Ex and the Single Girl (10 page)

“
You know what, baby?”
Vera said, smirking. “
I think that
’
s a wonderful idea. Why don
’
t you go out to the Babb farm and see if Ian has any time for us?”

I blinked at her. “
Why can
’
t we j
ust call?”

“
Oh, that phone hasn
’
t been hooked up for ages. You
’
ll have to go out there yourself.”

“
I can
’
t,”
I said. “
I haven
’
t showered.”

She jerked her head toward the ceiling. “
Use the shower in the apartment upstairs. We haven
’
t used it in a while, but
it should still work.”

“
Don
’
t you need my help here?”

She pulled a small basket out from under the coffee bar, lined it with a linen towel, and filled it with muffins from the big tray.

“
Oh, I can get by for an hour or two. Bev said she
’
d come in for a li
ttle while this morning.”
She held the basket out for me with a smile. “
Now go. Be neighborly.”

When I was a kid, I spent one summer selling eggs for Morris Babb at the farmers
’
market, working a table in the high school parking lot every Sunday afternoon
until I could afford the ten- speed bike I
’
d had my eye on. Working at the Page after school contributed to the family income, and as part of the family, I never saw an actual paycheck. Morris gave me five dollars a week, and at the end of that summer I r
o
de my new bike out to the Babb farm to show it off to Morris and his wife, Trudy. She invited me in and made cornbread. He gave me iced tea and sat on the porch with me, telling stories about Trudy when she was young.

“
Now Miss Trudy Bates was the pretties
t gal in Catoosa County, and there were plenty of fellas tryin
’
to catch her eye, you know.”
He laughed and winked at me. “
Now, how do you suppose the upstart son of a dairy farmer got that beauty for himself?”

I smiled and shrugged. He leaned forward.

“
We
ll, I knew the only way I
’
d get a chance with Trudy was to get her attention. So I got me up at four in the morning one Sunday and dragged Butter, the crankiest milk cow ever to exist anywhere, all the way into town, and I left that ornery cow right there
on her daddy
’
s lawn. Then I went to hide across the street, waiting for the family to wake up and get all ruffled so I could come in looking for my lost cow and save the day. Be the big hero, don
’
t you know.”

Trudy had come out of the house at that moment, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorjamb. She smiled at Morris, then looked down at me.

“
He telling the story of how he won my heart?”
She and Morris exchanged looks, and she smiled at him as she fi
nished the story. “
Fool puts a cow on my lawn, what did he think was gonna happen? My daddy saw that beast eating up his grass, and he got his shotgun, of course. The first time I noticed Mr. Morris Babb was when my mama was pulling buckshot outta his bac
k
side.”

They laughed together, her chipper giggle harmonizing with his rough bark, almost as if they
’
d been practicing it. I watched them, wondering at this strange world where a man fell in love with one woman and stuck long enough to harmonize a laugh. I
made a quick excuse and rode my bike out to Beauji
’
s.

The next time I saw Trudy was at Morris
’
s funeral during my senior year of high school. I told her how sorry I was, and she stared at the funeral home wallpaper and said blankly that they
’
d had fifty-tw
o years together; who could ask for more than that? I squeezed her hand, my mind unable to wrap itself around a man who
’
d stick for fifty-two years.

Now, I stepped out of my car in front of the Babb farmhouse and looked around. The cows were gone. The chic
ken coop was empty. The big red barn still stood, but the color was dulled by years of inattention. A side door was open and seemed to be hanging a little crooked, as if the top hinge had given up hope. The farmhouse, however, looked just as it had the da
y
I
’
d ridden up to show the Babbs my pink ten-speed. I
’
d heard some rumbles about Bridge Wilkins keeping the place up and renting it out, bat since we weren
’
t allowed to discuss Bridge Wilkins in our house, I never did get the full story. At any rate, whoe
v
er had been taking care of the house had done a great job.

I grabbed the muffins from my passenger seat, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. Moments later, the door opened, and there was Ian Beckett, wearing a pair of blue sweatpants and a plai
n white T-shirt, leaning one hip against the doorway and sipping from a mug that read WORLD
’
S GREATEST GRANDMA.

“
This is a pleasant surprise,”
he said, smiling down at me. “
Would you like to come in? We could pretend to have coffee.”
I smiled at him, swing
ing my left arm out and presenting him with the basket of muffins. “
I
’
m being neighborly.”

He took the basket from me. “
Thank you. That
’
s very thoughtful.”
He stepped back, holding his body against the inside door while stretching out one arm to pin the sc
reen door back for me. “
Please. Come in.”

I slid past him and turned around to face him as he stepped inside, letting the doors shut behind him. He caught my eyes and smiled. I smiled back and held up a hardcover copy of
Clean Sweep.

“
I just was wondering
if you could sign this for me. I
’
m a huge fan.”

Chapter Four

“
I
’
m sorry I don
’
t have any coffee,”
Ian said, coming up behind me and putting a mug of steaming tea on the end table next to my side of the couch. “
I will have to get some soon.”

“
Don
’
t feel
you have to give in to cultural pressure on my account,”
I said, looking at the writing on the side of the mug before taking a sip. GRANDMA
’
S KITCHEN. “
I like tea just fine.”

Ian shrugged. “
When in Rome...”

We were quiet for a moment. Ian
’
s eyes dropped to
the book sitting on the kitchen table between us.

“
Sorry about that, by the way.”

“
No big deal,”
I said with a shrug. “
As lies go, it
’
s not so bad.”

“
Well, I didn
’
t exactly lie...”

“
Yes, you exactly did. I asked if I should know you. You said no.”

He held
up one pedantic finger. “
That
’
s not a lie. Why should you know me?”

“
Because you
’
re Mr. Tan Carpenter. That
’
s a big deal.”
He opened his mouth and I held up my hand. “
I come in peace, Tonto. It
’
s okay. I
’
m not angry.”

He smiled and sipped his tea, placing it gently back down on the table.

“
Sometimes it
’
s nice when I meet someone who doesn
’
t know who I am,”
he said quietly. “
Not that I
’
m mobbed everywhere I go, but there are times when it matters, and I
’
d rather it didn
’
t. Does that make any sense?”

I nodded. “
I understand. And it
’
s really not a big deal. I mean, it
’
s not like we actually...”
I made an awkward gesture in the space between us and we both chuckled a little.

“
So, how
’
s your dissertation coming along?”
he ask
ed.

I smiled. “
Great. Good. Almost done.”

“
It was about Austen, wasn
’
t it?”

Don
’
t know. Been so long since I
’
ve touched it I can hardly remember.
“
Yeah. I
’
ve always had something of a fascination with her work. But lately...I don
’
t know.”

A light smile pla
yed on his face. “
What don
’
t you know?”

I shrugged. “
I don
’
t know. I
’
m up for a faculty position. If I finish my dissertation in time, I
’
ve got a real shot at it.”

He lifted his mug. “
So what
’
s the problem?”

“
I don
’
t know.”

He smiled. “
Well, I
’
m sure you
’
l
l figure it out. At any rate, you should be proud of yourself. Getting a Ph.D. is a tremendous accomplishment.”

“
Yeah,”
I said lamely. “
I know. It
’
s just...”

I stared down at the table for a moment, then looked up to find him watching me, waiting for me to
finish. He seemed genuinely interested. Maybe someday he
’
d write about a halfhearted bookstore clerk. Maybe the ambivalence I typically kept to myself would be helpful.

“
I envy people who know what they want,”
I said, finally. “
I
’
ve been quarter-owner in
a bookstore since I was born. It seemed to make sense to go to college and study literature. And then, I just kept going to college. And now it
’
s the end of the line.”

‘
And you don
’
t know what you want to do.”

I didn
’
t answer. He reached over and tapped tw
o fingers on the back of my hand.

“
You
’
ll figure it out.”

I met his eyes, and my heart kicked up a notch.
Time to go.
I stood up.

“
Thanks for the tea,”
I said.

“
You
’
re quite welcome.”
He stood up as well. “
Thank you for the muffins.”

We smiled at each othe
r for a moment, then I turned and walked to the door. He held it open for me and I walked out to my car without looking back. I parked in front of the Page before I realized I
’
d completely forgotten to ask him about the book signing.

“
So, you never had sex
with Ian Beckett?”
Beauji said, resting her glass of ginger ale on her stomach. We
’
d finished dinner over an hour earlier, and she and Davey had used a good meal and a bottle of wine to crack me wide open about Ian Beckett. “
Honey, if I had that man in m
y
bed, there
’
s no way either of us would have gotten any sleep.”

“
Surprisingly, that kind of comment doesn
’
t bother me as much as it should,”
Davey said. He stood up and grabbed the bottle of wine. “
The third-trimester hormones are making her horny as hell.
You should have seen the way she looked at the pizza guy the other night.”