“John Henry—”
“Pretend you’ve never touched my heart?”
She blinked rapidly, but he told himself those couldn’t be tears in her eyes. Hadn’t she sworn to him that she didn’t cry? “John Henry, you had to know that you and I . . . you and I were only temporary.”
“Why do I have to know that?”
She gestured between them. “Because you’re you, and I’m . . .”
“A Flaky Friday.” He knew that childhood nickname still bothered her, but perhaps he’d underestimated how much it motivated her actions. Yesterday, when they’d seen her offbeat parents in downtown Edenville, he’d noted the hot color of her cheeks and the embarrassed aversion of her eyes.
Obviously she was ashamed of them.
But now he saw that she felt shame for herself, too, as their daughter.
Do you think anyone will respect me?
she’d asked him. She’d thought people would think less of her if she worked for the company run by the man she was seeing. She’d thought that meant they wouldn’t acknowledge her accomplishments or understand her value.
John Henry rubbed at his aching chest. “Zin, listen to me. Here’s the thing. No one will respect you, value you, until you respect and value yourself.”
She cuddled her briefcase tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about how you see yourself, Zin. You don’t want people to think of you as being like your parents. But that’s got to come from you. You have to give yourself your own value, and to hell with what the rest of the world thinks. The minute you know who you are and what you want, your priorities straighten out too.”
“Where is this coming from?” Pink color suffused her face. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”
“I know more than you might think. You look at me and make assumptions—just like you think Edenville does because you’re a Friday.”
She shook her head. “I’m not like the people in town.”
“Yes, yes, you are. And I’m like you, with a twist. When my father died, tragically, frighteningly young, I tried stepping into his shoes. I worked as hard to
be
him as you’ve worked hard not to be your mother and father. I downplayed it before, but the truth is, I almost killed myself that way, Zin.”
Her eyes were glinting again. “John Henry,” she whispered.
“But I’m banking on the fact that you’re way smarter than me. I still didn’t learn my lesson. It wasn’t until I met a beautiful blonde who made me slow down and breathe in, that I realized the kind of balance I should be aiming for in my life. Finally I know exactly what I need.”
She stared at him.
Brat!
She wasn’t going to ask the question he was fishing for. It meant John Henry was going to have to lay it out for her.
“I want to make time for someone like you in my life. For
you,
Zin.”
When her gaze didn’t waver, he was forced to try again. “Don’t you get it? I’m in love with you.”
Seconds ticked by with sickening slowness. Her arms dropped from her chest to hang at her sides, and she held her briefcase handle in a white-knuckled grip. “No.”
He groaned. “Zin . . .”
“I’m sorry, John Henry, but here’s what’s true: I need this job more than I need love.”
Seven
Double or Nothing
Zin trudged from her car to the front door of her apartment, her gaze on her feet. Her head pounded like her footsteps against the cement. Filling out four hundred and eleven forms had made her eyes cross and her stomach burn. Remembering John Henry saying
I’m in love with you
still made her want to scream.
He was in love with her for now! she’d wanted to shout back at him. For the moment! He was rich and successful, and what did she know about that? Soon he would realize she was not on his level, and their affair would be over. She would be kicked out of his playground, and it was better to walk off of it by herself now.
“All Hands” Alan, the bully of Edenville Elementary, had proven there were times when going home was the most prudent action.
“Oh, darling,” a soft voice said. “Bobby, our girl doesn’t look as happy as she should.”
Zin’s head popped up. There were her parents on her doorstep, Dad in his Lynyrd Skynyrd Lives T-shirt, Mom in a dress made out of an Indian bedspread. Her mother clasped her hands around Zin’s cheeks and kissed her brow chakra, scenting the air with patchouli.
Her thoughts and that fragrance sent Zin back to the past. She remembered coming home from school, smarting from another round of teasing on the school bus. Her mother had gathered Zin onto her lap and held her, humming an old Pete Seeger song. Now, as then, she found herself wanting to sink into that accepting embrace and let everything else fade away.
She’d forgotten the comfort of those arms.
“Hi, Mom,” she whispered. She tried on a smile for her father, who was looking at her with a frown in his eyes. “How’s it going, Dad?”
Without saying anything, he lifted a clay pot, putting it into her line of vision. She stared at the growing flowers, her eyes stinging. “Zinnias.”
“See how happy and beautiful they are,” her mother said, touching a reverent fingertip to a cheery pink petal. “That’s what we wanted for you. That’s why we gave you that name.”
Her dad urged the pot into Zin’s arms, and she curled a hand around it, feeling the clay’s solid warmth. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, and he smiled. A man of few words and some admittedly out-of-the-mainstream tastes, in his own way he tried. “Come on in, you two.”
Her tiny front room was brightened by the pot of living flowers set on the middle of the coffee table. Zinnia dropped her briefcase on the kitchen counter and kicked off her high heels with a sigh of relief. “Can I get you something?” she asked her parents.
Her mom and dad were sitting on the couch, their hands clasped. Zinnia stared at their entwined fingers, realizing that it was often like that when Bobby and June Friday were together. They stayed close, holding hands or at least keeping near enough to touch, even when they were working together in their garden. What she’d overlooked before fascinated her now.
“Your father and I came over to talk.”
Zinnia felt a little sigh go through her. “What is it, Mom? I saw you outside Edenville Hardware yesterday. I really don’t think it’s a good idea to borrow money from Ed and Jed.”
Her dad glanced at her mother. “We didn’t borrow money from them.”
“I saw you—”
“Ed asked me to deliver some firewood for him today. He was paying for the job in advance.”
“Oh.”
“But about money . . .” her mom started.
Zinnia swallowed her second sigh. “I know we’re getting close to property tax time. I’ll be able to help out, I promise. Please don’t get Alan Prescott involved . . .”
“Alan Prescott!” Her normally mellow father looked angry. “I’m done giving him free vegetables from the garden. I heard he was shaking you down at the bakery, even though I’d promised to pay him back by the end of the week.”
“It was nothing, Dad.”
“It was something. I should have realized . . .” He looked at his wife, then back at her. “We’re not going to let that happen again, kiddo.”
“Okay.” Zin was pretty sure it
would
happen again, but hu moring her folks was easier than injecting reality into their yellow submarine.
“Because we’re selling those acres we don’t use behind the trailer,” June said.
Zinnia stared at her. “Huh?” Her parents had been holding on to those for longer than she’d been alive, with the hope of someday establishing a little village where people would live and work communally. Zinnia had always thought the idea was forty years past its prime, but her parents clung to it as tenaciously as they did to their original Dylan recordings on vinyl.
“The neighbors to the north want to build one of those toy vineyards, and they’ll pay us top dollar.” Her dad said “top dollar” as if it was a phrase in a foreign language.
“What . . . what about your own plans for the acreage?”
His grin was sheepish. “We’re just not that driven. We’ve come to realize that we’re perfectly happy with our garden, and anything bigger would only cause us stress.”
“Can’t have stress,” Zin murmured.
“And the money from the sale will take your stress away. Yours and Marigold’s and Kohl’s. I know you worry about how we’re situated. With that cash we’ll be comfortable for the rest of our lives.”
If what Zinnia knew about Napa farmland was right, they
would
be comfortable. Still . . . “You’ll let me look at any paperwork before you finalize the deal?”
“Of course,” her mom said. “You’re our business girl.”
“I’m good at business,” Zin said.
“We know,” her father answered. He gathered his wife closer to his side. “That’s why we came to congratulate you on your new job. Marigold told us about it, and it sounds perfect for you.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Like the work in our garden is perfect for Dad and me.” June Friday leaned up to kiss her husband on the cheek, and he looked down at her fondly, his gaze seeming to communicate that in his mind she was still the girl who’d danced half naked to Iron Butterfly’s“In-A -Gadda-Da-Vita.”
Bemused, Zin watched them. For forty years they’d lived and worked together, and yet it remained undeniable: they still enjoyed each other.
Her father rose to his feet. “Well, we’ve got to go. Your mom wants to try out this new recipe she found for homemade incense sticks.”
Her mother stood, too, and wrapped her arm around her husband’s waist. “You take care of yourself, sweetie. If you tell your troubles to those zinnias, be sure to give them an extra vitamin boost afterward. Dad will call you tomorrow and see how they’re doing.”
Smiling despite her low mood, Zinnia followed them to the door. “Good-bye. I think you’ve made the right decision about the property.”
Her dad nodded, and hugged her with his free arm. Her mother’s arm came about Zin, too, and they stood, a little cluster of family. Flaky Fridays, but a family.
“Make sure you’ve made the right decision, too, Zin,” her mother said with a final squeeze. “I’ll light a lavender candle for you tonight.”
“Be sure not to leave it unattended,” Zin cautioned as they strolled down the pathway. “Not like those leaves . . .” But she let her voice fall, because she could tell they weren’t listening. Instead, they’d paused at the end of her walk to give each other a sweet, soulful kiss.
It was beautiful, really.
And that was when Zin saw something new about them. Sure, they were flaky. Sure, they ran out of money from time to time. But they knew how to love. They truly knew how to love.
Which meant that until now, she hadn’t learned the best lesson the Flaky Fridays had to offer.
She glanced back at the pot of flowers sitting on her coffee table. “I hope you have a couple of hours of free time,” she told them. “And at least one good idea.”
John
Henry experienced déjà vu as he walked out the door of River Pharmaceuticals. Idling at the curb in front of the entrance were two limousines, both with the discreet Napa Princess Limousine Service logos on the right corners of the windshields.
“Double vision?” he murmured. But he knew better this time.
Which meant he had to make a choice. Surely Zin was in one of the two vehicles.
How much of a masochist did a man have to be? Soon he’d be spending his days with her just down the hall, pretending they’d never met, pretending they’d never kissed or made each other come, and he didn’t feel the least bit like hashing all that out again.
He headed for the second car, determined to avoid the confrontation. He’d make his point to the other driver—who could later pass it along to Zin—while hitching a four-space ride to his Mercedes. He was ready to get away that fast.
But he must have some kind of misery wish, because he wasn’t smart enough to take a breath before shutting the door behind him. When he did, it was Zin’s fragrance he hauled into his lungs. It was she who was in the driver’s seat—of the second limo, this time.
“I don’t want to do this,” he told her.
But the privacy window rose and she pulled away, the locks clicking into place as she slowly followed in the wake of the other vehicle. He pressed the intercom that communicated with the driver. “Zinnia, I have nothing more to say to you.”
She ignored him.
So he fumed silently, leaning on the leather cushions with his arms folded over his chest. Then he moved, unable to sit still, and found the refrigerator. His favorite beer was chilling there.
With a dark look at the front of the limo, he popped the top, and squeezed in one of the quartered limes he’d also found. A few swallows didn’t lighten his mood.