Leaving Normal (24 page)

Performance Anxiety

Iris stocked the color-cast, two-quart oval roasters. She loved the new color. She had the same roaster in red and blue in a four-and-a-half quart. She'd have to put this one aside, feeling the need for the green, too. Not that she could cook with two at a time, but the roaster was so pretty she just couldn't resist.

Each month, probably forty percent of her pay check went right back into Target's coffers via the cash register as there were just too many temptations for her to resist. This store was her world, her little niche that she loved to explore and she loved to see what new goodies came in each week.

She liked wearing her red smock, the bright red carts, was smitten by the Target mascot—Bullseye, the white English bull terrier with the red circle painted around its left eye. Whenever she got a gift card, she always picked the one with the dog.

The roasters were showing nicely, a colorful splash against the plain ivory-colored shelf. Her impending evaluation was put out of her mind as she performed the job she enjoyed so much.

Who would have thought she'd end up in retail? She'd started out her career as a court clerk back in the seventies, lasting for fifteen years before making a job change. Her husband at the time said she was crazy to start over so late in life. No wonder she'd divorced her son's father.

The man had never believed in her, not for one day, so God only knows why she fell in love with him. He was Mr. Negative. Doom and Gloom. Xavier now lived in Portland and she never spoke to him, never had to run into him in Boise—thank goodness. She knew from her son that he talked with his dad on occasion, but they weren't close. That made her sad sometimes. A boy should be the apple of his father's eye, but it wasn't to be and there was nothing Iris could do.

She finished aligning the roasters, making sure to save one for herself, then rolled her stock cart to the small appliances-and-gadgets area and took inventory of basic equipment—ladles, pancake turners, hand can openers, measuring spoons, etcetera.

Biannual personnel reviews always put her out of sorts. She didn't know why. She did a good job, always got a great performance review. Raises were given each year and she was due. She'd worked for the company coming up on three years and had rarely missed a workday. She had done her "goal setting," and felt that she -had set realistic results.

Gazing at her distorted reflection in the large chrome soupspoon hanging off the pegboard wall, she brushed aside her reddish-brown bangs. She'd been thinking about growing them out. Maybe bangs made her look older. She wasn't all that old—at least she didn't feel old. She looked younger than her fifty-four, which was nice at times. Not so nice at others.

Men her age didn't ask her out. It was usually younger men, and she just didn't have a lot in common with them. They wanted "trophy" ladies to bring to the country club, to dine in the golf-course lounge, to spend a weekend in Sun Valley at a spa for "rejuvenation." Iris didn't need any weekend rejuvenating aka "a one-night stand."

Men in their mid-fifties were moving on in life at a rapid rate, one in which they feared mortality, although they had not voiced that to her—but she was smart enough to figure it out. It was because their children were having children. They were
grandpas
. And grandpas meant rocking chairs and Viagra. It was quite silly.

Actually, she was the oddball in not having grandchildren by now. Most everyone her age had at least a handful of grandchildren they got to spoil. Iris had none.

Her son wasn't married, had no one special to spend his time with. He had so much to offer and she wished nothing but the best for him, and hoped he would find someone to love and to be with for the rest of his life.

Iris took a deep breath, fought off the inevitable uncontrolled pang of wanting good things for her son, then took stock of the knives. Paring and grapefruit. Single blade versus serrated.

She was going about her job, lost in thought, when she glanced up to a cart rolling toward her.

It was
him
.

That man she'd sold the crumb duster to. He'd returned several times since to ask her opinion on other kitchen items. She'd talked up a parsley mill and he'd bought that, much to her surprise, as most men wouldn't have known what to do with it. Last time he showed great interest in the hard-boiled egg cutter and put it in his red cart.

She smiled, rather liked it when he showed up, this being his fourth trip to her aisle while she was on shift, and it confirmed something.

He wasn't just shopping for items…he was looking for her.

That thought sent a shock wave of awareness through her, right down to the toes of her Keds. Never in her history of employment at Target had a customer come looking for something that wasn't readily on the shelf. It could be nothing, maybe he was thinking she was nice and informative.

For some strange reason, Iris wanted him to keep coming back. It had been a very long time since she'd had more than a passing interest in a man. Why she'd pick this one was apparent enough.

He was good-looking, with a very nice head of hair. His jowls were a little on the full side, but they lent his face a great deal of character. The warmth in his gray eyes compelled her to stare into them when he spoke, while his straight teeth had caught her attention on more than one occasion.

"Hello," he said, coming to a stop.

"Hello." She felt a curious leap to her heartbeat. He smelled nice today. She was thinking maybe it was Brut. She had a good memory of that particular cologne from high school. Usually it was only old-school men who wore the scent—and she was an old-school woman who recognized and appreciated it.

"I'm just pushing through," he said, taking a sip from a slushy in his cart. "Thought I'd stop by and see what's new in housewares."

"Let's see," she returned, trying to figure out what she'd shown him before and what she hadn't.

She loved the obscure, the little knickknacky things that could really add to a kitchen and make it more functional. Her gaze scanned the wall of gadgets and she pressed her lips together, trying not to be aware of his gaze on her back, feeling it there and trying to quell a delightful shiver.

"I just love this butter-and-cheese dispenser." She turned around, an item in her hand. "You can decorate your food with five shapes using butter or soft cheeses. Isn't it cute?"

She held it out to him, his gaze skimming over the box. "It's nice."

"It's very chic for dinner parties. Your guests will think you spent hours in the kitchen." She was going to set the box back on the shelf, but he took it from her.

"I'd like to buy it."

"Lovely." She smiled at his sheepish grin. Then she dared ask, "Do you have very many dinner parties?"

"No, but I was thinking I'd start."

For some strange reason, Iris wondered if the "I" was single or if the "I" meant he would have the parties and help a "we," meaning his wife or a girlfriend. A little too late to be mulling that over.

But if he were married, why would he keep coming back?

She had seen him four times now. The once or twice evoked little curious emotions about him. The third time she'd grown more intrigued, had even felt a moment when she thought she knew him from somewhere aside from Target, as if their paths had crossed before but she couldn't place it.

Today she gave him her full attention, and with more than a passing interest.

Iris inquired, rather on the sly side, but she had to know, "Does your wife like to host parties?"

"I'm a widower," he replied quite quickly.

Inwardly, she smiled over his availability. Outwardly, she offered the necessary condolences. "I'm sorry."

"She's been gone a long time, not that that diminishes the happy memories, but life marches on to the beat of a new drummer."

"Yes, it does."

"And you…Iris? Are you, um…married?"

His question was so cute, so hopeful, but he probably had the same thought as she—a little late for wondering about such things. She liked how he spoke her name. He made it sound like the flower.

"I'm divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why would you be? He was a grumpy bear."

His eyebrow rose, then a smile caught on his mouth. "But at one time you must have loved him."

"I believe for a few years I did. He gave me a fine son and a pain in my rear end."

He laughed. "Well, I have two daughters, so I know about pains in the rear end. You wouldn't believe how messy teenage girls can be. I almost killed myself on electric hair curlers lying on the hallway floor."

Iris grinned. "My son never wore curlers, but I twisted my ankle on his athletic gear on more than one occasion."

They both smiled, a lull in the conversation drifting -around them as they reconnected with fond old memories.

Iris drew her spine straighter, then thought better of it. She was five feet eleven inches tall and this man was clearly inches shorter. He might not feel secure being around a woman taller than him.

On a soft exhale, she slouched.

"I don't mind that you're tall," he said, causing her to let out a half gasp.

"Oh…well, yes—I am tall."

"It doesn't make me feel less like a man's man or anything. Not that I'm not a man's man. I open doors for ladies and help them with their coats and things like that."

"That's very admirable. Very nice."

"My wife liked it."

"My husband didn't do that for me."

"Then he was a louse," he commented sourly, then reined in his personal opinion and muttered, "I shouldn't have said that."

"Quite all right. I've called him worse than a louse."

He sipped his slushy once more, a flush of color rising up his neck. He formed words, then spoke them in a soft tone as if he'd been thinking how he would speak them one day. "My name's Fred Miller."

"Hello, Fred."

"Hello, Ms."

Putting a foot on the cart's lower rail, he leaned his forearms on the handle. "I'm…ah… This isn't my usual Target. I shop at the one on Milwaukee."

"Oh."

"Yeah, it's a good store in Boise. They have the slushies that I like. I got a mango one today. It's not as good as the white cherry, but it'll do. You could say I'm a Target regular—like church on Sunday. You'll find me here with the new circular on Sunday mornings."

"Today's Friday."

"I came early."

That pleased her for unexpected reasons. She had never engaged in an extended or recurring conversation with a customer until now.

She merely smiled, was happy that he'd visited her aisle. The items in his cart were telltale evidence that he'd come straight to housewares, as everything he had in his basket was the found at the front of the store— some hand lotion, a Johnny Cash CD, number-ten envelopes and a disposable razor pack. What a man bought said a lot about him.

Fred Miller seemed pretty grounded, stable.

"Are you retired?" she asked, curious about it.

"Retired postal employee who never went postal." He chuckled. "I put in my time, now I've got plenty of it to spend on the things I like."

"And that is?"

"I like to feed my backyard squirrels and birds, and I help out at my daughter's store. I make the deliveries. I get to meet a lot of people that way…" His voice trailed, he stared hard at her. "I remember everyone who I make a delivery to and I wonder if they remember me."

Then he said nothing further, but she had the strange feeling she should have added something or rnade a comment.

"I'm sure you're good at it," was all she managed, thinking that in a familiar way, she should know what he was talking about, but why couldn't she remember?

Damn menopause anyway; it messed with her memory sometimes.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked, not really wanting him to leave, but she did have that review, and her performance would be under scrutiny—much as it was now. Her performance as a woman, that is.

She felt as if she was saying the wrong things, perhaps acting as if she wasn't interested in him when she was, and yet, she wasn't the kind of woman to throw herself at a man. It was usually the other way around and they did the throwing at her.

Fred was different. He appeared very cool under pressure, or maybe he wasn't interested in her in the way she felt she could be interested in him.

That thought made her frown. Perhaps she had misread him.

"Yes, there is some thing else," he replied.

And it was then that she knew he was interested because he got this vague blush across his cheeks that touched the tips of his ears.

She waited for him to elaborate.

"I was thinking…since you aren't married and neither am I and I was thinking that maybe when you get off work you might want to meet me in the snack bar and we can talk more…maybe. If you aren't busy after work. I was just thinking maybe…but it's up to you. You can say no."

"Yes." She didn't take a second to contemplate it— she responded in an impulsive manner.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I would like that, Fred." She slid her fingertip down the price-scanner gun, her thoughts running together. "But I don't get off until six and then I have a performance evaluation."

Fred did something completely unexpected when she said that. He burst into laughter and she was momentarily taken aback.

"I feel like I've had some performance anxiety just asking you to meet me in the cafe. I don't do this sort of thing, you know."

"Neither do I." She laughed with him. "You're the first customer to ask me to meet him after work."

"As pretty as you are, I find that hard to believe."

Now it was her turn to blush. "I can call you when my evaluation is over so you don't have to wait. I'd need your cell-phone number."

"I don't have a cell phone."

"You don't? I like mine. It's very handy."

"I don't call many people. Just my girls, the dentist and the doctor. I called the rug-cleaning outfit last week to have my carpets cleaned, but I didn't need a cell phone to call them." He rubbed his jaw. "I don't mind waiting. I'll come back at six o'clock, find a good table, and when you're able, you can join me."