The Perfect Blend (15 page)

Plan B Cute

D
iane and I sort through a pile of men's clothes at church Monday night while trying to sort through my treacherous state of affairs as well.

She holds up a particularly ugly tie—a red and orange number featuring a mariachi band and palm trees. “Ugh. Someone once paid money to own this? And someone else will want it?”

“Hey, teenagers wear them as belts now. The wilder the better. That's the beauty of vintage.”

Diane grimaces, holding the tie as if it could contaminate her on contact. “There's vintage and then there's simply used.” She drops the offending neckwear into a box. “Hey, speaking of used, how's Cathy's old computer working out for you? Did you get it up and running?”

I put down the corduroy bell-bottom pants (no, not
flare leg, flares are from
this
decade. Bell-bottoms come from a slightly earlier era) I'm folding. “Only after about two hours with Cathy's husband.
Free
isn't free anymore, either. I had to spend about a hundred dollars on cables and adapters and stuff to get it talking to my printer and my Internet connection. But I'm running loads of spiffy new software now, so I can wow the bank with spreadsheets and—” I deepen my voice to sound like a radio announcer “—desktop publishing.”

Diane grabs a handful of hangers to start hanging dress shirts. “So how'd Cathy like your idea?”

I'd hide my face behind the pants if they didn't smell so funny. “I didn't tell her. I couldn't get a moment alone with her.”

“What? You're ready to tell Cathy but not her husband? I thought you liked Eric.”

“I'm going over to her house tomorrow morning before work. I'm going to tell her then. Look, I just need to start with her, alone. I'll need her help when Mom and Dad go berserk when I tell them. I need to gather my troops in phases here.”

Finishing the last shirt button, Diane practically slams the shirt onto the closet rod behind her. “Margaret Black. You are the person I know who cares
least
about what other people think. You take risks that would choke other people. What is the problem with telling your own family—those nice people who love you—about your life's vocation? This is
nuts.
I don't get it. And you don't have a whole lot of time, Maggie. You've
got
to do this.”

I've only told myself that about four hundred times. “I know, I know.” I wince. “I—I just can't. It's like it's too important. If they think it's a dumb idea I don't know what I'll do.”

That answer did not satisfy Diane. She's standing over me, looking at me like I just made no sense. Which is sensible, because I didn't make any sense.

“Do
I
think it's a dumb idea?” she asks, threatening me with a tuxedo shirt in a very frightening coral.

“No,” I venture, suddenly unsure even though I know the answer.

“Does Will think it's a dumb idea?”

“Risky maybe, but not dumb.”

“And even when he wasn't sure about it, you convinced him, right?”

I smirk. “Well, it does seem like there were other factors at play.”

“Will Grey is not the type to let a pretty face overthrow his business sense.” At which point she nudges me. “Most of the time. So wise up and realize that Cathy and your parents are going to be on your side, okay? I'm pretty sure God is on your side. Everyone wants you to be happy. It's going to be fine.”

I cringe, still nervous. “Can I have that in writing?”

“I can do better than that. I'll be praying for you.” She closes her eyes, folds her hands and laments, “Father, have mercy on the poor deluded soul of Margaret Mary Black.”

I poke her in the arm. “You're nutters. But between
you and Will, there might be enough praying going on to do the trick.”

“Nutters?” she teases. “Ooo, British phraseology. Now I know you're in love with the guy. You have finally told him, haven't you?”

“I'm scaling one emotional Everest at a time, thanks. Will's a cautious guy. I don't want to spook him off while everything's so dicey.”

Diane makes an exasperated groan. “Hello? Love? Important thing he might want to know? Exciting thing he might feel back? Now look here, you can hedge over the loan stuff, you can stall your own loving family for reasons I'll never understand, but this is important. You love the guy. I'm thinking he loves you. Don't go getting cold feet now—not when it really matters.”

“But I'm scared.” It pipes out of me in a preschooler's voice.

Diane sighs. “Honey, we're all scared. You just feel it less often than the rest of us. You're the bravest person I know, Mags. This is love and family on the line here. It's the best time of all to be brave.”

 

She was yukking it up at the clothing ministry, but make no mistake—Diane takes her praying very seriously. It's nine-thirty Tuesday morning and you can be sure that woman is praying up a storm on my behalf right this second. And somewhere in Seattle Will Grey is doing the same. The knowledge of those pair of prayer warriors is the only thing keeping my blood
pressure down to a dull roar as I sit in Cathy's kitchen and spill my dream.

“So opening that kind of coffeehouse is what I want to do with Uncle Ian's money. Only it isn't enough, so I'm going to have to do some serious financing.”

“Well, it does explain the sudden interest in business software. And it certainly explains why you're working for the big bad coffee corporation— I couldn't figure out how you ended up there, anyway.”

“I'm learning how the big chains do it so I can be better prepared to open up an independent shop.”

Cathy cracks a wide grin. “Why, Margaret Black. What a very sensible, non-impulsive thing to do. I'm impressed.” She leans across the table. “But I'm not at all surprised. I'd have figured on you opening a coffee bar. I can't think of anyone more born to it than you. I think you'll be fabulous. We'll be there the minute you open the door.”

I stare at Cathy. “I can't believe I was worried you'd hate the idea. I didn't sleep a wink last night wondering what I'd do if you laughed in my face.”

“Come on now, we're family.” She wraps me in a big hug. “I'd at least have the decency to laugh behind your back.”

 

“Phase one complete!” I announce into my cell phone while I'm walking into Carter's to begin my shift.

“Brilliant,” Will replies. “I told you she'd approve.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and Diane were both right, I didn't need to worry, blah, blah, blah…but thanks for praying anyway. I could feel it.”

“My pleasure. I've got a little surprise for you—to bolster up your spirits so you can talk to your parents. Can you come by the game tonight?”

“A surprise? Plus the opportunity to watch you hurl yourself at enormous sweaty men over a tiny leather ball? Who'd say no?”

I hear him chuckle over the phone and the sound sends tingles down my neck. “That tiny leather ball bashed your nose in. I wouldn't insult it if I were you. You know what they say about rugby.”

I yank the door to Carter's open. “And what do they say about rugby?”

“That tennis is a game where thugs act like gentlemen, but rugby is a game where gentlemen act like thugs.”

“All the more reason for me to come and ensure that all your thuggery stays on the field.” I'm laughing to myself, picturing Will's teammates coming off the field to shrug their enormous shoulders into white dinner jackets. I've actually never seen anyone but Arthur off the field—who knows, the lot of them could clean up quite nicely. “See you tonight.”

From the look on Nate's face, I must be grinning like a fool. He cracks a smile as he puts down a box of coffee filters. “Look at you,” he says, thickening his accent to an outrageous degree. “It is worse than I thought. Come and tell Señor Fabulous all
about the dashing
Ingles
who has stolen your finely caffeinated heart.”

I tuck my handbag into the supply room. “You know, Nate, some days you're just plain scary. Friendly, funny, but scary.” Nate is a wonderful guy. I can't for the life of me figure out why he's still single.
Hey God? Could You put the rush on finding him someone? He really deserves to be happy.

“Don't be jealous
amigo.
Somewhere out there is a coffee-loving, God-fearing beauty just waiting to make
your
life complete.” I tie my apron around my waist. I despise this silly apron. I'll never make my employees wear aprons. Ever.

Nate clutches his heart, still with the oversized accent. “Alone, I wait for her to grace my life with her fabulousness. Señor Fabulous was not meant for this aloneness.”

Great. He's as theatrical as Diane. Just what I need in my life—more drama.

Wait a minute…

“We've got to work on that,
señor.
Come on, isn't there
anyone
who's come in here that you find appealing?”

“Have you seen any women walking in here with a Good Christian Single Woman name tag? The conversation hardly moves to theology with questions like ‘do you want whipped cream on that?'”

“Ah,” I say, pointing at him, “But ‘do you want whipped cream on that?' is your specialty. If anyone could pull it off…”

Nate pulls a stack of cups out of the cabinet.
“Thanks for the compliment. I think that was a compliment. Was that a compliment?”

“That was a compliment. I'm serious. Wasn't there ever a customer who caught your eye?”

Nate stops and thinks. “There was one. Straight brown hair, shopping bags, went wild over the whipped cream thing. She was nice. A funny little laugh that stuck in your head all day. Great eyes.”

I knew it! I don't know how I missed it before now: Diane. God is up in His heaven doubled over with laughter at this very moment, don't you think? So, do I tell him now? Or just move quietly behind the scenes to get the brunette back in here ASAP?

Opting for plan B, I wait a diversionary five minutes before I snag my cell phone out of my purse and send up a prayer of gratitude for the innovation of text messaging. I punch in Diane's number, followed by:
Carters. ASAP. B Cute!

Something to do about it

“S
o Nate, with all the requisite apologies, I'd like you to meet my best friend Diane.”

Nate looks understandably dumbstruck. “She. She's your best friend.” He lets out a spurt of rapid-fire Portuguese under his breath. “The whole whipped-cream thing…”

“Was a setup. She didn't believe anyone could do it but me. I'm sorry about that. At least, I was sorry. Now I'm sort of…”

He waves off my chatter. “Forget it. I should feel sadly manipulated here, but instead I'm going to go with a strange sense of gratitude.” Nate extends a hand. “Diane.” He says the name like he's running his fingers through it.

“Nice to meet you, Nate. Maggie's told me a lot
about you.” Diane looks slightly suspicious but mostly charmed.

“Can I pull you a drink? Tall hazelnut skim latte, right? And do you really like a ‘smidge' of whipped cream, or was that just part of the act?”

Diane lets loose a dazzling smile. I told her to be cute, but she went beyond cute and well into stunning. “I don't like a smidge of anything. Yes, Nate, I'd like whipped cream on that. But let's keep the canister under control this time, hmm?”

“Whatever the lady wants.” Nate starts to pull her drink, then stops to look at me. “She's your best friend. Her. The whole time.”

I nod. Diane nods.

“You know, an ordinary man would find this highly disturbing.”

I hand Nate the proper size cup for Diane's drink. “Good thing you're Señor Fabulous.”

 

According to Will, they have this thing after games called a drink-up where everyone gets together. The girls who are invited, well, let's just say the average rugby player doesn't invite just
anyone
to the drink-up. As team captain, Will's presence is required at a drink-up—even if the game has been nasty. Like Will says, they may be thugs on the field, but they're perfect gentlemen when the game is over. He says it's a loud, friendly event, this time at the restaurant that sponsors Will's team. I've been invited to the game—and as such, to the drink-up. Which means my appearance is a declaration of
sorts. So I'm guessing my surprise is my first official appearance as Will's…Will's what? Girlfriend? Date? Significant other? I hate those terms, but I don't suppose there's really an alternative out there.

By the time I get over there after work it's partway through the second half, so I take up a spot on a picnic table near the end of the field. They play for a while and I get a chance to see Will leading his team. You know how some people seem born to lead? As if it's in their blood, not their ambition? They have a natural sense of how to motivate people. They look them in the eye, they shoot straight and they pay respect when respect is due. I see all these things in how Will acts toward his team. I see bits of it in how he leads the class, but it really shows up in how he leads the team. Even though it feels like an odd sensation to have, I'm proud of him. I feel pleased and thankful that a man of his character has chosen a relationship with me. Is it becoming love for him as well? I think so, but I'm terrified to ask. I have a quiet sense that when it is, I'll know. He'll tell me. Imagine what that moment will be like. Will he be shy and stumbling or dashing and chivalrous?

I'm lost in my romantic daydream when I realize the game is over and a burly man in a buzz cut is staring at me.

“Well, I'll be gobsmacked,” he exclaims with a heavy cockney accent, kicking mud off his shoe.

Gobsmacked? Who comes up with these expres
sions? Granted, I've heard a lot worse from your average young male, but that one's so odd it's almost funny.

“Her!” our bulky young man comments, pointing a thick finger at me. “Your girl is that tiny thing Arthur bashed?” He gives Will a hearty slap on the back. “Well, why didn't you tell us all you had to do to get a girl to notice you was to let her bleed all over your team jersey? I'd have tried that months ago!”

“Maggie,” says Will, reddening, “this enormous well-mannered beast is one of our forwards, Frank Smithwhite.” My hand practically disappears inside the beefy hand Frank extends for a shake.

“Hello, sunshine!” Arthur calls out from the edge of the crowd with an atta-girl! look in his eye. I'm charmed by the idea that Will's been hanging back, waiting for the right woman, and that I'm her. It feels wildly wonderful.

It feels wildly public, too. Dirty faces are gaping at me. I'm blushing. It's like meeting a guy's parents, only weirder. There's fifteen of them and, believe me, they're the farthest thing from subtle about their assessment of me. I wouldn't be subjected to more scrutiny if I were up for sale on eBay.

“Finally get through to this
pommie,
did you?” Arthur grins, poking Will in the chest.

“So it would seem,” I reply, feeling the blood surge up my neck.

“So it would seem indeed.” Art gives me a wink. “'Bout time, too, if you ask me. Will's spent
far too many drink-ups with no more than a Coke for company.”

“Maybe now he'll give shorter speeches, eh?” Frank gives Will a nudge in the ribs that nearly knocks him over. Will didn't mention speeches. This should be interesting. We all sort of stare at each other for a moment, Will hanging oddly back, until Frank suddenly reaches into his pocket and steps toward me. “Well, 'bout time we take care of formalities.”

Will's face takes on a panicked tone. “Frank, I've not…”

“'Course you 'aven't,” says Frank, a wide smile on his face as he pulls a large strip of colored cloth out of his pocket. “Who would?”

“Who would what?” I stammer out, looking for any kind of a clue from Will. I grip the picnic table.

“Go easy on her, Frank…” Will says cautiously.

“Nonsense. She's here. She's coming to the drink-up she is. What more is there?”

“What's going on Will?” I scoot back further on the park bench.

Right into Arthur's hand, which wraps gently around my elbow as he catches the cloth Frank just tossed to him. “Just relax, sunshine, we won't hurt you. Mind your hair now.” He blindfolds me with the cloth. “It's just a bit of
fun.
” I am led off the table while some kind of ridiculous chant is yelled. “Arms up, love,” Art says, and when I cautiously comply I feel a shirt or something pulled onto me. Whatever it is, it isn't clean—I can tell that much.
I hear lots of yelling around me and Will's laugh in the distance.

“Hang on, Maggie!” I hear him call. “I'm coming!”

A moment later, I feel a set of hands remove my blindfold. Will stands before me, grinning, clad in a brand new rugby shirt just like his old one, though with a crude, red paper heart pinned to the right sleeve.

He shrugs and grins at me. “Sorry about this.”

I realize that the shirt I'm now wearing is the one Will wore in the game. It makes me smile. “You most certainly are not.” Come on, you see the look on his face; he's not one ounce of sorry for this. He's enjoying this. As a matter of fact, he looks like he's waited his whole life for this.

I'm wearing a guy's dirty shirt.

And I'm on top of the world.

 

Just outside the restaurant, Will pulls me aside. He's positively glowing and nearly out of breath with all the nudging and kidding we've endured over the past twenty minutes. He fiddles with the paper heart. “You know, I rather knew they were going to do that. I just didn't expect them to get quite so hearty about it. You okay?”

Okay? I'm glowing. It sounds silly, but it feels wonderful to be known as “Will's girl.” Sure, it has a goofy 1950s varsity-letter jacket mentality, but there's something genuinely satisfying about how happy Will's friends are for him. Will's trying hard to play it all down, but I can tell it means a lot to
him. Which is why it means a lot to me. “Sure,” I giggle. Yet another large hand reaches out to ruffle Will's hair. I totally understand the roughhouse style of affection—I've got a horde of brothers.

Thing is, Will has a horde of brothers, too. He just hasn't figured it out yet.

“They're a bit rowdy,” Will explains, “but they're a grand bunch. They mean well.” The crowd filters inside, but Will hangs back. It's begun to rain, cloaking the evening in darkness and mist. He takes my hand and pulls me farther down the sidewalk, ducking from awning to awning. He tugs us into the small, covered entrance of a bookshop closed for the evening. From its cozy shadows I hear the sputtering sound of cars going by on the wet street. It's cool and dark, but Will's eyes are gleaming. He fusses with the shirt on me, rolling up the cuffs to find my hands and hold them. He is such a handsome, gallant man. How could I have ever thought him cold and unfeeling? “Art's been waiting to shirt someone for me for a long time, if you haven't noticed.”

I smile, snuggling into the shirt. It smells like him. I could freeze this moment in time and be content for hours. “Your friends care about you. They like seeing you happy.”

“I am happy. I'm beyond happy.” Will takes the collar of his shirt and pulls me closer. “The other night at practice, I missed four passes. Art pulled me aside and, after cuffing me a few times, he said, “What's the matter with ye, you clod, you in love or somethin'?”

My entire nervous system slams into hyperdrive.

Will ducks his head until our foreheads are touching. “And I looked Art straight in his meddling, filthy face and said, ‘As a matter of fact, I am.' I am in love with you, Maggie. I fell for you the minute you walked into my office.”

I pull back, amazed. “You…fell for me…the first time we met?” I manage to spit out. From his expression, Will's either embarrassed or he's been bursting to say this for weeks—I'm not sure which.

He grins and my heart flutters. “Completely.”

“Way back before class and the rugby pitch and even before that ‘unwise given our situation' bit?”

He nods, one hand feathering the backs of his fingers across my cheek.

“All this time. And it took you
how
many weeks to give me any kind of encouragement while I was making a fool of myself over you?” I give him a playful little poke in the paper heart. “Hardly wearing your heart on your sleeve, hmm?”

“Well, for the sake of argument, I'd say it was the accident that truly did me in.”

“Me? Bleeding all over you? Woozy on painkillers? That's the way to your heart?” Am I the only one who finds this disturbing?

“Apparently, yes. The whole damsel-in-distress-so-I-get-to-play-hero thing, I suppose. I'm as astounded as you are, believe me.” He cups my face with his hands and my heart melts. “And there doesn't seem to be a thing I can do about it—or want to do about it.”

My hands slide around his back. “Well, now, that would make two of us. I love you, too. I don't wear grungy shirts for just anyone, you know.” Will's reply is a broad, radiant smile. “But you're sure there's nothing you want to do about it?” Zing, swoon, smitten—pick your descriptive and I'm already there.

“Well,” Will says with a delicious tease to his voice, “I can think of at least one.”

I lean in and close my eyes.
I'm way ahead of you, your lordship.