Hearts In Bloom

Chapter Three

Jessica was trapped, struggling for breath. She kicked frantically at the sheets that bound her in the semi-conscious state. Her groggy mind cast back to a room filled with skinny fifteen-year-old girls.

She stood out from them like a marshmallow in a bowl of pretzels, with thirty extra pounds on her body and a number forty-seven pinned to her back.

The instructor began leading the young dancers through combinations. Many struggled to keep up, but some caught on quickly. Jessica caught on. She fixed her attention on the movements, intent on copying and remembering them. When the pianist added music, the combinations became fluid, purposeful motions with a destination.

After the first hour a judge called out thirty numbers. These girls would continue the audition; the rest were free to go.

Number forty-seven made the cut.

The pace quickened as the instructor switched from basic ballet to moderately difficult jazz. It was obvious which dancers had the ability to cross over from classic to contemporary.

At the second break, fifteen more mothers packed up their daughters and headed for home. Jessica was grateful to be among the survivors, waiting for round three to begin.

The last part of the audition was modern dance, incorporating difficult leaps. The liability of her weight was evident in Jessica’s landings.

Finally the audition ended and the girls were dismissed. There were only five scholarships available for the summer workshop. Ten losers would be spending the steamy days in small Texas towns, baby-sitting and watching MTV, while the winners worked with seasoned professionals.

Jessica swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and headed for the ladies’ room. As she stood in line outside the door, she overheard the number forty-seven mentioned by a young, high-pitched voice. The discomfort reflected on the face of the girl directly in front of Jessica was no preparation for the blows that followed.

The shrill voice echoed inside the tiled walls. “What a country hog! I heard there were some big ones over in east Texas, but she’s gotta be a blue ribbon winner.”

Laughter followed the comment as another anonymous girl chimed in, “My mom says they have to let a few porky ones audition every year just so nobody can claim discrimination. If you ask me, it was just a waste of two good dance positions on the stage!”

The girls exited, laughing at their crude comments. Turning the corner, they came face-to-face with the butt of their jokes.

A very slender brunette gaped wide-eyed at Jessica. Embarrassed at being caught, the girl burst into nervous laughter and sprinted the distance to the auditorium. Jessica had heard the ugly words before, but they’d never penetrated in quite this way.

Inside the audition hall, the final results had been posted. Number forty-seven was not one of the scholarship winners, but neither were the numbers of the two from the rest room. Bittersweet, but small consolation.

Jessica bit a quivering lip and lifted her chin as a lone tear slipped down her cheek. Mama said God gave her a beautiful body and it was precious in His sight. But there was nothing precious about a girl called “porky.”

Jessica jolted awake in a flushed panic, unable to shake the dream. It was always the same. And why not? It was more than a dream. It was a memory.

Nature had played a cruel trick, giving her a craving for sweets and a body that efficiently turned sugary comforts into lumpy cellulite. All the years of physical work and self-denial were for nothing. She was right back where she’d started.

The old digital clock clicked as the plastic numerals for 6:25 dropped into place. She tossed off the covers, pulled back the heavy drapes, cranked open two sets of louvered windows and slid back between wrinkled sheets.

At the foot of the bed, Frasier contentedly gnawed his sock monkey. She rolled across the king-size mattress to stroke his silky ears. The contact was reassuring.

Suddenly his head popped up. He appeared to listen for signs of activity outside the windows. He began to bark just as she picked up the strong downbeat. She struggled to her feet while Bruce Springsteen informed the world he was born in the U.S.A.

A glance at the parking lot below gave no clue as to the music’s origin, but it was so close. And so loud. It seemed to come…right through the wall.

“Rambo! I knew it! I knew that guy was going to be trouble.”

She yanked on the flowered chenille robe Becky Jo had bought at a thrift store for seventy-five cents.

With a firm grip on her cane and Frasier hot on her heels, she took the stairs in record time, flung open her front door and closed the space between the two homes. As she drew back to pound on the door, it opened, placing her face-to-face with silver-haired Hank Delgado.

Frasier scooted past the long legs and slid across the polished wood floor. He made a muffled “umph” sound as he nose-dived into a leather ottoman.

“Good morning.” Hank cocked an eyebrow at Jessica as if he wondered what she looked like with her hair combed.

“It was, until somebody gave the order to crank it up.”

“The boy gets up at the crack of dawn, and he does like his music loud.” He nodded agreement, pressing hands against his ears in an exaggerated fashion.

She tried her best to seem angry. It didn’t work. She dropped her head to hide the smile that threatened. Acutely aware of her bare feet, she imagined how foolish she must appear, standing in the hallway in the ancient robe.

“My mama had a housecoat just like that. I think she donated it to the thrift store over on Peachtree,” he said with a reminiscent smile.

Jessica didn’t even want to consider the possibility.

“Hey, man, it’s the welcoming committee,” Hank shouted to his partner.

Drew glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. He gave Jessica’s robe a nod and a cheerful thumbs-up.

So much for yesterday’s vow never to leave the house again without clean clothes and makeup. She realized that for the third time this guy had caught her at her worst. Of course, he was spit shined and polished already. It wasn’t fair for a man to look so well put together this early in the morning.

“I know I said I’d have you over, but I thought you’d at least give me a day to unpack,” Drew called.

Hank reached for the stereo to turn down the volume.

Drew moved into the doorway to greet his visitor. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He motioned with his hand. “Come on in.”

She stepped into his home for the first time, admiring the deep muted tones of the rugs and furnishings, the rich smell of new leather and the bookcase filled with handsome volumes. A worn Bible lay atop the sofa table.

“Did you really move in less than twenty-four hours ago?” She noted how few boxes remained unpacked.

“I believe in a place for everything and everything in its place.” Drew smiled with pride. “Hey, I just happen to have a fresh pot of Colombian decaf.” He stared pointedly at Jessica’s bare feet. “But isn’t it a little early for you to be paying a social call?”

“Isn’t it a little early for you to be playing your stereo so loud?”

“You don’t like the Boss? I suppose you’d prefer something different?”

“As a matter of fact, Springsteen is one of my all-time favorites. But at this hour of the morning, I do like my music a little more soothing.”

“For instance?” he asked, stooping to inspect his considerable collection of compact discs.

“Well, for instance…” She groped for something to catch him off guard. “Rachmaninoff appeals to me in the mornings.”

“Is that right?” he asked in a “gotcha” tone.

Selecting a CD from one of several towers, he dropped it into a multidisc player. Within moments the room swelled with the sound of a single keyboard accompanied by a section of violins. He reached to increase the volume, stopping short, hand just above the control.

She’d never have admitted it at that moment, but he’d impressed her.

“You like classical music?” she questioned with disbelief.

“Music lessons were not optional at my house. My sister and I had to choose an instrument in the sixth grade and stick with it through graduation. I chose the piano.”

“Because of all the great composers?”

“No. Because I figured since it was too big to carry around with me, I could keep the guys at school from finding out about it. I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before.”

“I promise not to tell your dark secret, as long as you promise to watch the decibel level of your stereo.” She fixed him with an accusing stare. “At least before nine o’clock in the morning.”

Drew ducked his chin, appropriately contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so loud.”

“The heck, you say!” Hank stepped down from the kitchen. “I told you it was gonna wake somebody up, but you were too busy singing along to care.” Hank turned to her. “You ought to hear how loud he has Jimmy Buffett blasting through the showroom down at Metro.”

Drew’s eyes widened. “All you had to do was say something.”

Hank gestured toward the stereo. “But that stuff right there is kinda nice. Why don’t you bring that CD down to the shop with you tomorrow?”

“Well, I’ll just have to do that.”

She glanced from one man to the other, thinking what an odd but colorful team they made, the fifty-something laid back and the thirtysomething uptight.

Hank offered his mug in salute. “Jessica, I owe you one. Come on down to Metro Muscle and I’ll make you a good deal on an old car.”

“Thanks, but I already have an old car.”

“If you change your mind…” He smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

She turned to leave.

Stepping between his guest and the door, Drew reached for the knob and then paused.

“By any chance would your old car be that rusty station wagon with all the gardening supplies stacked next to it?”

Her trouble sensors went on full alert. She was torn between pride in the beloved vehicle and suspicion for why he was asking. But she answered honestly.

“That’s my Ruby.”

“Ruby?”

“Sure, that’s her name. Ruby Red.”

He squinted, confusion etched on his face.

“You seem to care a lot about automobiles. I bet that blue car has a name,” she said matter-of-factly.

Drew glanced over her head toward his partner. Jessica followed his gaze to see Hank busy with the installation of the clothes dryer. Her neighbor looked back at her, leaning in closer.

“Okay. Normally when I tell this to someone, I have to kill them. But I think I can trust you.” He lowered his voice. “When we’re alone, just me and the hot rod, I call him…” He glanced toward the laundry room again and whispered, “Rambo.”

She gasped, first embarrassed, then angry. The big goon burst into loud laughter. She made a fist and gave a solid punch to his shoulder. His face registered surprise at the strength of the blow. He winced and rubbed the spot, but continued to enjoy his laugh at her expense.

“Who told you?” She demanded an answer.

“You mean more than one person knows about my nickname?”

She couldn’t help noticing when he laughed that there were twin dimples in his tanned cheeks. It only made him more attractive.

“Well, I guess I have called you that a time or two….” She held up a hand in defense as his eyes opened wide in mock surprise. “But you have to admit, it’s an obvious comparison under the circumstances.”

“And what exactly are the circumstances?” He arched a dark eyebrow in challenge.

Realizing no good could come from continuing the conversation, she opened the door and prepared to leave. Drew moved toward her and she blocked any advancement with the end of her cane aimed squarely at his broad chest. The image of a lion tamer using a chair to hold off the king of beasts came to her mind.

“Okay,” he conceded. “You’re not the first person to typecast me in that role. But do me a favor and get to know me a little better before you label me. Fair enough?”

She slowly lowered the cane back to its usual place, beside her right leg.

“Fair enough.”

Jessica caught sight of her dog, watching from atop a leather recliner. “Come on, Frasier, let’s go home.”

His head cocked to the left when he heard his name, but he stayed in his comfortable position. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor beside her heel. Frasier dropped his chin and closed his eyes. She heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Before you go, I need to ask—where do you plan to store all those bags of fertilizer you have stacked beside your car?”

“I hadn’t really given it much thought. Why? Are they in your way?”

“Let’s just say I’d enjoy the view a great deal more if they weren’t cluttering up the parking lot.”

“Then let’s also say you wouldn’t be enjoying the view at all if I didn’t have easy access to the bags when I need them.” She stepped outside the door into the hallway.

He tried a smaller request.

“I expect you’ll at least sweep the walk and the hallway clean after you finish for the day.”

Jessica took her weight off the walking stick and straightened to her full height. Standing taller than most women could, and probably closer than most men dared, she fixed him with an icy stare. “What branch of the service did you say you were in again?”

“The United States Army, Special Forces.” He stared right back.

“What was your title?”

“Is. My rank is Captain.”

“Well, Captain Keegan of the United States Army, Special Forces, I am not one of your new hires, or recruits, or privates, or whatever you call them, so don’t presume to talk to me like one. I am the woman who lives next door. Your neighbor. I’ll do my best to clean up any mess I make. You do your best to hold the noise down and we’ll get along fine.”

She looked from the bemused hazel eyes over to the ones that peeked through a veil of white hair. Snapping her fingers and pointing beside her foot, she said in a calm but firm voice, “Frasier. Heel!”

With no hesitation, the dog jumped to the floor.

Drew watched as the pup followed the bare feet beneath the colorful robe back to their own door, where it closed firmly behind them both.

“I’d say you handled that pretty well.” Hank leaned against the bookcase, shaking his head.

“What’d I say wrong?” Drew asked, completely confused.

“Didn’t your mama teach you that you catch flies with honey, not vinegar?”

“I suppose you would have handled it differently?”

“Son, you need some coaching. For such a smart kid, you are completely lacking any female emotion sensors.” Hank made himself at home on the sofa, crossing one worn-out boot over the other, then continued.

“Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can make friends with that woman, help her see things your way, or you can knock heads with her and not accomplish a blasted thing. You’ve been here twenty-four hours and she’s mad at you already. If you don’t make some effort to change that soon, it’s only gonna get worse.”

While Drew considered his friend’s comment, he absentmindedly straightened a pillow askew from the dog’s visit. One of his primary reasons for being in Atlanta was a woman. He was going to have his hands full when he started that project. The last thing he needed was a difficult female next door.

“Okay, what do you suggest?”

“Think of this as a military situation. You need to turn an enemy into an ally. What’s your strategy?”

Finally on familiar ground, Drew took heart. He perched on the edge of an ottoman considered oversize for most. For him, it was a perfect fit.

“First I evaluate the opponent’s position. What are his strengths and weaknesses? What does he stand to gain or lose from an alliance? How can we mutually benefit from me helping him reach his own goals?”

“That’s a beginning,” Hank drawled. “Now start thinking in terms of her instead of him and start calling her your neighbor instead of your opponent.”

“Got it.” Drew made a mental check mark.

“So, what do you see as her strengths?”

Hank leaned back, threading long fingers behind his head.

“She’s a beautiful woman with a strong right cross.” Drew massaged the shoulder where she’d punched him. “She’s obviously blessed with a green thumb, seems to be very honest and she’s certainly not afraid to speak her mind.”

“You admire all those qualities, don’t you?” Hank asked.

Drew had to think about that for a moment. He did admire them. Maybe that helped explain his strange behavior yesterday. He still struggled with the impulsively blown kiss.

“Yes, I do,” he admitted.

“Now we’re making progress. So what do you see as her weaknesses?”

This one would be even easier.

“She’s a train wreck! You should see the inside of her home. It’s a mess, too. I don’t know how anybody can accomplish so much with poor organizational skills.”

“This is starting to sound like a radio psychology show,” Hank admitted. “But since you recognize her accomplishments, how do you suppose you could help her improve in the organization area?”

“I could go over there and offer her some pointers on how to get her house and her business in order.” Drew thought it was a sensible idea.

“Yeah, you could do that. And I think she’d probably appreciate it like a roach in her potato salad.”

“Too straightforward, huh?”

Both men nodded agreement.

Resting his elbows on the extra-wide leather chair, Drew leaned back to gaze at the vaulted ceiling. He’d always been the hardheaded, show-me type. Maybe Jessica was, too.

“Hank, have I ever told you the order and organization of Metro was the first thing about the business that won me over?” Drew complimented his new partner.

“At least a hundred times.”

“Well, it was. That’s important to me.”

“Obviously.”

“What if I invite Jessica to visit our shop and explain to her how great a place of her own could be?” Drew asked.

Hank rolled his eyes.

“You’re right, no female emotion sensors at all. I’ll have to think of something else to get her down there.”

“How about that new place where they sell landscaping rock by the truckload?” Hank offered. “It just opened down the road from us and she may not even know about it yet.”

Drew’s eyes narrowed as a plan took shape in his mind. He was nothing if not an expert at conceiving and following a plan. He’d honed his skills at West Point and completely embraced the love of organization in the Special Forces.

Hank looked up suspiciously. “What are you up to, buddy? I’ve only seen that spark in your eyes once before and the next thing I knew you owned half my shop.”

Chapter Four

Jessica stood in the doorway of her walk-in closet, hoping an outfit she’d overlooked would magically catch her eye. It wasn’t going to happen. She kept standing there, unable to accept defeat.

It wasn’t too late to make a mad dash to the mall. But she’d be darned if she’d treat her neighbor’s request for back-road guidance as a date, no matter how appealing he’d tried to make it sound.

He’d apologized for being pushy. He’d offered to make it up to her by showing her the new landscaping center in Jonesboro.

What a load of baloney. She suspected what he really wanted was somebody to show him the shortcuts between Sacred Arms and that Metro place so he could shave five minutes off his commute.

If he had a fuel-efficient vehicle like hers, instead of a gas-guzzling hot rod or monster truck, he wouldn’t have to worry about a few extra miles a week. She shrugged to herself. What else would you expect from a testosterone-saturated creature who probably bought underwear in a package of six for ten dollars?

The door slammed and Frasier’s manic barking heralded Becky Jo’s arrival. The fashion consultant was here at last. Jessica tossed the only two possible options on her bed.

“Jessica?” Becky Jo called from the foot of the stairs.

“Up here, Beej. I’m having a crisis and I need your special brand of advice.”

“Be right there,” she yelled back. “Let me stop off in the kitchen for a soda.”

Jessica surveyed the pitiful selections. One pair of jeans, size fourteen and miserably tight, lay on the bed like a virgin sacrifice. Steadfastly refusing to buy anything larger, she struggled into them on rare occasions, hiding the bulge at her waist with a shirt worn untucked. Probably the oldest fat trick in the book, but the only one she knew.

Second choice was a relatively new pair of khaki walking shorts. She’d spent so much time outdoors lately that her legs had a little color. When she sat down, her thighs spread out to twice their size. If she put her weight on her toes and pressed upward, it lifted her legs off the seat and that helped some. But she’d never make it all the way to Jonesboro like that without getting a cramp.

Dressing was a no-win situation. She’d go next door, say “no, thanks” and offer to draw him a map.

Becky Jo made her entrance. She drank deeply from a crystal goblet, sighed dramatically and affected an exaggerated swoon onto the bed, never spilling a drop. She admired her own abundant form and new gold lamé hostess pajamas.

Frequent trips to the thrift shop paid off, but yesterday she’d hit the jackpot. The new supply of plus-size silks and satins clearly indicated some rich society hostess had either lost weight or been shopping. Either way, Becky Jo was the beneficiary.

“Okay, what’s the occasion, and who do we want to impress?” She cast a disapproving scowl at the jeans and shorts. “Please tell me I’ve got more to work with than this.”

Jessica slumped to the bed and raked the clothes onto the floor. Her friend was right. Compared to the fashionable, bare midriff combinations she’d worn a year ago, these clothes were matronly.

“Our new neighbor asked me to ride down to Jonesboro with him tomorrow. He wants to learn the country roads, so he offered to show me a new garden supply near that garage of his.”

Becky Jo sat up. “A date, huh?”

“No, it’s not a date. Stop looking at me that way. I haven’t had a date in months and I’m not likely to have one any time soon.”

When Becky Jo pressed her lips together and squinted, Jessica knew her lack of self-confidence was showing again.

“You’d be amazed how many men would like to take you out, if you’d just give them the chance,” Becky Jo insisted.

“Yeah, right.” Jessica’s self-pity simmered just below the surface.

Becky Jo wiggled her index finger at Jessica. “You’re thinking ‘What nice-looking guy would be interested in a fat woman?’ Aren’t you?”

Jessica gasped at her best friend’s bluntness. “I was not, and I never think of you that way.”

Becky Jo’s smile was sympathetic. “I know, Jess. I don’t think of me as fat, either. Neither do the men I date. That’s because I’m voluptuous and Ruben-esque and bountiful and all the other great superlatives they use in fashion magazines to describe women of substance.”