Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(39)
“Because there’s nothing to tell! Jeez, what’s with the third degree?”
She settled back into her chair and appraised me the way only a mother can. “You look me in the eye and tell me there’s not a guy involved in this, and I’ll drop it.”
I leaned across the table, keeping my face as composed as I could. “There is not a guy involved in this.”
She paused a moment, her eyes searching. “Okay. Enough. I won’t say another word.”
I let out my breath. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack some things for my trip tomorrow. Did you know that there’s a town literally five minutes up the Hudson where you can’t even see the city?”
“It’s called Yonkers, sweetie. It’s been there a long time. I think we might have kept you in Manhattan too long.”
“Perish the thought.” I grinned and dropped a kiss on her head. “I’ll call you on Sunday, how’s that?”
“I’ll be reading the Times, don’t interrupt me.”
“Duly noted. Love you.” As I walked past her, she reached out and patted my arm.
“You’ll tell me about this guy when you’re ready.”
That woman has X-ray vision.
Thursday morning went by in a blur, and before I knew it, I was on the train and heading north once again along the Hudson. It was a gorgeous sunny day, the sun shining down and reflecting off the water so brightly it was almost blinding. But not so blinding that I wasn’t able to enjoy the view. Normally a train for me meant sardine-packed between a thousand other commuters, or don’t fall asleep or you’ll miss your stop.
But I found myself once again watching the little towns go flashing by, wondering at the lives led behind those front doors. I got a quick snapshot into a life that I’d never know anything about, but it was fun imagining what might being going on behind those closed doors. My train was merely a background sound to them, a train that had rattled by twelve times a day (twenty-four if you count the other direction), a sound they’d no doubt tuned out long ago. Or a train they’d taken themselves on a sunny Saturday, to head into the city to watch the Yankees play. All these little snapshots of a life led on the Hudson River Line, and today I was once more part of that background noise—albeit a very excited part, as I was nearly bouncing out of my seat to get back to Bailey Falls.
I had all my research and notes for the Friday-morning meeting, to talk about how they wanted their town presented. I had a date set up with Chad Bowman to get a more specific glimpse into some of the businesses and sights that I might feature.
But I certainly wasn’t bouncing out of my seat because I’d be meeting with Myra Davis, owner of the Klip ’n’ Kurl, a third-generation beautician and proprietor of the town’s hottest beauty spot. Or with Homer Albano, owner of the hardware store on Main Street, who’d been handing out homemade popcorn along with his wrenches and hammers since 1957.
I was bouncing and humming and practically climbing out of my skin because I was going to hopefully, probably see Oscar again. And the thought was driving me mad.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the one-night stand; I’d indulged a time or two or several. The term implied, “Hey, let’s scratch this itch and then go our separate ways, but thanks for the orgasm.” Or multiple orgasms, if you were lucky.
But I was coming back to the scene of the one-night stand. The one-afternoon-getting-thoroughly-worked-over-in-the-barn stand. And I wanted more.
I craved him, simple as that. When I just saw him at the farmers’ market, I was free to make up any backstory I wanted about him. Now he was real. Now I knew enough to know I wanted to know more.
Had he thought about me this week? Had he been at work concentrating on something really boring but necessary, and then an image of my naked body shot across his imagination?
I squeezed my hands into fists, channeling the tension I could feel running through my body. It had been ages since I’d been this worked up about a man, and I needed to keep it in check.
I spent another near-sleepless night tossing and turning at Roxie’s. I appreciated the guest room; I appreciated the comfortable bed even with the squeaks and creaks. But honestly, how the hell did anyone sleep in this town with all that racket outside? I was finding some earplugs while I was in town today.
Friday morning in Bailey Falls dawned clear and crisp, and before I could say howdy-do I was bouncing along the rutted country roads next to Roxie, eating one of her cinnamon biscuits and marveling at how blue the sky was when you could actually see the sky. Not that there was anything wrong with the sky behind the Chrysler Building, but it just wasn’t the same.
“Did you tell Trudy thanks for letting us host the meeting at the diner?” I asked, sipping from a travel mug of my special-roast coffee. After the disaster at the coffee shop last weekend, I came prepared this weekend, getting off the train last night with a smile and two pounds of Colombian gold coffee.
“You can tell her yourself, my mom can’t wait to see you. She’s officially pissed that you didn’t stop by last weekend to see her. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell that city snot to get her ass in to my diner or I’ll send Bert after her.’”
“Who the hell is Bert?”
As we turned onto Main Street, Roxie pointed to an ancient cop car sitting in front of city hall. “Bert. Chief of police, coach of the women’s bowling team, champion Scrabble player eleven years running, and unofficial number-one flunky willing to do anything my mother asks, on account of the giant crush he’s had on her since they were paired together for square dancing in seventh-grade physical education.”