Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters. Susan Mallery
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“Hi, Dad. How was breakfast?”
“Delja cooks a mean omelet. If I thought I was man enough, I would marry her in a second.”
Kelly laughed. “I don’t think she’s your type.”
“Probably not, but a guy can dream.” He hung his jacket on the hook by the back door and crossed to her for a quick hug. He poured himself coffee, then leaned against the counter.
“We have two more Christmas orders,” he said. “If this keeps up, we’re going to be shipping half a million tulips in December. Plus you know some idiot’s going to call in November and ask if we have any extras.”
“I’m ready. We can go as high as six hundred thousand, then we’re out.”
“I’ll be sure to let our distributors know. Also, that fancy yellow one is selling real well in Los Angeles. Connie wants to know if you can make those in any other colors.”
“Da-ad. Those yellow ones? Is that really what we’re reduced to these days?”
“You go ahead and use their fancy names. I’ll stick with yellow.”
Jeff knew the names better than she did. He’d been growing tulips since he was a teenager. When Kelly had graduated college and joined the farm full-time, they’d talked about how to handle things. Jeff was tired of being responsible for all the growing and Kelly had no interest in dealing with distributors or clients, so they’d split the duties. Like their living arrangements, it was a system that worked for them.
Sometimes she wondered if he’d ever wanted more than life in a small town. He was a relatively young man—not yet fifty—but he hadn’t remarried after his divorce. As far as everyone was concerned, he’d never even dated. Every few months he disappeared to Seattle for a long weekend. Kelly assumed he met someone for a brief affair, but that was it.
As for herself, she had no idea what she was going to do about Griffith. Being someone’s girlfriend again sounded nice, but shouldn’t she want more? Shouldn’t she want to fall in love and have babies and live happily ever after?
She supposed the problem was she didn’t believe in happily ever after anymore. If she ever had.
Jammin’ Madame Lefeber—named for the tulip, not a person—took up about a third of what had once been a grocery store, long since defunct. The other two-thirds were a bowling alley, with both businesses sharing the ample parking lot. On the upside, neither business cared if the other made noise. On the downside, despite thick layers of insulation and sound-deadening drywall, the crack of bowling balls hitting the pins could still be heard. It was a low and arrhythmic beat and could distract even the most professional of musicians.
Helen walked into the foyer a couple of minutes early. Pictures of former students covered the walls. Some were classic studio poses while others showed bands playing live at a venue. She smiled when she saw Jeff and herself in the background of many of the band shots.
JML was a music school that focused more on guitar and drums than the more classical instruments. As part of the services, students could put together a band. An instructor would help them learn a handful of songs, then arrange for a showcase onstage at Petal Pushers or somewhere else. To help the fledgling bandmates get their sound together, near professional-level musicians played along.
The work didn’t pay much. Helen did it for the fun and to get the chance to play keyboard every now and then. The bands were interesting, although rarely gifted. Still, it was better than playing piano alone in her living room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that she and Jeff frequently worked as a team. The man played a mean guitar. More than one fourteen-year-old had been left slack-jawed at Jeff’s rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.”
Thinking about Jeff got her chest to fluttering. She reminded herself of the importance of appearing cool, even if she didn’t feel it, despite the fact that her feelings for the man bordered on a rock-star crush.
She knew that he’d played in a rock band in high school, then had quit after he’d gotten married. She wasn’t sure when he’d taken up the guitar again. She’d started working with the students at JML years ago—shortly after her divorce. In fact, that was where she’d first noticed Jeff. She’d fallen for him during an off-key Beatles retrospective—specifically “Hard Day’s Night.”
Before she could dig up more swoon-worthy memories, Jeff appeared in the foyer. Her throat immediately tightened and speech became impossible. What was it about a man in a plaid shirt? Okay—not any man—just this one. Or maybe it was the worn jeans that hugged his narrow hips and long legs. Or the way he held his guitar case with such confidence.
Jeff smiled as he approached. “Heard anything about our latest bandmates?”
“Isaak said they’re fifteen-year-old twins who got guitars for their birthday.”
Jeff winced. “Why do parents do that?”
“Someone has to be the next generation of rock music.”
Isaak, a tall, curly-haired man of mixed heritage, walked into the foyer. “You’re here,” he said, sounding grateful. “Adults. Thank God.”
“How are the new students?”
“You honestly don’t want to know. They’re arguing about whether to play Atreyu or Pop Evil.”
“Are those bands or songs?” Jeff asked.
“Bands,” Helen told him. “You really have to pay attention to music from this century.”
“I like Coldplay.”
“They started in the nineties.”
“But they have songs out this century.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Probably.” Jeff turned to Isaak. “Give them the approved music list.”
“That’s less of a problem than them having trouble grasping what a chord is. Can you give me a few minutes?”
Jeff looked at Helen who nodded.
“We’ll wait,” Jeff told him.
The music director retreated to one of the practice rooms. Jeff and Helen walked to the break room in the back. Jeff pulled several dollar bills out of his pocket and walked to the soda machine.
“Diet Coke?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
He got them each a can, then joined her at the round table by the window. One wall thumped from uneven drumming while another vibrated with an overly enthusiastic bass guitar.
“We should have brought earplugs,” he told her.
“You always say that. The students get better.”
“Not today.”
The table was small, forcing them to sit close enough for their knees to bump. With every casual contact, Helen felt a jolt of awareness zip up her leg. Talk about stupid.
“I can’t believe you mocked Coldplay,” he said.
“I didn’t. I simply pointed out you’re not a fan of contemporary music.”
“No one’s better than the Rolling Stones.”
“Billy Joel is better.”
He looked at her over the can. “You have a thing for him so you can’t be impartial.”
“My thing for Billy is nothing when compared to your slavish devotion to that British band.”
“Mine doesn’t have a sexual component. That makes it more honest.”
“Because sex isn’t