Page 9
He took a drink of coffee and bit into his sesame bagel, grabbing the newspaper for distraction. An ad for Blomquist, Allan, and Middleton took up half a page next to the article about the Brooklyn Robins he wanted to read. As if he needed a reminder of Doug Brown.
Whenever he thought of the man, a picture popped into his head of Constance kissing him. It made Jack want to punch things. He knew he was overprotective when it came to Constance. It shouldn’t have been any of his business whom she wanted to kiss. It made him feel guilty when she called herself an old maid. Maybe he and Ernie hadn’t been doing her a favor after all when they scared off every man who came along and took an interest. He fully expected her to get married and have a family someday, but whenever he imagined her with a specific man kissing her, touching her, and God forbid making babies with her, his stomach lurched.
Any man would feel that way about a girl who was practically a part of his family. Not that she was technically related. But still.
An image flashed through his mind of kissing her himself—tasting her, touching her, holding her close.
Oh, my sweet Constance…
No. Absolutely not. It must have been because he was mad at Doug. There was no way he could be attracted to Constance. Had he lost his mind?
Just as the first side of the record ended, the doorbell rang. He jumped up and ran to open it.
And there was Constance, huddled under a black umbrella, wearing a tan raincoat and matching hat. The hall light bathed her in gold while the rainy gloom enveloped everything behind her. She really had grown into such a beautiful woman. Sometimes it took his breath away.
He beckoned her inside. “I’ll be ready in just a moment.”
She nodded and smiled.
His cheeks heated as he caught himself staring at her lips.
No. This was Constance. Pigtails. Missing front teeth. Ernie’s sister.
This was momentary madness, nothing more. It was all Doug’s fault for planting the idea. On his own, he never would have had such errant thoughts.
While she waited in the entryway, he hurriedly washed his dishes, grabbed his ditty bag, and turned out all the lights.
“Ready,” he said, locking the front door. Together they scurried out to the car, and he opened the door for her. Once she was settled inside, he set about the wet business of cranking it up. By the time he slipped into the driver’s seat, he was dripping.
“Oh no! You’re soaked.” She furrowed her brow in the meager pre-dawn light.
“I’ll be fine.” He pulled out a handkerchief and patted his face and neck dry. “I’m more worried about you. Will you be warm enough? I have a blanket in the back in case you’re too cold.”
“Thanks, but I should be fine. Let’s get going or we’ll be late.”
He turned on the headlamps, and they headed out on the long drive from Brooklyn to Newark.
“Seems like the egg hunt was a success,” he said to break the silence as they wended their way onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The stone towers loomed ghostly and indistinct, and Manhattan was barely visible on the other side of the river.
“It was. The children loved it.”
“They always do.”
“You know what else was a success?”
Oh no. Here it comes.
“Your advice.”
His advice. Of course, she would remind him that this was all his own fault.
“It worked?”
He didn’t want to know. Really, he didn’t. But not knowing was even worse.
“It did. He finally kissed me, and it was all thanks to you.”
Try as he might not to picture it, he couldn’t help himself. Hell and damnation.
