Midnight Valentine(9)
Only Mr. Spock from Star Trek has a brow arch full of more threat, suspicion, or withering disdain than me, a fact I take great pride in.
The drive to Suzanne’s friend’s place is only another few minutes across town, then we pull into the driveway of a brightly lit Craftsman. It’s blue with white shingles and has white lights wound around the trunks of two towering palm trees in the front yard.
“At least let me carry the wine,” I say as Suzanne leans over to get a wrapped bottle from the backseat. “I can’t walk in empty-handed.”
“If I let you carry the wine, I’ll be walking in empty-handed.”
“Yeah, but they already know you. You can get away with it. They’ll think I’m some kind of freeloader with no manners if I do it.”
She scrunches her face and looks at me. “Are you always like this?”
“Disarmingly honest? Yes.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of worryingly odd.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding. “But there’s no need to worry. I’m harmless.”
She taps her long acrylic fingernails on the steering wheel and shakes her head, looking me over. “Harmless as a bear trap, I’d say. I can’t wait to see the expression on Mike’s face when he sees you.”
“Who’s Mike?”
When she smiles, I warn, “Two percent, Suzanne. Don’t forget our deal.”
“Oh, keep your panties on. But you can’t blame me when half the men drop dead when you walk in and the other half instantly file for divorce. Even in boyfriend jeans and no makeup, you look like a supermodel, you bitch. If I didn’t make so much money off you, I’d hate your guts.”
She hands me the bottle of wine and exits the car, leaving me smiling. Though we’re pretty much opposites, somehow I think Suzanne and I are going to get along just fine.
The front door of the house opens to Suzanne’s brisk knock, then I’m looking up—way up—at a young man with a mop of curly dark hair and a shy smile. He’s in his early twenties, tanned, lanky, and adorably bashful, gazing at Suzanne from under long, curving black lashes that have no right belonging to a male.
“Hey, Suzanne,” he says softly, toeing the floor.
When she says, “Mike! Hiya, handsome!” and kisses him on the cheek, he blushes so furiously, I’m worried he might pass out.
Suzanne is either oblivious or accustomed to Mike’s obvious infatuation. She turns to introduce me as if the poor guy isn’t about to faint from the mere sight of her. “Mike, this is Megan Dunn. She bought the Buttercup Inn, so I brought her as my date.”
Mike turns his big brown eyes to me, then exhales a long breath that contains a lot of vowels. His cheeks darken to the point he looks sunburned, and now I understand that Mike is a virgin with a capital V who also has a vivid imagination, the raging hormones to fuel it, and not enough social graces to land himself a girlfriend to assist him with his predicament.
I remember being that young and desperate. Growing up is a special kind of hell.
“Hi, Mike. Nice to meet you. I love your shirt. Queen’s one of my favorite bands.”
He gazes at me like I’ve just descended from the heavens on a golden chariot. “No way.”
I nod seriously. “Way. I mean, they’re no Bowie, but who is?”
After a moment wherein he simply stares at me with his mouth hanging open, Suzanne takes charge. “Always great to see you, Mike.” Smiling, she grabs my arm and pushes past him, dragging me along into the foyer of the house.
“God, the poor thing,” I whisper as she guides me into a living room that looks like something out of a Martha Stewart book. “You should be trying to set him up, not me.”
“That would be inconvenient, as he’s decided to enter the seminary.”
I almost trip over my own feet. “He wants to be a priest? Does he know they’re not allowed to have sex?”
“It’s a pity, right? He’s so cute. I feel sorry for whatever population of elderly nuns he’s going to traumatize.” She lifts a hand in greeting. “Sunday! Hi! I brought you a present!”
A woman wearing a flowing, bohemian-type dress turns to us from where she’s standing chatting with several people in the living room. She raises her hand in greeting, and her armful of gold bangles twinkle in the light.
“Hi, Suze! Who’s your friend?”
We stop in front of the group, and Suzanne introduces me like I’m some kind of rock star while everyone politely smiles and tries not to be too obvious as they look me up and down and judge my outfit.
“This is Megan Dunn, the woman who bought the Buttercup Inn. She’s incredibly smart, incredibly funny, and, as you can see, prettier than a thousand-dollar bill. I’ve decided not to hate her because she also happens to be cool.”