Chapter Seven
Ridge
I scan the houses along the street, the modest neighborhood flocked with mature magnolia and Georgia pine trees.
Trash cans line the driveways. Porch lights highlight front doors.
Mailboxes are perched at the curb of postcard-sized lawns.
The suburban neighborhood appears safe and appealing to young families and older, retired couples who have lived there for decades. I like the area immediately.
The car slows and pulls into a driveway.
I look through the front windshield and take in the watery image of Beverly’s home.
It’s a white ranch with black shutters. A cheerful pansy basket hangs from a metal hook by the front door, the lights on either side of the entrance a beacon to my final destination.
The cellophane wrapper around the outrageous bouquet of sunflowers crinkles in my hand as I get ready to exit into the elements and make a run for it.
I had the flowers flown in from my favorite florist in California.
The bright, cheery blooms remind me of Beverly, who always seems happy and full of light.
I tell the driver, “Take the rest of the night off. I don’t know how late I’ll be. I can always call an Uber.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yep. Enjoy your evening.”
Before the man has a chance to exit the idling car and open my door, I’m already out. I make a mad dash through the rain, splashing through several puddles with the flowers positioned over my head. Standing under the tiny portico, I flick water from my arms and ring the doorbell.
I wait for a few seconds and ring the bell again, standing there with the bouquet directly in front of my chest, ready to greet Beverly with a smile and a present. For a millisecond, I wonder if I’m at the wrong house and dig for my phone in my trouser pocket to check.
“Ridge!”
My eyes snap to hers, and I’m overcome with relief.
Beverly is practically glowing, her wide, beaming smile and sparkling eyes drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
Her lips are glossed, and her long hair falls over her shoulders in gentle waves.
I want to tell her to be careful with that joyful look she’s giving me.
It’s stealing the breath right out of my lungs.
“Hey, Beverly.” I exhale with relief.
“Come in, come in,” she urges. “Isn’t this the most awful weather?”
“It’s pretty brutal out there.”
I follow her into a tiny foyer and wipe my feet on the convenient mat, the scent of something meaty and delicious filling the air.
“These are for you,” I say, handing off the sunflowers.
“Oh my goodness! Where did you ever find these? They’re not in season.” The bouquet is so large it obscures her beautiful face.
“How do you know they’re not in season?” I ask.
“My brother-in-law, George, grows sunflowers on his flower farm. His peak season is in June and July. Wow. These totally remind me of them.”
“The sunflower season? Or your brother-in-law?”
She laughs. “Both.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Well, I was hoping they’d remind you of me.”
Her lips quirk with a pretty smile, her dark eyes pinning me with her stare. Her cheeks appear flushed, as if I’ve embarrassed her.
I clear my throat, captivated by this beautiful woman cradling the flowers in her arms. “I, uh, have a great florist in LA. I had them shipped overnight. Where would you like me to put my coat?”
“Oh. You can hang your coat on the rack right behind you. And… thank you for these. They really are extraordinary.”
I shrug my jacket off and hang it on an empty peg next to one of her sweaters. I have the sudden urge to bury my face into the lavender-colored fabric, sure it smells like heaven.
“Follow me, Ridge. I’ve got appetizers already laid out for us. Help yourself while I get these into some water.”
“Great.” I swipe a hand through my damp hair and take in Beverly’s home with pleasure.
Right away, I notice what must be heirloom pieces scattered throughout the open living area.
A roll-top desk in the corner covered with framed family photos.
Sturdy bookcases on either side of the brick fireplace filled with hardbacks and little treasures.
A French provincial sideboard table with a flat screen TV sitting on top.
The curved wooden frame of an antique rocking chair, and interesting paintings on the walls depicting flowers and farm scenes.
All of these stunning pieces fit perfectly with her comfortable, overstuffed sofa and modern lighting. The home feels lived-in and well-loved.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Beverly stands at the kitchen sink, unfolding the sunflowers from the noisy cellophane.
The counter space forms an L-shape between the two rooms, where she has two barstools pushed underneath.
I notice a rather large charcuterie board assembled on top, with a variety of colorful food displayed in the shape of a flower. I smile.
“Did you make this?”
“Of course,” she replies. “Help yourself.”
I pop a red grape into my mouth and mosey nearer to her. “Need any help with those?”
“No, I’ve got it.” She motions with her head toward the refrigerator as she clips the ends of the flowers with kitchen scissors.
“I’ve got a cold beer with your name on it in the fridge.
We’re having chili and cornbread for supper, and I thought beer would pair nicely with it. But if you want something else…”
“—Beer is great,” I interrupt.
“Grab one for me, too, please.”
“Sure thing.”
I open the fridge and notice the clean and organized interior. Grabbing two bottles by the necks, I close the door and inadvertently read a cursive note on what appears to be a convenient magnetized notepad on the surface, the words “Fall Break – week of October 15th” staring me in the face.
“You get a nice long break coming up, huh?”
She frowns and looks right at me. “Pardon?”
I point to the fridge using one of the beer bottles. “The week of October 15th?”
“Oh,” she giggles. “Yes. An entire week off, thank goodness. I’ll be heading down to Heartsboro to spend the week at my sister’s place at Jamison Farm.” She notices the bottles in my hand. “There’s a bottle opener in the first drawer under the bar to my left.”
“Got it.”
I’m quick and easily pluck the metal caps off.
I wait to take a swig until her hands are free.
She sets the large flower arrangement near the food with pleasure and swipes her hands across her thighs.
It’s then that I realize she’s wearing an apron.
I don’t know why, but Beverly Adler in an apron is a pretty spectacular sight to behold.
“Thank you,” she says, taking the open bottle from my hand.
I tap my bottleneck with hers. “Cheers, Beverly.”
“What are we toasting to?” she asks, looking me right in the eye.
“Easy. To a night I’ve been looking forward to all week.”
“Me too.” She blushes, her lashes fluttering demurely as she raises the bottle to her lips.
Her full, glistening, pink, kissable lips.
We both take a swig of our beers. I swallow, unsure of what I should do next.
My eyes dart to a flickering crimson candle in a jar near the charcuterie board, the scent of seasonal cinnamon wafting through the air.
Little cocktail napkins with autumn leaves are laid out next to the food, and I can hear the breezy vocals of a yacht-rock tune crooning over a speaker.
“I probably put too much food out. If you’d rather save your appetite for supper, I’ll understand.”
I set my bottle on the counter before I boldly steal hers and set it next to mine.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes are wide, the flames of the candle flickering in her heated gaze.
I put my right hand on her waist and use my left hand to raise her arm into a dance pose. She shyly dips her head and laughs before our bodies move to the rhythm of a classic Christopher Cross song.
Pressing my teeth into my lower lip, I stare at her pretty face. I’m so close I can feel the little tufts of air from her mouth with each exhale.
“Good song,” I say.
“It is. I love the oldies.” She stands taller and lifts her chin. “You’re a good dancer.”
I’m bold and pull her flush against my chest. We rock back and forth for a few seconds before I spin her in a quick circle and lower her into a dramatic dip, making her squeal. Her head drops back, her long dark hair grazing the floor like a waterfall.
“Oh my goodness,” she pants.
I gently lift her up, and we stop dancing.
I trace the swell of her cheek with my thumb, our lips mere inches apart.
I’ve been dreaming about kissing Beverly since the first night in my trailer, with her sunshine smile and polite manners.
There’s a definite pull between us, like that magnet on her fridge.
A delicious heat sings through my blood as my eyes map the curve of her face and the tangle of hair twisting over her shoulder.
I laugh, startling her. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”
I take a polite step back and watch her smile tip up into something beautiful as she studies me silently. My chest feels too small for my heart, and I struggle to breathe.
I realize that in this moment, standing in a tiny suburban kitchen with the rain drumming on the roof, I want to earmark this memory in my brain for the nights when I’m feeling especially lonely. There’s something about Beverly Adler that soothes the raw pieces of my heart like a gentle balm.
She’s a reminder that no matter what I have to face, there are still simple pleasures to enjoy in life.