“May I leave the rugs with you until we’re ready to go home?” Catherine asked the friendly vendor.
“I will be happy to watch them,” he replied. He rolled each rug separately, then ripped masking tape from a large roll, slapped it around the rugs, and wrote sold in black marker. “Be sure to come back by three.”
“We’ll be back before noon,” Joyce assured him. She hurried Catherine through the crowd. “Is there anything else Lost Angel needs? What about big pillows to make lounging on the rugs more comfortable? Someone must be selling them here.”
Catherine tried to imagine Luke’s objection to pillows and immediately found one. “No, I’m afraid they’d be seen as an invitation to lie down and sleep rather than a comfortable place to choose a book.”
“Do those kids actually know how to read?”
While Cather
ine frequently made allowances for Joyce, she was fast becoming annoyed with her relentlessly negative attitude. “Is there a reason you’re in such a bad mood today? If so, I’d like to hear it rather than more biting sarcasm.”
“Me, a bad mood? What other kind is there?” Joyce protested, but she swiftly gave in. “Oh hell, if you insist. I meant to tell you about it after we got home, but we might as well talk while we walk.”
Catherine shifted the shoebox containing her new sandals to her other arm, then had to dodge a woman barreling down the aisle pulling a cardboard box filled with antique iron toys strapped to a set of luggage wheels.
“If it’s something serious,” Catherine cautioned, “perhaps you should wait until we’re not surrounded by a noisy crowd.”
“No, it’s the same old problem. I went out with a new guy last night, but he bored me witless. He was nice enough, but all we had in common was a love of movies, so I won’t date him again.
“The problem is, I’ve been invited to the opening of a spectacular new art gallery on Main Street in Santa Monica next weekend. The invitation includes a guest, and if things had gone well last night, I would have asked the guy. But I won’t lead him on just to have an escort for a party and then dump him.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already considered every other man I know who’s even a remote possibility. I finally remembered an artist who’s kind of fun. He’s a little old for me and certainly not the man of my dreams, but at least he’d enjoy the party.”
Catherine nodded. “Sure, you’d go as friends.”
“Precisely, but I couldn’t bring myself to give him a call. The funny thing is, I ran into him in Trader Joe’s on Friday. As soon as he’d said hello, he flashed a photo of this dimpled twenty-something and announced they were getting married this summer.”
“So you were right not to call him,” Catherine complimented. “I’ve found it’s wise to trust my instincts.”
“True, but here I was afraid of looking pathetic, and sure enough, had I called him, I would have. I just can’t imagine why such a young woman would want to marry a man nearly old enough to be her father.”
“Maturity appeals to some women, but why didn’t you call the gorgeous nurseryman if you need a date?”
“Shane Shephard?” Joyce gazed toward the foothills. The morning was so clear the craggy mountains looked close enough to reach out and touch. “Because if he’d said no, it would’ve been worse than pathetic. It would’ve been humiliating.”
“Then call him about plants,” Catherine urged.
“He’d see through it.”
“So what? The object is to connect with him. What does it matter how you do it?”
Joyce glanced away. “Please. I still have a smattering of pride.”
“Well, Shane risked his pride and took the initiative to ask you out for coffee.”
“Maybe he just needed a caffeine fix.”
Catherine studied her friend’s downcast expression with sudden insight. “I do believe I’ve just been hit by a blinding glimpse of the obvious. You’re afraid you’ll hit it off with Shane, aren’t you? Your fear isn’t of being rejected but of being loved.”
“When did you start writing an advice column? I don’t see you dating any handsome young men,” Joyce shot back at her.
When Luke chose to, he had a very charming grin, and before Catherine could suppress it, an incriminating smile brightened her expression.
“Are you holding out on me?” Joyce gasped. “If you’ve met someone, why haven’t you mentioned him?”