Wendy Warren – The Oldest Virgin In Oakdale (страница 7)

A pall settled over her as she stood in her kitchen, pouring soda for two. If she’d known it was going to take this long to develop sex appeal, she could have had herself cryogenically frozen in the interim.

“Whoa! That’s going to spill.”

Cole nudged the neck of the soda bottle just in time to prevent Eleanor from overfilling the glasses.

“You all right, Teach?” His soft query had the most alarming effect. Eleanor felt like melting into a happy puddle…and screaming in frustration.

Teach again!Teach. It was the only nickname she’d ever had, and she’d loved it. Until that last day.

She’d bet a dollar to a doughnut that the women Cole dated had nicknames like “Bunny” or “Kitten,” endearments evocative of small cuddly creatures, not one’s high school algebra teacher.

Who could imagine murmuring sexy endearments to a “Teach”?

Glumly, Eleanor shoved serving spoons into the food. “Let’s eat.”

Before they moved to the dining room, Cole spied today’s edition of the local paper lying on one of the bar stools. The Oakdale Sentinel. He lifted the thin paper. “‘Our commitment,”’ he read from the top of the front page, “‘to educate, inform, illuminate.’ The good old Sentinel.” He grinned. “Always a leader in gritty journalism. What’s the big story today? Mayor grows two-pound zucchini?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to read it yet.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

She shook her head. “I should reheat this food, anyway. It’s probably cold by now.”

Perching on one of the kitchen stools, Cole snapped the community paper open and laid it on the counter. “New skateboarding area opening in Quinn Park. City council approves longer parade on Labor Day. Looks like the hometown is still hoppin’.”

Eleanor depressed the latch on the microwave door and placed their dinner inside. “I suppose Oakdale seems pretty tame after living in Los Angeles.”

“Oakdale seemed pretty tame when I was living right here. Ah, this item hot off the press,” he quipped, “‘Nun passes away at the age of eighty-nine.”’

Standing at the microwave, Eleanor turned around. “What?”

Cole read the front page. “‘Sister Marguerite Bertrice died peacefully at her niece’s home in Oakdale late Sunday evening.”’ Quickly he scanned the rest of the article. “It says she was from an abbey in Mount Angel. I wonder what she was doing in Oakdale?”

“She had a hip replacement four years ago and moved here to be closer to her family.” Abandoning their meal, Eleanor scurried to the counter and spun the paper around. Her lips moved silently as she read the article.

“She was a friend of yours?”

Raising her gaze slowly, Eleanor nodded. “I took care of her cat. Mr. Winky.”

“Mr. Winky.” Cole suppressed a smile.

The full impact of Sister Marguerite’s passing settled on Eleanor bit by horrifying bit. “Oh, no,” she whispered, then groaned. “Oh, no!” She leaned over the counter. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Her breath began coming in gasps. Immediately Cole crossed to her side. “Hey. It’s okay, Teach. Take a deep breath. You’re hyperventilating.”

With effort, Eleanor lifted her head. “It is not okay!” She continued to suck air in choppy gasps.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Teach, but you’ve got to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick. Come on. Try to take a deep breath. In—” he breathed with her “—out. Shooo.”

Straightening up, Eleanor nodded and followed his instruction. Three deep breaths in, three slow breaths out. Her body quivered like the bow of a violin. She rubbed beneath her tearing eyes.

Cole handed her a paper napkin. “You want to talk about it? Maybe that’ll help.”

Grimly Eleanor studied the man who’d passed her by on prom night twelve years earlier. He met her gaze with intrinsic kindness. Pressing the napkin to her nose, she shook her head automatically, then changed her mind and nodded. “Yes. All right. Sure. Why not? Talking helps.” Carefully she daubed her eyes. “You see, Sister Marguerite turned eighty-nine in March. Her family threw a party at Der Schnitzel Haus. Lots of fondue. Good cake.”

Folding her makeshift tissue, she took a shaky breath and looked into Cole’s impossibly warm and attentive eyes. Pressure built in her chest and throat. Forcing herself to continue, she spoke with as much control as she could muster. “Sister Marguerite has passed on, and that must mean—” her voice caught as the tears began again “—that must mean…”

“Go on, Teach, let it out. What does it mean?”

Eleanor’s chin quivered. Her brow began to pucker.

“If Sister Marguerite is dead, that must mean that I…that I’m—” It took three tries before the next sentence emerged, but then it burst forth like an uncorked geyser: “I’m the oldest living virgin in Oakdale!”

Chapter Four

She couldn’t have said what he thought she said.

Stunned, Cole stood by uselessly while Eleanor began to cry in earnest.

Most of the women of his acquaintance cried daintily, without disturbing their makeup. Eleanor cried like a woman who hadn’t had a lot of practice—with big, hiccuping sobs.

Cole shook his head. Eleanor, a virgin? After all these years it was hard to believe. It was difficult to conceive of anyone remaining innocent that long, even in Oakdale.

Raking a hand through his hair, he swore silently. So much for a simple evening.

Comforting people was not Cole’s forte. He’d already stretched his capacity. Charming, intimidating, manipulating—those were the skills he’d put to good use since he’d seen Eleanor last.

Wondering where to go from here, he reached out tentatively to place a supportive hand on her back. He and Teach had gotten along famously in high school, but as far as he could recall, they’d rarely touched. Half expecting her to recoil or release a cascade of fresh sobs, he was caught off guard when she turned toward his arms without the slightest hesitation. It was almost a reflex reaction.

He wound her in a light embrace.

Eleanor was tall, five-seven, at least, to his six feet, but reed slender and with a certain fragility about her. Her arms, legs and fingers had a willowy length he’d always admired. He recalled watching her fingers curve around a pen as they studied. She’d frown lightly as she scribbled notes, her scantily freckled skin and hair the color of a caramel apple reminding him of a Southern school-marm—genteel, methodical, comforting.

Cole smoothed a hand over the hair she still wore straight and all one length to her shoulders. A half smile creased his cheek. She had virgin hair, too. No spray, no stiff mousse, just the fine silkiness of the real thing, with a scent that was baby fresh.

“You have nice hair, Teach,” he murmured. Her snuffles stopped abruptly. Cole smiled and continued to hold her.

He’d been selfishly pleased to find her still single on his return home. His response had surprised him at first. He never dated women like Eleanor—women with whom emotional entanglements were part of the terrain. And romance in general was the last thing on his mind right now. It was his intention to take care of the business he had in Oakdale, then get out of town again as swiftly as possible.

The wet spot on his shirt, where Eleanor’s tears soaked the material, grew larger. She had her nose buried in the crook of his neck. He smiled. “You okay in there?”

She nodded without lifting her head, but arched her body slightly away as if she’d just become aware she was pressed full-length against him.

Removing her glasses to wipe her eyes, she said, “You’re probably wondering what I meant when I said I was the, um… You know…”

“Oldest virgin in Oregon?” Matter-of-factly, Cole filled in the blank.

“No!” Eleanor protested. “Not Oregon! I never said all of Oregon! Only Oakdale.” Her eyes widened. She put a hand to her mouth, struck by the awful possibility. “Oh, my Lord. I hope not in all of Oregon!”

Cole couldn’t help it, he laughed. “As long as there’s a nun in the state, you’re probably safe.” Eleanor’s eyes filled with reproach. “I’m sorry. But you seem to regard this as some sort of dilemma.”

“Dilemma? Try ‘disaster.”’ Wiping her eyes, Eleanor replaced her glasses. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Hmm. You must have had a boyfriend at some point.” Cole studied her, his eyes hooded and difficult to read. “You’ve dated, haven’t you?”

Acutely aware of the difference between dating and having a boyfriend, Eleanor shrugged. “I went out with Sheldon Kuznitsky in college.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” she admitted. “We were in premed together at Davis. He doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

Feeling fidgety, Eleanor decided that as she’d already gone this far, there was no point in hiding the truth. “We went out three times, and he never even tried to kiss me.”

“Ah, Teach.” Cole wagged his head. “The first thing you’ve got to learn about kissing is not to wait for someone else to do it. There are times when a man wants the woman to make the first move.”

His voice was laced with humor, rich with warmth. Eleanor felt the familiar weakness steel over her. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

To save her life, Eleanor could not have wrenched herself from the tenderness in Cole’s blue eyes. Tenderness was a far cry from sexual attraction, she knew, but coming from Cole, it wasn’t half-bad.