Chapter 6
Joel
“That should fix it,” I say, opening and closing Ellyn’s front door for a third time. I run my hand up and down the frame, inspecting my work.
“The only thing left is the paint job, but this color doesn’t match the color of your frame.” The new panel I had to install around the frame fits well and secures the door, but the color of her doorframe is more of an ivory than the ‘swiss coffee white’ that I had on hand at the ranch.
“I can come back tomorrow to do the paint,” I tell Ellyn as I enter the living room.
“Hm?” Her brows raise as I round the couch to move beside her. “I suppose I could tell you that won’t be necessary, but I doubt you’d listen anyway.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
She snorts. “Coming from the donkey himself.”
“Donkey?”
She nods. “Yes, because they’re stubborn.” Suddenly, her eyes go wide. “No, wait. I didn’t mean you look like a donkey.” Her eyes move up and down the length of my body, I doubt she even realizes what she’s just done. “It’s something my mother used to say.”
Her mouth drops a long with her eyelids as she shakes her head, ponytail swinging.
“I’ll just say thank you,” she finishes, looking up at me.
My grip involuntarily loosens on the tools in my hands, almost causing me to drop the damn things.
Her voice softens as she tells me, “For both helping me yesterday and for fixing the door. I’m sorry for being so snarky about it all.” Ellyn clears her throat. “I’m a … not quite used to, uh, needing help so I got a little defensive.”
Looking into her eyes, I’m reminded of early mornings on the ranch where I’m privy to the sun beginning to peak over the mountains in the distance. The same warm tingling excitement that starts in my chest on those morning, starts to fill it now.
I clear my throat and step back, which makes me bump into her coffee table, knocking the stacked magazines onto the floor.
“Shit,” I bark out. I drop my tools and go to one knee to stack the magazines back on the table. Most of them are fashion magazines with a few interior design ones tossed in there.
“Would you like to stay for a late lunch?”
I pause with a magazine in my hand, raising an eyebrow.
“My daughter made some chili and cornbread. She’s an excellent cook. I know because I’m the one who taught her.” Ellyn’s laugh is warm and smoky, again reminding me of the sunrise.
“Please,” she continues. “It’s the least I can do to pay you back for everything.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need payback for helping out a neighbor.”
“No, but as the person who was the recipient of your help, I would like to at least provide you with a good meal as a token of my gratitude.”
The warmth that started in my chest now spreads to my belly. Which, coincidentally, begins growling.
Ellyn notices as well, her eyes dropping to my mid-section as I rise to my feet. Then she raises her gaze to mine.
“Sounds like it’s settled then.” Her smile nearly has me stumbling backwards again. I know against all of my better judgment that I won’t be turning down her invitation.
“The only problem is that I can’t get up to fix a bowl for you. You will have to …” Her voice trails off as her cheeks redden just a tiny bit, as if she’s embarrassed to not be the perfect host.
“Say no more,” I mumble before heading into her kitchen. After washing my hands, I search through the wooden, black-painted cupboards for the bowls and silverware, which are located in the drawer next to the sink.
A serving spoon and even a tray sit on the counter beside the crockpot that’s been left on simmer.
The smell of tomato with chili powder and a slight hint of jalapeno fills the air.
“There’s cornbread in the oven,” Ellyn yells from the living room.
Sure enough, I open the oven to the sight of a beautifully golden loaf of cornbread in a tin pan. I pull out the cornbread and slice a couple of pieces onto small plates before spreading a few slabs of butter that’s also been left out on the counter.
For a second, I wonder if these items were left intentionally. As if her daughter set this all out with intention.
That thought is forgotten as I finish set assemble the tray for lunch and carry it over to Ellyn.
She begins to push herself up so that she creates more room at the opposite end of the couch for me to sit.
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell her. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep—”
She waves me off. “I’m fine. Please sit. It would be better to sit at the dining room table, but well …” She gestures to her hip and then holds up her sprained wrist.
“The couch is fine,” I tell her before sitting the tray across her lap, taking care not to touch her injury.
She waits until I’m seated and ready to take a spoonful of the chili. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her waiting for me.
“What?”
“Taste it,” she encourages.
I do. The tanginess of the tomato sauce with what must be salsa, the spiciness of the jalapeno, and the smokiness from the chili powder all combine to create a delicious rainbow of flavor across my tongue.
“Hell, this is good,” I grunt.
“Knew it,” she gushes. “Both of my girls outshine me in the kitchen, I have to say. Though, Meghan only cooks when she absolutely has to.”
“And your other daughter?”
“Shanice,” she answers, her eyelids lowering to her bowl. “She cooks every day.” Ellyn sighs heavily. “Probably multiple times a day. Hard not to with two young children at home.”
I resist the urge to ask her what the sadness in her voice is about when she speaks about her oldest daughter, but I bite my damn tongue.
I wouldn’t want a stranger meddling in my family’s personal business. Hell, I’d take someone’s damn head off for it.
“Then you’ve got grandkids,” I say instead.
Ellyn lights up.
“A grandson and granddaughter. Elliott’s four and a half and Teresa’s one.”
“The best ages,” I say without thinking.
“Isn’t it?” Ellyn asks. “They’re almost done or coming out of the diaper phase, they can communicate more or less …”
“And when they get cranky you can give them right back to their parents.”
Ellyn laughs out loud. “Unlike when your own children were that age.”
I shake my head and whistle. “Don’t I know it. My youngest, Gabe, used to scream at the top of his lungs. Wailing for hours when he was a baby. The only thing that stopped his crying was me or his mama walking him throughout the house all night long.”
“Whew.” Ellyn shivers. “I know how that is. Meghan was a colicky baby,” she adds. “Every night was like going to war. Nothing I did soothed her. It calmed down for a while, but then she started teething and it started all over again.
“I lost years of sleep staying up all night with her, walking back and forth, rocking her, feeding, singing. Even driving around the neighborhood at two a.m.”
“And your husband?”
Ellyn seems surprised by the question. “He went and slept in the guest bedroom.”
I assume the incredulity shows up on my face because she quickly adds, “He was the breadwinner for the family, so he needed a good night’s sleep. Hard to do that with a fussy, crying baby in your ear all night long.”
I take another spoonful of my chili to keep from saying my real thoughts. Besides, I’ve made my fair share of parental fuckups to last me a lifetime.
“What were you doing yesterday anyway?” I ask after a few minutes of silence.
“Huh?”
“It was late afternoon when you were just coming out of the shower. Day just getting started?”
“Oh, sort of. I’d just come from a Pilates class and running errands. I wanted to film a couple of videos before the sun went down. I love catching the last few rays of sunlight in my videos.”
“Videos?”
Dipping her head, Ellyn smiles. I catch myself staring at her mouth again.
“I’m a YouTuber,” she says proudly, a wide smile displaying her perfect straight white teeth.
“What’s that called? An influential?”
More laughter. It makes me rack my brain for another joke or something funny that’ll make her laugh even more just so I can hear it again.
“An influencer,” she corrects.
“Right.” I take another bite of my cornbread, taking my time to savor the bite before swallowing.
“Isn’t that for twenty-somethings?”
“What are you trying to say?” She places a hand on her uninjured hip and cocks her head to the side.
I study her features for a moment before my fingers tingle with the desire to trail the tips along the skin of her neck to see if it’s as soft as it looks. I would imagine so as I try to recall back to yesterday when I held her in my arms.
Though, I was too preoccupied with making sure not to injure her any further to focus on how soft her skin felt underneath the pads of my fingers.
“I’m saying you’re not twenty-something,” I reply instead. “You could pass for it, but with a daughter who’s in law school, there’s no way in hell.”
A burst of laughter makes my lips twitch into a grin even as I do my damnedest to suppress it.
“No, I’m not a twenty-something. Thankfully, I don’t need to be. Turns out, there’s a pretty nice market for us fifty-somethings.”
“What’s your channel about?”
“Mostly fashion and lifestyle. I started a few years ago just doing some makeup tutorials here and there. After my divorce, I needed an outlet. A way to express my creativity while going through one of the hardest times of my life.
“I never thought anyone would watch a fifty-year-old divorcée talking about fashion or the best looks to wear to your divorce hearing. But I picked up a following. Then I started getting sponsorships from jewelry, makeup, and clothing brands.
“Five years later, it’s my full-time job.” She shakes her head. “That’s what I was getting ready to film yesterday. A sponsored video for this company that sent me these really comfortable jumpsuits. I’ll have to wait another week or two to film that now.”
“You like it?”
“Love it,” she replies. “Not for the fame or anything like that. I’ve gotten so many emails and comments from older women who say I inspired them to try a new look or to speak up for themselves in their marriage or relationship.”
She smiles to herself.