Juniper Limits (The Juniper Series Book 2) Read online

  “She might be in a bad mood. If she is, just ignore it. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “Hey,” He said softly, and knocked his elbow into mine. “It’s all good.”

  I pulled open the screen door and walked in, braced for an argument. Patsy Cline greeted me from the kitchen radio. Mom sat at the table reading a large book I didn’t recognize. When the door sprang shut behind us, she looked up and slammed the book shut, flipping it over so I couldn’t see the cover.

  “I thought you were working today.” She stood and grabbed her apron off the counter and tied it on—her armor.

  “No, Heidi let me have a day off before school starts. Paul and I are going to make some lunch.”

  She nodded and began putting away the dishes that were stacked in the dish rack. “Hello, Paul.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Young. Is that okay? If I eat?”

  “Of course.” Her voice was a little stiff, and I was sure Paul noticed. Feeding people was a point of pride with my mother. She could make an amazing dinner out of a can of tuna and thin air.

  Paul joined her at the dish rack, and stacked up the plates. He pointed around the kitchen. “Where do these go?”

  Mom set down the bowls she held and took the plates from his hands, putting them away herself. “You don’t have to work for your food.”

  I snorted. “Since when? You make everyone help out.” Except Dad. Actually, except men. She never expected men to help out. My cheeks went warm.

  “Oh hush,” she said to me, lightly.

  Marveling at the idea that she might consider Paul a man, I retrieved the bread from the pantry. Tomorrow was grocery day and the shelves were pretty bare.

  “You don’t have to work today either?” Mom asked Paul, rushing through putting the rest of the dishes away so he didn’t try to help again.

  “Things are slowing down for the mowing business now that school’s about to start. We’ll still work on weekends, though, until the grass stops growing.”

  “Of course.”

  I listened, a bit in awe, to their polite, rather formal conversation as I got out the ham. Mom had never talked to Ronan like this. Mostly she looked at him sideways and got out of our way. I was pretty sure I preferred that over this.

  When I went for a knife for the mayonnaise, she stepped around me and grabbed the ham and put it back in the fridge. She opened the pantry and pulled out the jar of peanut butter and handed it to me. “The ham is for your dad’s lunch tomorrow,” she whispered. She looked at the backs of her hands. “I’m sorry. There’s only enough for one sandwich anyway.”

  “It’s fine.” I searched for some jelly in the fridge, but we were out. “Plain peanut butter okay with you?” I asked Paul.

  “Sure. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Every food’s your favorite.”

  He smiled and moved closer to me. “Let me do this.” He took the knife from my hand, and I gave him a playful shove.

  “You won’t get mine right,” I teased.

  “How can I get peanut butter on bread wrong?”

  “That question proves you are a terrible cook.”

  He laughed. “This isn’t cooking.”

  I could feel Mom’s eyes on our backs, but I didn’t turn around.

  “You want one too, Mrs. Y?”

  I blinked. She wasn’t a nickname kind of person. I glanced over my shoulder, unable to resist finding out her reaction. To my surprise, she stood watching us, one arm propped on the back of the chair, a half-smile and a thoughtful expression on her face. “No, but thank you, Paul.”

  I reached for a couple apples from the bowl on the counter, and rinsed them. As I dried them on a towel, I watched Paul’s hands as he spread the peanut butter. He had long fingers with huge knuckles, and the backs of his hands were tanned from all the hours he spent outdoors. There was a thin scar on his thumb, and his nails were short and square…and filthy. Thank goodness for filthy nails bringing me back to my senses.

  “I knew it. That’s way too much peanut butter on mine, and don’t touch my bread anymore because your fingernails are disgusting.”

  He looked up at me, a devilish smile on his face, and scraped some peanut butter off my sandwich and plopped it on his. “How’s that?”

  “Good enough, I suppose.”

  He curled his fingers inward and studied the nails. “I swear I scrub these every night.”

  “You’re going to let me give you a manicure.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are. After we eat, I’m giving you a manicure, and you’re going to love it and beg me to do it all the time.” I pointed to a high cabinet. “We have a plastic tray on the top shelf in there. Would you grab it?”

  “Shorty,” he said, as he opened the cabinet and easily reached the tray.

  I put the sandwiches and apples on the tray, feeling a little embarrassed that was all I had to offer. I got two cups and filled them with water and put them beside the apples, and it looked a little better.

  Paul lifted the tray carefully, and turned to go back out to the yard. Mom put her hand on my arm. “Why don’t you get a blanket to sit on, from the hall closet?” she asked.

  That wasn’t a bad idea. “Alright. I’ll be out in a second.” I held the door open for Paul and he carried the tray out. I turned toward the hall, and Mom followed.

  It was dark as I swung open the closet door. I pulled the chain for the light, and looked around for the picnic blanket we hadn’t used in years.

  “You were bossy with him,” Mom said from behind me.

  I plucked the blanket off a stack of boxes and turned to her, ready for the argument I’d been anticipating. “He likes me the way I am.”

  “I saw that.” It was then I saw the sparkle in her eyes, the half smile still on her lips. “You are strong with him.”

  I didn’t know what to make of the pride in her eyes. “He’s strong enough to take it.”

  She nodded. “That’s good.” She looked down and fiddled with the strings of her apron. “Is he gentle enough, too?”

  My eyes widened. Beyond logistics, we didn’t talk about the way things were between her and Dad. I never knew if she’d even noticed the way Ronan treated me. We simply didn’t discuss those kinds of things. I didn’t particularly want to start, but the way she stood there, her head bent like she was afraid to bring it up, but like she, too, would be strong enough to ask and to handle the answer, softened me. “Paul’s good, Mom. He’s good.” I felt about four years old as I clutched the blanket to my chest and tried not to tell her that he was far too good for me.

  Mom raised her head and I let her see my face. “I’m glad to hear it.” She reached out and tugged the ends of my hair, like she used to do when I was little. “But don’t give that poor boy a manicure.”

  I grinned. “Oh, I’m doing it.” I took the opportunity she offered to end the awkward conversation, and darted down the hall and to my bedroom for my manicure kit.

  Back outside, blanket itchy in my arms, I scanned the yard for Paul. I didn’t see him, so he must have gone under the tree. I walked across the yard to the tree line. “Knock knock.” My voice shook and I cleared my throat.

  An arm reached out and pulled a branch to the side, and I dropped to my knees to crawl under. Paul sat on his heels, his own knees in the dirt, a huge grin on his face. I looked around to see that he had swept all the rubble from our spot. “You cleaned house.” My eyes landed on the tray, now with only one sandwich. “And you already ate!”

  “Don’t be mad,” he said, and took the blanket from me and spread it out. “I was too hungry.”

  I shook my head and laughed. “But now it’s not a picnic. It’s just you watching me eat.”

  “I saved my apple.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  We sat on the blanket and he took a huge bite of his apple and chewed loudly. “You should know one of my pet peeves is loud chewing.” As the words left my mouth, I thought about my convers
ation with my mom. I pushed him and pushed him. I poked and needled and tested. I wanted to be sure what sort of person he was. Was the face he showed everyone else his real face? Would he eventually get mad and yell at me? Or worse? I didn’t want to do these things, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I had to know.

  He just laughed. “But you work in a restaurant. Hearing people chew is basically your career.” He bit another hunk off his apple, loud as a horse.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Between that and Heidi, I think about quitting every day.”

  “So I caught a peek at that book your mom was reading.”

  I sat up straighter. I had wondered, as Mom didn’t usually take time to read. “What was it?”

  “It was called The Complete Guide to Community College.”

  I set down my sandwich. She’d never said anything to me about wanting to go back to school. What would Dad think of it? He wouldn’t want to spend the money. Or maybe the new dad would be okay with it. Maybe they had even talked about it. Surely they had, if she had a book in the house. “Well that’s…something.”

  “It’s something fantastic.”

  “Could be. We’ll see if anything comes of it.”

  When I finished eating, I brushed off my hands and held them out. “We’ll start with your left hand.”

  He laughed. “You are not painting my nails.”

  “You are such a barbarian. Have you really not heard of men getting manicures?”

  “I guess…not?”

  “I’m not going to paint them, although I have a green shade that would look great on you.” He made a strangled sound, and I laughed. “I promise you will love this. Just trust me.”

  That had been the right word to use, apparently. His eyes went all soft and gooey. “Okay. I trust you.”

  I rolled my eyes and dug around in my bag for my cuticle nippers. He seemed to like it when I picked up his hand and started digging out ancient gunk from beneath his nails, he raised his eyebrows when I filed them smooth, and he outright laughed when I buffed away the ridges on his nail plates. His favorite part was when I massaged lotion into his knuckles, and my favorite part was watching him gaze in wonder at his shiny, clean hands.

  He turned them over and examined both sides. “You weren’t even a little bit wrong. This is amazing.”

  I shrugged.

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “I’ll never want to pick up a weed whacker again, and risk messing up this beauty.”

  “Stop.”

  “I can’t stop. I’m awestruck.”

  I laughed and put away all my supplies, hoping he didn’t plan on leaving. It seemed like the time a friend would normally leave. Instead of getting up, he laid down, so I did too. I stared at him, scarcely able to believe he was here.

  “Celia, why did you run away the other day?” His brows were knit together, and his eyes had turned worried.

  A wave of mortification washed over me. I put a hand to my forehead. “I hoped you’d never mention that.”

  He smiled. “I’ve wanted to ask a million times. I think I’m afraid of the answer.”

  I had done it because I was terrified. “I don’t know why I did it. I just had to.”

  “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to touch your hand. I shouldn’t have.”

  I bit my lip. “It wasn’t that.” I took a deep breath. “Talk about something else.”

  We passed the time shifting positions, never fully comfortable on the thin blanket—but neither of us complaining—talking about nothing and everything. When our backs hurt, we’d sit up for a while, and then flip to our stomachs. At one point, I moved to my side, facing him, head propped in my hand. He tentatively reached out and touched his pointer finger to my pinky finger, where it rested on the ground. I could tell he was wondering if I was going to run. I wasn’t sure if I would.

  The branches around us pressed down, squeezing the air from the tiny space, which was getting smaller by the minute. I eased my hand away, expecting him to sigh, for annoyance to coat his face. Instead he just smiled at me, his eyes warmer than ever. I was not accustomed to warm eyes.

  “Did you know Malcolm was Fay’s first kiss?” I asked.

  “I did not know that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Malcolm would never dare kiss and tell about his precious Fay.” I didn’t know how to scrub my voice clean of bitterness. It was for the best—I was a terrible person, and Paul had a right to know it.

  Paul’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Of course it’s a good thing.”

  He sat up and looked down at me, as though the fresh perspective would explain me to him.

  I swallowed. “I had my first kiss a long time ago, Paul.”

  “Well, so did I.”

  I sighed. “I’m not…precious.”

  “I’m not precious either.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That was where you were supposed to tell me I am precious.”

  “I thought you were using precious as a code word for virginity.”

  A giggle escaped me. “When someone is using code words, you’re not supposed to just say the thing. Didn’t you ever play spy? Anyway, I didn’t mean virginity—not just virginity anyway.”

  He nodded, which meant he already knew. Ronan was not like Malcolm. Ronan spilled my secrets to anyone who would listen, and even made some up for good measure.

  As if he could read my mind, Paul said, “Tell me something about you that no one else knows.”

  “There isn’t anything.”

  “There are a million things.”

  “You go first.”

  He thought for a minute. “You know how most people are scared of spiders?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m like that with frogs.”

  I grinned and tried to hold back my laugh. I couldn’t get my cheeks to lie flat, so I put my hand in front of my mouth.

  “You can laugh if you want.”

  “No I can’t, because then I won’t be able to get mad about it if you laugh at what I say.”

  “I’d let you get mad anyway.”

  I knew he would. He’d let me get mad even though he never seemed to. “But you go swimming. This whole town is crawling with frogs and toads.”

  A look of true horror rested on his face. “I try not to think about it.”

  I let one chuckle slip out before I got control of myself.

  “Okay then, your turn,” he said.

  I tried to come up with something no one knew. Between Fay and Esta, I had very few secrets left. “Not yet. You tell me one more.”

  He lay back down beside me, his hands laced under his head for a pillow, and looked up to the top of the tree. “I try to do everything the opposite of what I think my dad would do.”

  Touched by that admission, I let my hand drift over to where his rested on the blanket. I didn’t have words that would ask what I wondered about his father, or words that would offer him any solace. So I just barely brushed the back of his hand with my pinky finger. That was all it took for him to flip his hand over and press our palms together. He wriggled his fingers in between mine and squeezed.

  “You want me to tell you something no one else knows?” I asked.

  He drew himself onto his side, and now our clasped hands made a bridge between our bodies. “Yes. More than anything.”

  “I’m feeling hopeful, Paul. About you.”

  “Me?”

  “You and me.”

  His smile emerged slowly, until it took over his whole face. “You’re finally catching up.”

  Afraid he would kiss me, wanting it but not quite ready, and feeling too raw and exposed from telling him what I did and from the day we’d had, I lifted my hand out of his and sat up. “We’ve been here all afternoon. It’s probably after four. I better get inside and get some chores done. I haven’t done laundry in days and it’s probably piling up.” As I babbled, I tugged the blanket so he’d move of
f of it, then I pushed it and the other things out from under the tree. I crawled through the branches and stood, shaking off and folding the blanket, then stacking everything on the tray.

  He watched, and I knew he enjoyed seeing me frazzled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Celia.”

  “You will?”

  “I will. And the day after that, too.” He grinned, slung his arm over my shoulders, and steered me out of the trees and back to real life.

  11

  Paul poked his head into the kitchen, lured by the smell of baking bread. His mom stood at the stove, stirring something in her big stockpot. Paul leaned over the pot to look inside. “Potato soup. How did I get so lucky to have potato soup for dinner?”

  She pushed his head out of the way playfully. “You’ll get hair in it. And it’s me who got lucky. This dinner is a celebration.”

  “Oh yeah? What are we celebrating?” His mom was big on celebratory food. She made a cake when he was six, and wrote, “Paul can ride a bike!” on it in shaky blue frosting. There was meatloaf with candles in it when he got an A on a Biology test, and she even got out the fondue set when she traded in her old Ford for a not-quite-as-old Honda.

  “Let me get dinner on the table, then I’ll tell you.” She let out a little squeal, giddy with her news, and he had to laugh at the lightness it created in his own chest. She opened the oven door and gestured inside. “Look, Paulie. I made bread bowls for the soup.”

  He grinned at her. “That’s awesome, Mom.” He pulled out two plates and two spoons, and set them on the small table.

  “There’s plenty here if you want to invite Malcolm to join us…or someone else,” she said.

  There is no privacy in a small town. Someone must have seen him with Celia and reported back to his mom. He thought about what it would be like if Celia came over for dinner. He wanted her near, craved her company. His mom seemed good tonight, so it was as good a night as any other. He wanted Celia to know the best parts of his mom, because there were a lot of those. If she came tonight, it might mitigate any bad things she’d heard, or anything she might learn in the future.