The shopping cart rolled smoothly over the walk-off mat at the automatic door, then veered sharply to the left the moment the front wheels hit the linoleum. I wrenched it back into line and pointed the nose toward the frozen food section, shaking my head. How the hell did I manage to pick out the wonky one every single time.
I cruised past the end caps, sneakers squeaking crisply on the freshly mopped floor. The morning was a bit cool, so I'd thrown on a pair of slim fleece joggers and a light full zip jacket over a tee shirt for what I intended would be a quick jaunt to the grocery store to grab something for my brother's birthday cookout that evening. But now that I was here, I realized I had no idea what I wanted to take.
I slowed upon reaching the freezers, peeking through the lightly misted glass at packets of vegetables, boxes of burger patties and oversized bags of drumsticks and wings. All reasonable fodder for a barbeque. But not particularly exciting. Anyone could grill chicken. I needed something more sophisticated. Something everyone would talk about instead of my brother's brisket.
I drifted down the row toward the deli, waffling between smoking salmon and grilling ribeye. Behind the counter the butcher scooped something into a foil tin, snapped a cover on top and passed it to a tired-looking woman with a basket full of packaged snacks and shredded cheese. And suddenly it hit me. Baked lasagna on the grill.
Okay, so my taste in food was...different than that of the rest of my family. But one thing we all agreed on (begrudgingly on my brother's part) was my pasta - my lasagna in particular. Tender noodles topped with fresh mozzarella, San Marzano marinara - perfectly spiced. It was always a hit at family dinners, which is why I suspected my brother opted for an oven-free venue this year. But that was about to backfire. Grab my ingredients and a nice foil pan and I'd be well on my way to king of the cookout.
I snatched up several packets of imported Italian noodles, mozzarella balls in whey, cracked black pepper and San Marzano tomatoes. A foil pan and lid were deposited into the cart as I traversed the baking aisle, then wheeled back toward the front of the store to procure the required herbs and spices. Fighting the wayward wheel I leaned into the corner just past the bread on the endcap and turned smack into the front of an oncoming cart, my tin lid sliding out and clattering to the floor.
"Oh, shit," I gasped, scooping it from the tile, "I'm so sorry."
I was surprised to hear my words echoed back to me almost in unison in a lively and strangely familiar female voice. My head snapped up to a beautiful brunette in her late 30s, with shoulder-length hair and tortoise-shell glasses extending an arm to help me up. Our eyes met as I rose. A memory triggered.
"Olivia?"
She paused. Frowned. Tilted her head. Brightened. "Cole?"
We shared surprise, then a hug and a good hearty laugh. "Oh my god," she gushed, detangling our carts, "It's been what...like...four months? How are you?"
"Good," I replied, buoyed by her energy and flare. She wore a slim hooded jacket over an orange cinch tank top, and sleek blue leggings with orange piping down each leg, terminating at brightly trimmed sneakers. She was tall, with a runner's build; lean, long-legged, and smaller breasted; everything curved, firm and tight. Not much had changed since I last saw her in person. "Glad to see you're still able to go shopping in your sweats," I added.
She laughed, amused that I remembered our inside joke. "It's the glasses," she said, pointing. "Completely incognito."
"Well you look great. How's life in the Mayor's Mansion?"
She smiled sheepishly, tucking hair behind her ear and glancing at the floor. "Quiet, actually. Mason's always at the office and the kids are in school now most of the day, so it's really just me and my Zoom calls."
I shrugged. "I told you you should have run instead." She blushed a little. "You would have had at least my vote."
"What's going on with you," she asked, quickly changing the subject. "Did you get your studio up and running?"
"I did! Actually, your workshop on building business through relationships got me hooked up with the space and the money to get it renovated. Sooo...I owe you a huge thank you."
Her face lit up with that bright white smile I remembered so fondly. "That's fantastic!" She wrapped me in another quick but warm embrace. "I'm so happy for you. You'd been working on that for a long time."
I had forgotten she was a hugger. I liked that.
"Thank you," I nodded. "Hey, why don't you come by sometime and we'll get some promo shots for your new consulting group!"
"Oh that's very generous, but - "
"It's the least I can do. Really. Bring the whole office, we'll make a morning out of it."
She hesitated before nodding ascent. "I would really appreciate that, thank you."
There was a tone in her voice I couldn't quite place. A resonant weight that altered the gravity of her words. Something starkly at odds with her effervescent personality.
I gave her my number and suggested a few days the following week when I'd be available. We apologized profusely for the cart collision and with too many smiles and waves, said our goodbyes and wheeled away.
I stopped at the end of the aisle to gather my oregano and thyme and stole a glance over my shoulder. Her jacket cut just above her ass, revealing two firm, perky hemispheres switching side to side as she strolled away. I smiled to myself, kicked away a dirty thought and returned to sourcing my ingredients.
....
It took longer than I expected to ring everything up and get out the door. It was warmer now, but the sky was dark; storm clouds rolling in from the west. I frowned to myself. It wasn't supposed to rain today. Arriving at the car I popped the trunk, brushed aside the small box of clothes I'd been meaning to donate forever, and set my groceries in the cargo net. Setting off to return the cart a frustrated sigh broadsided me from the far side of the adjacent SUV.
I ignored it at first, nesting the cart in the corral and heading back. But as I approached this time a growl greeted my return, followed by the thud of a flat palm on a sheet metal surface. Now curious, I detoured slightly, peeking around the taillights of the late model Mercedes. There I found myself surprised for the second time that morning.
"Hey," I said softly, "are you okay?"
Olivia turned toward me, her face sour, thumbs banging away at her phone. Her mouth opened like she was about to speak. But when she recognized me she covered the scowl with a half-smile before lowering her head, chagrined.
"Yeah," she replied, unconvincingly. "My um...my car won't start."
I took a quick look at the vehicle and frowned. "Really? I mean...it looks new."
"It is," she sighed. "I know what the problem is, it's...the ignition switch. There's a recall out on it. I planned to take it in later this week but...I guess I should have done it today instead."
She glanced down at her phone as it chimed and moments later, obviously frustrated, shoved it into her pocket.
"I texted Mason but he's in meetings all morning and can't come and get me." She slumped against the door and folded her arms. "I guess I'll have to get it towed." Her head drooped again. "All I wanted to do was to get the friggin' grocery shopping done and now I'll be friggin' stuck here waiting for the friggin' tow truck."
Her pseudo-cursing was adorable. She'd been so proper and professional in her seminars I assumed she'd be the same off the clock - or even the polar opposite, swearing like a drunken sailor. This limbo state was amusing.
I looked at her cart still filled with grocery bags. In the distance the sky groaned and rumbled through the dense gray clouds. The air was thick with the coming storm. I couldn't just leave her to wait in the rain.
"I can um...." I stuttered slightly, confused as to why. "I can...drive you home, if you want."
She smiled - fully this time, turning to me before looking away. "It's okay," she said, "I'll handle it. I'm sure you have more important things to do than chauffeur me around."
"Actually," I replied, I don't."
She laughed. Muffled thunder covered her tailing off.
"Seriously," I continued, "It's no trouble. It's the least I can do."
Her lips pursed, eyes closed. Head nodded just a little. "Thank you...," she said, "...so much."
There it was again. That tone I couldn't quite place. An honesty unintended for acquaintance. A rain drop pinged the back of my neck, derailing my train of thought. "Let's go," I said, nodding toward my car, "before we get wet."
She flashed a smile to herself, but said nothing.
....
By the time we pulled into the driveway it was pouring. Sheets of rain lashed the windshield, drowning out the stereo inside the car. We sat quietly, the coupe still running, staring awkwardly at the sidewalk from the garage to the back of the house.
'Mayoral Mansion' was a bit of an exaggeration. It was a large mid-century modern on the edge of the historical district of our mid-sized midwestern city, with a driveway and detached garage accessed off the alley behind. It had been endowed to the city by its longest serving mayor on the condition that it be routinely maintained and available for use by the current mayor as his or her residence during their term. At this point it was tradition - our own little version of the White House, or Downing Street. And now that I was here I kinda wanted to see it.
