Season of Change(109)

                Christine snagged a corn-bread muffin, breaking it open. Steam rose. She popped a piece into her mouth. It was moist and sweet. “What’s the occasion?”

                “The fact that he’d let his place get out of hand. If Slade hadn’t asked about his near-debilitating arthritis, we might have lost another member of our community.”

                “He’s that sick?” Christine took another bite of muffin.

                “He’s old and frail. Rheumatoid arthritis can lock you up like a statue. The pain drains you. He’s lost weight. Chances are he’d suffer an attack and go to sleep afterward from exhaustion.” Nana tapped her watch face. “The man needs to rebuild his strength and the town needs to let him know we haven’t forgotten about him.”

                “But you had,” Christine pointed out.

                “Because we’re old and forgetful. We’re lucky to have people like Slade and his friends around to keep an eye out for us. Now go! I need help carrying things over there.”

                Christine grinned. “That’s all I am. An extra pair of hands.” She sashayed down the hall.

                “One of those hands would be a lot more attractive if you let that millionaire put a ring on it.”

                While Christine washed up, she debated what to wear. Capris and a cool blouse or a dress. A dress would be like throwing down a challenge to Slade, a test of his control. He’d stared at her with manly appreciation in her black feathered gown. Did she want to test his control and risk her heart again?

                She knew the answer. She wasn’t going to be a quitter anymore.

                She changed into a simple green cotton sheath and a pair of low-heeled Grecian sandals out of her collection of shoes. It took her an extra five minutes to freshen her makeup, brush out her ponytail and pull up half her locks with a turquoise-and-silver comb at the back of her head.

                These were final-countdown measures. It was easy to resist her in a torn T-shirt and dirty jean shorts. She was bringing out the big guns. And if this didn’t work, tomorrow she’d send that email she’d drafted accepting a job interview at Lalopolle.

                “That was worth the wait,” Nana said when she met her in the hallway, smoothing her own simple blue cotton dress. “You look more like yourself.”

                She didn’t feel like herself. She felt like one of the twins putting on an alter ego.

                That was, until she arrived at Old Man Takata’s house and saw how Slade looked at her, as if she was an ice-cream sundae he wanted to savor in slow, melting spoonfuls. He didn’t come for a taste, but he came over to greet her.

                “Wow,” he said as he took the food from Nana’s arms. “I mean...everything just looks... Wow.”

                It had been hot on the walk over. Under his gaze, Christine’s temperature ratcheted up another few degrees.

                “Young people nowadays,” Nana huffed and left them in the foyer.

                Christine didn’t wait to hear if Slade had anything else to say. She carried the corn bread and cake toward the kitchen.

                Hiro Takata’s house smelled of wood polish and disinfectant. Every light was on, every window open. His furniture was classic 1970s. White velvet couch with big orange flowers and matching club chairs, all protected by a layer of plastic.

                Old Man Takata alternated between smiling and grumbling. He joked with his bowling buddies and complained to the women about being fussed over.