Leaving Normal Stef Holm (classic literature books TXT) 📖

The warmth in his gray eyes compelled her to stare into them when he spoke, while his straight teeth had caught her attention on more than one occasion.

"Hello," he said, coming to a stop.

"Hello." She felt a curious leap to her heartbeat. He smelled nice today. She was thinking maybe it was Brut. She had a good memory of that particular cologne from high school. Usually it was only old-school men who wore the scent—and she was an old-school woman who recognized and appreciated it.

"I'm just pushing through," he said, taking a sip from a slushy in his cart. "Thought I'd stop by and see what's new in housewares."

"Let's see," she returned, trying to figure out what she'd shown him before and what she hadn't.

She loved the obscure, the little knickknacky things that could really add to a kitchen and make it more functional. Her gaze scanned the wall of gadgets and she pressed her lips together, trying not to be aware of his gaze on her back, feeling it there and trying to quell a delightful shiver.

"I just love this butter-and-cheese dispenser." She turned around, an item in her hand. "You can decorate your food with five shapes using butter or soft cheeses. Isn't it cute?"

She held it out to him, his gaze skimming over the box. "It's nice."

"It's very chic for dinner parties. Your guests will think you spent hours in the kitchen." She was going to set the box back on the shelf, but he took it from her.

"I'd like to buy it."

"Lovely." She smiled at his sheepish grin. Then she dared ask, "Do you have very many dinner parties?"

"No, but I was thinking I'd start."

For some strange reason, Iris wondered if the "I" was single or if the "I" meant he would have the parties and help a "we," meaning his wife or a girlfriend. A little too late to be mulling that over.

But if he were married, why would he keep coming back?

She had seen him four times now. The once or twice evoked little curious emotions about him. The third time she'd grown more intrigued, had even felt a moment when she thought she knew him from somewhere aside from Target, as if their paths had crossed before but she couldn't place it.

Today she gave him her full attention, and with more than a passing interest.

Iris inquired, rather on the sly side, but she had to know, "Does your wife like to host parties?"

"I'm a widower," he replied quite quickly.

Inwardly, she smiled over his availability. Outwardly, she offered the necessary condolences. "I'm sorry."

"She's been gone a long time, not that that diminishes the happy memories, but life marches on to the beat of a new drummer."

"Yes, it does."

"And you…Iris? Are you, um…married?"

His question was so cute, so hopeful, but he probably had the same thought as she—a little late for wondering about such things. She liked how he spoke her name. He made it sound like the flower.

"I'm divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why would you be? He was a grumpy bear."

His eyebrow rose, then a smile caught on his mouth. "But at one time you must have loved him."

"I believe for a few years I did. He gave me a fine son and a pain in my rear end."

He laughed. "Well, I have two daughters, so I know about pains in the rear end. You wouldn't believe how messy teenage girls can be. I almost killed myself on electric hair curlers lying on the hallway floor."

Iris grinned. "My son never wore curlers, but I twisted my ankle on his athletic gear on more than one occasion."

They both smiled, a lull in the conversation drifting -around them as they reconnected with fond old memories.

Iris drew her spine straighter, then thought better of it. She was five feet eleven inches tall and this man was clearly inches shorter. He might not feel secure being around a woman taller than him.

On a soft exhale, she slouched.

"I don't mind that you're tall," he said, causing her to let out a half gasp.

"Oh…well, yes—I am tall."

"It doesn't make me feel less like a man's man or anything. Not that I'm not a man's man. I open doors for ladies and help them with their coats and things like that."

"That's very admirable. Very nice."

"My wife liked it."

"My husband didn't do that for me."

"Then he was a louse," he commented sourly, then reined in his personal opinion and muttered, "I shouldn't have said that."

"Quite all right. I've called him worse than a louse."

He sipped his slushy once more, a flush of color rising up his neck. He formed words, then spoke them in a soft tone as if he'd been thinking how he would speak them one day. "My name's Fred Miller."

"Hello, Fred."

"Hello, Ms."

Putting a foot on the cart's lower rail, he leaned his forearms on the handle. "I'm…ah… This isn't my usual Target. I shop at the one on Milwaukee."

"Oh."

"Yeah, it's a good store in Boise. They have the slushies that I like. I got a mango one today. It's not as good as the white cherry, but it'll do. You could say I'm a Target regular—like church on Sunday. You'll find me here with the new circular on Sunday mornings."

"Today's Friday."

"I came early."

That pleased her for unexpected reasons. She had never engaged in an extended or recurring conversation with a customer until now.

She merely smiled, was happy that he'd visited her aisle. The items in his cart were telltale evidence that he'd come straight to housewares, as everything he had in his basket was the found at the front of the store— some hand lotion, a Johnny Cash CD, number-ten envelopes and a disposable razor pack. What a man bought said a lot about him.

Fred Miller seemed pretty grounded, stable.

"Are you retired?" she asked, curious about it.

"Retired postal employee who never went postal." He chuckled. "I put in my time, now I've got plenty of it to spend on the things I like."

"And that is?"

"I like to feed my