I'll Be Your Everything Read online

  It had to be at least sixty-five outside.

  Home. Not that I’d go back to Virginia, but this place just gives me the feeling of home. Those were craftspeople I saw making an American product at that plant. The woman behind that counter doesn’t even use recipes, Millie tells me. She cooks by feel, cooks by heart, cooks by touch. This is what home is about. Nothing fancy. Just ... home. No matter where you go in Macon, Georgia, you’re home. If MultiCorp ever represents a city like Macon, they can use that slogan. No matter where you go...

  I gulp some lemonade.

  No matter where you ... ride ... you’re home.

  Home. That has to be the centerpiece of anything we do for Peterson Bicycles. I wish I could write it down on a napkin. I won’t forget. Home. There’s no place like home.

  “Where do you think Mr. Peterson took Mr. Sexton?” I ask Mrs. Peterson.

  Mrs. Peterson sighs and shakes her head. “They’ll be at Between the Bread Café. Woody can’t go two days without his grilled rib-eye sandwich. It’s only about half a mile from here. We can drop by there on our way back if you like.”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “Um, you see ...”

  Millie and Tillie lean in.

  I have a captive audience. “I think it’s best, Mrs. Peterson, that my competition and I stay separated, you know, for impartiality.”

  “Not much is impartial when your competition is hogging the boss, and it’s the boss who makes most of the decisions,” Mrs. Peterson says.

  “True,” I say.

  Millie and Tillie are still staring at me. I hope I don’t have some okra stuck in my teeth.

  “You, um, you know Mr. Sexton well?” Mrs. Peterson asks.

  Define “well.” There are so many variations. “I guess so. Pretty well.”

  “Was he your sweetie?” Mrs. Peterson asks.

  Millie and Tillie smile.

  My mouth drops a few inches. “No. Um, actually he’s a ... he’s the, um, he’s the boyfriend of a friend of mine.” Whom I’m impersonating. Please don’t press me for more.

  Tillie shakes her head. “You are the worst little liar I think I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m ... not lying, Miss Tillie.” This time.

  Millie drums the table with her wrinkled fingers. “He’s a boyfriend of a friend of mine. Girl, either he was your boyfriend or you want him to be your boyfriend. Admit it.”

  “I really don’t even know him,” I say. “I’ve had some conversations with him a few times, that’s all.” Okay, more than a few. More like ... sixty a year times five. Three hundred conversations? Maybe I do know Tom.

  “A few conversations,” Tillie repeats. “That’s all it would take.”

  “He sure is handsome,” Mrs. Peterson says. “Right successful, too.”

  I nod and wish I had left something on my plate to eat. “Yes, he’s ... he’s very good at his job. He’s ...” I look up.

  Lord Jesus, he’s in the window!

  Lord, I asked You to make a way, and You have—sort of. Can You maybe make a way out the back door right now?

  Tom is here!

  Chapter 12

  Millie and Tillie follow my eyes to the window where Tom, all six-feet-two at least, is peering through the glass.

  “That him?” Tillie asks.

  I can only nod. C’mon, feet, let’s go to the ladies’ room. My feet won’t budge. They want me to look at the right handsome man.

  Millie squints. “Either my eyes are worse than they were yesterday, or that is one very big man. He must lift weights.”

  Why is my heart stopping? Beat, please. Stop staring at the right handsome man standing under the Allman Brothers magic mushroom with Mr. Peterson! Now they’re both looking in, and now ...

  I am so busted.

  Millie and Tillie get up. “We’ll leave y’all to talk,” Millie says.

  Don’t leave! Have some more cobbler! I’ll pay!

  “It was nice chattin’ with you,” Tillie says. “See you next Monday, Freda.”

  Mr. Peterson and Tom weave their way to our table, and I try to hide my face with my tiny little hand.

  Mr. Peterson says, “Tom, you already know Miss Ross, don’t you?”

  I wave my other hand but don’t look up. Lord Jesus, I’m begging You, please don’t—

  “Yes,” Tom says. “Yes, I do. Hello, Corrine. It’s so nice to see you again.”

  I am so busted, I am so—What did he say? He said ... Corrine? I look up and see Tom grinning at me. Why didn’t he bust me out? “Hi, Tom,” I say in a wee, tiny, minuscule, microscopic voice.

  Mr. Peterson squeezes Mrs. Peterson’s shoulder and gives her a peck on the cheek. “If we’re here, who’s mindin’ the store?”

  She takes Mr. Peterson’s hand and smiles. “It runs itself, you know that.”

  Mr. Peterson waves at Mama Louise. “A round of lemonade, if you please.”

  Don’t sit, please don’t ...

  They sit, Tom on my left, Mr. Peterson across from me. Mama Louise brings us the lemonade.

  “So, Miss Ross,” Mr. Peterson says, “what’d you think of the plant?”

  I sneak a peek at Tom, and he’s still grinning at me. “To be honest”—oh, the irony—“it was the first plant I have ever toured. It was fascinating. Efficient. Busy.”

  Mr. Peterson laughs. “You lookin’ to buy the place, invest, or hawk my product?”

  I try to look away from Tom, but his grin is blinding. “This project is an investment, Mr. Peterson,” I say. “As you prosper, MultiCorp prospers.”

  “Mr. Sexton here seems to think we could do some expanding into foreign markets.” Mr. Peterson shifts his weight in his chair. “What do you think, Miss Ross?”

  This ... this is a trap. “I’ll let you know what I think in a few days.”

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Peterson says. “So, Tom, how long have you known this firecracker here?”

  This firecracker is about to go off. Why isn’t Tom busting me out?

  Tom loosens his tie. “Oh, about ... five years now. Isn’t that so, Corrine?”

  He knows it’s me, Shari, he’s not busting me out, he’s playing nice, and I don’t know why. I guess I had better be politer than polite. “Yes, Tom. We talk on the phone quite frequently, don’t we, Tom?” He’ll probably wait until I incriminate myself a little more, and then he’ll bust me out. Oh, he’s good.

  “Yes, we do, Corrine,” Tom says. “Corrine here recommends books to me that are just fantastic.”

  But how does he know it’s me, I mean, that I’m Shari? I have never seen him! Is my voice that distinct? Where has he seen me?

  “Yes,” Tom continues, “Corrine has never led me the wrong way when it comes to books. She gives her honest assessment, and she never lies.”

  Oh, he’s certainly having fun. I have to turn this to my favor somehow. “You remember Shari, don’t you, Tom?”

  Tom blinks. “Oh yes. Shari Nance. Such a sweet, independent, beautiful woman, and I have noticed that she is so much more beautiful in person. Shari has such a soft voice.”

  Okay. He’s referring to me, which is nice, and I am all those things, but... “Well, Shari is in Australia right now at the Great Barrier Reef expecting her sweetie to spend some time with her.”

  Tom’s smile doesn’t fade a bit. “She is, is she? Imagine that.”

  Imagine this. “And a box jellyfish attacked her while she was snorkeling. She’s laid up in a hospital in Tully in quite a lot of pain.”

  “A box jellyfish?” Mr. Peterson says. “It attacked her?”

  It was probably trying to swim away from her. “Yes sir. They have deadly venom. She’s very lucky to be alive, Tom.”

  Tom nods. “I will have to send my dear friend Shari some flowers then.”

  He said “friend.” Hmm. I can’t just ask him if she’s more than just a friend in front of the Petersons. “I’m sure your friend would like that very much. She loves bird-of-paradise arrangements.”
/>   Tom won’t take his eyes off mine. “So Shari has told me.” He raises his eyebrows. “You remember Nance?”

  Geez! Why won’t he stop dropping my names? I’m glad I never told him my middle name. “Sure.” Lord Jesus, make him stop!

  “How is dear, sweet Nance?” Tom says. “I really miss talking to her.”

  That was sweet, too, but... “Nance is fine. Busy as always. Working hard. You know good old Nance.”

  “I hear she’s doing some traveling these days,” Tom says. “Did she get a promotion?”

  Geez, it’s like he’s moving in for the kill. “Nance likes to show initiative when others aren’t up to the task.” Or even in the country! “Nance really takes advantage of her chances, you know?” Now please stop talking about Nance!

  “I’m sure she does,” Tom says. “It’s obvious.” He looks under the table at my boots. “Chippewa! I have a pair just like those. Shari recommended them to me.”

  Oh yeah. I did once. And he actually bought boots based on my recommendation?

  “Best boots on the planet bar none,” Mr. Peterson says. “I even have a contract with them for my workers. They all get nice discounts.”

  I stare a hole in Tom’s ... cute, mischievous smile. “You should have worn your boots today, Tom.”

  “Yep,” Tom says, removing his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “I surely should have worn my boots.”

  And now he’s referring to my lies again. Yes, I am laying it on thick.

  “I came totally unprepared today,” Tom says. “I should have expected the unexpected.”

  I roll my eyes at him. It’s the only defense I have.

  “I have really misrepresented myself, Mr. Peterson,” Tom says.

  Oh no! Here it comes. Be brave, Shari! You can just drive the rental back to Virginia.

  “The fact is, Mr. Peterson, I don’t much like suits,” Tom says, unbuttoning another button. “Unfortunately it’s a requirement at Harrison Hersey and Boulder.” He looks at me. “I’d rather wear jeans, boots, and a sweater any day.”

  Yes, you’d look good wearing me—Where’d that thought come from? Sorry, Lord.

  “But aren’t you a little hot, Miss, um, Ross?” Tom asks. Hot and bothered. “I am, actually.” I take off the orange vest. “So, Tom, weren’t you just in Detroit?”

  “Yes, I was,” Tom says. “Detroit is a wonderful city. So cold, though. I had so much trouble staying warm.”

  Yeah, and with my help, you got to leave that city quickly so you could warm up down here in Georgia. “How did Detroit, um, go, Tom?”

  Tom’s grin is back. I like it, but I don’t know if I can trust it. “It went very well thanks to Shari. She has so many wonderful ideas. Her mind just ... goes in so many interesting directions. I wish I could work with her more often.”

  But now I want to just go back to Brooklyn. “Yeah. That Shari. Always sharing ideas.”

  Mr. Peterson checks his watch. “I gotta run, y’all. Freda, can you run them back?”

  Mrs. Peterson stares me down, and I have to look away. “I’m coming with you, darlin’. Let me finish my lemonade.” She hands me a set of keys. “You can find your way back, can’t you, Corrine?”

  I nod.

  Mr. Peterson nods, lays a twenty on the table, and leaves.

  Mrs. Peterson doesn’t touch her lemonade. “Tom, Corrine, my husband’s mind rarely strays very far from that plant, so I’m sure he didn’t understand the little show you two just put on.”

  Oh no! She’s going to bust me out?

  “I sense a great deal of tension between you two,” Mrs. Peterson says, “and whatever it is, don’t you think you two should work it out?”

  Work what out?

  She looks at Tom and then at me. “It is obvious to me that you two were once very close, and not too long ago.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Don’t let a little business come between you two.”

  Oh ... my ... goodness!

  She turns to Tom. “And Tom, you do right by her, you hear?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Tom says. “I certainly will. I’ve been hoping for the chance to make things right.”

  Mrs. Peterson drops another twenty on the table, nods at both of us, and leaves.

  I stare at the keys in my hand. I bet I could get to the car before Tom could. He’s too big to navigate this crowded place. Where’s the bathroom? I could go find a window, squeeze out, and strand him here.

  “Good lemonade,” Tom says. “A little sweet, a little sour. Not too cold. Just right. Very refreshing.”

  Everything he says has a double meaning. I must be sweet, sour, not too cold, just right, and very refreshing.

  “May I ask you something?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I hear him finish his lemonade. “Then I’m going to tell you something.”

  “No.”

  He leans his head down until it’s almost level with the table, only one of his dark brown eyes visible. “Then I’m just going to talk.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to listen.”

  I look him dead in that eye. “I can’t help but hear, Tom. I’m a foot away from you.”

  “And I’m glad,” he says, leaning back. “Really. I’m glad that I finally get to meet you face-to-face, Shari Nance.”

  He seems sincere, but ... “Just ... say your piece.”

  “Is Corrine, the other Corrine, is she really in Australia?” he whispers.

  “Yes.”

  “And the story about the box jellyfish?”

  I nod. “That’s true, too.”

  “I thought so. It seemed too specific to be a lie.” He leans farther back in his chair, the chair tilting off the ground. “This is all very interesting,” he says just like Jimmy Stewart did in It’s a Wonderful Life. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  “You think?”

  He clasps his hands behind his head, balancing his chair on the back two legs. “I thought Australia was a trick to take me away from my game, a ploy to help Corrine win this thing.” He leans forward, returning the chair to four legs, and then he slides his chair closer to mine. “So, did Corrine send you down here to work or what?”

  He thinks I’m on a mission for Corrine? “I am doing this entirely on my own.”

  His eyes light up. “Really, now. Even more interesting. How much does Corrine know about your clandestine activities?”

  I stare at the floor. “She, um, she doesn’t know anything about this.”

  He puts his huge hand on the back of my chair. “I see. So you’re going solo on this. And without a promotion.”

  “Yes.”

  He taps my chair several times. “This is very interesting, indeed.”

  I wish he’d stop saying that! “You want to know what I find so very interesting, Tom?”

  His hand gets dangerously close to my shoulder. “What, Miss Ross?”

  I roll my eyes. “I find it very interesting that you’re leaving your girlfriend to suffer in a hospital in Tully, Australia.”

  He pulls his hand from my chair and places it on the table. Both of my hands would fit inside that paw. “Shari, I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but Corrine is not my girlfriend anymore.”

  “Yeah, it is hard to believe when you’ve been seeing her for five years.”

  “Yes, we’ve been seeing each other, but it’s been more off than on for the past two years,” Tom says without a tinge of sadness. “You know how obsessive she gets. She sees much more in us than I do. Understand?”

  There’s some truth here. Corrine is obsessive and deranged. “So you’re just leading her on, then?”

  “I guess you could call it that.” He nods. “Yeah, I’m leading her on.”

  An honest jerk? Hmm. Maybe he’s still just setting me up. I have to be careful.

  “Yes, she invited me to Australia, and yes, I said I’d try to get out to see her after Detroit. But when this thing came up, I thou
ght she was trying to scam me with this crazy trip idea of hers.”

  I try to read his eyes. Hmm. They seem honest, but you never know.

  He smiles. “Honestly, Shari, all of this just fell into my lap ... and your lap.” Then he drops his eyes to stare at my lap!

  What do you say when a man stares at your lap no more than thirty minutes after meeting him for the first time? “Don’t ... don’t stare at my lap, Tom.”

  “Um, you have ... peach cobbler, I think, there, um ...”

  I look down. Yep. Cobbler crumbs. I whisk them away. I don’t know whether to be angry that he only saw the crumbs. I have a sexy lap. “The, um, the Petersons shouldn’t have had to pay for us, so ...” I take the two twenties. “I’ll return their money later. I’ll pay.”

  He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a wallet. “We’ll go Dutch.”

  “No,” I say. “This one’s on me. You only had a refreshing lemonade.” I jump up and go to the counter.

  “You need a receipt, honey?” Mama Louise asks.

  “Yes, please.”

  She rings me up. “Twelve-fifty.”

  She’s joking. “You sure?”

  Mama Louise nods.

  “For all that good food and the round of lemonade?” I ask.

  “You could leave a nice tip.” She looks past me to Tom. “Oh, your man is leaving the tip.”

  A twenty? “Um, he’s not my man.”

  Mama Louise rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  I hand her one of my own twenties. “Keep the change.”

  “Y’all come back. Soon.”

  I go back to the table, collect the orange vest, and walk toward the door. Tom rushes around me and holds the door.

  “I’m not thanking you,” I say. “I can open my own door.”

  “I can see that,” he says. “And I don’t ever expect you to thank me, Shari.”

  We get into the Suburban, and I start it up, over-revving the engine before I pull away from the curb with a jerk.

  “Shari,” Tom says, buckling up and holding on to the door handle. “I always thought that was a pretty name, by the way. And it matches its owner.”

  Oh, tell me anything.

  “Of all the people I’ve talked to in my life,” he says, “you have been by far the nicest, most caring, and best listener I’ve ever known.”