She looks uncomfortable that I’m volunteering to help for free, but Molly distracts her by taking her into the dining room and asking to look at a photo album Mrs. Dahl apparently brought out there before she flooded the bathroom.
I can hear the two women chatting while I work on the pipe, but the job is a little more complicated than it appeared to be at first glance. The metal is corroded, so I replace it with some of the PVC pipe I brought to use on Mrs. Carlton’s sink. It takes longer than a simple patch-up would, but I’m pleased with the way it turns out.
When I get to my feet, Molly is standing in the doorway, watching me. I see the same longing in her eyes that was there yesterday morning, but there’s something else there too. Something almost wistful.
“How long have you been there?” I ask, trying to ignore the way my stomach flipped at the sight of her. I turn on the faucet, then squat to watch for leaks.
“Not long.”
“It sounds like you had a good chat with Agnes.” I try to sound casual as I keep my gaze on the pipes.
“We did. She told me some stories of her own, plus she corroborated some of what Mrs. Dahl had already told me.”
“That’s a great idea, collecting stories,” I say as I stand again and turn off the water. “My dad would love to share stories with someone like that.”
“Really?” she says in surprise. “Do you think he’d be interested in talking to me?”
I know he’d be interested in talking to her, first and foremost about the club. That’s exactly what I was looking to avoid, but I’d already decided to stop silencing him and the others, and she seems serious about keeping our names out of it. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. And weirdly, in a way I don’t care to interpret, I want them to meet.
Before I can think better of it, I ask, “Would you like to come over for dinner?”
“To your house?” she asks, looking like I’ve just asked her to join me on a six-month trip to Antarctica.
“Well, I guess we could go out, but that would kind of defeat the purpose. I know you want to talk to him about the club, and he’d be happy to regale you with a dozen other stories. Besides, Dad’s cooking, and he hates to waste food.”
She’s still shocked, but she finally regains control and says, “Yeah. That would be great.”
“I don’t know what he’s making,” I say as I gather my tools. “But he’s a pretty good cook.”
“I’m not picky,” she says in a rush as though she’s worried I’ll change my mind.
“But I just started on Mrs. Carlton’s faucet when Mrs. Dahl came rushing over. I’ll need to finish it first.”
“I can wait in the car,” she says, then groans, closing her eyes as she leans her head back, clearly frustrated. “I don’t have the Prius. Tina drove.”
Her words barely penetrate my brain. My gaze is firmly on her exposed throat and her still-damp dress clinging to her breasts. All I want to do is drop my tools and the towel holding pipe shavings, take her in my arms and kiss her.
You don’t even know if she wants that.
I suspect she wouldn’t push me away.
But I don’t make a move. Because I feel a connection to her I haven’t felt in a long time, and I realize I don’t just want to sleep with her. I do want that, I definitely do, but I also want to get to know this woman. To understand her.
“Maybe we should plan it another time,” she says, clearly disappointed. “I’ll call a Lyft.”
Her words suddenly penetrate. “No. Don’t do that. I’ll drive you to my house for dinner, then take you to your car. Where is it?”
“At the teahouse.”
“Or,” I say, “I can take you to the teahouse first, and you can follow me home. You might need a getaway vehicle. My dad likes to talk.”
She laughs. “So the talking gene skipped you.”
I shrug but don’t answer, instead walking to the doorway she’s still blocking.
“Yes,” she says softly, her warm hazel eyes lifting to meet mine. “I’d love for you to take me to your house for dinner.”
It’s not much really—it’s an answer to my question—but the way she says it feels so intimate, so much deeper than the combustible attraction we share. Like there’s some hidden treasure waiting for me at the end of the night, and it has nothing to do with sex.
Jesus, I’m losing it again. That seems to happen a lot around her.
“Good. I’ll text Dad and tell him to set out an extra plate. But for now, you get to watch me finish installing a faucet.”
“Will your shirt be on or off?” she asks with a twinkle in her eye.
On. Definitely on. Mrs. Carlton doesn’t need a show.
It takes me about twenty minutes to get the faucet installed, and Molly asks Mrs. Carlton all kinds of questions about her life. I hear quite a few tales I’ve never heard before about her younger years. Her husband—then fiancé—was in the navy, and she broke up with him while he was stationed in Florida. He hitchhiked all the way to Asheville to win her back.
Mrs. Carlton sends me home with a basket full of green beans and carrots, as well as a plate of chocolate chip cookies. She sends a smaller amount with Molly, insisting she has more vegetables than she can eat, then pulls an index card out of her pants pocket and hands it to her.
She shoots me a wink, then says to Molly, “I thought you might like this cookie recipe.”
God only knows when she wrote it down.
Molly seems confused but thanks her, tucking the recipe in her purse.
It’s the cookie recipe, which means Mrs. Carlton thinks Molly is someone special. I try to ignore the fluttering in my chest as we say our goodbyes and walk out to the truck. I drop my stuff in the bed and turn to see Molly staring at my old house.
“How long ago did you live there?” she asks softly as she stands next to the passenger door. She doesn’t say anything about Alice, but she’s spoken to enough of my friends to have learned about her, not to mention there were articles about her accident. We’ve never discussed Alice directly, but the accident and its aftermath is like the giant elephant in the room. Or at least it’s that way for me. Might as well acknowledge it.
“Three years ago. I sold it after my wife died.” I pause, then add, “The door’s unlocked.”
The man my mother raised wants to open the passenger door for her, but that would imply this is some kind of date, and it’s not. I’m taking her to meet my father so they can discuss a topic I want no part of.
So why are my palms suddenly sweaty?
I walk around to the driver’s side and get in. She’s already inside, looking around. I could call it snooping, but she’s not disturbing anything, just mentally cataloguing what she sees. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. There’s a natural spark in her, a curiosity, and even though it’s turned toward me, attempting to illuminate the places I’d rather keep dark, I’m drawn to it.
“Thanks for inviting me to dinner,” she says, but we both know it’s more than dinner, and I start to have second thoughts.
“Tell me about your wife,” she says. “Alice.”