What Have I Done For Me Lately?

She glanced at her watch and sighed. Ryan would think she wasn’t interested by now. She’d have to tell him she’d gotten another call, or—

“I know it’s late. You can open it tomorrow. No big deal.”

The look on his face said it was a huge deal, and Christine couldn’t bear to be that rude. She wearily began to pick at the knots in the ribbon.

“Here.” Fred’s big hands came into her range of vision, holding a knife that jerked up through the thin red line and snapped it in a way that made her have to work to control a shudder.

She slipped her hand into the bag, praying it was nothing that cost more than five dollars, and pulled the package out.

Mercy. It had cost a dollar fifty-nine when she was a girl with her own allowance, maybe double that by now. A tin of Grebner’s pecan praline cookies, made in Charsville, Georgia. She hadn’t had one in nearly nine years, not since she left without looking back.

Her mouth started watering and she jerked her head up to find Fred looking at her with the expression of a man terrified his beloved wouldn’t like the ring he’d picked out.

“Why did you buy me these?”

“Oh, I dunno. I think maybe you mentioned where you grew up. You’re pretty far from there.” He hitched at his jeans, then examined his fingernails, which she’d noticed in the bathroom were clean and neatly trimmed.

“Where did you get them?”

“Just came across ’em.” He rubbed his head, his scalp highly visible through the hair he kept nearly shaved. “Thought you’d like a taste of home.”

She stared down at the familiar pink-and-gold package in her lap. He sure as heck hadn’t gotten the cookies at any of the stores in this neighborhood. Grebner’s wasn’t exactly a household name, especially outside Georgia.

“Thank you.” She nearly choked on the words. She didn’t want to be touched by this man any more than she wanted to be reminded of where she came from. “This was…nice of you.”

“You’re welcome. I gotta go.” He tugged at his ear. “Sorry if I butted in tonight.”

“Oh. Well, it’s…thanks. For the shower and the cookies.” She got up and followed him to lock up. At the door he turned suddenly and she had to step back to keep from being too close.

He searched her face, then gave a quick shake of his head. “G’night, Chris.”

“Bye.” She shut and locked the door behind him, breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to the phone to dial Ryan’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

“Ryan, it’s Christine. I’m sorry to be calling late. I…” She was about to tell him about the fake phone call when it occurred to her if she planted the seeds of the Fred problem now, it might be easier to ask for Ryan’s help later. “Fred was here.”

“Tonight?” His voice sharpened and she couldn’t help a little thrill. Was he jealous?

“He decided this was the perfect time to put in a new showerhead.” She let her full measure of exasperation show.

Ryan chuckled. “Fred is a character. Great guy, but he plays by his own rules.”

“I guess you could say that.” She smiled, thinking if that definition fit anyone it was Ryan. Fred didn’t have power and limitless opportunities. His life was fixed, probably had been for years. He had to play by the rules of the building. No chance for big changes in his life plan. People would move in and move out, and Fred would still be here, year after year, fixing and patching and replacing. Not so different from the people in Charsville, which she’d left for a very good reason.

“I checked my calendar and that night is free, Ryan. I would love to go to the ballet with you.”

“Good.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “Dinner after?”

“I’d love it. Thank you.” She faked a swoon and had to wrench the phone away from her mouth in case the giggle bubbling up spilled over. “My treat this time?”

“We’ll see.”

She smiled. He’d pay. He played by his own rules.

“Have you been to Café des Artistes?”

“Not yet.” She bit her lip to stay cool. Café des Artistes was not the type of place you’d take someone you were only casually interested in.

“Good. We’ll go there.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Same here. Good night, Christine.”

“Thanks again for dinner.” She hung up the phone and did three Charsville Chiefs cheers all around the apartment, cheers she’d learned by watching Iona practice, though she’d never had the slightest inclination to be on the squad herself.

She’d see Ryan again. For ballet. And dinner! If she’d stayed in Charsville, the most she could hope for on a date was chicken fried steak and a crude pass in the back of a pickup.

Things were looking really, really good for Christine “Teeny” Bayer.

She wandered around, window to window, too restless to settle into anything, until the clock reminded her she’d better get some sleeping done, if at all possible. Maybe a long shower and a few more rounds on the sweater—the one she was gambling wouldn’t be too personal to give Ryan for his birthday in September—would calm her enough so she could sleep. Maybe if she was really lucky she’d dream a few sweet dreams that would come true, about a certain tall handsome neighbor and a house in Connecticut, maybe a Parisian honeymoon.

She made her way to the bathroom to start her relaxation regimen. But not before she gave into temptation and stopped by the dining table to pry open the pink-and-gold tin and stuff a pecan praline cookie into her mouth.

Fred had been right. The cookies tasted like home.

4

To: Jenny Hartmann

From: Natalie Eggers

Re: My husband

Jenny, you rock. I finished your book and had to write! Your description of that guy you were seeing was so much like my husband it made me want to scream. He never wants me to go out at night. He never wants me spending any time with my friends. He hates when I buy myself new clothes. I think if he had his way I’d dress in his old T-shirts and sweats.

But your book gave me courage. I’m starting to stand up for myself more now. It’s feeling really good.

Thanks, Jenny! I love you!

Natalie

“THANK YOU.” Jenny smiled at Café des Artistes’ gorgeous young blond bartender, who had just delivered a bright orange passion fruit martini across the narrow shiny wood bar. “What is your name?”

“George.” He glanced at her, poured three types of booze into a shaker in quick succession, then glanced again.

“Well, may I say, George, purely for the joy of spreading good feeling, no strings attached, that you are one serious treat for the eyes.”

He looked taken aback, and the hawk-nosed bartender rinsing a glass next to him sniggered before moving down the bar to serve another customer.