Safe in Noah's Arms. Mary Sullivan
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sake.
“It’s amazing in risotto. There’s this recipe I use—”
“You cook?”
She reacted to his surprise with a snooty lift of her chin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’ve just never thought of you as being, I don’t know, domestic?”
Judging by the defiance in her expression, he’d offended her. “Cooking is one of my favorite hobbies.”
Noah just managed to bite his tongue before blurting cook for me. He liked food, but couldn’t bring himself to spend enough time in the kitchen to make really great, tasty stuff. Healthy, yes. Gourmet? No.
“It brings me joy,” she continued. “So to whom are you taking these veggies?”
He stared at her. To whom? Who used that kind of grammar anymore?
“Will they know what to do with garlic scapes?” she asked.
“Do you?”
“Yes. In fact, may I buy some from you? There aren’t any in the shops yet.”
“I can’t sell them. I’m a nonprofit.”
“Hmmm.” She set a finger, with its pink nail, against her chin. “How can we get around that? I’d really like some for dinner tonight. Can I make a donation to a charity in your name or something?”
“Yeah. We can work out something like that. You can make a donation to the food bank in Denver.”
She smiled and his world became a brighter, ever-expanding thing. “Great! I’ll take some asparagus, too. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Will the people you’re taking these to know how to use scapes? They’re kind of a new trend. Most people just use straight garlic.”
He shrugged. “You can ask when we get there.”
She smiled...slyly, he thought. “You’re going to let me come inside when you deliver the groceries? You’re not going to make me sit in the truck?”
He’d wanted to do just that, but he couldn’t carry in the produce on his own. How had she known?
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I invite you in?”
“Because you don’t want to harm your holier-than-thou reputation by being seen with an airhead like me?”
She’d skewered him, her assessment so dead-on it left him speechless.
She waved a hand. “Never mind. Let’s move on. What should I pick?”
He pointed to one row. “Let’s start with the green onions. You pull up about half of this row. I’ll go cut down a row of asparagus.”
When the wagon was full, Noah led the way to the barn. “These are the boxes I fill.” He pointed to a bunch of plastic crates stacked neatly against one wall.
She started to fill one, but he stopped her. “Let’s take them to the truck. If you fill them first, you won’t be able to lift them.”
“Oh, Noah, give me a break. I can lift a crate full of these veggies. Potatoes, turnips, maybe not. Green onions and garlic scapes? Can do.”
Together, they filled the crates, fitting vegetables in for minimum bruising. When they were done, Monica bent at the knees, put her arms around the first one and stood. Noah watched as she carried it to the back of the truck, impressed despite his misgivings.
“How are you so strong?”
“I work out four times a week. I never let anything get in the way. Workouts have been my lifesaver.”
He followed her back to the barn. “Lifesaver?”
“After Billy died, I needed something to do to work through the grief.” She mentioned her grief matter-of-factly, without self-pity. Cool.
Funny, he’d never really considered how much she would grieve for Billy. He’d thought she’d go out shopping and that would be that. Man, he could be an idiot sometimes.
“When things got really bad...” She paused to pick up a full crate.
Things had gotten bad for her. He’d never given her much thought at that time outside of the standard expressions of compassion, but she’d lost her husband, for God’s sake.
He had spent his adult life avoiding contact with her and didn’t really know who she was, outside of someone who would drink and drive. Who would knock him off his bike. And ruin his bike. And break his arm. And prevent him from getting his work done. There was all of that that was still wrong with her.
“Gabe Jordan taught me how to lift weights.” She returned to what she’d been saying. “And how to set up a good running program.”
Gabe. Billy’s best friend. For a while after Billy’s death, the town had speculated that something might be forming between Gabe and Monica. Next thing they heard, Gabe was marrying the new woman in town, Callie MacKintosh.
Subdued because he had indeed underestimated her, he said, “Let’s fill a couple more and head out.”
Before they left, she returned the tools she’d been using to the shed, as he’d taught her. He had to maintain his tools meticulously since he didn’t have money to replace any that weren’t cared for properly. Nice to see she was paying attention to him.
“Should I take my own car?”
He was tempted to say yes to give his libido a rest, but the thought of the two of them driving separate vehicles to the same places went so far against the grain with his need to conserve, that he couldn’t let it happen, not even if it meant spending time with her in the too-tight cab of his ancient truck.
“We have to come back here to pick scapes and asparagus for you anyway, so ride along in the truck with me.”
She slipped off the big old rubber boots she was still borrowing from him and into the baby blue suede loafers she’d been wearing when she got here this morning.
“Where is your bike?” She joined him at the truck. “The one I wrecked?”
“In the back stall of the barn.”
“I’ll put it in my trunk now so I don’t forget it.”
Curious. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to try to get it fixed.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
As if she knew anything about bikes. She helped him retrieve it from the barn anyway, along with the parts that had been knocked off, and then she loaded it into her car trunk.
It was a mess. He didn’t expect to see it again.
They drove for a couple of miles in silence, mileage underscored by the constant rolling hum of tires on pavement. He wracked his brain for something to say to this woman he barely knew even though they’d grown up in the same town, had attended the same schools, had witnessed the same births, deaths and marriages. How could a couple of people who’d shared so much also have shared so little? They were neither friends nor strangers.
What did he expect? That’s what came of living in the same town but avoiding each other—of him avoiding her, that is. He didn’t know what had been going on in her head all of those years. And he was becoming curious.
“DON’T YOU EVER TALK?” Monica’s question cut through the tension in the cab.
“Huh?”
“Why are you so quiet? Don’t you believe in casual