Chapter 15
I heard somewhere one time that if you can’t have the big happies in life, at least try enjoying the small ones. While walking the last dog of the day, I focused on a small happy waiting at the house. The sourdough bread Chris Evans gave me last night.
Putting away the leashes and my fanny pack, I sorted through my options. Fresh slice with butter or peanut butter. Or toast with butter or peanut butter.
“Both, definitely both.” Some days my appetite was a no-show, then others, like today, it showed up like a monster. I took the bread out of the pantry and placed it on the counter. Reaching for a knife, I heard the doorbell.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I went and answered the door, finding a rumpled Henry wearing a faded blue T-shirt and equally faded red swim trunks, with a shot glass in his hand. “Umm . . . No thanks.”
“It’s not what you think. I know we already established that we wouldn’t be asking for sugar, but here I am.” He held up the shot glass.
Eying the glass, my brow arched. “So, you’re skipping the cereal and just doing straight shots of sugar now?”
Remaining serious, he shook his head. “Actually, I need salt.”
“A shot of salt?”
Henry scratched his temple and eyed the tiny glass. “I don’t need a lot of salt. Just maybe a half a shot. My other neighbor, Mrs. Frank, gave me some tomatoes, so I figured I’d eat them for lunch instead of Cocoa Puffs.”
“What? You’re not cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?” I smirked.
His blue eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “I’m absolutely cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. They’re magically delicious.”
I barely suppressed a full-on laugh at that and waved him inside. “I think you have the wrong cereal.”
“You have a cough?”
“No.” I crossed the kitchen, opened the spice cabinet, and pulled down the container of salt.
“Then what was that?” He placed the little glass on the counter.
I flipped open the spout and carefully filled the shot glass about three-fourths full. “Me saving you from my laugh.”
“Come again?”
“My laugh. It sounds like a hyena dying, so I try to suppress it for mankind’s sake.”
“Well. That’s just sad.”
“Why?”
“Laughter is a freeing expression. It shouldn’t ever be suppressed. No expression should be for that matter.”
“I suppose you’re an expression expert.” I put away the salt and closed the cabinet door.
“Of course. I have to be in my line of work.” He leaned a hip on the counter and adjusted his glasses. “Do you know why your lip quivers?”
“Nope.” I swept a few loose granules of salt off the counter and into the palm of my hand, then dusted my hands together over the sink. “Why’s that?”
“The science of a lip quiver is when your brain demands you not to react but your soul rebels in that small quiver anyway.”
“You made that up.”
“I get paid to make things up.”
“Henry, you’re too charming for your own good.”
He held his hands up. “I don’t mean to.”
“It’s okay. You can’t help yourself.”
We shared a moment that felt wildly similar to the one that day in the book nook.
This time, Henry broke it by taking a step away from me. “Well. I better spare you from any more of my charm.” He turned and started toward the door.
“Wait. What about the salt?”
Absently, he looked around the kitchen. “Salt?”
“That’s why you’re here, remember?”
He blinked and the confusion cleared as he circled back for the shot glass. “Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“Are you making a sandwich?”
“That would require bread. Mine had mold on it.”
I reached for the fresh loaf on the kitchen island. “Well, you’re in luck. Chris Evans gave me a loaf of his homemade sourdough. I’ll share.”
“Captain America?”
“Same name, but I think that’s where the similarities end. I met him last night at a group meeting.” As I unwrapped the bread, the entire room filled with delicious notes of yeast and tangy sweetness. I grabbed a serrated knife. “Bread making is his new way of dealing with stress.”
“What’s your new way of dealing with stress?”
“I learned yoga and meditation in rehab, but to be honest, walking dogs has really helped. Brisk exercise and their goofiness seem to be a winning combination. How about you? What’s your stress relief?” I was impressed by how easy making conversation with him was becoming.
“I used to swim competitively in high school and college. Now I swim to keep in shape and it works fairly well for stress relief too.” His stomach growled loudly. With his glass of salt, Henry began to leave once again.
Laughing, I called out, “Wait. Now you’re forgetting the bread.”
He didn’t slow down. “If you’re sharing bread with me, then I’ll share the tomatoes with you. Be right back.”
Shaking my head, I cut the loaf into thick slices, stealing the end piece as a quick snack. Oh my, did Chris Evans know how to make delicious sourdough.
Henry returned with a plate of sliced tomatoes and placed it beside the bread. I eyed the mound of perfectly ripe circles. “Did you keep some for yourself?”
He straightened his glasses and gave me a sheepish smile. “Do you have some mayonnaise I could borrow?”
I laughed again and dug the jar of Duke’s from the fridge.
“Just so you know, I hear nothing wrong with that laugh.”
“If you say so.” I turned and caught him swiping the other small heel of bread. “Good stuff, am I right?”
“So right,” Henry garbled out, his cheeks full of bread.
I opened the cabinet and a Land O’Lakes butter tub fell out.
Henry picked up the tub and handed it to me. “This reminds me of my mom. She won’t toss these types of containers, says they’re great for storage. If you find one of these containers in her fridge, you cannot assume butter is what is inside of it. It’s like a game of chance.”
“That was so Grandma Olla. One time I grabbed a Cool Whip container and dug my spoon into the white fluff but as soon as I put it in my mouth, I discovered it was solidified bacon grease and not Cool Whip.”
Henry made a face, twisting his lips. “Yikes.”
I stuffed the bowl to the side in the cabinet and collected two plates.
Standing side by side, we assembled our tomato sandwiches. Then I poured us each a glass of Country Time lemonade. “Want to sit out on the back deck?”
“Sure.” Henry stacked my plate on top of his and picked up a glass.
We settled at the patio table. “So, tell me what’s happening in H. M. Rossi’s world today.”
Henry bit into his sandwich, taking his time to savor it. “What do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “What scene are you working on?”
“Oh. You’re not going to believe this . . .”
With tomato juice dripping down our chins and wrists, Henry talked about a scene where the heroine was trapped in a cement hopper and he was debating on how to get her out of it.
He paused long enough to go inside and make himself another sandwich.
“I need a last name for my villain,” he declared, rejoining me outside.
I thought it over while finishing the last of my sandwich. “How about Monkshood or . . . Larkspur.”
“What kind of names are those?”
“Poisonous plants.”
Henry put his half-eaten sandwich down. “Should I be concerned?”
“Not really. When I was a teenager I started drawing poisonous plants from my mom’s plant guidebooks, kind of as a joke to her. I memorized the names of a lot of them.” The joke was on me because Mom barely commented.
“Oh. Okay, but those sound more like fantasy villain names. I’ll keep them in mind if I ever switch genres.”
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ocean. “Tell me about this villain?”
“He’s seeking vengeance for a friend done dirty. He has an obsession with collecting farming properties with underground shelters.”
“That’s creepy. Maybe look up farm equipment names and come up with his name from that.”
“I like the way you think. His name will be a connection, but readers won’t necessarily pick up on it.”
“Exactly.”
Henry sprawled in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. Face tilted toward the sun, he said, “I’ve shared more of my story with you, now it’s your turn.”
I took a sip of lemonade. “You told me fiction.”
“But my secret is nonfiction.” He propped his legs on top of the deck railing and crossed his ankles, drawing attention to his mismatched Crocs. One dark blue. The other army green. Did he even realize he had on two different shoes? Probably not.
The shoes reminded me of Fern’s tiny pair of Crocs that were sparkly pink. The very ones she wore the day I got arrested. She probably couldn’t even fit in them anymore.
“I have a two-year-old daughter,” I blurted. “She’ll be three in September. Her name is Fern but I call her Fernie.”
The rustling of the palmetto trees and the hum of the ocean followed my confession until Henry cleared his throat. “That’s a nice name.”
“Thanks. My parents are all about trees and plants so they named my brother Cypress and me Juniper. I thought it would be fun to carry on that tradition.” The wind picked up my hair and blew it in my face. Gathering it in one fist, I pulled the tie off my wrist and secured it in a topknot.
“Junie, where’s Fernie?”
“My brother now has custody of her, but I’m working on getting her back.” I stole a glance to gauge his reaction, but he wore a neutral expression, making it difficult to get a proper read on him. “I was arrested for driving under the influence last fall. She was in the car with me.”
Henry didn’t respond and I didn’t know what else to say, so we both sat in silence for a while. A few seagulls squawked as they flew overhead. One swooped down and swiped something from the shore, then flew away.
“Tell me about Fernie,” Henry said softly with a nonchalance that I knew was put on, considering what I’d just confessed.