Miss Josephine (Part Five of Six)

In our last episode: Moira looked at me. "What difference does it make if he was mad at you? You don't even know him."

"True, but I have a hard and fast rule not to make people mad at me who design fast cars and have cute sisters."

"I see, and how long have you had this hard and fast rule?"

I glanced at my watch. "Oh, about sixty seconds."

"And you think I'm cute?"

"I'll reserve judgement on that until I see how you look in the Hellcat."

A few minutes later we were parked in front of a golf course home near the intersection of Frank Sinatra Drive and Bob Hope Drive. I said, "Wow, classy digs."

"Oh, this isn't mine. It's my folks' place. They don't use it much anymore, so I moved in to save some rent while I work at the Air Museum. Matt?"

"Yes?"

"Would it be all right with you if we sent out for a pizza and had dinner here?"

"I guess so. Are you all right?"

"I think so. What happened in the hangar a while ago gave what my grandpa used to call the heebie-jeebies. I just need some quiet to think."

"Sure. For that matter, I could take off and we could meet up again in the morning to talk."

She almost shouted, "No!" Moira got an embarrassed look on her face and added in a calmer tone, "I mean I think we need to discuss what happened and we need a quiet place and . . . ."

Her voice trailed off. "That's fine with me, Moira."

My hand was on the console. She squeezed it gently and said, "Thanks for understanding, Matt."

The interior of her folks' place was first class all the way—hardwood floors, built-in cabinetry, and large windows overlooking a small lake on the golf course. Moira poured herself a glass of Ravenswood Old Vine Zinfandel that, according to the bottle, came from Lodi. I asked for a beer, if she had any, and handed me a bottle of Fat Tire Belgian ale. Next she asked me what I like on my pizza.

"Salami and black olives—green olives if they have 'em."

"Okay, I'm calling Giuseppe’s. It's like a gourmet pizza joint, and they actually do make the best pizza in town. They might even have green olives."

Moira ordered a large deep-dish pie with half salami and olives and half pepperoni and artichoke hearts. Then she set her cellphone on the coffee table and said, "I'm going to take a quick shower. That okay?"

I chuckled. "Not that you need my permission to take a shower in your own home, but, sure. You can even take slow shower. I'll be here."

Her expression turned soft and she looked me in the eye for a long moment. "I'm counting on that."

I didn’t say so, but there was no way I was leaving now. I was getting a completely different vibe from Moira than I did at first. Not only that, but I was having some unexpectedly warm feelings about her.

As things turned out, Giuseppe was faster at making a pizza than Moira was at taking a shower. I was just paying the delivery girl when my hostess reappeared.

Moira had swapped her gray T-shirt for a maroon one, her holey jeans for a well-worn but unholey pair, and her athletic shoes for bare feet. Noting the pizza box in my hands, she said, "Oh, I didn't mean for you to pay for dinner. I'm not very good at this hostess stuff. I don't have much company."

I set the pizza box on the kitchen counter and said, "Don't worry about it. I'd planned on taking you out to the classiest joint in town, so I got off cheap."

She stood close to me and leaned over to sniff the pizza. "Mmmm, smells wonderful! Come on, let's eat. Is it okay with you if we eat in the kitchen?"

Kidding, I said, "Well, I was hoping for romantic candlelight on the table, but . . . ."

Turning toward a cabinet, she said, "Oh, I have some candles!"

I reached out and grabbed her arm. Pulling her close, I said, "We don't need candles."

Moira looked into my eyes with a meaning I could not help but understand and we kissed a very long kiss. When we broke for air and embraced, she said softly, "Does this mean I passed the Hellcat test?"

That threw me. "What the heck are you talking about, woman?"

To Be Continued

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Story and design © Steve Eitzen
Header graphic & HPO logo © HPO Productions
Character images © 123RF used by license