Counting Stars by Michele Paige Holmes Page B

bacon cheeseburgers, talking about Paul’s adorable children for a good hour until Jane realized she needed to hurry to catch her ferry.
    “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
    “Now I’ve kept you,” Paul said, walking ahead of her to hold the door open.
    “I had a terrific afternoon,” Jane reassured him. “It’s just that I live on Bainbridge and my ferry leaves at 6:30. If I miss it, I’ll be home after dark, and my power doesn’t always work, so it’s best I get there before sunset. That way I can fiddle with the fuse box if there’s a problem.”
    Paul was giving her a peculiar look. “You’re an island-dweller and an electrician too?”
    “No to the electrician part.” Jane rummaged through her purse, searching for her keys. “But I’ve found that if I speak very kindly to my fuse box, it will often do what I ask it to.”
    “And when it doesn’t?” Paul asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
    “Pounding on it is sometimes equally effective.” Jane pulled her keys out and held them up. “Success. And as for the island-dweller part—don’t think you’ve met a rich girl. Last year our agency listed a cottage that had been severely fire damaged. The owner just wanted to dump the place, and I loved the property, so I lucked out and got it. The cottage is still a mess—it passed inspection, barely —but that’s about it. The whole inside needs to be redone, but the yard is gorgeous, and the view . . .” Jane paused. “Well, you have to climb up on the roof to see anything. Someday I’ll build a deck up there, but the view is breathtaking. On clear nights I can see across the bay to the Seattle skyline.”
    “You don’t happen to have a telescope do you?” Paul asked, hopeful.
    She shook her head. “No.”
    “I mean, with that great view, it would seem the logical thing.”
    “I don’t even have a deck yet—just a rickety old ladder I climb for occasional roof-sitting. It’s enough to let me count the stars.”
    Jane stopped at her car, parked next to his in the small lot. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon—evening,” she amended, looking up at the sky. “I’ll meet you at the hospital anytime. Just let me know when.”
    “I’ll call you,” Paul said.
    “Great.” Jane opened her door and got in.
    Paul waved as she drove away, then stood, hands in his pockets, staring after her until she’d turned the corner out of sight.
    Something about her had changed over the course of their afternoon together. She’d lost the ponytail hours ago, and in the damp Seattle evening, her hair had curled naturally around her face, perfectly framing luminescent brown eyes. He realized, quite suddenly and happily, that she wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, apart from her striped toenails, she was really very pretty. That was good. Pete liked pretty. Paul wondered what else there was about Jane that his brother might find appealing. He imagined there were quite a few things. Maybe this whole idea wasn’t so crazy after all.
    Counting stars. It’s not astronomy, Pete, but it’s a start .
    * * *
    “I’ll call you,” Jane grumbled under her breath as she grabbed a shovel from her garden shed. “Famous last words.” She slammed the shed door shut and marched around to the front of the house. It had been four—nearly five—days since the strange and delightful afternoon she’d spent with Paul.
    Four days without a single phone call.
    “Men,” she fumed as she thrust her shovel into the ground. Levering the blade with her weight, she pulled back, scooping a generous amount of dirt over her shoulder.
    “Noncommittal, emotionally draining, selfish, insecure, egotistical, shallow-minded, oppositionally defiant—” The litany of psychology terms continued as she dug. She may not have graduated, but it was times like these that she recalled with clarity the many case studies she’d written papers about. She jumped on the shovel again. “Narcissistic, antisocial,