Chapter Twenty-two

Amber stared out the truck window while Stan drove, fingering the envelope containing the new clue, trying not to feel completely discouraged. If just one thing didn’t go wrong, it would help, but so far, nothing had gone right.

Today she’d gotten a form letter in the mail warning her that her membership was coming due at the end of the month, and that the weekend before her renewal, someone would come and inspect her garden to make sure it was up to the club’s standards. It was, but barely.

What wasn’t up to standards was that the trophy was still missing. No one had assured her that it didn’t matter. The opposite, whenever one of the operating board members came into her store, they asked if she and Stan had found it yet.

She’d also received a letter from the bank, denying her application for a loan to pay off Uncle Henry.

At least she’d finished more flamingos, and the florist lady paid for them. Finally she was in the black, and she could afford to eat properly again. Until she had to buy the supplies to make the next month’s project, which was hippos. But she’d be a little more ahead progressively each month. For now it wasn’t enough to make a big difference yet.

If she had to say one good thing had happened, the forced diet helped her to lose that last five pounds she’d been fighting with for all of her adult life. When she could afford it, she would start by buying one pair of high-end brand-name jeans to celebrate. For now, there was always Walmart.

Stan followed her to the door, then into the kitchen where, as usual, he reached up to get the mugs out of the cupboard while she put on the kettle to make tea.

While the kettle heated up, she sat at the table. Stan dragged the other chair next to hers while she tore open the envelope.

You can’t see gnorman, but he can see you

With his gorgeous eyes of blue

From beneath Barry’s barbecue

gnorman has a message, and it is Boo!

They groaned in unison.

Amber thunked her forehead down on the table. “This is the worst one yet. Why do we bother? What does this person want from me? Why don’t they ever mention the trophy in these ridiculous notes?”

“I don’t know. All we can do is keep at it, and at some point our paths have to cross. We can do this, Amber.”

With her forehead pressed to the tabletop, she couldn’t see him, but she jumped when Stan’s fingertips brushed the back of her hand. He flattened his hand over hers and wrapped his fingers around it, giving it a gentle squeeze.

After all the pressure of the past few months, the tender gesture was more than she could handle. The backs of her eyes burned, and she feared she might start crying. As if she hadn’t done enough embarrassing things in front of poor Stan lately.

She kept her forehead pressed to the table and shook her head. “No, I’m not so sure we can continue this anymore.” As her head moved, she felt her hair flop down around her head. She hoped she’d wiped up the peanut butter she’d smudged on the table that morning.

She felt a slight bit of pressure on her hand at the same time as Stan’s chair grated on the floor and he shuffled closer to her. He slowly raised her hand off the table, and his grip changed as he grasped it from underneath, palm to palm. For a few seconds she felt his hot breath on the back of her hand, then the gentle brush of his warm lips as he kissed her there and pressed it to his cheek.

She should have yanked her hand away, but she couldn’t move. Earlier tonight Hayden had kissed her good night as they parted ways on her doorstep. It was just a light peck on the lips, but it was on the lips. She’d felt nothing except surprise that he’d done it.

All Stan had kissed was her hand, and her heart pounded like she was standing on the railway tracks with a train coming straight for her.

Amber rolled her head to the side, pressing her cheek to the table as she looked up at Stan. His eyes were closed and he sighed, her hand still pressed to his cheek. His lips moved to a small, satisfied smile as his thumb gently rubbed her wrist.

She didn’t know what he was doing, but she didn’t want him to stop, peanut butter in her hair or not. It was the most romantic thing Stan had ever done.

Actually it was the only romantic thing he’d ever done.

Romantic? Stan?

Using her free hand, she pressed her palm to the table to steady her as she righted herself.

At the movement Stan opened his eyes and released her hand, but he still wore the goofy grin. “I’d like to take you out for dinner tomorrow night. How would you like to go to the Fancy Schmantzy?”

Amber gulped. If she hadn’t been sure about last weekend when he’d taken her out, there would be no doubt about tomorrow. The Fancy Schmantzy would definitely be a date, and she wasn’t sure that was something she wanted to do with Stan. Her buddy. They’d seen each other in diapers. Not that she remembered that far back, but that didn’t negate the fact that it had happened. The only thing they hadn’t done together was play in the sandbox, because her mother wouldn’t allow it, always reminding them what cats did in sandboxes.

She wasn’t ready to go on a real date with Stan that weekend. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready.

She cleared her throat. “I can’t. I need to do some shopping. For new jeans.” Her single-digit bank account danced before her eyes. “I was going to go to Walmart tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Do you want to come with me?”

“. . . I—”

“They have a McDonalds in the front of the store. We can eat there.”

“. . . want—”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Please?” Just like in a sappy chick flick, she tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Stan’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

She folded her hands and pressed them up under her chin. “I’d really like that.”

He sighed. “Sure. I’ll pick you up after I close up the shop.”

With Amber beside him, Stan flexed a fishing rod, testing it to determine the point of give. “I like this one. I think I’m going to buy it.”

Amber made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “How many fishing rods do you need? You can only catch one fish at a time, and most of the time you throw them back.”

“How many pairs of shoes do you need? You only wear one pair at a time, and most of the time you try on half a dozen, throw them all back in the closet, and wear the black ones.”

When she whacked him in the back with her purse, Stan smiled. A trip to Walmart wasn’t what he had envisioned for the evening, but he was having a great time.

He hadn’t been looking forward to waiting while she tried on a dozen pairs of jeans, but when she walked out of the dressing room and modeled each pair for his opinion, he changed his mind. He’d very much enjoyed that.

Next, he was going to pay for the ones she selected and tell her that buying the jeans was cheaper than buying dinner at the Fancy Schmantzy, even though he still had every intention of taking her there. Just not today.

On the way to the checkout, they became distracted at an end cap display of yarn. While he waited for Amber to pick just the right color from a selection of fuzzy stuff, a tiny lady next to Amber stood on her tiptoes and stretched as far as she could, trying to reach a ball of yarn on the top shelf. No matter how much she wiggled and squirmed, she couldn’t touch the one she wanted.

Stan reached forward, picked it up, and handed it to her. “Is this the one you want?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said as she read the numbers on the label, tucked it under one arm, turned to him and smiled.

Stan started to smile back, but his smile froze.

This was the woman from the store that was Amber’s competition. Florence was her name, as he recalled. But he couldn’t let her know that he knew that.

As she looked up into his face, she smiled. “I know you from somewhere. Where have we met?”

When Amber realized the woman was talking to him, she turned around. Like he did, she started to smile a greeting before she made eye contact. Stan could tell the split second Amber recognized the woman. Her eyes went as wide as saucers, and the color drained from her cheeks.

Gathering his courage, Stan faced the woman. “Maybe. I own and operate Stan’s Shop. I’m Stan Wilson. Have you ever brought your car in?” He already knew the answer. He hoped she would say no, then he’d grab Amber’s arm and drag her out of there to come back later, after Florence left.

“I don’t think that’s it. I never forget a face.”

Stan’s brain went blank.

Florence turned to Amber. “I think something about you is familiar, too.”

He recalled the fake accent Amber had used. The last thing they wanted to happen was for the woman to make the connection, go into Amber’s store, and start stocking similar items now that they knew what Florence sold in her own store.

“I don’t think so,” Amber said flatly.

Florence turned again to Stan. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You seem very familiar. Do you have a brother?”

“That must be it.”

The woman tilted her head and continued to study him. “I’m fairly new in town. Are you members of the Bloomfield Garden Club?”

Stan lifted his wrist and made a big show out of checking his watch. “Look at the time. We have to get going. It was nice meeting you.”

Amber needed no encouragement to take his cue. She grabbed two balls of yarn without reading the labels, and started walking away.

In two strides Stan caught up to her, and they didn’t break speed until they reached the line for the checkout.

She looked at all the people surrounding them, peeked down the aisle, and turned to him with a huge grin on her face. “A brother?”

He grinned back. “Yeah. Remind me to tell my mother that I’m not an only child anymore.”

She smacked him again, and her smiled widened. “Forget it. That secret baby stuff only happens in bad romance novels. I hope we have everything we came for, because as soon as we pay for this stuff, we’re so outta here.”

They placed their purchases on the checkout belt, and when it was their turn, Stan removed the divider and informed the cashier that he was paying for everything.

He raised one hand toward Amber to silence her when her mouth opened, then shuffled to the side so the clerk wouldn’t hear. “Don’t argue with me. This is cheaper than the supper you wouldn’t let me buy for you, so if you don’t let me pay, you’ll hurt my male ego.”

She rolled her eyes, telling him he’d won. This round, anyway. They’d already had the burger and fries he’d promised for dinner, maybe he would push his luck and stop for coffee and donuts on the way home.

Or maybe the Fancy Schmantzy was a possibility for next weekend.