The Fifth Stage Part 5

Lora picked up her uniform polo s.h.i.+rt with the Pizza Oven logo st.i.tched on the left breast. "No big deal. I have to set him straight about once a month. If I don't, his head gets bigger than a hot-air balloon."

"That's all it is," Matthew said. "He'll cool off in a couple of hours, and they'll be like two peas in a pod again."

"He'll be whimpering like a whipped pup by the time my s.h.i.+ft's over." From Lora's expression, I suspected she might be getting fed up with Jock. He was basically a nice guy, but he had a bone-deep proud streak that sometimes made him a little obnoxious. He wasn't one to cut down the less attractive girls or make fun of the sissy guys; he just fancied himself a notch above the regular kids in town, and I could tell his att.i.tude bugged Lora more than she let on.

She stood up. "I'm on in ten minutes. You guys hang around, and I'll try to sneak you out a slice."

Matthew smiled at me. "Want to have a c.o.ke and talk awhile?" His eyes twinkled like Christmas lights. How could I refuse?

We chatted about nothing through three sodas and a stolen slice of pepperoni pizza. I liked the way Matthew looked at me, his eyes never leaving mine as I prattled on about my older brother, my parents, and my nonexistent plans for the future. He smiled at all the right times and frowned when appropriate, never interrupting my train of thought. He spoke almost reverently about his college football career. He was

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concerned about making the right choices. His decisions would affect his entire life.

It amazed me how he handled all that pressure and still took time to listen to me, to make me feel important. The great Matthew Carter could be a total jerk and still get any girl in school, but that wasn't his style.

That's why I liked him.

We waved goodbye to Lora, and Matthew walked me to my car. In gentlemanly fas.h.i.+on, he took my keys, turned the lock, and opened the door for me. "Your carriage awaits, m'lady," he said, in a terrible British accent.

"Why, thank you, kind sir." I attempted a curtsy, but it was about as believable as his accent.

"Uh, Claire, I was wondering if I could ask you something?" He shuffled his feet, leaning on one foot and then the other, and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"Sure. What is it?"

"You know there's this fall dance after the game Friday night?"

I nodded.

"I was wondering, if you're not busy or anything, if you'd like to go with me." He looked like a little kid begging for a piece of candy.

"I think I can fit you into my busy schedule," I said, smiling. "But I've had sooooo many offers."

He grinned and swatted a gnat away from his face. "You've got guys all over school after you, and you don't even know it, do you?"

"Liar." I slid into the driver's seat and slipped the key into the ignition. "I'll see you tomorrow at school, okay?"

He closed the door and leaned against the frame. "Meet me in the morning by the soda machine?"

I nodded and cranked the engine. Wow! Matthew Carter had asked me out. Was this my lucky day or what?

CHAPTER 8.

It's 11:45 by the time I break away from the office, but I'll still beat the lunch rush. As I turn into Choppy's parking lot, my palms get slippery on the steering wheel. I find a s.p.a.ce near the door, make sure Rebecca's car is in its regular spot, and glance in the rearview mirror to check that my lipstick isn't smeared. I smooth my eyebrows with my finger and pop a wintergreen mint into my moutha lot of preparation for a woman who won't notice. Oh well, one never knows when a potential customer might be sitting at the next table, so maybe my primping won't be in vain.

Rebecca is at the hostess station when I walk in. My guard is down, and when she smiles, I let my gaze linger too long. Feeling hungry for her, I s.h.i.+ft my focus to the oil print over her left shoulder. If she sees how red my face is, she might get suspicious. My feelings will be exposed, and my only relief from h.e.l.l will look at me as if I've violated her.

"What are you doing up here?" I ask, trying not to grin.

She blows a lock of hair from her eyes and reaches for a menu.

"Can't find good help these days." She glances behind her to the mostly-empty tables. "It's all yours. Any place special you'd like to sit?"

"Anything's fine." I follow her to a table in the back, near her office. Her hair reaches an inch below her shoulders and bounces from side to side when she walks. It takes all my composure not to walk too closeclose enough to catch the scent of her shampoo or graze my shoulder against hers. G.o.d, I'm pitiful.

"Enjoy your lunch," she says, opening the menu for me.

I peek over the top of the menu to watch her walk away. I love the way her hips sway. Her walk is like the soothing flow of the ocean at low tide, and I catch myself getting lost in a fantasy of rocking to sleep in her arms. A moment later, I snap back to reality and try to concentrate on the menu as she seats four old ladies at the table next to mine.

One of the ladies turns to me. "Pardon me, but is this seat taken?"

she asks, putting her hand on the chair at my right.

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"No, ma'am."

She holds up a s.h.i.+ny metal cane. "May I borrow it to hold my walking stick?"

"Of course." I get up and help her move the extra chair to their table.

As I'm sitting back down, Rebecca sneaks up behind me and helps me with my own chair. "You're such a lady," she whispers.

I turn my head and find my lips dangerously close to her cheek.

"Be kind to widows and children. I think it says that in the Bible."

Rebecca taps my shoulder lightly. "I owe you a drink."

"Why?" But she has spun around and is halfway to the front door.

She seats two businessmen at the table on the other side of me. One of them is Gerald Roth, vice-president of a large printing company headquartered in town. I met him ten years ago when I sold him a hundred-thousand-dollar filing system that cut his clerk's workload in half. This year for Christmas, Gerald sent me a Virginia ham and a fifth of single-malt scotch. The ham's still in my freezer, but the scotch has been gone for weeks.

Gerald waves. "Keeping busy, Claire?"

"Not busy enough. You?"

"Keeping the bill collector away."

"I hear you." I know he's got enough cash squirreled away to keep a family of four comfortable for life.

Rebecca glides between us. She glances first at Gerald, then at me.

"Between the two of you, you know everyone in town, don't you?"

"We're working on it," Gerald says.

Rebecca returns to my table. "I owe you a drink to pay for the hose I ruined last night."

"Thank you, but..." I try to say, but she's gone again. I want to focus on the menu, but I'm too busy wondering what she'll say on the next pa.s.s. The lunch rush has followed me in, so a minute's worth of conversation could take an hour.

After seating two more parties, she comes back. "I won't take no for an answer. Besides, I want to ask you something." She spins away.

"What do you want...?"

But Rebecca doesn't hear me, and my mind starts churning. What does she want? She can't feel that bad about snagging my stockings.

Could she have an ulterior motive? What if she's sensed my attraction to her and wants to confront me? That would be awful.

Don't be paranoid, I remind myself. Rebecca can't know. I've never treated her with anything but respect. Come to think of it, I've 37 gone out of my way to be polite. I'm jumping to silly conclusions and making myself sick for nothing, and even if she has figured me out, what's the harm? It's not like I've done something wrong. If having the hots for a pretty woman were against the law, lots of people would be serving life sentences.

Despite my rea.s.surances, my stomach is in knots, and when Sandy arrives to take my order, I can barely ask her to bring me a chef salad with ranch dressing.

I glance around to see if Rebecca is on her way back. She's standing in front of a booth filled with four good-looking men in suits.

They are all staring at her, flas.h.i.+ng their best come-on smiles. She talks to them for a minute, paying special attention to the one with the square jaw and deep brown eyes.

She's got a big grin on her face when she gets back to me. "So when are you free for a drink?"

"It's not necessary, really."

"Of course it is." She whirls away again before I can wiggle out of the invitation.

It's not that I wouldn't love to have a drink with her, but I'm not sure if I'm up to it. I know I'll end up stumbling on some comment or another and look even more foolish than I feel right now. The only reason I'm considering it is that I'm curious about what she wants to ask me. It's got to be something stupid, but I'm still intrigued.

Sandy brings my order and Rebecca seats three more couples in the smoking section before she makes her way back. "What night?" she asks.

My mouth is full of croutons, and I have dressing on my lower lip. I s.n.a.t.c.h the napkin from my lap and wipe it away. "You don't have to do that," I finally manage to say.

"Of course I do. I'm a clumsy goof." A large group of nurses meanders through the front door. "I'll be right back." She hurries to the front and finds them a table near the window.

I don't take another bite of salad for a minute. My head is confused around her as it is, making it hard to seem coherent. All I need is a mouth full of iceberg lettuce to turn my tongue into a stumbling drunkard inside my mouth.

She comes back and glances toward the door. The coast seems clear for the moment. She sits down across from me and props her elbows on the table. Her eyes glimmer. "So, what night?"

"Rebecca, it's only a pair of pantyhose. Plus, it was my fault for having my big feet in your way."

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"I know it's no big deal, but I thought we might make it girls' night out. I need to get out of here for a while, and you seem like you could stand to let your hair down for once."

I finally give in to those swirling eyes. "Okay, but you don't owe me anything."

"I still might." She bites her lip. "I'm having trouble with a filing cabinet, and I thought you might be able to helpwhat with you designing that type of thing and all."

Now I understand. Rebecca needs a service call. If she wants service, I'll give her service. I'll work my way right up those rock-hard thighs and into her silky panties. She'll never know what hit her.

I'm not sure where that thought came from, and I mentally slap myself. She's always been nice to me. It won't hurt me to help her out.

"Have you called the manufacturer?"

"Yeah, but they're no help." She stands up as another lunch party comes through the door.

I take a huge bite of salad. Who cares if I have dressing all over my face? At least it would cover the redness creeping up my cheeks. Fair skin and a tendency to blush are not a good combination, but it's my curse.

I hope Rebecca doesn't come back before I can get the check and make for the door. Something about being so close to her and making plans to go out for a drink disturbs me. It's like I'm cheating. But I have nothing to feel guilty about. I lived up to my end of the bargain in our relations.h.i.+p, kept my promises. The fact that it's over is nothing I can control. It was out of my hands for months before it actually ended.

I had known it would end badly. Once the end began, I knew I'd come out of it broken and afraid. You can't spend eighteen years with a woman, watch helplessly while she leaves you, and then go on as if nothing happened. I'm like a kid lost in the supermarket, wandering up and down the aisles of my life looking for that familiar face. I search everywhere for a glimpse of someone I know, the one who loves and protects me, but she's not there. She's found another place, a place better than here.

Rebecca comes back and sits on the edge of her chair. "How about tomorrow night?"

I pick at the remnants of my salad. "Tomorrow's Friday. Don't you have a hot date or something?"

She chuckles. "I've forgotten what a hot date is."