The Big Bang (18 page)

Frank shut the French doors of his home office, stepped over to the desk, and picked up the phone to check messages.

Why did it bug the hell out of him, then?

He dropped the handset back into the cradle and powered up his computer.

The fact that Hope used their playground meeting as an alibi, particularly in the company of Will Pierce-Cohn, meant she wanted to let people know she was working on the landscape project. It could even be seen as a statement to the community about her new allegiance to him.

Frank clicked on his e-mail.

He’d planned to schedule a landscape design meeting when he saw her at church. While they compared calendars, he’d have mentioned he heard she was talking about the playground. Hope would blush while she explained away her white lie, gush about the flowers she’d helped Tim plant to surprise his wife, or, if he and Laney had miscalculated the story somehow, fill him in on what it was she was doing over there. Were he so inclined, Frank might even reconfirm his nonsuspicions with a
way to show up the neighborhood husbands
pat on the back for Trautman when he came through the greeting line.

Had either of them shown up at church, he might have.

Had either of them shown up, the
Dangers of Coveting
sermon he’d dug from the back of the file cabinet and subbed for
Give to Receive
, wouldn’t have fallen on deaf and otherwise irrelevant ears.

But the commandment, as handed down by our Lord, expects that within the community of faith, the drive of desire will be displaced by the honoring of the neighbor, by the sharing of goods, and by the acceptance of one’s goods as adequate.

His inbox materialized on the screen.

There were three new e-mails; none of them were responses to the
missed you at church
or
need to get a meeting on the schedule
messages he’d left Hope by phone yesterday afternoon and by e-mail later in the evening.

And again before bed.

She should have left a late-night message. Could have…

He skipped a deposit due e-mail for a Men Who Pray workshop, and the next, an escrow installment reminder for the church land, which would only serve as a reminder to never again put the possible spiritual needs of one, possibly two parishioners, above the long-term best interests of the whole community. He was about to double-click on his Association of Colorado Communities newsletter when a new message popped into his inbox.

From: Hope Jordan.

Re: Missed you at church.

Finally.

He opened the e-mail.

Hi Frank,

Yesterday morning went in a completely unexpected direction. Not only did I have to miss church (unfortunately) but I’m just getting back to returning messages. I really do want to meet to finalize the plans. Do you have time today?

He instant messaged a quick,
Are you there?

Before he could add,
I’m working from home this morning,
her return
Hi
popped up in the dialogue box.

He added and sent,
Come on over and let’s chat.

His questions and her answers never seemed to catch up from that point on.

Great!
Appeared on one line from her.

He wrote,
See you soon.

How about a little later?

Meaning great, she would stop by a little later?

She answered by adding,
I have to be somewhere soon.

Your exercise class?

Her
No
arrived a second after he added and sent,
If so, we can meet at my rec center office afterward.

How about this afternoon like around one?

I assumed you’d be there this morning like usual.

One should work,
he wrote back.

The confusion both dissipated and increased with her final out of synch comment.

Can’t this morning. I have a coffee date.

***

Even in a gray turtleneck and ass-flattering, but otherwise unremarkable, black slacks, Hope’s hello wave sent a rustle of desire through Tim and a rustle of disappointment through the male contingent of the Starbucks line. Bypassing the less lucky admirers, he took his place next to her and further marked his territory with a hello kiss to her cheek.

“Hi there,” Hope said, not seeming to mind the familiar greeting.

Or, his simultaneous touch to her upper arm.

She was too pretty to be unnerved by a little touchy-feely, but the fact that Hope decided to cap off her otherwise professional ensemble with spiky boots reflected positively on the stolen hour they’d shared during church Sunday morning while she measured out the nursery.

And he assisted with the tape measure.

Tim looked up at the drink menu. “What can I get for you?”

“A tall, nonfat latte would be great,” she said.

“A tall nonfat latte,” he said to the pierced, tattooed barista who looked less than thrilled to have him eclipse her moment with Hope. “And I’ll have a caffé Americano, tall.”

“Thanks.” Hope graced him with her smile again. “I’ll go set up.”

I’ll watch
, he didn’t say, but did as her floral scent dissipated into the fog of slightly burnt coffee that would stick to his clothes for the rest of the day.

Remind him of her.

She considered a table for two, but continued on toward an overstuffed love seat nestled in the front window.

Yes.

Would she be a one-timer or more of an aficionado of the regularly scheduled marriage break? He’d have put money on her going the entitled-to-whatever-fancied-her-because-of-her-looks route had she not begun to unload the contents of her briefcase onto a long coffee table, which if he had to be honest, was the most viable workspace in the place.

“Tall, nonfat latte and a caffé Americano.” The barista placed two cups beside each other on the pickup counter.

Tim grabbed the coffees and headed for the cozy niche she’d set up for them. “For you.” He reached over the binders to hand her the latte. “I assume all this is for me?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “Since your nursery measured out the same as my guest bedroom, I thought we’d use a book of babies’ rooms I’ve worked on for our dimensions, at least as a jumping off point.”

He joined her on the love seat. “Jump away.”

She took a sip of coffee and picked up an oversized black binder. “I have to tell you, you’re the first man I’ve worked with on a babies’ room.”

“And so you figure I have some sort of design fetish?”

She laughed. “Actually, that didn’t occur to me.”

“Even worse.”

“Why’s that?”

“Means you’ve been dreading the prospect of remedial design 101 with
the husband
when we both know the wife is the real decision maker.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I brought along everything on babies’ rooms I have just in case you weren’t totally up on the gory details of nursery design.”

“I think I can handle enough of the legwork to get something pulled together for Theresa to change up.”

“Good.” She scooted close enough so he could enjoy the fresh, citrusy undertones of her hair. “Because there are a couple motifs in particular I’m thinking will work well with your color scheme and the modifications needed for twins.”

He brushed his arm lightly against hers as he opened the notebook. Resting the back cover on his left thigh, he let the front fall open toward her right leg.

She didn’t move away.

“This is a princess-themed room I did for a client,” she said pointing to a photo of a nursery made up of pale gray furniture, lace, and some sort of integrated play castle.

“Interesting,” he said, mostly in response to the unexpected turn-on of her warm, coffee-tinged breath.

“I don’t see this as the way I’d necessarily go for your project,” she added. “But I did include some info in case you’re interested in a similarly fanciful effect.”

“But you wouldn’t recommend it?”

“It’s a little frilly for the cribs and bedding Theresa already has in there.”

“Gotcha,” he said, doing a cursory leaf through the fabric swatches, curtain styles, and furniture spec sheets tucked into the pocket folder behind the photo. His eyes were already starting to glaze over. “Did you collect all this extra paperwork since yesterday?”

“Only what I didn’t have up-to-date info on, so depending on how you decide to proceed, we’re ready to roll.”

If they weren’t in a crowded Starbucks, he’d be hard pressed not to knock all the paperwork off the table and show her how ready to roll he was.

“You’re even more efficient than I expected,” he said instead, and for the sake of propriety, turned the page to a tropically themed nursery complete with a rainforest’s worth of stuffed animals sitting in a brown-and-green plush tree. “And even more talented.”

Their eyes met.

She looked down and added a little too quickly, “Something like this could work if we modified the theme to accommodate the lavender.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “A definite possibility.”

He hmmed his way through a mock-up of a cowgirl room and a few fairy nurseries before stopping briefly to admire an ingenious pink camouflage design.

“It’s a little on the edgy side,” she said.

“Cute though,” he said.

“I found that little play tent and matching camping chairs and couldn’t resist pulling something together.”

He flipped forward to the next page. The same room was done in an alphabet theme. “Is this your actual guest bedroom?”

“If I can see the room setup, I know if I’ve succeeded at what I was going for.”

“Must cost a fortune.”

“Only the paint is nonreturnable. Everything else goes back to the store.” She looked away. “Or seems to find its rightful home.”

“Truly amazing,” he said, continuing to
ooh and aah
over farm-, ocean-, and whatever-themed nurseries as though he cared. Then, he turned the page to a design entitled, The Garden. With a background theme of flowers, bees, and butterflies, the room looked exactly the way he pictured a twin nursery would look.

Assuming he’d actually ever picture such a thing.

“I like this one,” he said.

Her expression belied something he couldn’t quite make out. “Really?”

“You don’t think a garden theme would work?”

“I think it would be beautiful.”

“But you seem surprised.”

She took a drawn out sip of coffee. “I guess I didn’t expect this one to be your favorite.”

“It’s bright and happy, and, for lack of a better word, hopeful.”

She smiled.

“I think that’s what I like best.” He leafed through the previous page or two and flipped back again. “Definitely my favorite.”

“Mine too.” A tear, which he hoped was of gratitude and he would have preferred to encounter in a more intimate context, slid down her cheek. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed her eyes. “So unprofessional. Sorry.”

He touched her on the shoulder. “No need to apologize.”

“It’s just I thought I might use this one for myself if…”

He could practically hear the explosion he’d triggered by stepping on one of the emotional land mines he knew were set all over his chosen field of play. “Hope, the last thing I want to do is take the nursery you’re planning for yourself.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

He flipped back to the farm theme on the previous page. “We can just as easily design the room like this or maybe—?”

“Once we adjust the furniture for twins and make the modifications necessary for the color change, the room will take on its own personality,” she said. “And I really do think the lavender palette will be as pretty as the yellow I have on my walls.”

“You have your nursery designed like this right now?”

She put her hand over his. “It’s really okay.”

Despite the instant lack of cogent brain function from the electricity of her touch, he managed a weak, “You sure?”

When their eyes met this time, her gaze lingered.

“The ends justify the means.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“And knowing me, I’ll have two or three new favorite girl nursery plans when and if…”

“Not if,” he said. “Only when.”

“Thanks,” she said, pausing for an extra long beat. “
When
the time comes, I’m sure I’ll have a new favorite.”

“If not?” he asked.

“I guess we’ll have a nursery in common.”

***

Frank’s hunch was right on.

Even parked three spots to the right of the Melody Mountain Plaza Starbucks, there was no missing Hope and Tim seated together inside the front window.

On a shared love seat.

That their coffee
date
looked to be on the up and up had Frank feeling slightly more stalker than concerned clergyman, but did little to mitigate his concern. He couldn’t allow Hope, or Trautman, for that matter, to reap the disastrous results of what could be their worst impulses.

Hope reached for a briefcase propped beside the couch and pulled out a yellow legal pad.

Trautman’s, anyway.

Frank rolled up his window to block the temptation of freshly roasted beans, pushed the auto recline button on the door panel, and relaxed into the bucket seat of his Prius. Trautman merited a watchful eye, but what woman in her right mind would even entertain the idea of a dalliance with a man whose wife was expecting?

Hope placed a hand on Trautman’s shoulder and allowed it to linger while seemingly pointing something out with the other.

Frank was out of his car, past Tim and Hope’s window nook, and standing in Starbucks pretending to scan the drink board before either of them looked up from her yellow pad.

Hope’s laugh clattered like shattering glass in the vaguely charred air.

Amid the whir of espresso making and Starbucks’ jazz CD du jour, Frank heard Hope uttering something that sounded suspiciously like
my guest bedroom
.

Tim’s reply of
how about now
, or whatever it was that a supposedly Christian husband and father-to-be responded to such an offer, was drowned out by ice being pulverized into a Frappaccino.