"I don't know how it got to be Thursday."
"It has something to do with Thor, the Norse god." Hayley hunched her shoulders sheepishly. "I know a lot of stupid things. I don't know why."
"I wasn't looking for the origin of the word, more how it got here so fast. Thor?" Stella repeated, turning from the mirror in the employee bathroom.
"Pretty sure."
"I'll just take your word on that one. Okay." She spread out her arms. "How do I look?"
"You look really nice."
"Too nice? You know, too formal or prepared?"
"No, just right nice." The fact was, she envied the way Stella looked in simple gray pants and black sweater. Sort of tailored, and curvy under it. When she wasn't pregnant, she herself tended to be on the bony side and flat-chested.
"The sweater makes you look really built," she added.
"Oh, God!" Horrified, Stella crossed her arms, pressing them against her breasts. "Too built? Like, hey, look at my boobs?"
"No." Laughing, Hayley tugged Stella's arms down. "Cut it out. You've got really excellent boobs."
"I'm nervous. It's ridiculous, but I'm nervous. I hate being nervous, which is why I hardly ever am." She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, brushed at it. "Why do something you hate?"
"It's just a casual afternoon outing." Hayley avoided the D word. They'd been over that. "Just go and have fun."
"Right. Of course. Stupid." She shook herself off before walking out of the room. "You've got my cell number."
"Everybody has your cell number, Stella." She cast a look at Ruby, who answered it with chuckle.
"I think the mayor probably has it on speed dial."
"If there are any problems at all, don't hesitate to use it. And if you're not sure about anything, and can't find Roz or Harper, just call me."
"Yes, Mama. And don't worry, the keg's not coming until three." She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Did I say keg? Peg's what I meant. Yeah, I meant Peg."
"Ha ha."
"And the male strippers aren't a definite." She got a hoot of laughter out of Ruby at that and grinned madly. "So you can chill."
"I don't think chilling's on today's schedule."
"Can I ask how long it's been since you've been on a date - I mean, an outing?"
"Not that long. A few months." When Hayley rolled her eyes, Stella rolled hers right back. "I was busy. There was a lot to do with selling the house, packing up, arranging for storage, researching schools and pediatricians down here. I didn't have time."
"And didn't have anyone who made you want to make time. You're making it today."
"It's not like that. Why is he late?" she demanded, glancing at her watch. "I knew he'd be late. He has 'I'm chronically late for mostly everything' written all over him."
When a customer came in, Hayley patted Stella's shoulder. "That's my cue. Have a good time. May I help you?" she asked, strolling over to the customer.
Stella waited another couple of minutes, assuring herself that Hayley had the new customer in hand. Ruby rang up two more. Work was being done where work needed to be done, and she had nothing to do but wait.
Deciding to do her waiting outside, she grabbed her jacket.
Her planters looked good, and she figured her display of them was directly responsible for the flats of pansies they'd moved in the past few days. That being the case, they could add a few more planters, do a couple of half whiskey barrels, add some hanging pots.
Scribbling, she wandered around, picking out the best spots to place displays, to add other touches that would inspire customers to buy.
* * *
When Logan pulled up at quarter after one, she was sitting on the steps, listing the proposed displays and arrangements and dividing up the labor of creating them.
She got up even as he climbed out of the truck. "I got hung up."
"No problem. I kept busy."
"You okay riding in the truck?"
"Wouldn't be the first time." She got in, and as she buckled her seat belt, studied the forest of notes and reminders, sketches and math calculations stuck to his dashboard.
"Your filing system?"
"Most of it." He turned on the CD player, and Elvis rocked out with "Heartbreak Hotel." "Seems only right."
"Are you a big fan?"
"You've got to respect the King."
"How many times have you been to Graceland?"
"Couldn't say. People come in from out of town, they want to see it. You visit Memphis, you want Graceland, Beale Street, ribs, the Peabody's duck walk."
Maybe she could chill, Stella decided. They were just talking, after all. Like normal people. "Then this is the first tic on my list."
He looked over at her. Though his eyes were shielded by the black lenses, she knew, from the angle of his head, that they were narrowed with speculation. "You've been here, what, around a month, and you haven't gone for ribs?"
"No. Will I be arrested?"
"You a vegetarian?"
"No, and I like ribs."
"Honey, you haven't had ribs yet if you haven't had Memphis ribs. Don't your parents live down here? I thought I'd met them once."
"My father and his wife, yeah. Will and Jolene Dooley."
"And no ribs?"
"I guess not. Will they be arrested?"
"They might, if it gets out. But I'll give you, and them, a break and keep quiet about it for the time being."
"Guess we'll owe you."
"Heartbreak Hotel" moved into "Shake, Rattle, and Roll." This was her father's music, she thought. It was odd, and kind of sweet, to be driving along, tapping her foot, on the way to Memphis listening to the music her father had listened to as a teenager.
"What you do is you take the kids to the Reunion for ribs," Logan told her. "You can walk over to Beale from there, take in the show. But before you eat, you go by the Peabody so they can see the ducks. Kids gotta see the ducks."
"My father's taken them."
"That might keep him out of the slammer."
"Whew." It was easier than she'd thought it would be, and she felt foolish knowing she'd prepared several avenues for small talk. "Except for the time you moved north, you've always lived in the Memphis area?"
"That's right."
"It's strange for me, knowing I was born here, but having no real memory of it. I like it here, and I like to think - overlooking the lack of ribs to date - that there's a connection for me here. Of course, I haven't been through a summer yet - that I can remember - but I like it. I love working for Roz."
"She's a jewel."
Because she heard the affection in his tone, she shifted toward him a bit. "She thinks the same of you. In fact, initially, I thought the two of you were ..."
His grin spread. "No kidding?"
"She's beautiful and clever, and you've got a lot in common. You've got a history."
"All true. Probably the history makes anything like that weird. But thanks."
"I admire her so much. I like her, too, but I have such admiration for everything she's accomplished. Single-handedly. Raising her family, maintaining her home, building a business from the ground up. And all the while doing it her own way, calling her own shots."
"Is that what you want?"
"I don't want my own business. I thought about it a couple of years ago. But that sort of leap with no parachute and two kids?" She shook her head. "Roz is gutsier than I am. Besides, I realized it wasn't what I really wanted. I like working for someone else, sort of troubleshooting and coming in with a creative and efficient plan for improvement or expansion. Managing is what I do best."
She waited a beat. "No sarcastic comments to that?"
"Only on the inside. That way I can save them up until you tick me off again."
"I can hardly wait. In any case, it's like, I enjoy planting a garden from scratch - that blank slate. But more, I like taking one that's not planned very well, or needs some shaping up, and turning it around."
She paused, frowned. "Funny, I just remembered. I had a dream about a garden a few nights ago. A really strange dream with ... I don't know, something spooky about it. I can't quite get it back, but there was something ... this huge, gorgeous blue dahlia. Dahlias are a particular favorite of mine, and blue's my favorite color. Still, it shouldn't have been there, didn't belong there. I hadn't planted it. But there it was. Strange."
"What did you do with it? The dahlia?"
"Can't remember. Luke woke me up, so my garden and the exotic dahlia went poof." And the room, she thought, the room had been so cold. "He wasn't feeling well, a little tummy distress."
"He okay now?"
"Yeah." Another point for his side, Stella thought. "He's fine, thanks."
"How about the tooth?"
Uh-oh, second point. The man remembered her baby'd had a loose tooth. "Sold to the Tooth Fairy for a crisp dollar bill. Second one's about to wiggle out. He's got the cutest little lisp going on right now."
"His big brother teach him how to spit through the hole yet?"
She grimaced. "Not to my knowledge."
"What you don't know... I bet it's still there - the magic dahlia - blooming in dreamland."
"That's a nice thought." Kill it. God, where did that come from? she wondered, fighting off a shudder.
"It was pretty spectacular, as I recall."
She glanced around as he pulled into a parking lot. "Is this it?"
"It's across the road. This is like the visitors' center, the staging area. We get our tickets inside, and they take groups over in shuttles."
He turned off the engine, shifted to look at her. "Five bucks says you're a convert when we come back out."
"An Elvis convert? I don't have anything against him now."
"Five bucks. You'll be buying an Elvis CD, minimum, after the tour."
"That's a bet."
* * *
It was so much smaller than she'd imagined. She'd pictured something big and sprawling, something mansionlike, close to the level of Harper House. Instead, it was a relatively modest-sized home, and the rooms - at least the ones the tour encompassed - rather small.
She shuffled along with the rest of the tourists, listening to Lisa Marie Presley's recorded memories and observations through the provided headset.
She puzzled over the pleated fabric in shades of curry, blue, and maroon swagged from the ceiling and covering every inch of wall in the cramped, pool-table-dominated game room. Then wondered at the waterfall, the wild-animal prints and tiki-hut accessories all crowned by a ceiling of green shag carpet in the jungle room.
Someone had lived with this, she thought. Not just someone, but an icon - a man of miraculous talent and fame. And it was sweet to listen to the woman who'd been a child when she'd lost her famous father, talk about the man she remembered, and loved.
The trophy room was astonishing to her, and immediately replaced her style quibbles with awe. It seemed like miles of walls in the meandering hallways were covered, cheek by jowl, with Elvis's gold and platinum records. All that accomplished, all that earned in fewer years, really, than she'd been alive.
And with Elvis singing through her headset, she admired his accomplishments, marveled over his elaborate, splashy, and myriad stage costumes. Then was charmed by his photographs, his movie posters, and the snippets of interviews.
* * *
You learned a lot about someone walking through Graceland with her, Logan discovered. Some snickered over the dated and debatably tacky decor. Some stood glassy-eyed with adoration for the dead King. Others bopped along, rubbernecking or chatting, moving on through so they could get it all in and push on to the souvenir shops. Then they could go home and say, been there, done that.
But Stella looked at everything. And listened. He could tell she was listening carefully to the recording, the way her head would cock just an inch to the right. Listening soberly, he thought, and he'd bet a lot more than five bucks that she followed the instructions on the tape, pressing the correct number for the next segment at exactly the proper time.
It was kind of cute actually.
When they stepped outside to make the short pilgrimage to Elvis's poolside grave, she took off her headphones for the first time.
"I didn't know all that," she began. "Nothing more than the bare basics, really. Over a billion records sold? It's beyond comprehension, really. I certainly can't imagine what it would be like to do all that and ... what are you grinning at?"
"I bet if you had to take an Elvis test right now, you'd ace it."
"Shut up." But she laughed, then sobered again when she walked through the sunlight with him to the Meditation Garden, and the King's grave.
There were flowers, live ones wilting in the sun, plastic ones fading in it. And the little gravesite beside the swimming pool seemed both eccentric and right. Cameras snapped around them now, and she heard someone quietly sobbing.
"People claim to have seen his ghost, you know, back there." Logan gestured. "That is, if he's really dead."
"You don't believe that."
"Oh, yeah, Elvis left the building a long time ago."
"I mean about the ghost."
"Well, if he was going to haunt any place, this would be it."
They wound around toward the shuttle pickup. "People are awfully casual about ghosts around here."
It took him a minute. "Oh, the Harper Bride. Seen her yet?"
"No, I haven't. But that may only be because, you know, she doesn't exist. You're not going to tell me you've seen her."
"Can't say I have. Lot of people claim to, but then some claim to have seen Elvis eating peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches at some diner ten years after he died."
"Exactly!" She was so pleased with his good sense, she gave him a light punch on the arm. "People see what they want to see, or have been schooled to see, or expect to. Imaginations run wild, especially under the right conditions or atmosphere. They ought to do more with the gardens here, don't you think?"
"Don't get me started."
"You're right. No shop talk. Instead, I'll just thank you for bringing me. I don't know when I'd've gotten around to it on my own."
"What'd you think?"
"Sad and sweet and fascinating." She passed her headphones back to the attendant and stepped on the shuttle. "Some of the rooms were, let's say, unique in decor."
Their arms bumped, brushed, stayed pressed to each other in the narrow confines of the shuttle's seats. Her-hair skimmed along his shoulder until she shoved it back. He was sorry when she did.
"I knew this guy, big Elvis fan. He set about duplicating Graceland in his house. Got fabric like you saw in the game room, did his walls and ceilings."
She turned to face him, stared. "You're kidding."
He simply swiped a finger over his heart. "Even put a scar on his pool table to match the one on Elvis's. When he talked about getting those yellow appliances - "
"Harvest gold."
"Whatever. When he starting making noises about putting those in, his wife gave him notice. Her or Elvis."
Her face was alive with humor, and he stopped hearing the chatter of other passengers. There was something about her when she smiled, full out, that blew straight through him.
"And which did he choose?"
"Huh?"
"Which did he choose? His wife or Elvis?"
"Well." He stretched out his legs, but couldn't really shift his body away from hers. The sun was blasting through the window beside her, striking all that curling red hair. "He settled on re-creating it in his basement, and was trying to talk her into letting him put a scale model of the Meditation Garden in their backyard."
She laughed, a delightful roll of sound. When she dropped her head back on the seat, her hair tickled his shoulder again. "If he ever does, I hope we get the job."
"Count on it. He's my uncle."
She laughed again, until she was breathless. "Boy, I can't wait to meet your family." She angled around so she could face him. "I'm going to confess the only reason I came today was because I didn't want to spoil a nice gesture by saying no. I didn't expect to have fun."
"It wasn't a nice gesture so much as a spur of the moment thing. Your hair smelled good, and that clouded my better judgment."
Humor danced over her face as she pushed her hair back. "And? You're supposed to say you had fun, too."
"Actually, I did."
When the shuttle stopped, he got up, stepped back so she could slide out and walk in front of him.
"But then, your hair still smells good, so that could be it."
She shot him a grin over her shoulder, and damn it, he felt that clutch in the belly. Usually the clutch meant possibilities of fun and enjoyment. With her, he thought it meant trouble.
But he'd been raised to follow through, and his mama would be horrified and shocked if he didn't feed a woman he'd spent the afternoon with.
"Hungry?" he asked when he stepped down after her.
"Oh... Well, it's too early for dinner, too late for lunch. I really should - "
"Walk on the wild side. Eat between meals." He grabbed her hand, and that was such a surprise she didn't think to protest until he'd pulled her toward one of the on-site eateries.
"I really shouldn't take the time. I told Roz I'd be back around four."
"You know, you stay wrapped that tight for any length of time, you're going to cut your circulation off."
"I'm not wrapped that tight," she objected. "I'm responsible."
"Roz doesn't have a time clock at the nursery, and it doesn't take that long to eat a hot dog."
"No, but..." Liking him was so unexpected. As unexpected as the buzz along her skin at the feel of that big, hard hand gripping hers. It had been a long while since she'd enjoyed a man's company. Why cut it short?
"Okay." Though, she realized, her assent was superfluous, as he'd already pulled her inside and up to the counter. "Anyway. Since I'm here, I wouldn't mind looking in the shops for a minute. Or two."
He ordered two dogs, two Cokes and just smiled at her.
"All right, smart guy." She opened her purse, dug out her wallet. And took out a five-dollar bill. "I'm buying the CD. And make mine a Diet Coke."
She ate the hot dog, drank the Coke. She bought the CD. But unlike every other female he knew, she didn't have some religious obligation to look at and paw over everything in the store. She did her business and was done - neat, tidy, and precise.
And as they walked back to his truck, he noticed she glanced at the readout display of her cell phone. Again.
"Problem?"
"No." She slipped the phone back into her bag. "Just checking to see if I had any messages." But it seemed everyone had managed without her for an afternoon.
Unless something was wrong with the phones. Or they'd lost her number. Or -
'The nursery could've been attacked by psychopaths with a petunia fetish." Logan opened the passenger-side door. "The entire staff could be bound and gagged in the propagation house even as we speak."
Deliberately, Stella zipped her bag closed. "You won't think that's so funny if we get there and that's just what happened."
"Yes, I will."
He walked around the truck, got behind the wheel.
"I have an obsessive, linear, goal-oriented personality with strong organizational tendencies."
He sat for a moment. "I'm glad you told me. I was under the impression you were a scatterbrain."
"Well, enough about me. Why - "
"Why do you keep doing that?"
She paused, her hands up in her hair. "Doing what?"
"Why do you keep jamming those pins in your hair?"
"Because they keep coming out."
To her speechless shock, he reached over, tugged the loosened bobby pins free, then tossed them on the floor of his truck. "So why put them in there in the first place?"
"Well, for God's sake." She scowled down at the pins. "How many times a week does someone tell you you're pushy and overbearing?"
"I don't count." He drove out of the lot and into traffic. "You've got sexy hair. You ought to leave it alone."
"Thanks very much for the style advice."
"Women don't usually sulk when a man tells them they're sexy."
"I'm not sulking, and you didn't say I was sexy. You said my hair was."
He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her an up-and-down glance. "Rest of you works, too."
Okay, something was wrong when that sort of half-assed compliment had heat balling in her belly. Best to return to safe topics. "To return to my question before I was so oddly interrupted, why did you go into landscape design?"
"Summer job that stuck."
She waited a beat, two. Three. "Really, Logan, must you go on and on, boring me with details?"
"Sorry. I never know when to shut up. I grew up on a farm."
"Really? Did you love it or hate it?"
"Was used to it, mostly. I like working outside, and don't mind heavy, sweaty work."
"Blabbermouth," she said when he fell silent again.
"Not that much more to it. I didn't want to farm, and my daddy sold the farm some years back, anyway. But I like working the land. It's what I like, it's what I'm good at. No point in doing something you don't like or you're not good at."
"Let's try this. How did you know you were good at it?"
"Not getting fired was an indication." He didn't see how she could possibly be interested, but since she was pressing, he'd pass the time. "You know how you're in school, say in history, and they're all Battle of Hastings or crossing the Rubicon or Christ knows? In and out," he said, tapping one side of his head, then the other. "I'd jam it in there long enough to skin through the test, then poof. But on the job, the boss would say we're going to put cotoneasters in here, line these barberries over there, and I'd remember. What they were, what they needed. I liked putting them in. It's satisfying, digging the hole, prepping the soil, changing the look of things. Making it more pleasing to the eye."
"It is," she agreed. "Believe it or not, that's the same sort of deal I have with my files."
He slanted her a look that made her lips twitch. "You say. Anyway, sometimes I'd get this idea that, you know, those cotoneasters would look better over there, and instead of barberries, golden mops would set this section off. So I angled off into design."
"I thought about design for a while. Not that good at it," she said. "I realized I had a hard time adjusting my vision to blend with the team's - or the client's. And I'd get too hung up in the math and science of it, and bogged down when it came time to roll over into the art."
"Who did your landscaping up north?"
"I did. If I had something in mind that took machines, or more muscle than Kevin and I could manage, I had a list." She smiled. "A very detailed and specific list, with the design done on graph paper. Then I hovered. I'm a champion hoverer."
"And nobody shoved you into a hole and buried you?"
"No. But then, I'm very personable and pleasant. Maybe, when the time comes and I find my own place, you could consult on the landscaping design."
"I'm not personable and pleasant."
"Already noted."
"And isn't it a leap for an obsessive, linear, detail freak to trust me to consult when you've only seen one of my jobs, and that in its early stages?"
"I object to the term 'freak.' I prefer 'devotee.' And it happens I've seen several of your jobs, complete. I got some of the addresses out of the files and drove around. It's what I do," she said when he braked at a Stop sign and stared at her. "I've spent some time watching Harper work, and Roz, as well as the employees. I made it a point to take a look at some of your completed jobs. I like your work."
"And if you hadn't?"
"If I hadn't, I'd have said nothing. It's Roz's business, and she obviously likes your work. But I'd have done some quiet research on other designers, put a file together and presented it to her. That's my job."
"And here I thought your job was to manage the nursery and annoy me with forms."
"It is. Part of that management is to make sure that all employees and subcontractors, suppliers and equipment are not only suitable for In the Garden but the best Roz can afford. You're pricey," she added, "but your work justifies it."
When he only continued to frown, she poked a finger into his arm. "And men don't usually sulk when a woman compliments their work."
"Huh. Men never sulk, they brood."
But she had a point. Still, it occurred to him that she knew a great deal about him - personal matters. How much he made, for instance. When he asked himself how he felt about that, the answer was, Not entirely comfortable.
"My work, my salary, my prices are between me and Roz."
"Not anymore," she said cheerfully. "She has the last word, no question, but I'm there to manage. I'm saying that, in my opinion, Roz showed foresight and solid business sense in bringing you into her business. She pays you very well because you're worth it. Any reason you can't take that as a compliment and skip the brooding phase?"
"I don't know. What's she paying you?"
"That is between her and me, but you're certainly free to ask her." The Star Wars theme erupted in her purse. "Gavin's pick," she said as she dug it out. The readout told her the call came from home. "Hello? Hi, baby."
Though he was still a little irked, he watched everything about her light up. "You did? You're amazing. Uh-huh. I absolutely will. See you soon."
She closed the phone, put it back in her purse. "Gavin aced his spelling test."
"Yay."
She laughed. "You have no idea. I have to pick up pepperoni pizza on the way home. In our family, it's not a carrot at the end of the stick used as motivation - or simple bribery - it's pepperoni pizza."
"You bribe your kids?"
"Often, and without a qualm."
"Smart. So, they're getting along in school?"
"They are. All that worry and guilt wasted. I'll have to set it aside for future use. It was a big move for them - new place, new school, new people. Luke makes friends easily, but Gavin can be a little shy."
"Didn't seem shy to me. Kid's got a spark. Both of them do."
"Comic book connection. Any friend of Spidey's, and so on, so they were easy with you. But they're both sliding right along. So I can scratch traumatizing my sons by ripping them away from their friends off my Things to Worry About list."
"I bet you actually have one."
"Every mother has one." She let out a long, contented sigh as he pulled into the lot at the nursery. "This has been a really good day. Isn't this a great place? Just look at it. Industrious, attractive, efficient, welcoming. I envy Roz her vision, not to mention her guts."
"You don't seem deficient in the guts department."
"Is that a compliment?"
He shrugged. "An observation."
She liked being seen as gutsy, so she didn't tell him she was scared a great deal of the time. Order and routine were solid, defensive walls that kept the fear at bay.
"Well, thanks. For the observation, and the afternoon. I really appreciated both." She opened the door, hopped out. "And I've got a trip into the city for ribs on my list of must-dos."
"You won't be sorry." He got out, walked around to her side. He wasn't sure why. Habit, he supposed. Ingrained manners his mother had carved into him as a boy. But it wasn't the sort of situation where you walked the girl to her door and copped a kiss good night.
She thought about offering her hand to shake, but it seemed stiff and ridiculous. So she just smiled.
"I'll play the CD for the boys." She shook her bag. "See what they think."
"Okay. See you around."
He started to walk back to his door. Then he cursed under his breath, tossed his sunglasses on the hood, and turned back. "Might as well finish it out."
She wasn't slow, and she wasn't naive. She knew what he intended when he was still a full stride away. But she couldn't seem to move.
She heard herself make some sound - not an actual word - then his hand raked through her hair, his fingers cupping her head with enough pressure to bring her up on her toes. She saw his eyes. There were gold flecks dusted over the green.
Then everything blurred, and his mouth was hard and hot on hers.
Nothing hesitant about it, nothing testing or particularly friendly. It was all demand, with an irritable edge. Like the man, she thought dimly, he was doing what he intended to do, was determined to see it through, but wasn't particularly pleased about it.
And still her heart rammed into her throat, throbbing there to block words, even breath. The fingers of the hand that had lifted to his shoulder in a kind of dazed defense dug in. They slid limply down to his elbow when his head lifted.
With his hand still caught in her hair, he said, "Hell."
He dragged her straight up to her toes again, banded an arm around her so that her body was plastered to his. When his mouth swooped down a second time, any brains that hadn't already been fried drained out of her ears.
He shouldn't have thought of kissing her. But once he had, it didn't seem reasonable to walk away and leave it undone. And now he was in trouble, all wound up in that wild hair, that sexy scent, those soft lips.
And when he deepened the kiss, she let out this sound, this catchy little moan. What the hell was a man supposed to do but want?
Her hair was like a maze of madly coiled silk, and that pretty, curvy body of hers vibrated against him like a well-tuned machine, revving for action. The longer he held her, the more he tasted her, the dimmer the warning bells sounded to remind him he didn't want to get tangled up with her. On any level.
When he managed to release her, to step back, he saw the flush riding along her cheeks. It made her eyes bluer, bigger. It made him want to toss her over his shoulder and cart her off somewhere, anywhere at all where they could finish what the kiss had started. Because the urge to do so was an ache in the belly, he took another step back.
"Okay." He thought he spoke calmly, but couldn't be sure with the blood roaring in his ears. "See you around."
He walked back to the truck, got in. Managed to turn over the engine and shove into reverse. Then he hit the brakes again when the sun speared into his eyes.
He sat, watching Stella walk forward, retrieve the sunglasses that had bounced off the hood and onto the gravel. He lowered the window as she stepped to it.
His eyes stayed on hers when he reached out to take them from her. "Thanks."
"Sure."
He slipped them on, backed out, turned the wheel and drove out of the lot.
Alone, she let out a long, wheezing breath, sucked in another one; and let that out as she ordered her limp legs to carry her to the porch.
She made it as far as the steps before she simply lowered herself down to sit. "Holy Mother of God," she managed.
She sat, even as a customer came out, as another came in, while everything inside her jumped and jittered. She felt as though she'd fallen off a cliff and was even now, barely - just barely - clinging to a skinny, crumbling ledge by sweaty fingertips.
What was she supposed to do about this? And how could she figure it out when she couldn't think?
So she wouldn't try to figure it out until she could think. Getting to her feet, she rubbed her damp palms on the thighs of her pants. For now, she'd go back to work, she'd order pizza, then go home to her boys. Go home to normal.
She did better with normal.
