When she opened the door, she decided Flynn verified that when he took a good, hard look at her and said, “Honey, you need to get out.”
She felt, actually felt, her face arrange itself in a sulk. “I’m busy. I’m working.”
“Yeah.” He glanced at the neat stacks of research materials on her dining room table, the pretty coffee carafe and china cup. There were small containers, all in matching red plastic, that held pencils, paper clips, Post-its.
A glass paperweight swirling with ribbons of color anchored a few typed pages. A storage box was tucked under the table, and he imagined she placed everything that related to her project inside it every night and took it out again every morning.
It was amazing to him, and oddly charming. Even alone and at work she kept things tidy.
Moe bumped her leg with his snout, then gathered himself to leap. Recognizing the signal now, Malory stuck out a hand. “No jumping,” she ordered and had Moe quivering in his desire to obey.
As a reward she gave him a congratulatory pat on the head. “I don’t have any—”
“Don’t say it,” Flynn warned. “Don’t say any food words. He loses his head. Come on, it’s great out.” He caught Malory’s hand in his. “We’ll go for a walk.”
“I’m working. Why aren’t you?”
“Because it’s after six, and I like to pretend I have a life outside of the newspaper.”
“After six?” She glanced down at her watch, remembered she hadn’t put it on that morning. It was just another sign that the efficient train of her life had jumped its tracks. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Which is why you need to go for a walk. Fresh air and exercise.”
“Maybe, but I can’t go out like this.”
“Why not?”
“I’m in my pajamas.”
“They don’t look like pajamas.”
“Well, they are, and I’m not going out in them, and with my hair all horrible and no makeup on.”
“There’s no dress code for walking the dog.” Still, he was a man who had a mother and a sister, and he knew the rules. “But if you want to change, we’ll wait.”
HE’D dealt with enough women to know the wait could be anywhere from ten minutes to the rest of his life. Since he’d learned to think of the female grooming process as a kind of ritual, he didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to sit out on the patio, with Moe flopped over his feet, and scribble ideas for articles in his notebook. In his opinion, time was only wasted if you didn’t do something with it. If the something was staring off into space and letting the mind drift on whatever current was the strongest at that moment, that was fine.
But since that current was how he might get his hands on Malory again, he figured it would be more productive all around to channel his energies into work.
Since Brad was coming back to the Valley, the Dispatch would need a solid feature on him, on the Vanes, on HomeMakers. The history of the family and their business, the face of that business in today’s economic climate, and any plans for the future.
He would handle that one himself, and combine his professional and personal interests. Just as he was doing with Malory. So he began to note down various aspects that described her.
“Blond, brainy, beautiful” headed his list.
“Hey, it’s a start,” he said to Moe. “She was picked for a reason, and the reason has to have something to do with who or what she is. Or isn’t.”
Organized. Arty.
He had never met anyone who managed to be both.
Single. Unemployed.
Huh. Maybe they should do an article on twenty- and thirtysomething singles in the Valley. The dating scene in small-town USA. If he gave that to Rhoda, she might start speaking to him again.
He glanced up when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and watched Malory walk to the patio door. It hadn’t tak
en her as long to transform herself as he’d figured it would.