“You’re not thirty yet? You act older. Look, Walter is a nice enough guy, if you like vanilla ice cream, which is perfectly okay when you put it on top of apple pie or a big fat gooey brownie, but night after night, all by itself in a bowl?”
“Walter is not vanilla ice cream. At the very least he’s … pistachio.” Pistachio? Where had that come from? Annie didn’t even like pistachio ice cream.
Bridget made a face. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Walter doesn’t believe in debt, and neither do I. He’s still paying off his law school student loans. Once that’s done, he’ll start saving up for my engagement ring.”
“He sounds like a bundle of fun. Be honest, Annie, when’s the last time Walter surprised you? Or did something romantic and spontaneous? Something that twisted your panties up in a wad? In a good way,” she added, wagging her brows up and down.
Twisted her panties up in a wad? That sounded even worse than the crackers in the bed scenario.
“Walter is very spontaneous.”
“Oh, yeah? Like how?”
Annie searched her brain, trying to come up with an example. “Just the other night, we made plans to go see that new action hero movie he’s been waiting for, and then when we were in line to buy the tickets, he changed his mind and we went to see the one about the bank robbery. How’s that for unpredictable?”
Bridget let out an exasperated sigh. “I give up. That was a no to the coffee, right?”
“No coffee, but thank you for offering,” Annie said, sounding a little too prim for her own ears.
“The coffee was just an excuse to knock on your door and see what you’ve been doing all day. Don’t expect me to ask again.”
5
After wasting half her day gawking at YouTube videos of Sam DeLuca, Annie powered through the work on her desk, answered all her emails, then dashed out to her car. It was ten after six, which meant she was thirty minutes off schedule. Every Tuesday night at exactly six, she and Walter had dinner at The Miramar Café, where they both ordered the meat loaf special. It was Walter’s favorite. And hers too, of course.
The diner was located in the small downtown section of Old Explorer’s Bay, facing the roundabout that featured the town’s iconic statue of Pedro Menendez de Aviles, the Spanish conquistador credited with founding their city. Annie parallel-parked in front of the café and was about to go inside when the flower shop across the street caught her eye. Beneath a red and white striped canopy, buckets of daisies adorned the sidewalk leading up to the shop’s door.
She mentally debated whether the daisies were worth keeping Walter waiting. She was already late. Surely a few more minutes couldn’t hurt. Before she changed her mind, she crossed the street and opened the door to the shop. An overhead bell tinkled, signaling her arrival.
Paula Simon, the shop’s owner, looked up from her laptop. “Annie, what a nice surprise. How are things at the car dealership?”
“Good, thanks.”
“You know, you were so right about investing in that money market fund. My accountant says it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Every four years Paula exchanged her car at Esposito’s for a barely used one-year-old model. And she always paid cash. That is, until this past year, when Annie had arranged for her to get a customer loyalty no-interest loan and recommended Paula invest the cash into a no-load money market fund. Annie had set up the loan program to entice buyers with excellent credit scores, but she’d been happy to give Paula a bit of free financial advice on the side.
“Did you come here to tell me something about my loan?” Paula asked. Now that Annie thought about it, she’d only actually been inside the flower shop once since coming back to town four years ago. She ordered flowers twice a year—Mother’s Day and on her grandmother’s birthday—but she always called those orders in.
Before Annie could tell her what brought her into the shop, Paula’s daughter, Celeste, came in from the back room, picked a remote up off the counter, and turned on the overhead TV. “You have to see this! He’s on another talk show.” She noticed Annie. “I hope you don’t mind, but Mom and I are kind of obsessed with this guy.” Celeste was eighteen and in her first year at the local community college.
Paula grinned sheepishly. “I’m old enough to be his mother, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
Annie looked up at the screen where Sam DeLuca sat on a couch facing Ellen DeGeneres. He had on the same jeans and blue shirt he wore for the morning show, only his five o’clock shadow was more pronounced. He looked grumpy, but somehow it only made him seem sexier.
“Sam,” Ellen said girlishly, “do you have any idea what a sensation you’ve caused?”
Sam shrugged like he was embarrassed. “I’m not sure why anyone would care about me. All I did was go on a reality dating show and get kicked off the first night.”
Celeste squealed. “Isn’t he dreamy? I mean, for an old guy. And those eyes! Twitter crashed last night after he got kicked off Single Gal. Personally, I think Hannah is missing brain cells to have sent him home.”
Paula gave Annie an amused look. “Old guy” isn’t exactly how Annie would describe Sam DeLuca, either. Paula picked up the remote and muted the TV. “I’m sure Annie didn’t come in here to watch us gawk like a couple of fools over some guy on television. Besides, I’m taping this. We can watch it later tonight.”
“I saw this guy,” Annie said, “last night at Mom’s. We were supposed to have a book club meeting, but apparently, everyone’s a fan of this show Single Gal.”
“Well, if they weren’t before, they are now. Gas Station Sam is all anyone can talk about,” Paula said. “I hear he’s guaranteed a spot on Dancing With The Stars or even as next season’s Single Guy.”
Celeste put on her best teenage pouty face. “I wish I was old enough to apply for the show. I’d Tweet him, but he has absolutely no social media presence. Can you believe that? No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. Nothing. How is anyone supposed to get in touch with him?”
“There’s always the old-fashioned way,” Paula said to her daughter.
Celeste stared at her mother with a blank expression.
“Letters,” Paula clarified. “You know, that’s the thing you put in an envelope with a stamp that gets delivered by the post office?”
Celeste wrinkled her nose in distaste. “You mean write to him on paper? Nobody writes letters anymore, Mom.”
“I do,” Annie admitted, “to my grandmother, even though she lives just a few blocks from my parents. She loves going out to her mailbox and getting something besides bills.”
“We all do,” Paula confided. “So, Annie, what can we do for you?”
“I saw the daisies outside, and I couldn’t help but come over.”
“Pretty, aren’t they? Are you looking for someone special? Your mother? Or a friend?”
“They’re for me. I think they’ll look nice in my office.”
“Funny, I didn’t take you for the flower-buying type.”