Lucy
At home again, I sitfor a moment on my sofa, as Phoebe’s words roll over and over in my mind – “see you next time.”
I love it that there’ll be a next time, even if it’s so unspecified.
I sit up with a jolt.
It’s Thursday. I’m supposed to service Dirk’s apartment today. I check my watch and it’s dire. I have just fifty minutes to get in there and get out before he returns from his weekly lunch with Jamison.
It’s possible, except for the pie. There’s no way I can bake it in that amount of time – or can I?
I flick on my oven, race to my fruit bowl and peel and chop the apples in record time, nicking my thumb with the knife in my haste. Ouch. Retrieving the bandaid wastes precious moments. Usually I make the pastry from scratch, but this time I use frozen pastry – usually reserved for my easy party cheese scrolls. I partially cook the pie in the microwave first, and then it’s in my oven, hotter than usual for faster results, and I’m out my door and into Dirk’s place in under five minutes – a personal best in anyone’s books.
It's not as if Dirk is a messy man, but I rush to create those lovely suction lines on his carpet in the obvious spots, use the hand towel to wipe over the bathroom sink, cabinet top and mirror and squirt some cleaning fluid at the shower. At least the place smells clean.
I change the sheets and throw the old linen in the washing machine, then have second thoughts and leave them in a lump by the door. There’s no way I can cycle it all through the washer and dryer in ten minutes. I’ll do it at my place and sneak it in later. Tonight is his choir rehearsal night.
I’m back in my place before four, front door shut, and pant with relief – only to realize I left the damp towels in the bathroom. I peer out the front window. No red car, though he might have parked further up the street if there wasn’t space...
I’ll have to risk it. My nose tells me the pie is done. It’s a clincher. I’ll drop the fresh pie onto his stove, snatch up the towels and disappear pronto.
I’m almost back to my place when I hear him coming up the stairs. I rush towards my door with my key out and drop it, his towels clutched against my chest.
“Smells great in here,” Dirk says as he passes me. He’s handsome in his exercise clothes, tall, an attractive combination of energetic and relaxed. I’m so glad I managed to place fresh towels in his bathroom. My mind shouldn’t go there. Especially not now, so I focus on his words.
“Like apple pie,” I say. “Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Nice.”
“Mmm,” he says. “Oh. Can I help you?” Why does he have to be such a gentleman?
“I’m fine,” I say, as I bend to retrieve my key.
“Allow me,” he says, and he beats me to it, goes to hand it to me with a flourish, then spots my armful of towels, does a double take and inserts the key into my lock.
I flush as he inspects my expression, frantically morphing from alarm to faux gratitude. His eyes drop back to his towels just as I twist my key and push myself and the bundle inside. Maybe he didn’t notice.
“Everything okay, Lucy?” he asks.
“Fine. Great. Thanks. See you.” I close the door and lean on it from the inside, still clutching the towels. Did I get away with it?
