Leaving Normal by Stef Holm (whitelam books txt) 📗

a brief touch, nothing sexually overt, but if she didn't get his message that he wanted to see her— and not just as a neighbor—he was going to have to spell it out in big letters.

Stepping down from the porch, he called over his shoulder, "You can check under my hood anytime, Natalie. I've got nothing to hide."

Chapter Thirteen

Performance Anxiety

Iris stocked the color-cast, two-quart oval roasters. She loved the new color. She had the same roaster in red and blue in a four-and-a-half quart. She'd have to put this one aside, feeling the need for the green, too. Not that she could cook with two at a time, but the roaster was so pretty she just couldn't resist.

Each month, probably forty percent of her pay check went right back into Target's coffers via the cash register as there were just too many temptations for her to resist. This store was her world, her little niche that she loved to explore and she loved to see what new goodies came in each week.

She liked wearing her red smock, the bright red carts, was smitten by the Target mascot—Bullseye, the white English bull terrier with the red circle painted around its left eye. Whenever she got a gift card, she always picked the one with the dog.

The roasters were showing nicely, a colorful splash against the plain ivory-colored shelf. Her impending evaluation was put out of her mind as she performed the job she enjoyed so much.

Who would have thought she'd end up in retail? She'd started out her career as a court clerk back in the seventies, lasting for fifteen years before making a job change. Her husband at the time said she was crazy to start over so late in life. No wonder she'd divorced her son's father.

The man had never believed in her, not for one day, so God only knows why she fell in love with him. He was Mr. Negative. Doom and Gloom. Xavier now lived in Portland and she never spoke to him, never had to run into him in Boise—thank goodness. She knew from her son that he talked with his dad on occasion, but they weren't close. That made her sad sometimes. A boy should be the apple of his father's eye, but it wasn't to be and there was nothing Iris could do.

She finished aligning the roasters, making sure to save one for herself, then rolled her stock cart to the small appliances-and-gadgets area and took inventory of basic equipment—ladles, pancake turners, hand can openers, measuring spoons, etcetera.

Biannual personnel reviews always put her out of sorts. She didn't know why. She did a good job, always got a great performance review. Raises were given each year and she was due. She'd worked for the company coming up on three years and had rarely missed a workday. She had done her "goal setting," and felt that she -had set realistic results.

Gazing at her distorted reflection in the large chrome soupspoon hanging off the pegboard wall, she brushed aside her reddish-brown bangs. She'd been thinking about growing them out. Maybe bangs made her look older. She wasn't all that old—at least she didn't feel old. She looked younger than her fifty-four, which was nice at times. Not so nice at others.

Men her age didn't ask her out. It was usually younger men, and she just didn't have a lot in common with them. They wanted "trophy" ladies to bring to the country club, to dine in the golf-course lounge, to spend a weekend in Sun Valley at a spa for "rejuvenation." Iris didn't need any weekend rejuvenating aka "a one-night stand."

Men in their mid-fifties were moving on in life at a rapid rate, one in which they feared mortality, although they had not voiced that to her—but she was smart enough to figure it out. It was because their children were having children. They were grandpas. And grandpas meant rocking chairs and Viagra. It was quite silly.

Actually, she was the oddball in not having grandchildren by now. Most everyone her age had at least a handful of grandchildren they got to spoil. Iris had none.

Her son wasn't married, had no one special to spend his time with. He had so much to offer and she wished nothing but the best for him, and hoped he would find someone to love and to be with for the rest of his life.

Iris took a deep breath, fought off the inevitable uncontrolled pang of wanting good things for her son, then took stock of the knives. Paring and grapefruit. Single blade versus serrated.

She was going about her job, lost in thought, when she glanced up to a cart rolling toward her.

It was him.

That man she'd sold the crumb duster to. He'd returned several times since to ask her opinion on other kitchen items. She'd talked up a parsley mill and he'd bought that, much to her surprise, as most men wouldn't have known what to do with it. Last time he showed great interest in the hard-boiled egg cutter and put it in his red cart.

She smiled, rather liked it when he showed up, this being his fourth trip to her aisle while she was on shift, and it confirmed something.

He wasn't just shopping for items…he was looking for her.

That thought sent a shock wave of awareness through her, right down to the toes of her Keds. Never in her history of employment at Target had a customer come looking for something that wasn't readily on the shelf. It could be nothing, maybe he was thinking she was nice and informative.

For some strange reason, Iris wanted him to keep coming back. It had been a very long time since she'd had more than a passing interest in a man. Why she'd pick this one was apparent enough.

He was good-looking, with a very nice head of hair. His jowls were a little on the full side, but they lent his face a great deal of character.