Jake slid his arm around Berry’s shoulders. “The ladies are all tucked into bed for the night. I think this is a good time for us to have a serious discussion.”
“Okay,” Berry said, “but I might need to fortify myself with another glass of champagne.”
Jake refilled her glass. “Are you sure you want more? You look a little fuzzy.”
Berry chugged the wine and blinked when it hit her stomach. She wasn’t much of a drinker. In fact, she wasn’t any kind of a drinker. She was strictly root beer and orange juice until tonight. “I’m doing very amazingly at handling my liquor,” she said.
Jake grinned. “When was the last time you had a glass of champagne?”
Berry put her finger to her forehead to help herself think. “Hmmmm. It was at my cousin Melanie’s wedding. We all toasted the bride, and then I threw up.”
“You’re not going to throw up now, are you?”
Berry shook her head. “It was food poisoning. The chicken was contaminated.” She giggled. “Did I say contaminated?” She walked her fingers up Jake’s shirt. “You know, you’re awful cute. Sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep from ripping your clothes off.”
Jake rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “She’s snockered. I finally have her alone, and she’s drunk as a skunk.”
“You bet I’m drunk as a skunk. Wanna take advantage of me?”
He stared at her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Heavens. What passion.”
Jake sighed. “I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can do it. It’s easy. I’ll help you.” She settled herself in the crook of his arm and snuggled against his chest. “First thing we have to do is get you undressed.” She flipped open his top two buttons.
“Stop that! No one’s getting undressed,” he said.
“Don’t be shy. I’ve seen you in your undress. All but a couple inches.”
Jake looked down at her. “Honey, you missed more than a couple inches.”
“I didn’t mean that couple inches. Well, I guess I did, but not in that way. Not extended.”
“How about if I make us some coffee?”
Berry opened the last remaining button. “Wow,” she said, “what a body. I must have been crazy to think you had a hunchback.” She pulled his shirt aside and rested her cheek on his bare skin. “Yum,” she purred, stroking the thin line of hair that disappeared behind his jeans. “Just like bread crumbs.”
“Bread crumbs?”
“Like in Hansel and Gretel. Remember how they followed the bread crumbs to the gingerbread house?” He felt so good against her cheek, Berry thought. So enticing. “Uh-oh,” she exclaimed. “Your pants are blocking the way to the gingerbread house.”
“Berry!”
“Yes, Jakey?”
“I think we’d better get you up to bed.”
Berry’s eyes slid closed. “Not now. I’m too tired.”
He pulled her to her feet, but her knees crumpled.
“Whoops,” she mumbled, tumbling into him with a thud. “No knees. What happened to my knees?”
Jake scooped her into his arms and carried her to the stairs. At the third step her head bonked against the wall and her foot caught in the polished wooden railing.
“Dammit,” Jake swore, “this never happened to Rhett Butler.”
“Who?”
He set her down on the stairs and propped her up against the wall while he contemplated the task before him. Finally, he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carted her off to his bedroom.
“Oh, no,” Berry groaned, falling spread-eagle onto the comforter, “I’ve got the whirlies.” She draped one leg over the side of the bed until her foot touched the floor. “There, that’s better.”
“Berry, you can’t sleep like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because-”
Whump. Berry fell off the bed onto the floor.
Jake pulled her to her feet. “That’s why not.”
“This is embarrassing. I’ve never been drunk before. I don’t like it. I’m not doing this ever again.”
Berry looked at Jake through half-closed eyes. “Is it always this bright in the morning?”
“How do you feel?”
“My eyes feel like two fried eggs and there are little men wearing pointy hats and spiky shoes running around in my stomach.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Not a chance.”
Jake looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to get Mrs. Dugan to the boat. I’ll drop Mrs. Fitz and Mildred off at the Pizza Place. You can take the day off.”
“Mrs. Fitz and Mildred can’t do deliveries.”
“It’s Sunday. You don’t deliver on Sunday.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. It’s a new rule I just made up.”
New rule he just made up? What a lot of nerve. Now he was making up rules for her business. She sat up in bed. “Listen here, Sawyer…”
“Yes?”
Suddenly she didn’t feel well at all. The little men in pointy hats were doing strange things in her stomach. She covered her mouth with one hand and threw the covers off with the other. “I’m going to be sick!”
She slammed the bathroom door and sank down onto the tile floor, resting her head against the porcelain tub. Ah, that was much better, she decided. Nice and cool. Now if she could just get rid of the little men in her stomach.
Jake knocked on the door. “Berry, open the door.”
“I’d sooner die.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I’m being sick.”
“Can I help?”
“Throwing up is not a group activity.”
Several minutes later she draped a wet washcloth across her forehead and opened the door. “I’m going back to bed to die, now. No deliveries on Sunday sounds like a good rule to me.”
Jake helped her into bed and tucked the covers around her. “I’ll be back as soon as I get rid of Mrs. Dugan.”
“Don’t rush. I’m just going to stay here and feel sorry for myself.”
Berry poured herself a glass of cranberry juice and stood absolutely still for a moment, enjoying the quiet solitude of the kitchen. Mrs. Fitz and Miss Gaspich were at the Pizza Place, and Jake hadn’t returned from the boat. Berry had slept the morning away, and then had stayed in bed for a while thinking about plans.
Plans were only guidelines, she’d decided. They were preliminary blueprints for the real project, and sometimes even well thought-out plans didn’t work right. For instance, she was miles deep in love with Jake Sawyer years ahead of time. Why should she be so upset about that? If it turned out she could graduate several years ahead of schedule she’d be ecstatic. Why was falling in love so different?
Berry, Berry, Berry, she warned, you’re rationalizing. There is a difference.
Oh, yeah? she answered her more practical self. Shut up.
And then there was this business about butterscotch pudding and Mrs. Dugan. She didn’t want to become a Mrs. Dugan. Now that she thought about it, she realized pudding really didn’t take all that long to make. Surely she could find ten minutes a week for pudding. Probably she could squeeze a little romance into her schedule, too. Of course, it would be with you-know-who… Mr. Yum.
Being miserably sick had at least given her the opportunity to analyze her problems. In the calm aftermath of her first and last hangover, Berry soberly concluded that you could get carried away with deprivation and timetables.
“Down with deprivation,” Berry shouted, brandishing a wooden spoon. She finished her cranberry juice and hummed happily as she hunted through the cabinets for pudding ingredients. Cornstarch, brown sugar, vanilla. She took butter and milk and eggs from the refrigerator.
Boy, she thought, life is wonderful. Here I am, happy as a clam, making pudding in Jake’s cozy kitchen. She stirred the mixture with a wire whisk while she waited for it to boil. She separated the eggs and measured the butter. Pudding from a box was okay, but it wasn’t like scratch pudding. Scratch pudding was buckled shoes and Monopoly.