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Authors: Holly Jacobs
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I said, maintaining our banter while distancing myself. “When I get done at the school today, I’ve got to get ready for my date.” I threw that in mainly for Mela’s benefit.
She jumped on the tidbit. “You’ve got a date?”
She didn’t have to seem so . . . shocked. “Yes. With Anthony, from Ned’s firm. He was at the benefit last week.”
Suddenly she seemed friendlier than . . . well, than she ever had. “Oh, he’s cute.”
“It wasn’t so much the cute as the nice that attracted me,” I said. “And it’s just dinner.”
“That was our first date, too. Remember, Ned? He took me out on his friend’s boat and we had a picnic—”
Ned cut her off. “Anthony’s a nice guy.”
“Well, you did say you’d introduce me to someone.”
“I did.” And though he smiled, I could sense that something was wrong.
I figured that he’d finally noticed Mela’s barely hidden animosity. And because I didn’t want to be the cause of any friction between them, I said, “That first dinner for the two of you sounds lovely. Anthony and I are going to Alto Cucina.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mela said and for the first time ever sounded almost friendly as she added, “Let me know how it goes.”
Maybe if I dated someone, she’d finally accept that Ned and I were just neighbors. Well, friendly neighbors.
I nodded. “I will. But before tonight’s date, I have a date with a roomful of eighth graders. My cup runneth over.”
Ned lifted the book. “Thanks again, Pip.”
“You’re welcome.” I added a, “Bye, Mela,” and beat a hasty retreat.
I called Mom to tell her that my copies of Felicity’s Folly were in. She wanted to come right over, but I explained I’d be out. I offered to leave her book in the door, but she decided to wait until after school. She knew about the date and probably wanted to help me get ready, hoping she could bump me from dressed to the sevens-ish to dressed to the nines. I hated to disappoint her, but I was pretty sure seven was as far as I could go.
At one, I headed over to Coop’s class.
Coop had thirty-two eighth graders this year. She’d taught all over the school district, and I was thrilled that this year she’d landed across the street from me. It was nice to have her stop by for a quick chat occasionally after school.
I’d been the story time lady for the younger grades for years. Generally kindergarten, but sometimes through second grade. I read stories, sang songs, and basically had a wonderful time with them. My singing voice is less than stage quality, but the wonderful thing about young kids is, they don’t care. Rumor has it, I sing a mean rendition of “ I Have a Rooster ,” and don’t even get me started on my expertise with “ Up on the Housetop” at Christmas.
I would not sing around the older students because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be as forgiving as the kindergarteners.
The office staff buzzed me in. I signed the required sheet and Mrs. Rose asked how the new book was coming. I’d given her my reason for working on the front porch a couple years ago, and ever since she always asked about my current book, as if to prove to me she was checking, though we both knew she couldn’t technically see my porch from her seat behind the counter. And since I’d never arrived and not seen her behind the counter, I doubted she was actually checking on my writing often.
“The new book came,” I said, holding it aloft. “I brought it to show the kids in Coop’s room.”
“They’ll be excited. And I’ll be adding it to my Christmas gift list. You’ll be signing it at the convention center for the expo?”
Once a year there’s a big expo for women at the convention center on the bay. All kinds of women-centric businesses come out, and one of the local bookstores has a table there and asks me to come sign.
I rarely did book signings, but this annual event was a great way to get out and meet local readers. The expo had added a
She jumped on the tidbit. “You’ve got a date?”
She didn’t have to seem so . . . shocked. “Yes. With Anthony, from Ned’s firm. He was at the benefit last week.”
Suddenly she seemed friendlier than . . . well, than she ever had. “Oh, he’s cute.”
“It wasn’t so much the cute as the nice that attracted me,” I said. “And it’s just dinner.”
“That was our first date, too. Remember, Ned? He took me out on his friend’s boat and we had a picnic—”
Ned cut her off. “Anthony’s a nice guy.”
“Well, you did say you’d introduce me to someone.”
“I did.” And though he smiled, I could sense that something was wrong.
I figured that he’d finally noticed Mela’s barely hidden animosity. And because I didn’t want to be the cause of any friction between them, I said, “That first dinner for the two of you sounds lovely. Anthony and I are going to Alto Cucina.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mela said and for the first time ever sounded almost friendly as she added, “Let me know how it goes.”
Maybe if I dated someone, she’d finally accept that Ned and I were just neighbors. Well, friendly neighbors.
I nodded. “I will. But before tonight’s date, I have a date with a roomful of eighth graders. My cup runneth over.”
Ned lifted the book. “Thanks again, Pip.”
“You’re welcome.” I added a, “Bye, Mela,” and beat a hasty retreat.
I called Mom to tell her that my copies of Felicity’s Folly were in. She wanted to come right over, but I explained I’d be out. I offered to leave her book in the door, but she decided to wait until after school. She knew about the date and probably wanted to help me get ready, hoping she could bump me from dressed to the sevens-ish to dressed to the nines. I hated to disappoint her, but I was pretty sure seven was as far as I could go.
At one, I headed over to Coop’s class.
Coop had thirty-two eighth graders this year. She’d taught all over the school district, and I was thrilled that this year she’d landed across the street from me. It was nice to have her stop by for a quick chat occasionally after school.
I’d been the story time lady for the younger grades for years. Generally kindergarten, but sometimes through second grade. I read stories, sang songs, and basically had a wonderful time with them. My singing voice is less than stage quality, but the wonderful thing about young kids is, they don’t care. Rumor has it, I sing a mean rendition of “ I Have a Rooster ,” and don’t even get me started on my expertise with “ Up on the Housetop” at Christmas.
I would not sing around the older students because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be as forgiving as the kindergarteners.
The office staff buzzed me in. I signed the required sheet and Mrs. Rose asked how the new book was coming. I’d given her my reason for working on the front porch a couple years ago, and ever since she always asked about my current book, as if to prove to me she was checking, though we both knew she couldn’t technically see my porch from her seat behind the counter. And since I’d never arrived and not seen her behind the counter, I doubted she was actually checking on my writing often.
“The new book came,” I said, holding it aloft. “I brought it to show the kids in Coop’s room.”
“They’ll be excited. And I’ll be adding it to my Christmas gift list. You’ll be signing it at the convention center for the expo?”
Once a year there’s a big expo for women at the convention center on the bay. All kinds of women-centric businesses come out, and one of the local bookstores has a table there and asks me to come sign.
I rarely did book signings, but this annual event was a great way to get out and meet local readers. The expo had added a
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