," I say, stepping into the kitchen.
"It's fine," says Loren. "We were just having a chat. Sit down."
"I came by to invite you over for dinner."
"That sounds lovely," she says. "What time?"
"Six o'clock. Dad is grilling steaks, and Mom is making a salad and baked potatoes."
"I should go help her," Sharon says, standing to her feet.
"Mom said to take your time," I say, motioning for her to sit down. "Noah is taking a nap."
"Did you finish the swing set?" Sharon asks.
"We're about three-quarters of the way there. We'll finish it tomorrow."
I pull out a chair and sit next to Sharon. The subtle scent of her perfume would put all the roses in our garden to shame.
"You missed a good service," I say, glancing at her.
"I don't go to church," she replies matter-of-factly.
"Patrick was there," I say. "He asked about you."
"You're kidding," she says.
"No. He said he hoped to see you there next Sunday."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I was sorry to disappoint him but that you'd be in New York with me next Sunday."
"Jon," Sharon says, "Your entire family will be there too, including your parents, remember?"
"He doesn't have to know that," I say, looking into her amused green gaze.
"See?" Loren chimes in. "I was just telling Sharon that Patrick likes her."
"Miss Loren," Sharon says in a pleading tone.
"What?" Loren asks, smiling and shooting us a not-so-convincing expression of utter innocence.
When I glance at Sharon again, she avoids my gaze, and her cheeks are turning pink.
"I'm not surprised," I say. "Sharon is easy to like."
"Thank you," Sharon says shyly.
"If you don't ask her out first," Loren says, "Patrick is going to beat you to it."
"Miss Loren!" Sharon's high-pitched admonition makes Loren pause and give us a sheepish smile.
"I'm not trying to meddle," she says. "I'm just trying to—."
"I think what you're doing, by definition, is meddling," I say, laughing. My tone is playful and teasing, hoping Sharon doesn't read too much into Loren's words.
"I already told Miss Loren I'm not interested in dating."
Yeah, I heard , but of course, I don't say that.
"I don't think you should date him," I say.
Why? Why did I say that?
"Why, exactly?" Sharon asks, sitting back in her chair. "Please elaborate."
"Because you're still a—."
"A what?" Sharon asks, her eyes boring into me.
"You're only eighteen," I say, "You're still, you're like, like a child."
"Oh really?" she says in a clipped tone. "And you're what? Like, oh, I don't know, behaving like an older brother."
"Ouch!" I say.
"You started it!" she says, laughing.
"Again," I say, "you're only eighteen. Patrick, Pat, Patty, whatever his name is, he's like thirty. That was my point."
"To be fair," Loren says, " Patrick is only twenty-eight."
"Thanks, Loren," I say. "You're not helping."
"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Sharon says. "Can we please drop it?"
***
Now that the family is back together, the week has flown by. We've had a garden picnic with Noah, morning walks, and lively dinners with the entire family every evening. After dinner, Mom and Dad spend time with Noah until his bedtime while Sharon and I clean the kitchen. Conversation between us is easy. The more I know her, the more I like her.
When Friday rolls around, I get up early to join Loren for coffee before leaving for New York.
"What time are you leaving?" she asks.
"At noon."
"Is that all you're taking?" she asks, pointing to the overnight bag I put on the chair beside me.
"It's only a weekend," I say. "We'll be back Sunday morning for church."
"How are Olivia and Robert working out?"
"They both started Monday," I say. "Olivia is a good cook. Between the delicious breakfasts she makes, the great dinners Mom prepares, and the addictive desserts Sharon bakes, I feel like I've gained five pounds in five days."
"I wouldn't worry about it," she says. "The only thing you've gained from what I can see is muscle."
"You think so?" I ask, flexing a bicep.
"Now, go on, you big show off," she says when I pick up my bag and walk to the door. "Have a great weekend."
"You too," I say.
When I reach our property line, I walk along the path to the garden, knowing that's where I'll find Sharon.
"Are you always up this early?" I ask when I find her kneeling beside some pink and yellow flowers. She's wearing overalls belted at the waist with a tank top underneath. Her long curls are pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. She has a few freckles on her shoulders that match the ones on the bridge of her nose.
"It's almost eight," she says. "Six is early. Eight is almost late. It's what my dad used to say. He was an early riser, too."
When she grows quiet and reflective, I let her indulge in the memory of her father by remaining silent.
"Robert had to leave early yesterday," she finally says. "I told him I'd prune these zinnias for him. Since we're leaving at noon, I figured I'd come out here before Noah wakes up. Olivia is inside making Denver omelets for breakfast."
"You spend a lot of time out here. I always know where to look when I can't find you."
"I love gardening," she says, wiping her brow with a gloved hand as she stands up. "My backyard back home was my sanctuary, away from my mother's constant berating."
When she looks at me, I see that a spot of dirt has smudged her face, but she's never looked more beautiful.
Without thinking, I gently wipe her face with my thumb, letting my hand lightly rest on the crook of her neck. Her skin is warm and smooth.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," I say, putting my hand down.
"I better head back inside," she says. "I have to take a shower before Noah wakes up."
"Okay," I say, watching her walk away.
"Are you coming?" she asks. "I'm sure there's an omelet with your name on it waiting for you inside."
I follow her into the kitchen, feeling like a total hypocrite for calling her a child just a few days ago when, right now, the only thing I can think of is how much I'd like to kiss her.
***
"You're awfully quiet," Sharon says, sitting next to me on the ride to New York. The van my parents bought last week is spacious and comfortably seats all of us with room to spare. Noah is blissfully napping in the seat in front of us.
"I don't want to wake up Noah," I whisper in her ear, but the truth is she makes me nervous. God, she smells good.
"Jon," Mom's voice from the front of the van quickly snaps me out of my trance.
"What is it, Mom?"
"Susan called you last night, but it was late. I have no idea how she got our number."
"That might have been my fault," Dad says. "I spoke to Ron earlier this week. We're business partners, so I can't avoid talking to him."
"Don't worry about it," I say. "She and I both know it's over."
"Why call you then?" Mom says.
"We're not enemies, Mom."
"Who's Susan?" Sharon's sweet voice next to me makes me realize that my feelings for Susan are over for good.
"Next time she calls, give her my number at Loren's. I'll talk to her."
I glance at Sharon and smile. "Susan is my ex-girlfriend, and Ron, Dad's business partner, is her father."
"Oh," is all she says.
"That's it? You're not going to ask me any questions?"
"It's none of my business."
"You're not the least bit curious?"
"I'm curious," she says, "but I'm not going to pry."
She's right. There's no reason why she'd want to know about my personal life. I only know about hers because Jimmy spent ninety-nine percent of his free time talking about her. I feel like I know her well, but to her, I'm still a stranger.
Her favorite color is blue because nothing beats a clear blue sky on a sunny summer day. English was her favorite subject in school, and she hated math. Her favorite movie is The Breakfast Club. Her favorite television show is The Golden Girls because she used to watch it with her grandmother.
I know you so well, Sharon; you just don't know it. You're sweet, kind, humble, thoughtful, and wise beyond your years.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "You caught me staring again."
"I wouldn't call it staring," she says. "You just look like you have a lot on your mind."
I have you on my mind, and if I'm not careful, you'll soon be in my heart, too.
"What kind of music do you like?" I ask, knowing perfectly well she likes rock.
"I enjoy all kinds of music," she says. "But my favorite is rock."
Her favorite song is “Layla.”
"My favorite song is ‘Layla.’ Eric is the greatest guitar player of all time."
"Eric? You two are on a first-name basis?"
"Come on. There's only one Eric. If Jimmy and I ever had a son, we were going to name him Eric."
"Was Jimmy aware of your fascination with another man?"
She laughs out loud and looks down at her engagement ring, twisting it around her finger a few times before looking out the window.
"And if you have a daughter?" I ask, not wanting her to get sad.
"Layla, of course, but spelled L-A-I-L-A."
"Wow," I say. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
"I have. Jimmy wanted sons, but I've always wanted daughters."
Me too .
"What about you?" she asks, "Do you want children someday?"
"Yes, and I hope God gives me a bunch of daughters."
"Really? A bunch, huh? How many is that exactly, and why girls?"
"At least three, and girls because I know they'll be beautiful like their mother."
The glance she gives me now is beautiful and sweet.
"What about sons?" she asks. "Most men want boys, don't they?"
"God will give me sons and grandsons through my daughters. I pray they all find good, faithful men who will love them and help me lift heavy things when I'm old."
She laughs again before saying. "I actually know exactly what you'll look like when you're older."
"How's that?" I ask.
"Your dad. You look just like him."
"I guess he looks alright for his age," I say, smiling.
"What about the Linder name?"
"Well, if I don't have any sons, Noah will have to carry on the family name."
"Ooh, the pressure," she says, looking at Noah, who's just now waking up from his nap. "Sounds like you've put a lot of thought into this, too."
"I have," I say, "but I don't think I ever told anyone before."
"Not even your girlfriend?"
"Ex-girlfriend, and no, never." This revelation surprises me.
"Why did you break up?"
She wants to know. This also surprises me.
"She fell for someone else. She called it a friendship that grew into something deeper."
"What does that even mean?" she asks.
"Exactly!" I say. "That's exactly what I asked her."
"And?" Sharon's expressive gaze is mesmerizing.
"Um," I struggle to find my words because keeping eye contact with her takes my breath away.
"Um, the way Susan explained it was that they had a strong connection. A special friendship, but nothing more."
"Sounds to me like she was in love with her friend."
"Exactly!" I say again. "That's what I told her."
"I'm sorry," she says. "I've never been in that situation, but I imagine it'd be a hard pill to swallow. Learning that the person you love has a special, stronger friendship with someone else had to be hurtful."
"It's been almost a year. I'm not hurt by it anymore."
"So if she broke up with you, why is she calling you?"
"I broke up with her," I say, "and she's been relentlessly pursuing me ever since."
"Does she live in LA?"
"No," I say. "She lives here."
"Wow. New York is only an hour away."
"No. When I say here , I mean Cold Spring."
"Wait, isn't Cold Spring down the road from Garrison?"
"Yep. It's just a matter of time before I run into her."
"The plot thickens," she says, looking down at her engagement ring again.
"It's not like I've been avoiding her," I say. "That's not it at all. I just never expected her to pick up her life and move to a town a stone's throw away from mine. It kind of freaked me out."
"It is strange," she says, raising an eyebrow. A beautiful eyebrow, I might add.
"Why are you smiling?" she asks.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I got distracted."
"We're in the middle of a serious conversation," she says in a firm tone. "What on earth could be so distracting?"
"Your face."
"My face? Do I have something on it again?" When she starts wiping her cheek, I take her hand and gently pull it down.
"There's nothing on your face except beauty."
"Stop it, Jon. I'm being serious."
"So am I. Your beauty distracts me, and when you blush like you're doing right now, all I want to do is—."
"Jon Linder, are you trying to flirt with me?" The look on her face tells me she's asking in earnest.
"No, of course not," the guilty-as-charged tone in my voice betrays me.
"I thought you said you view me as a child."
"I never said that," I say defensively. "You're not a child, and you know that's not what I meant."
Our eyes are locked on each other as the seconds tick by.
"Hey, you two!" Mom exclaims from the front seat. "We can hear you up here."
When Sharon's face blushes again, I can't help but chuckle.
"And for the record, Son," Dad says, "you're definitely flirting."
Now I'm the one blushing, and when Sharon starts laughing, I shake my head and laugh, too.
"Thanks, Dad," I say, thinking about how much I love her laugh.