Joan Pickart - Just My Joe

It didn’t work.

She plunked her elbows on the table, nestled her chin in her hands, then closed her eyes.

She was so-o-o tired, she thought. She’d hardly slept last night, had tossed and turned for hours. When she did manage to doze off she’d dreamed about Joe Dillon, the rotten bum.

In one of her dumb dreams, Joe had been decked out in a tuxedo and was waltzing with a six-foot macaw wearing a top hat. The bird was the same colors as Jazzy and she knew, just knew, that the trouble-making creature had been in subconscious cahoots with Joe to rob her of blissful, peaceful slumber.

But then the scene had shifted to a misty clearing in a wood. The trees had leaves of glittering silver that shimmered like a million stars.

Joe was still wearing the tuxedo, but this time she was his dance partner, emerging from the ring of magical trees in a gorgeous, full-length dress to step into his embrace.

Polly sighed wistfully as she allowed the dream to replay in her mind like a movie.

What an elegant couple they made as they waltzed to music that was floating over them from a source unknown.

Even now, in the light of the new day, she could remember the heat of passion that had suffused her in the dream, and could vividly recall the desire radiating from Joe’s compelling brown eyes as he kept his gaze riveted on her.

He’d dipped his head and she’d known, and gloried in the fact, that he was about to claim her lips in what would be a searing kiss.

Closer and closer his lips had come to hers. Closer and closer and then...

“I woke up,” Polly said, opening her eyes and smacking the table with the palm of one hand. “Drat. No, forget it. I wouldn’t want to kiss that grouchy, opinionated man anyway.”

Joe Dillon was a menace. He was totally disrupting her peace of mind. Granted, her quiet lunch in the park yesterday had soothed her jangled nerves regarding the angry outburst from the students at Lincoln high.

She understood why she’d upset those kids, although she still felt it wasn’t her fault. She should have been coached about what to say, or not say, before being thrown unprepared on the mercy of the Abraham Lincoln Grizzlies.

So, live and learn, and put the disastrous morning behind her. Fine. But as she’d left the pretty park to return to the office, the image of Joe came with her and refused to budge from her mental vision for the remainder of the day.

And the long, long hours of the night.

“Darn him,” Polly said.

She sipped some more tea, then swept her gaze over her small apartment. From where she was sitting she could see the living room, with its sofa, easy chair, rocker and television set. Out of her view was the bedroom and bathroom.

The sofa and chair were a splash of vibrantly colored flowers. The rocker was the one her mother had used to lull her babies to sleep.

This was usually one of her favorite times of the day in her little abode, she thought, with the morning sun streaming in the sparkling clean windows, touching everything with a warm, golden glow.

But not today.

Not with Joe Dillon still haunting her, seeming so close, so real, she might as well offer him a cup of tea.

Why? she thought, aware of a bubble of anger growing within her.

Why couldn’t she dismiss Joe Dillon, along with the memories of the fiasco at the school?

Why could she still feel that incredible heat that had suffused her when their hands had brushed against each other?

Why could she hear that rumbly, sexy chuckle of Joe’s, see those fathomless fudge-sauce-colored eyes, his wide shoulders, muscled legs and that—shame on her—gorgeous, tight tush?

Why was Joe Dillon having such a lingering, disturbing, sensual, ridiculous impact on her?

“Darned if I know,” Polly said aloud, then drained her mug. “But I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Have you got that, Dillon? Get out of my brain space.”

Dandy, she thought dryly, getting to her feet. Now she was talking to the man as though he were actually there in her kitchen. She was off to work to spend the day with lovely animals who wouldn’t do, or say, anything that would further boggle her mind.

And she wasn’t going anywhere near gabby Jazzy.

The morning at the office was busy, the appointment book fully scheduled.

Just before noon, a frantic man came rushing in the door with his yowling cat wrapped in a fluffy pink towel. The feline proceeded to calmly deliver three kittens on one of the examining tables. Polly had to wave an ammonia stick beneath the man’s nose to keep him from passing out cold on his face.

Becky went to lunch and Polly settled onto the receptionist’s chair to answer the telephone for the next hour.

Nancy and Robert came up behind Polly to take a look at the appointment book that would tell them what was on the agenda for the afternoon.

The bell over the door chimed as someone entered the office.

“Oh, Robert,” Nancy said, “are those for me? What’s the occasion? Did I forget something important? Aren’t those flowers beautiful?”

“Well, I...um...” Robert said.

The delivery boy placed a vase of a variety of brightly colored flowers on the counter, then looked at the paper on the clipboard he carried.

“Polly Chapman?” he said.

Polly’s head snapped around and her eyes widened as she stared at the gorgeous bouquet. She got to her feet slowly and moved to the counter.

“Those are for me?” she said.

“Yep,” the boy said, “if you’re Polly Chapman.”

“No one has ever sent me flowers before,” Polly said, frowning.

“Well, someone has sent you flowers now,” Nancy said, beaming. In the next instant she poked Robert on the arm. “Hey, buster, why aren’t they for me from you?”

“I knew I was going to be in trouble,” Robert muttered, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I just knew it.”

Polly signed the paper on the line the boy pointed to, then the messenger left the office, whistling off-key.

Polly buried her nose in the pretty blossoms and inhaled deeply.

“Heavenly,” she said. “They smell so good. It’s springtime in November.”

“Polly, if you don’t open the card,” Nancy said, “I’m going to blow a fuse in my brain. A woman can take just so much curiosity before something breaks.”

“Did it ever occur to you, dear wife,” Robert said, “that the identity of Polly’s admirer is none of your business?”

“Don’t be silly,” Nancy said, with a sniff. “Polly is part of our family. Therefore, it’s most definitely my business. Polly, the card.”

Robert chuckled and shook his head.

Polly pulled the little white envelope free of the plastic, pronged stick and withdrew the card.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, feeling a warm flush stain her cheeks.

“Gracious, you’re blushing.” Nancy peered over Polly’s shoulder and read the message on the card aloud. “‘I’m sorry. Dinner? I’ll call you. Joe.’ Joe? Who’s Joe? What’s he sorry about?”

“Joe Dillon?” Robert said. “From Abraham Lincoln High School?”

“Well, I... well. yes, I...” Polly stammered.

“What’s he sorry about?” Nancy said, frowning. “What did that man do to you that you didn’t tell us about?”

“Nothing,” Polly said quickly. “We had an argument of sorts over my speech. You know, my telling the students that Jazzy cost thousands of dollars, and his owners were in Europe and...Joe Dillon has some very strong opinions about...some things, that’s all.”

Like her working for the Dogwoods, Polly thought, and catering to the rich, and on and on and on.

“Oh,” Nancy said. “Well, your Joe obviously feels badly about your spat.”

“He’s not mine,” Polly said, the flush on her cheeks deepening.