Silver Fox (Silver Shifters 2)

The thought struck her that if she hadn’t felt that whammy of whatever-it-was, she would actually like Joey. His comment about the pastry at the writers’ group had been the only one with any substance of the entire evening. Not that she blamed the others for their lack of culinary critiquing skills. It was not a cooking group, and most people approached food with little more than yum! or yuck! reactions. Whatever else might be true about Joey Hu, she was certain he appreciated food.

He was also a good storyteller, fitting the tale to the situation—not too long, vocabulary accessible to young and old. As a university professor, he easily had the highest degree in the room, but he hadn’t made any move toward lecturing or taking over the discussion. Whenever she’d snuck peeks at him, he was genuinely listening, rather than staring into space, as some members did when the pages being read didn’t catch their interest.

He clearly found everyone interesting, and that made him interesting. She could see why Bird and Mikhail—two very different people—both genuinely seemed to like him.

Why not just see if friendship might be possible?

Deciding that made it easier to pack the knishes and drive to Bird’s place on the coast, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Bird and Mikhail had bought a grand old house built along a cliff overlooking the sea. Mr. Kleiner, the former owner, was an elderly artist who still lived with them, a polite and somewhat vague figure, always nattily dressed in old-fashioned clothes.

When she arrived, the first thing Doris saw was Mr. Kleiner in earnest conversation with Joey. It was to Joey that her gaze went, as if drawn by magnets, and though she made no sound that she was aware of, Joey looked up as well.

Doris didn’t know what to say. All she could do was stand there with her Tupperware container of knishes. Joey rose quickly and came toward her, holding out his hands—she was starting to offer her own hands to be taken, before she realized he was offering to take the knishes, and then she blushed and was upset with herself all over again. What was it about Joey that turned a sixty-two-year-old spinster into a blushing schoolgirl?

“You look lovely,” he said.

Doris blushed harder and held onto the Tupperware container when Joey tried to take it. There was a brief, strange tug of war. “I need to take this into the kitchen,” she said, and fled.

What must he think of me! She didn’t dare look back.

Bird, in the kitchen, didn’t seem to notice how flustered Doris felt, so she must be covering it up well enough. “Doris! Hi! I’m so glad you could come. I’ve got the oven warming for the knishes. Did you see Joey out there? He’s been charming Mr. Kleiner, like the sweetie he is.”

“Let me give you a hand,” Doris said, that word ‘sweetie’ echoing in her ears.

“If you could toss the salad . . .”

After her not so auspicious start, she was afraid lunch would be awkward, but instead it was comfortable and easy. They ate Bird’s delicious ravioli, a tossed salad of fresh garden greens, and Great-Aunt Sylvia’s knishes. The conversation, about art and food, was light and pleasant.

And yet, all through the meal, she was far too aware of Joey at the table, much too close and yet much too far away. Every time he spoke, her voice was all she could hear. She wanted to put her hands all over him, like a hormone-addled teenager.

What’s wrong with me?

Mr. Kleiner ate lightly then took his leave with careful politeness. When he was gone, Mikhail said, “That’s the liveliest he’s been in weeks. It was the art talk. I didn’t realize how much you knew about those painters, Joey.”

“Ah, the art nouveau scene in Vienna around the turn of the 20th Century was full of personalities. One of my favorites.” Joey raised a knish to salute Doris and Bird. “Who would have guessed knishes would go so well with ravioli?”

“Knishes go with everything,” Bird declared. And to Doris, “Did you manage to get the recipe written down?”

“I sure tried. We’ll see if I got it right. It was a fascinating experiment. I think my mother cooks mainly by muscle memory. Some of her words had a faint Hungarian accent, as if she was channeling Great-Aunt Sophia while she worked. I took down everything as she did it, guesstimated the amounts, and will commence experimenting. Next time I attend the writers’ group will be knish night.”

“No complaint from me,” Joey said. “Speaking of, I’m guessing that Linette will be replacing you as moderator?”

Doris flicked a look at him. It was getting easier, she thought thankfully. Yes, she could talk to him as just as Bird’s and Mikhail’s friend. “She will. We don?

?t reveal numbers of votes, but let’s just say that we don’t need a recount.”

“About Linette.” Bird looked earnestly across the table at Joey. “Mikhail told me afterward that it was you who pointed out Linette as a candidate. I always thought she was like me, preferring to stay in the background. When I first joined, she told me she liked having it at her space, but she didn’t want to run it.”

“People change.” Joey turned up a hand. “It’s natural to assume that she’d feel the same if she wasn’t saying anything.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“It was in her stillness when the subject of moderator was brought up. How she watched everyone. It seemed clear to me that she wanted to speak up but didn’t dare. I see that kind of response in a lot of students, especially the shy ones.” Joey raised his glass. “A toast to the new regime!”

They laughed, drank, then Bird said, “I hope that means you’ll come back?”

“Definitely.” Joey smiled her way. “I’ve a couple of students in mind who I think would benefit from a wider range of writers than their age mates. I might bring them along after I’ve been a few times on my own.”

Doris discovered she’d been holding her breath, and let it out in a trickle. He didn’t look at her while speaking. What a relief! Yes, she could definitely do this.