Chapter Thirteen
Lottie
Anthony shouldn’t be missing this.
A barb of hurt penetrates my heart as a clown throws candy into the crowds, and Felicity dives after a load. The Fourth of July parade is my favorite event in town. Not because it’s on my birthday. I simply love parades. I invited Anthony as we were leaving. He didn’t smile. Just said he had “things to do.”
He really is a workaholic. And determined not to have more to do with me than he has to.
I swallow the hurt and pull Felicity from the road as an 8R 310 John Deere lumbers past us, my brother waving from the cab. It’s a behemoth of a tractor to drive, but even more so when it’s only a few feet from my child.
All too soon the parade is over, and people scatter. I turn to pack up our lawn chairs. Every year we sit on the side lawn of the elementary school with my mom, Blaine, and Amelia. Aunt Doris and Camila began joining us three years ago.
“Let’s go, Fel,” I call, but she’s darting hither and yon, saying something to everyone she sees. What’s going on with that girl lately? Her attachment to Anthony has me keyed up even though I haven’t mentioned it again. The truth will come out, and if Anthony has anything to regret, he’ll rue the day he became next-door neighbors with Charlotte Huisman Alden.
“What’s with all the chit-chat?” I ask as I take Felicity by the hand and tug her toward the parking lot. We’re almost to my truck when she slaps both hands on top of her head.
“My hat!” She takes off like a streak of lightning. What on earth? She was never wearing a hat in the first place. By the time I catch up with her, she’s on hands and knees crawling in the grass where we had sat, as if a hat would disappear between the green blades.
“Care to explain your behavior?” I plant hands on hips and wait. She peeks up and lets out a meow.
“I’m a cat!”
Oh, honestly. I grab her by the elbow and haul her to her feet. “Spill it, Felicity. Now!”
Her head flings this way and that, then she announces, “We can go home now. I’ll tell you there.”
I won’t get a coherent answer out of her here, that’s for sure.
My truck is the last one in the lot by the time we climb in and head for home. The roads are crowded with people, on foot and by car, so the drive is slow as usual after the parade. But why are so many people going down Rodeo Road? Doris’s house is the last one in town.
I stomp the brake pedal when I see cars glutting my driveway, parked clear over on Doris’s lawn and everywhere in between. The sides of the road in front of both houses are bumper to bumper with parked cars.
“Surprise!” Felicity yells. “Happy birthday!”
And here I thought my birthday had been forgotten. I was secretly okay with that, but my heart melts that my daughter—my own daughter—is making it special.
“Did you plan this?” I search for a place for my big truck and see Anthony waving me to a spot right in front of my garage as if he’d saved it for me. “Wait.” I pin Felicity to the seat with a look. “This is what you’ve been up to with Anthony?”
Her grin is proud. “Yup! I invited everyone!”
Everyone is right. Every local member of my family is waiting on the lawn as well as what looks like half the town. I see my coworkers. Church family. Farm hands. People I greet on a daily basis in Casey’s and Hy-Vee. And Anthony. Everyone I remotely care about and more.
“I can’t believe you!” I reach over to tickle Felicity’s side and get a big giggle out of her.
“I couldn’t have done it without Mr. Anthony. Wait till you see the cake!” Her eyes are big as saucers, and anticipation surges through me. Is this why Anthony went to Des Moines? For me?
I slide from the truck, slamming the door behind me. A long table is set up on my porch, laden with food. Do I spy fettuccine and sauce? That man.
“You did this?”
Anthony is waiting beside the porch now in his usual formal attire. If he cooks—for me—in work slacks, why not attend a birthday party in similar dress? I’m starting to think he wouldn’t be Anthony at all in any other clothes.
I all but ignore everyone else who has been invited by my flitting fairy of a daughter as I gaze at Anthony. “That’s why you didn’t come to the parade?”
He looks down, his lips curved with a small smile. “Guilty as charged. Will you forgive me?”
I look around. The cake is in the shape of a pineapple. Too beautiful to eat. Streamers and balloons, purple and pink, surround the space. It’s more than anything I could have asked for, and I didn’t even ask.
Tears prick my eyes unexpectedly, and I throw my arms around Anthony without thinking. His body is as stiff as a board, and I quickly back up.
“Sorry, sorry.” I swipe at my cheeks, hoping to rid myself of tears and embarrassment together. “I just—wow, I didn’t expect this!”
I’m used to the confident, cranky Anthony, but the one with eyes trained on me is nervous. Vulnerable. Hopeful. “Do you like it?”
I’m undone by the uncertainty in his voice. “Anthony, I love it.” I turn my head, searching for my daughter. “You and Felicity make a dangerous team.”
His laugh is soft and low. “Only for you.”
My insides take a tumble, like water over a boulder. What does he mean?
“Let’s get this party started!” That’s my daughter, screeching at the top of her lungs before music blasts through the air—and not the kind I let her listen to. I raise an eyebrow at Anthony, and he holds his hands in surrender mode.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
I make the rounds, greeting the guests. My mom looks disgruntled.
“You told me not to plan you a party. But you let Felicity?”
My eyes land on my daughter. “She didn’t tell me. Neither did Anthony.”
“What does Anthony have to do with this?”
I pinch my lips together, then sigh. “He helped Felicity. With all of it.”
A knowing glint enters her eyes. “Hmmm. As I thought.”
“Save it, Mom. It’s not like that.”
The food is served, and man alive, is it delicious. Anthony ordered tenderloin, but the best part is his homemade Italian food. My sisters rave about it, wondering what restaurant catered. I hide my smile.
“Here, open this!” Felicity thrusts a beautifully wrapped gift at me. “It’s from me!”
“Oh, yeah?”
She shrugs. “Mr. Anthony won’t let me pay him back.”
When I open the present that bears the marks of department-store gift wrapping, my hands slow down. No wonder Anthony refused her piggy-bank change. This blouse had to have cost a lot more than what Felicity has to her name.
“It’s gorgeous, Fel,” I say softly, pulling her into an embrace at the same time my eyes seek out Anthony. He’s keeping to himself, and the scowl on his face ensures his solitude stays unbroken—but his face softens when our eyes connect, and he offers a slow, deep nod in acknowledgment of my mouthed thank you.
The noise of the crowd around me seems to fade as I gaze into his dark eyes across the expanse. When he first showed up in my yard, I could have sworn he didn’t belong in this town, least of all as my neighbor. But now I can’t imagine my life without him.
He’s leaving soon. The whispered reasoning breaks the moment, and I look away. A loud pop above my head makes me flinch, and Felicity shrieks. Another bang sounds across the porch, and I duck. Why are balloons spontaneously popping?
Anthony catches my eye with an impish expression. “It’s those Iowa-grade balloons I bought. We don’t make them that way in Atlanta.”
I put off serving cake. I don’t want to cut into this beautiful pineapple. “Any chance the inside matches the outside?” I ask Anthony, nudging his arm with my shoulder. He doesn’t shy away, and now we’re standing with our arms pressed together.
“Dig in and find out.”
“It’s too pretty to eat.”
“Time for the pi?ata!” Felicity crows, prolonging the cake’s life.
“Oh, honey. I am way too old for a pi?ata.” She ignores my protest and takes me by the hand to the pineapple-shaped pi?ata strung to the clothesline. I get on my knees for her to blindfold me, but she struggles to tie the knot. When larger, masculine hands replace hers at the back of my head, I struggle to take in adequate air. Especially when the body spray Anthony wears wafts past my nose. He sure makes Iowa air better.
“Here.” He presses a bat into my hands. The feeling of his skin against mine leaves me dizzy. “Take a swing.”
I take my stance. Years of softball can’t be for nothing, right?
I lift the bat, tense, then swing with all my might. Instead of the satisfying smack of wooden bat to paper mache, a thick thud sounds, followed by a groan.
“Mom!” Felicity gasps, sounding horrified, and I throw down the bat, yanking the blindfold off. Anthony is on the ground, clutching his shoulder.
I hit him?
“Oh, Anthony,” I breathe out, dropping to his side. “I’m so sorry.”
How in the world did this happen? Doesn’t he know to get out of the way of a blindfolded woman with a bat in her hands? A bubble of laughter simmers in the back of my throat and once it’s cooking, I am powerless to stop it. It starts as a snorting giggle until it’s full throttle, laughter pouring from my mouth as I tip my head back.
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Anthony snaps, pushing himself up with his unbatted arm. Get it? Unbatted…? Never mind. “I think I need surgery.”
Still laughing, I offer him a hand. “I told you I played softball. Did I forget to mention my batting average?”
This earns me a bone-splitting glare.
“Oh, come on. Let me look at it inside, make sure we don’t need to take you to the doctor.”
He limps behind me. Really? I injured his arm, not his leg. Why are men so dramatic about sickness and injuries?
I crest the porch steps, sailing toward the card table where Anthony set the cake. When I check over my shoulder to ensure he’s still coming, my foot falters to the left, to one side of a folding table leg. I teeter and almost fall as I jerk my leg free, but in my state of imbalance, I inadvertently smack my foot against the table leg.
To my horror, the table leg buckles, sliding into its storage position, and the table tips dangerously. I dive to rescue both table and cake and only succeed in slamming into the edge of the table—and launching the cake into the air.
“Nooo!” The pointless cry leaps from my tongue as the cake sails over my head, just before the beautiful yellow pineapple makes contact—with Anthony’s face. A collective gasp goes up from everyone watching as pineapple cake explodes in a splatter of crumbs and frosting across the porch.
Anthony is covered. I can’t see an inch of his skin. I stand, frozen, hands to my open mouth.
Coughing and sputtering, Anthony lifts a hand to drag enough frosting off his face that he can pry off his glasses. He blinks through two holes in the yellow frosting.
“You really don’t like me, do you?”
I throw my hands up in the air and march through my front door. In the kitchen, I swing around as Anthony tentatively enters, his glasses clutched in his hand. A messy, sticky trail of crumbs follows him. That’ll be fun to clean. Happy birthday to me.
“Anthony, I am so, so sorry. That was such a beautiful cake.”
His mouth drops open, a third hole in the frosted face. “Oh, you’re sorry about the cake! I thought you were apologizing for throwing it at me.”
That does it. My fit of laughter returns until I’m doubled over, grasping my knees and dragging air into my lungs.
“Glad I could be the free entertainment at this party,” he says when I stand, eyes watering. I point him toward the sink.
“You know that’s not what I mean.” I grab a paper towel and start with his glasses, cleaning them until they are frosting-free. Then I start on his face, dabbing at the top of his forehead. There’s frosting in his hair, too.
“I appreciate how you helped Felicity. I know it meant the world to her. It means the world to me, too.”
He says nothing. We are only inches apart. As I scrape frosting off of his face, his cheeks appear, smooth until the edge of his meticulously trimmed beard. His eyes watch my every move, and the air begins to feel thick between us. I wish he’d say something instead of just watching me.
The moment intensifies as my movement goes slack. Something pulls at me. Pulls me closer to him. I can’t resist it. I want to taste it. This tension. This man.
I reach out, tilting my head playfully, and run a finger through the frosting still collected on his chin. Thoughtfully, I sample it, licking my finger. Anthony is a statue before me.
“Mmmm.” Pineapple frosting. I destroyed an incredible cake. “You have great taste in cake.”
A low growl emits from his throat as he closes the small distance between us. He reaches a hand to the back of my neck, setting off some premature Independence Day fireworks that shoot up and down my spine. “I have great taste in more than cake.” Then, before I can blink, he lowers his head until our lips meet. The first touch makes my legs turn to wobbling gelatin, and I sag against him.
“Easy there, beauty queen,” he murmurs, pressing me against the sink at my back. “I’m the one injured. I’m not interested in being a personal injury lawyer just now.”
“Oh, be quiet and kiss me,” I moan, my hands twining behind his neck. I don’t need the reminder of who he is and why this is a very bad idea. Not right now.
And boy, does he kiss me. Gone is the uncertainty of earlier. His lips are sure, making me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Making me want more. His hands hold tightly to my waist, grounding me there with him.
I want this moment to last forever.
We’re both breathing hard when he pulls back at last. Yellow frosting is still on his chin, and my face feels sticky. He winks.
“Better wash your face or everyone outside will know exactly how well you cleaned me up.”
I blush furiously and whirl around to wash my face.
Anthony Lucio kissed me. Does this change… anything?