The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (10 page)

“I didn’t admit that. It’s what you said you could read in my eyes.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“No, I didn’t deny it, and I won’t.” She looked taken aback, and he smiled. “See, I can talk about it, too. What I said was that you
inspired
me.”

“I make you want to be a better man?”

“That’s right.”

Chas leaned her elbows on the table and looked at him more closely. The subtle awkwardness of the conversation vanished behind a new intensity that made Jackson wish he would never have to leave this place—or this woman.

“How is that possible?” she asked. “I’m just an ordinary woman, Jackson. I live a simple life. There’s nothing exotic or exciting about me.”

“That’s why you inspire me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“That’s not very likely in the criminal business—at least the side of it where someone like you might meet people. I don’t think my type is generally prone to being associated with federal crimes. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m as unique as you might think. If you lived in Alaska and you’d never seen a pineapple before, you might think it’s pretty unique, but if you went to Hawaii, you would realize that to people in Hawaii, a pineapple is just a pineapple.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a pineapple?”

She shrugged, then chuckled. “Kind of prickly on the outside, and mostly sweet on the inside. But the core can be a little tough.”

“That’s very good. Did you come up with that just now?”

“Yes, I did, actually.”

He smiled, but Chas’s mind went far from pineapple metaphors. Until now it hadn’t crossed her mind that a man who lived in a tough world and had never bothered to wonder whether or not he believed in God would likely have no comprehension of the standards and values by which someone like her lived. She didn’t even have to think about whether or not she should address it head-on, and she didn’t have to wonder if she should do it now or wait.“There’s something I need to say,” she said and saw his brow furrow.

“Say it, then.”

“It’s something I would say to any man who had admitted to being attracted to me, so don’t think I’m picking on you, or anything. It’s just that . . . I’ve never dealt with this since I lost Martin, and—”

“There’s been no one?”

“No one who’s . . . inspired me enough to go on a second date. And attraction was never an issue; at least not for me. I’ll just get right to the point. I’m a religious woman, Jackson, and my religion has very strict guidelines on certain matters. There is nothing or no one that will make me compromise those standards.”

“What are you saying?”

Chas just said it. He was a worldly man. He could handle it. “I’m saying that if your being attracted to me is connected to any hope that during your stay here we might end up in bed together, you need to know that it will never happen.”

She could see that he was stunned, but she didn’t know if it was because of her standards or her boldness. “Are you saying that you’re . . . some kind of nun?”

“No,” she chuckled, “in my religion there is no such thing. The intimate relationship between a man and a woman is considered sacred and one of the greatest gifts from God. Celibacy is only applicable outside of marriage, and all members are encouraged to be married.”

“I see,” he said, and she found him difficult to read.

“Of course,” she said, filling the silence, “although Granny doesn’t share my religion, she always had strict rules about that. She made it clear that in this regard it was best to always be an old-fashioned girl. Whenever I’d go out with Martin she’d say, ‘You keep all four feet on the floor and keep your hands to yourself.’” She looked at his astonished eyes and let out a tense chuckle. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.”

“No, it’s good. It’s good to know where you stand.”

“Are you . . . disappointed?” she asked, wondering how much she could gauge about his character from his response. But then, he was like a man who had never encountered pineapple. He’d probably never had a serious conversation with a Mormon in his life. She certainly couldn’t be critical of him for that.

Jackson wanted to admit the depth of his disappointment. But how could he when she was once again proving herself to be unlike any woman he’d ever known? Now he was all the more intrigued—and inspired. Rather than make himself sound like a cad, he simply said, “I’ve just never met a woman who preferred marriage over sex. Usually it’s been the other way around.”

“Let me assure you, Agent Leeds, in spite of your sheltered life, there are a great many women like me out there, who would hold to such convictions. Several million, actually.”

“Members of your church?”

“Member of the women’s organization associated with the Church. See, it’s just like that story I told you. Just because you’ve never seen a pineapple, doesn’t mean they don’t exist in abundance.”

Jackson felt struck dumb. There were a lot of things he’d felt in his life. But it had been a good many years since he’d felt naive. “Point taken,” he said, which was what he always said on the job when it became evident he’d been wrong and someone was trying to correct him.

She nodded and said, “Are you still inspired by me?” What she really wanted to know was if he still had any interest in her now that he knew he wouldn’t be getting what most men would want.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “And more so.”

“Still attracted?”

“You tell me,” he said, a silent challenge in his eyes. Chas looked into his eyes and saw it so clearly she wondered why she’d been too blind to see it before. She chuckled to avoid letting on to how his gaze affected her.

“How about you?” he asked as if he’d read her mind.

She felt tempted to skirt the question if only to continue bantering with him, but she just skipped past all evasions and implications and said, “If I weren’t attracted to you, Jackson, I wouldn’t have felt any need to have this conversation.”

She stood up to take dishes to the kitchen, and he smiled. She’d left those lines wide open for him to read between. He picked up some dishes and followed her to the kitchen. While she was rinsing plates and putting them into the dishwasher, he asked, “So, is there anything else you feel the need to caution me about? Anything you don’t like about me?”

She turned to look at him firmly. “Are you sure you really want me to answer that question? Because I don’t think I’d want you to tell
me
what you don’t like about me.”

“There isn’t anything I don’t like about you.”

“You have not been here long enough to know whether or not that could be true.”

“Touché. Given what I know about you, there isn’t anything I don’t like about you. But there’s something you don’t like about me. I can sense it. And I’d like to know what it is.”

“So you can change it? Prove something to me?”

“I’m not the kind of person to change for someone else. I am who I am.”

“I’m glad to hear it, because I wouldn’t want a man who felt any other way.”

“Just tell me.”

Chas focused again on the dishes. “I think you drink too much.”

“But you don’t drink at all. Wouldn’t someone like you think that anyone who drinks at all, drinks too much?”

“I don’t agree with drinking, but I don’t inflict my standards on other people. My boundaries are my own. When I joined this church, Granny was eighty-three. She supported me completely in my decision, but it would have been ridiculous for me to think that she would change her life to embrace
my
beliefs. She likes her brandy and coffee. I prefer not to drink those things. We love and respect each other.”

“You don’t think Granny drinks too much?”

“Granny doesn’t drink to calm her nerves. That sounds like borderline addiction to me.”

“I don’t
need
liquor, Chas.”

“Maybe not every day. But I think you need it when you need to dull pain or hide from reality. Maybe that’s why you can read me so well—because you’re afraid to feel, too.”

“Is that what this is about, Chas? Feeling even with me?”

She wiped her hands on her apron, more disgusted than astonished. “I don’t need to feel even with you, Jackson. I don’t do competitions in any aspect of my life. You asked me a question and I answered it. I’m concerned. That’s it.”

“Fair enough,” he said then wished he knew what to say to ease the strain.

He was relieved when she went on in a lighter voice. “Maybe you should reconsider.”

“Reconsider what?”

“Being attracted to me.”

“Is that something I’m supposed to have control over?”

“No, but you can control whether or not you suppress the feelings, or encourage them. You might consider the former, now that you can see how ridiculously different we are.”

“Or maybe we’re not.”

She tipped her head. “Has it occurred to you that maybe it’s not
me
you’re attracted to?”

“That makes absolutely no sense. I know attraction when I feel it.”

“But you said I’m not like anyone you’ve ever known. Maybe it’s not
me,
maybe it’s the way I am, the way I live my life.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He tipped
his
head. “Are you talking about pineapples again?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Only metaphorically speaking of course. There’s a book in your nightstand. Read it. Then we’ll talk.”

“
Dombey and Son
?” he asked, even more puzzled.

Chas chuckled. “Not
on
the nightstand.
In
it.”

“The Bible?”

“The other one.”

Jackson thought about that a moment. He was an observant man with a trained eye and a keen memory. He knew what book she was talking about, even though he’d done nothing more than simply observe its presence and wonder why it might be there. The pieces came together, and he tried not to show the astonishment he felt. “You’re a Mormon?”

“Yes. Is that a crime, Agent Leeds?”

“No, it’s just . . . weird.”

“You’re saying I’m weird?”

“No, not at all. That’s just it. You don’t . . . seem like a Mormon.”

She chuckled. “Then you have obviously never met a Mormon before. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me. Polygamy and pioneers come to mind. You’ve figured we’re something between the Amish and the Quakers.”

Jackson thought about that and had to admit, “I guess I can’t deny that.”

“Well, welcome to the real world,
Detective.
Do some research. Figure out the facts before you jump to conclusions. Isn’t that how it works at the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Touché,” he said again and tried to imagine this woman as a Mormon. Obviously he
was
misinformed, or at the very least he’d just assumed that the stereotypes were true. He would feel even more stupid if Chas knew how much he hated stereotypes.

Granny rang her bell, and Chas eased past him to leave the room, saying only,
“Now
maybe you should reconsider.”

Jackson went to his room to be alone with his thoughts. He considered reconsidering. He added up everything he knew about Chas and decided that he liked her more—not less—than he had before breakfast. He just wondered if she would ever like
him
half as much as he liked her.

* * * * *

The next few days were typical for Jackson according to the routines he’d developed since his arrival at the Dickensian Inn. The weekend was very busy at the inn, however. In fact, every room was full both Friday and Saturday nights. The place was noisier, and Chas kept very busy. Jackson spent time with Granny, explored the town a little more, and saw Chas occasionally at meals where they talked as if they’d known each other forever, but not at all like people who had admitted to feeling mutual attraction. He finished reading
Dombey and Son
, after which he and Granny talked about it for a couple of hours. Then she was happy to loan him
A Tale of Two Cities
when he’d admitted it was his favorite. But he didn’t tell her why. It was easy to avoid any further discussion on that topic when she became so enthused about showing him her favorite coffee mug, although she liked it so much that she never used it. It was in a cabinet with a glass door along with a number of odd things that obviously had meaning for her. She told him where to find it, then told him to take a good look at it. On the mug was a simple drawing of Charles Dickens sitting with his head beside him. Macabre at best, he thought. But since the man had written a classic novel about the French Revolution, with one of the heroes going to the guillotine, it was an image that made sense, in a strange sort of way. Then he read the words beneath the picture.
Mostly, it was the worst of times.
He laughed so hard his stomach started to hurt, and Granny laughed with him, as if she’d never heard it before either.

“I knew you would get it,” she said, and they laughed some more. When they’d calmed down, she said, “I’m sure you know, young man, that most people have times in their lives that feel like Mr. Dickens without his head. Some of us have more times like that than others.”

“I know
exactly
what you mean, Granny,” he said.

“I’m sure you do.” She winked as if she knew a lot more about his life than he’d ever told her.

On Sunday morning the inn was very busy, but Polly was helping in the kitchen, and he noticed that Chas was wearing a dress. And then she was gone. He didn’t even have to ask to know that she had gone to church. He thought of last Sunday and wondered how it was possible that he felt like he’d changed so much in a week. But at the same time, thinking of the life he’d left behind—and the dramas at the center of it—he felt as if he hadn’t changed at all.

By Sunday evening the inn was quiet again. One couple was staying in the Chuzzlewit, but they slipped in and out discreetly while Jackson read in the parlor until he ate supper with Chas, and they talked about
Dombey and Son
and
A Tale of Two Cities
.

“You sound like you know Dickens,” she said.