Perfect Couple (Superlatives 2)

“No, ma’am.” He turned his head and eyed me slyly. “Well, maybe. Come on, let’s water your aspens or Rocky Mountain firs or whatever.”

We dumped the water on some obviously nonnative flowers, then carried the coolers back to Granddad’s car. As Brody shut the hatchback, he asked, “So, what about our yearbook picture?”

“It’s too late now,” I said solemnly. I meant for the picture. I meant for us, too.

His face fell. “Is it?”

“Yep,” I said firmly. Then I sighed and looked up at the twilit clouds, which were rapidly fading into the night. “Seriously, it’s too dark. The picture won’t turn out. I still need to take it for my deadline, though.” At the thought of all the photos looming, dread formed a knot in my stomach.

“That’s okay. We’ll just have to try again,” Brody said happily.

“Yeah.” After today, I knew I should take this picture with as little fuss as possible before I fell farther for him, or went farther with him. But if he suggested a new meeting place, I wasn’t going to say no. “We could go back to my original idea of taking it in the school courtyard, just to be done with it. It’s going to be hard to get what we want with a lot of other people watching, though.”

“You’re right about that.” He almost sounded like he meant something else. Something more personal. Something very private.

He cleared his throat. “I have football practice every night this week, and when it’s over, my mom wants me home. For some reason, she makes me do my homework.”

“How odd.”

“I still like your fake-date idea, though,” he said, “and we have to eat. What if we met at the Crab Lab for dinner tomorrow? We could make that look like a date.”

“We could make that look like a date,” I agreed. And I would look forward to it like a date. I knew this was a bad idea, but today I’d found out how much fun Brody’s bad ideas could be.

*   *   *

The next evening, I stepped out of the house wearing high-heeled sandals, shorts, and a pretty, flowing top. I knew I looked stylish. But I felt dressed down to the point of ridiculous, like Tia occasionally wearing her pajamas to school, with or without a bra, when she woke up late. I told myself I was uncomfortable only because I was used to wearing the 1960s-style high-necked trapeze dresses I’d made. Showing a normal amount of skin made me feel like I was letting it all hang out.

The last thing I needed was a commentary from Mom. But there was no getting around her. She was replacing the flowers at the base of the sign in the front yard of the B & B.

“Look at you!” she called. “Without the glasses, I hardly recognize my own daughter. Don’t you look cute!” She wanted me to tell her that she’d been right about my contacts, and I’d been wrong.

Walking over, all I grumbled was “Thanks.”

“Meeting Kennedy for a date?” She eyed the camera bag slung over my shoulder.

“No, I have to take some photos. I’m just grabbing dinner while I’m there.”

She sat back on her bare heels and pushed her hair out of her eyes with one dirty garden glove. “I don’t like you spending so much time on these photography jobs you’re inventing for yourself.”

She made my work at the 5K yesterday sound imaginary. It was hopeless to argue with her, though, so I only said, “It’s not a job. This is for school.”

“But you’re going to all that effort at the yearbook to get into a college art program, right?”

“Yes,” I said carefully, wondering where she was going with this. The way she phrased it, an art degree was a bad thing.

“I just think you’re wasting a lot of time on this,” she said, “working your fingers to the bone for nothing. You don’t have to go to college. You can run the B & B with me, right here. Stop making work for yourself, and use your time to help me. I need you.”

“No, thanks,” I said faintly, even though I got the impression she was telling me, not asking me. “I’ve never wanted to run the B & B. I’ve always wanted to be an artist.”

“You could still be an artist,” she said. “You can take pictures in your spare time, just like you do now. Why would you need to go to college for that? Your grandfather never went to college, and look at the beautiful paintings he produces.”

“Granddad was an insurance salesman,” I reminded her. “He didn’t need an art degree because he never tried to make a living as a painter. In fact, I think that’s what drives him to paint so much now. He never took a chance and studied what he wanted for all those years, and now he’s making up for lost time.” I didn’t add, That’s probably why he’s crazy.

She shook her head. “Painting gives him an excuse to lock himself in his house and never talk to anyone. But you and I have the perfect life over here. Business is getting better. Our finances would be better if you took on more of the work so I didn’t have to hire so much out. And, Harper, the snowbirds would go crazy over a mother and daughter running a B & B. They would flock here.”

“I have an appointment,” I said. “Let’s talk about this later.” I hurried away as fast as I could in high heels on the soft earth, crossing my fingers this would be one of those weeks my mother was too busy for me.

I clopped down the brick sidewalk into town and swung open the door to the Crab Lab. Inside was dark. At first all I could see were the white lights strung over and around the old crab traps high on the walls. Over the doorway to the kitchen hung an antique diving suit with a picture of the University of Florida Gator mascot taped behind the mask. After my eyes adjusted to the dim light, they skimmed over the other diners and fell on Brody in a booth for two in the back corner. He was watching me.