Cherry comes back in jeans and a green blouse that brings out her eyes. Though the look is the opposite of her previous attire, she’s still stunning.
“I’m starving!” she announces. “The specialty of the house is peanut better and jelly sandwiches complemented by a bottle of wine I got at the dollar store.”
“You bought wine at a dollar store?”
“Not really.” Cherry snickers. “It is from the drug store at the end of the block though. It cost more than a dollar but not a lot more.” She holds up a bottle of Pink Moscato with the image of a foot on the label. “It’s not bad for what it is.”
“It looks, um…”
“Cheap?”
“Yeah.” I laugh.
“I guess that’s not what you’re used to, huh?” She narrows her eyes at me, and I wonder if I’m treading into some dangerous, unknown territory.
“It’s not,” I say, carefully choosing my next words, “but it wouldn’t be a new experience if I’d had it before.”
“What wine do you usually pair with PB and J?” Cherry asks as she hands me the bottle and a corkscrew.
“Oh, maybe a Chateau Latour red.” I tap my finger on my chin, pretending to ponder.
“I have no idea what that is.” Cherry pulls a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread from a cupboard and places them on the kitchen counter.
“Pretentious wine from France, naturally.”
“Well, this is a very pretentious peanut butter,” she tells me, pointing at the label. “No store brands here!”
“Well, I’m glad to hear there are standards!”
“Did you think I didn’t have any?” Cherry looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and I’m not sure if the banter is supposed to continue or not.
“I just hope I don’t fall short,” I say quietly.
We lapse into a brief silence as I pour the wine, and Cherry makes the sandwiches. She has one of them done when she begins to search through a drawer.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Just trying to find the spatula,” she says. “Here it is! I’m still running into post-move, where-the-hell-is-that-thing issues.”
She starts to dig into the peanut butter jar, scraping the sides.
“I’m not sure you have enough left in there for a second sandwich.”
“There is always—and I mean always—one more sandwich worth of peanut butter in the jar.”
She’s right. By the time she’s done, there is plenty of peanut butter on the bread, and the sides of the jar are almost completely clean. We sit down at her small kitchen table, and she holds up her wine glass.
“To second dinners,” she says.
“And spatulas,” I add.
“And spatulas!”
We clink glasses, and I feel myself finally start to relax and forget the restaurant. Maybe I can salvage this night after all. The problem is the unexpected setting. By this point, I had expected us to be driving around the lake and stopping at a romantic spot near the docks, not sitting in her apartment.
“Well?” Cherry asks pointedly after I take a bite of the sandwich.
“It’s really good,” I answer honestly.
“Everything is good when you’re about to starve to death.” She laughs.
“No, really,” I say. “This is great! I haven’t had a PB and J since I was a kid, but they were always my favorite for school lunches.”
She eyes me for a long moment.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just trying to picture you as a kid with a brown-bag lunch.”
“And?”
“It’s a bit…incongruous.”
“The kid part or the brown bag part?”
“Both.”
We nibble at our sandwiches while engaging in light conversation. Though we don’t hit on any deep subjects, nothing feels superficial. In fact, I’m beginning to feel remarkably comfortable sitting in her tiny kitchen with a glass of cheap wine and a sandwich.
Once the PB&Js are gone, Cherry pops some popcorn in the microwave. She leads the way to the living room, and we sit next to each other on the couch, wine and popcorn easily within reach. Cherry has just finished telling me about her first couple of days at her new job, but my mind is elsewhere.
More precisely, I can’t stop staring at her.
Cherry has perfectly understated, natural beauty. She has only a light amount of makeup around her eyes—just enough to bring them out without looking garish. Her red hair is in perfect contrast with her pale skin, and I love the way it drapes over her shoulders and back when she turns her head. Bright green eyes complete the look, and I can’t stop staring into them every time she turns my way. When she brings her wine glass to her full lips, a shiver runs down my spine. I’d never wanted to be a wine glass so much in my life.
“…in other words, thank you again for recommending me for the job. It really is perfect for me.”
“What? Oh, yes. Of course.” I stop staring at her neck long enough to look up at her eyes, and they hold me captive yet again. “I’m glad it’s working out for you. How are you adjusting to life in Cascade Falls in general?”
“I’m not sure I’ve really thought about it much,” she replies.
“Too soon to tell?”
“I suppose so. Have you always lived here?”
“Pretty much. I spent a lot of time traveling overseas on business trips, but I’ve never lived anywhere else. My family has been here for generations.”
“It must be nice to have your family around,” Cherry says softly. She gazes down at her wine glass, lips pressed together.
I watch her carefully for a moment, seeing the opportunity for what it is.
“You miss your aunt.”
“Yes,” Cherry says quietly. “At least it’s a bit easier being in a different place. Back home, I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing the antique shop and the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door. I have
