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At noon the next day, Delores Watkins sauntered up behind Brad William’s desk chair and glanced at his computer screen. Her eyebrows arched up, but she held her peace.
An instant later Brad sensed her there, and colored to the roots of his hair. He swiveled the chair around and gave her a sheepish grin. “Ah – Delores! I didn’t see you there! What can I do for you?”
Delores swept him with her heavy lashes and smiled indulgently. “Don’t worry, lover boy,” she assured him. “I won’t tell anyone that you shop at”—she adjusted her glasses—“Angel Secrets. Though I confess—”
“Cut to the chase, Delores,” Brad interrupted evenly. “This is my lunch break.”
“Yes, you’re finally awake! Your bleary mornings are beginning to make sense to me now. I don’t object to romance, Brad, but if yours is newsworthy, throw the Ledger a bone – promise?”
She tossed a report down on his desk, winked at him, laughed at his expression and surged away, like some massive ship.
Brad watched her go grimly, and turned back to his task – but not before closing his office door, to prevent any further intrusions.
He sat down in front of the computer and returned to the Angel Secrets gift page. He clicked on a series of lovely, frilly things, the sort of frou-frous all women everywhere loved, and– he’d be willing to bet – even Amish women dreamed of, in their weaker moments.
And weak was what he was shooting for.
Seduction.
The jewelry page displayed a tiny, elfin gold ring with one delicate emerald chip. It would match the Duchess’ eyes to perfection. He clicked on it.
The next page showed a pair of tiny hair barrettes covered in pink, feathery fuzz. Brad lingered over them, fantasizing about what it would feel like to set them in Jemima’s flowing hair. He clicked on them, too.
Later on, there were little bottles of perfume, scented soaps and flavored lip gloss with names like ‘50s Magnolia, Champagne Ice Cream, and Winged Fantasy. Brad chose a small, exquisite vial of a perfume called Moonlight Angel. It was a tiny bottle of cobalt blue glass bearing a blue-and-gold foil label. A tiny gold fringe hung from the bottle neck. He clicked on it, too.
It was the first phase of his campaign to win Jemima away from his last, daunting rival: the Amish church.
He’d start with little gifts of the kind that all girls loved. It would be an innocent gesture, one that men in love were supposed to make – but, hopefully, it would do more than just touch Jemima’s heart.
He hoped that it would open her eyes – just a little – to what she was missing. He was confident that, sooner or later, nature would kick in.
It was against nature for a beautiful girl like Jemima to wear drab clothing every day of her life. She should be free to revel in her youth and beauty and enjoy sweet nonsense like—he looked down at the screen—bubble gum lip gloss, and pink nail polish, and even more delightfully girly gifts that he was not yet bold enough to give her.
But totally planned to in the near future.
He smiled, imagining Jemima’s delight when he presented these frilly nothings. It would probably be the first time she’d ever been given a remotely lover-like gift, and it was going to be fun to watch her face when she opened them up.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his head. That Amish asceticism made him kind of mad, really – the Duchess was 18 years old, an adult, and had never in her life worn lip gloss, or jewelry or even pretty barrettes in her hair. It was a kind of abuse to make a beautiful girl feel bad about such harmless pleasures – the pretty things that should be a beauty’s birthright.
Well, he intended to change all that.
When he’d finished showering the Duchess with all the pretty things she deserved, as well as the kisses and other delights he had planned for her, she wasn’t going to have a thought to spare for all that religious nonsense.
Brad stared grimly at the screen. Yes, the sooner he got her away from the green hill country, the better. All that religious stuff was crushing her down, holding her back. It might even give her some weird complex about sex, and that would be a tragedy.
He grinned suddenly. And he certainly intended to do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.
The sound of Delores knocking on his office door burst Brad’s pleasant bubble. His lunch break, and his fantasies, were over. It was time to return to the real world.
But to his dismay, Brad found that returning to the real world was an increasingly difficult proposition. He thought of Jemima more than he liked to admit, more than was probably healthy for his ego, or his self-image as an independent bachelor.
That evening, back at his apartment, Brad pushed a TV dinner into his microwave and stared at it hopelessly. Even the “man sized” meat and potato meal was a sorry substitute for the food he remembered from the green hill country. He longed for Jemima’s picnic basket with almost physical pain. And the memory of all the meals he’d had in Amish country haunted him – the ham and biscuits and pie and potato salad and chicken fried steak and...
Well, it brought tears to his eyes.
He flopped down at his kitchen table and put his chin on his fists. He thought the Amish were wrong about a lot of things, but food was one thing they got gloriously right.
He glowered at the humming microwave, and imagined the Duchess taking charge of his kitchen. It was a pretty fantasy.
If she did, no doubt the first thing she’d do would be to throw that microwave out as a tool of the devil, which it certainly was. Then she would insist on a brand new gas stove with all the bells and whistles, and would immediately turn his apartment into a home-cooking heaven.
Except that she wasn’t there.
Brad chewed his lip. The Duchess had always messed with his mind, but to his dismay, her influence on his imagination was approaching critical mass. She was beginning to tint the way he saw the world. It used to be that he’d merely missed her when they were apart. But now, he was even beginning to see his apartment differently because of her.
It wasn’t the biggest or nicest apartment in the world, that was for sure, but he’d been happy enough with it before he’d met the Duchess. Now, nothing about it seemed right without her.
Not even the microwave oven.
The microwave beeped and Brad rose and pulled the tray out of the oven. He peeled the plastic cover back gingerly.
His dinner stared back at him. It was a brown blob.
Brad leaned his head against the kitchen cabinet, and beat it against the door a time or two before he retired to the kitchen table for his evening meal.
