Love Sign

Shelby plucked her laptop off the seat and slid in. Jake circled to the driver’s side and put her suitcase behind the seat. He would have stowed her laptop there, too, except she had her arms around it again. “Wherever you want to go. Just name it,” he said, as he climbed behind the wheel.

“Somewhere quiet where I can work. Speaking of which, I’m keeping you from yours,” she said.

“I was due for a morning off.”

“Not like this,” said Shelby.

“We’ve had a nice ride so far,” said Jake.

“Thanks,” she said with a wan smile.

“For what?”

“Being such a gentleman.”

Her attitude caught Jake off guard. Feeling all the more responsible for her predicament, he said, “There’s plenty of room at my grandmother’s house. You’d be welcome to stay.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose,” she said hastily.

“You wouldn’t be. Gram Kate likes having company.”

“That’s kind. But it’s too much to ask.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” Hoping she would accept and relieve his conscience, Jake stopped at the crossroads just shy of Liberty Flats. His turn was dependent upon her decision. “Would you like to have a look before you make up your mind?”

Shelby’s head was pounding. She anchored the laptop between her feet on the floor and reached into her shoulder bag. “Here,” she said, and uncapped a bottle of aspirin.

“What’s this?”

“For your headache. Mine’s splitting, too.”

Chagrined Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “You have good ears,” he said finally.

“So I’ve heard.” Shelby shook two tablets into her palm and offered them, saying, “My treat.”

She was a treat, dressed all in cream. All that kept Jake from telling her so was the pain in her doe-soft hazel eyes and a mouth that was too grave. That quick, she got to him. An almost-could-have-been-should-have-been-married woman. He thanked God she wasn’t, and gestured, saying, “You first.”

Shelby tossed the tablets back. They burned all the way down. She coughed and rubbed her eyes. Jake pushed a box of tissues her way. Hoping for the chance to know her better, he made the turn into Liberty Flats. “I’ll get you something to wash it down with.”

The shady streets spanned a time line of American housing, from Victorian to cheerful bungalows to ranch-style homes to imposing Cape Cods on manicured lawns. At the center of town, Jake circled the village green. It enfolded a bandstand, picnic tables, a memorial stone honoring war dead and a flag pole. Old Glory rippled in the breeze, a twin to the flag jutting from the brick front of Newt’s Market across the way. The remainder of the business district consisted of boarded-up buildings, a few of which leaned like stacked stove wood.

Jake turned the Jeep up the alley and parked in the driveway of his timber-framed shop. Shelby spotted the sign company logo above the overhead door. The Jackson name was also lettered on the side of the building. “You live here, too?” she asked.

“I have lately. Gram’s memory isn’t what it used to be,” said Jake. “My sisters have families to look after. All but the youngest, and she just got married. I was the logical choice. Come on, and I’ll get you that drink.”

His amiable smile tweezed the thorn that had cropped up at Shelby’s realization the house he referred to as his grandmother’s was his home, too. She climbed out and paused for a closer look at the house. It was a two-story arts-and-craft home with clean lines and deep verandas. The slate roof sloped away from a catwalk enclosed by a wrought iron railing.

Jake knocked the dust off his feet on the back veranda and waited for her to catch up. The back door opened into a eclectic kitchen that spanned a generation. Good bones, nice texture. In her head Shelby heard her mother accentuating the positive.

“Tea? Juice? Soda?” Jake offered, his footsteps ringing over vintage pine flooring.

“Water’s fine.” Shelby dropped her head back, admiring a high ceiling sectioned by hand-hewn oak beams. The room was long and wide and graced with deep windows. Fresh flowers adorned a table big enough for all the king’s horses and men. Handicrafts decorated the walls—a framed wood-burned copy of the Lord’s Prayer, a plaque inscribed Friends Are Special People. The napkin holder had rust spots, and child-size fingerprints glazed the cookie jar.

Jake drew her a glass of water, waited as she drained it and returned the empty glass to the sink.

“It’s a restful house. Don’t think I’m not tempted to accept your hospitality,” Shelby began. Then Jake’s beeper cut in. She gestured, saying, “Go ahead. Don’t let me keep you.”

Jake excused himself to make a phone call.

After the chaos of the morning, the quiet house was to Shelby what oil was to chafed skin. Her eye skipped from child-crafted refrigerator art to toast crumbs on the counter to the yellow energy efficiency rating sticker, the grease-splattered corners of which curled from the surface of a new stove. Ordinary folk, cutting corners rushing through ordinary days. It wasn’t like her to impose on the kindness of strangers. But then again, she hadn’t exactly been herself lately.

“Shall I bring in your things, or do you want a ride back to town?” asked Jake, returning.

“Are you sure I won’t be in the way?” Shelby asked.

“I’m sure,” he said.

“I can see you’re a busy man. I won’t be a pest,” she promised.

Jake smiled and excused himself and returned moments later with her belongings. “This way.”

Shelby let go the last vestiges of convention and trekked after him through the kitchen and dining room. Their footsteps fell to a whisper on the rose carpet that spanned the staircase. The woodwork was dark, the walls embossed, the decor turn-of-the-century elegant, though with a nice splash of modern graces.

The guest room at the top of the landing was spacious and homey with quilts and lace curtains and woven rugs. Shelby circled the room, absorbing it with an appreciative glance that didn’t escape Jake. “My mother would love this. She works with Harbor House, restoring old houses for low-income families,” she said.

“And your father?”

“He is a plastic surgeon.”

“I’ll bet even he couldn’t put a pretty face on this day,” said Jake in open sympathy.

“I should have seen it coming,” she murmured, then flushed at his confusion. “Oh! You mean the car.”

He nodded. “What’d you think?”

Patrick. She thought he meant Patrick. Embarrassed, Shelby averted her face.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Jake.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, gripping her pocketbook.

“Okay. I need to be going. But if you need anything, my sister Paula is out back in the shop,” Jake told her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Glad to help,” he said, and stopped in the door to look back. “And make that Jake.”

“Jake,” Shelby amended, meeting his gaze. His smiling eyes begged descriptive notation: Pale tropical waters splashing at sun-browned banks.