Chapter Twelve
Anthony
I hope Lottie won’t hang up on me before I can explain. Only, I can’t explain.
What has Felicity gotten me into?
I finger the soft purple blouse. If Lottie looks good in the baggy T-shirts I see her in most days, she’ll look stunning in this. But Felicity has final say.
I tap my Facetime app and pull up Lottie’s new contact. It rings three times before her face appears on my screen, her brow rippled with confusion.
“Anthony?”
My stomach does a nosedive hearing her voice. “Hey, Lottie. Can I talk to Felicity?”
She’s slack-jawed and takes a minute to recover. “Let me guess. She gave you my number?”
“Who else? I wasn’t going to ask Aunt Doris.”
She snorts a laugh at that. “I don’t suppose you would. Since we have no chemistry and all that.”
My lungs empty out. I didn’t think she would go there. Is the fact that I’m not next door making her bold? Maybe it makes me bold, too. Or stupid. Because I open my mouth and say, “Who really knows? I barely passed my high school science classes. Not my area.”
The laughter that flows out of my phone speakers is reward enough for my idiocy. “Here’s Fel. And Suits?”
I take a gulp. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
I’m not sure what “this” is. But I’m pretty sure I already regret it. Before I can muster a response, Lottie’s face is replaced by Felicity’s. Things are blurry for a few seconds, then she says, “Okay. I’m hiding from Mom. What did you find?”
I’m at a Des Moines shopping center in some Midwestern version of Macy’s called Von Maur. I had no idea Iowa has its own department chain. That made me reconsider my original assessment of this state’s claim on modernity. I may have misjudged Iowa. A little.
I think of Lottie.
Okay, a lot. Happy now, Iowa?
I show Felicity the blouse, and she squeals before clapping a hand to her mouth. “It’s perfect,” she whispers.
Perfect it is.
I purchase the blouse, then head to the candy store in the mall, taking Felicity with me by phone. She points out Lottie’s favorites. Next stop, Party City. Felicity helps me pick out streamers, balloons, disposable table settings, the works. We’re wrapping things up, and I’m in my car when Felicity lets out a yelp, and light floods my phone screen. Lottie’s face nudges Felicity out of the way.
“You guys are still talking?” She peers intently beyond me. “Are you in Des Moines?”
“Uh…” I’m a successful lawyer. I don’t use vocal disfluencies. “Um…” Until now, apparently. “Yes. I’m in Des Moines.”
“Why?”
I highly value honesty. “Like you said, there’s no dry cleaning in Red Rock Place.” This is not a lie. Except, I’m not in Des Moines for dry cleaning.
“And you’ve spent the last hour discussing your dry cleaning with my daughter?”
“Well, no. But that’s all I can say.”
“Anthony!”
“What?” I can’t very well say I drove all the way to Des Moines for her, can I? No, I cannot. “We’re done, anyway. Bye, Lottie.”
“Wait. Anthony. Anthony—”
I end the video call and sink back into my seat. It’s the first day of July. This is my second weekend in Iowa. That means the three-week mark is coming fast. In a couple of days. Those days are going to be full of birthday secrets with Felicity. And then it’ll be time to decide. Do I stay longer? Or do I split?
My mom is getting better, but progress is slow. She’s not ready to come home yet. I really didn’t want to leave before she’s out of the care center.
But I know that’s not my only source of hesitation about leaving. Another one is five feet tall with a smile like sunshine. Her mini-me is reason number three.
How did this happen?
Knowing it’s futile to try and figure that out here and now on the streets of Iowa’s capital city, I plug in the address of the bakery I called up two days ago with a cake order. It’s ready for pickup. And it’s a masterpiece.
As I drive along the wandering route from Des Moines to Red Rock Place another hour later, the sun sinking low over the western horizon, my eyes trail the endless fields, the flat view that seems to stretch on for miles, the long, slow, rolling hills that bend and dip forever. It’s the same scenery I passed nearly three weeks ago for the first time. But something’s different about it now.
That something is me.
I attend church with Aunt Doris the next day. Lottie slides into the pew behind me, and I sit, mesmerized anew by her sweet voice. At Aunt Doris’s continued sideways glances, I try to feign indifference. But I’m a much better attorney than actor.
“Which one of you said you two don’t have chemistry?” Aunt Doris asks the minute we’re alone in her car, bumping our way to have lunch with my mom. She began eating two days ago.
I have to think back to our parting words after that so-not-fake date. “It was Lottie.”
Aunt Doris harrumphs loudly. “No chemistry my eye. I could feel the chemical reaction happening in the pew all around me.”
I bark out a laugh. I’d forgotten Aunt Doris was a teacher before she retired. “Very funny.”
She preaches at me the whole way to my mom’s about how a real man pursues and takes initiative and blah blah blah. I’m tuning her out.
This man has a life in Atlanta to get back to. A life Lottie Alden won’t fit into.
Be that as it may, the next evening, I find myself rolling pasta dough onto Aunt Doris’s counter in the thinnest sheet I can muster. I wish I had my stand mixer with its pasta maker attachment, but that wasn’t exactly on my list of things to pack for Iowa.
Thanks to my dad, I make a mean homemade fettuccine and herb tomato sauce. Hy-Vee had everything I need. I feel sufficiently impressed. Apparently, it is possible to live and thrive in small-town Iowa.
“What is that?”
I can’t help my irritated frown as I straighten, my back protesting the deplorable posture I’ve been using lately. “Did you knock?”
Lottie tosses her head, her short blond locks flinging into the air like fringe. “Do I ever?”
“Is that another Iowa thing?” I turn back to my task, carefully running a sharp knife across the dough in a straight line, creating another long fettuccine noodle. “Like pop instead of soda? You walk in instead of knocking?”
“Oh, Anthony.” I almost jump out of my skin at the feel of her patting my back. “You’re funny, you know that?” She steps back and sweeps her hand to indicate my setup on the counter. “It’s hereditary, huh?”
I swipe a hand against my brow. It is hot in this kitchen. “What’s hereditary?”
“Cooking gourmet Italian food.” She gazes at the pasta dough. “Homemade pasta? I’m impressed. What’s the occasion?”
Your birthday, woman. “Eh, just missing my dad.” The words pop out, as true as the ones I can’t say, but I never would have chosen to say them to her.
“When did he pass away?” she asks, her face devoid of pity but full of something else. Compassion, maybe. Genuine care. A lump fills my throat. I’ve lived such a lonely life since my mom moved back to Iowa that I almost forgot what it’s like to feel cared about.
“Eight years ago.”
She pulls out a bar stool and perches on it, intent on watching me. I should mind. But I don’t. And I mind that.
“How come you’ve never visited your mom since she moved here?”
I grimace, reaching for a fresh ball of pasta dough. “First of all, I’m a workaholic.”
“You don’t say,” she drawls, and I shoot her a glare. Her only response is a throaty laugh, and my stomach pulls in sharp.
“The other reason…” I sigh and set the rolling pin aside, turning to face her. “I wasn’t happy my mom decided to move back. I wanted her to stay in Atlanta with me. I was happy to take care of her there. But—” I spread both hands out. “How can I practice law here?”
Lottie’s eyebrows dance with humor. “In Iowa? Do they even know what a lawyer is there?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
She chuckles. “If you say so. How come you work so much?”
That’s not something I want to talk about. Not with her. Not with anybody. But I find myself talking. “I told you how my dad gave up his successful career and struggled the rest of his life to provide for us. I got made fun of for wearing thrift store clothes and not having all the new fancy gadgets as a kid.” I clear my throat, turning back to the dough. I need my hands busy. “When I was in law school, I dated a great woman but she ended things because I didn’t make enough money.”
Lottie’s outraged gasp slices through the kitchen. “Shallow much?”
Had she been? Possibly. “I guess I didn’t think of it that way. I took it that I needed to work a lot harder before I could support a woman.” I dart a glance at Lottie. This time she is clearly not impressed.
“If that’s the kind of woman you’re after. Not all women want money.”
“Oh yeah?” I jerk my head at her. “What about you?”
A flush fills her cheeks, and she suddenly fidgets on the stool. “I don’t care about money. Not like that, anyway.”
“Oh.” The air between us shifts, and I’m lost for words. I’m way too involved here. I’ve let myself get too close. I like Lottie. A lot. But I can’t. Maybe making money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But it’s what I know. A woman like Lottie isn’t what I know.
Maybe it’s time to take a big step back, for the safety of all of us. I promised Lottie I wouldn’t hurt her or Felicity. If I get much closer, I won’t be able to keep that promise.
Lottie’s birthday is tomorrow. If I can just get through one more day without doing something I’ll regret, I’ll be in the clear. Then it might be time for a trip to Atlanta, even a short one. Anything to put distance between my heart and Lottie’s.