Second Chance for Romance

I woke up after only a few hours. I tried to go back to sleep but finally threw back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. I went to the window and opened the curtains. Streetlights glowed on parked cars, their windows opaque from dew. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

I decided to go for a run, partly to work out the soreness from the move, but also to explore the neighborhood. The streets were laid out in a grid, so it was almost impossible to get lost. I spent a blissful hour jogging through Fort Sanders as the world slowly came to life.

When I returned to the house, I came to a halt at the front porch. I

watched in silent amusement as a hundred-pound bundle of energy, Christy, paced back and forth in high dudgeon. She jabbed the doorbell. Then she pounded on the door. She seemed like she’d been at it for a few minutes.

She wore plaid flannel pajamas that were a couple of sizes too large, which made her look like a kid playing dress-up. Her slippers didn’t help.

They were fluffy white bunnies, complete with cotton-ball tails. She balled her fists and stomped a foot.

The result was less than earth-shattering, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

She rounded on me. She didn’t recognize me at first, but then her eyes widened.

“Mornin’,” I said with exaggerated southern politeness.

“Good morning.” She looked me up and down. “What happened to you?”

I blinked.

“Did you lose weight?”

I felt self-conscious all of a sudden. “A little, yeah.”

“A lot.” Her irritation returned. “Where have you been?”

My shirt was tied around my waist. I was breathing heavily and my bare skin steamed in the cool air. Those should’ve been her first clues. My shorts and running shoes should’ve doubled the clue factor. I looked down at myself, if only to make sure I saw the same thing she did.

“Don’t you ever wear clothes?” she snapped. “And I don’t mean where have you been. I mean all of you. Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you too.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Okay, I give up,” I said at last. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been here for days! Waiting. Where were you?”

The front door opened before I could answer. Wren, clad in a blue terrycloth bathrobe, stared out blearily.

Christy turned. “Where have you been?”

“Wha’?”

I caught Wren’s eye. “She means, ‘Good morning. Nice to see you. May I come in?’”

Wren mumbled something and stepped aside.

I followed them into the house and headed upstairs. “Shower,” I said over my shoulder. “Back in a bit.”

“Clothes!” Christy called after me.

I stuck my head over the railing. “What about ’em?”

As it turned out, Christy had good reason to be annoyed. Wren had forgotten to tell her about the change in plans. So Christy arrived in Knoxville to find the house locked and empty. She’d called Wren’s parents and left several messages, but never heard back. And she didn’t know Trip’s number or mine.

So she’d been waiting five days, with no idea where we were.

Wren apologized profusely, but Christy was still in the mood to fume.

“What did you do?” I asked when she finally paused to breathe.

“I called Sayuri. I’ve been staying with her.”

“Friend of yours?”

She looked at Wren in exasperation. “Is he serious?”

“Probably,” Wren said. She yawned. “Do we have any Coke?”

Christy ignored her and said to me, “Sayuri lives next door. She used to own the house.”

“Ah. That explains your pajamas. They’re fitting, by the way. Very…

Victorian.”

She thought I was making fun of her.

I was, but in a friendly way. I gestured at the house around us. “It’s Victorian too.”

“Is it?” She waved a hand. “It’s just a house.”

“That’s a bit like saying Michelangelo was ‘just an artist.’”

Her five-foot-nothing glare wasn’t very intimidating.

I smiled. “Down, girl. The house isn’t the Sistine Chapel, but it isn’t ‘just a house’ either. It’s a work of art.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Sure it is. You just have to know how to look. There’s beauty in everything.”

Since I was the only one who was awake, showered, and dressed (in clothes and everything, as requested), I offered to make a grocery run.

“We need Coke,” Wren said with another yawn. “And coffee and filters too.” She nudged a cardboard box with her toe. “I’ll find the coffee maker. I hope.”

I nodded and glanced at Christy. “Anything you want, m’lady?”

She tried to decide if I was making fun of her again. “Apples,” she said at last. “Grapes. Maybe a melon.”

“Cantaloupe or watermelon?”

“Cantaloupe. Or honeydew. Whichever is fresher.”

“Anything else?”

“Carrots. Celery. Radishes.”

“In other words, the usual bunny food?”

She turned to Wren. “Has he been like this all summer?”

“Worse,” I said. “And the word you’re looking for is ‘unrepentant.’”

“I was thinking ‘annoying.’”

“That too,” I agreed cheerfully.