Wendy Warren - The Oldest Virgin In Oakdale

Cole regarded her bemusedly. “Want to let me in on the punch line?”

Lowering her hand, Eleanor shook her head. Pouring ginger ale into the tumblers, she listened to the ice cubes crackle and realized she felt the way they sounded. The punch line is going to be me unless I get a grip on myself.

She’d never been the master of her thoughts—or her tongue—where Cole was concerned. That last day in the library, she’d run outside, hiding behind the building as she tried to stop crying before her next class. She’d sworn then and there that she was going to change, no matter what. Forget physics, forget calculus; she was going to learn something useful, namely how to become sexy, alluring, flirtatious. And the next time, the very next time she fell in love with someone, she would be prepared to do something about it.

A pall settled over her as she stood in her kitchen, pouring soda for two. If she’d known it was going to take this long to develop sex appeal, she could have had herself cryogenically frozen in the interim.

“Whoa! That’s going to spill.”

Cole nudged the neck of the soda bottle just in time to prevent Eleanor from overfilling the glasses.

“You all right, Teach?” His soft query had the most alarming effect. Eleanor felt like melting into a happy puddle…and screaming in frustration.

Teach again!Teach. It was the only nickname she’d ever had, and she’d loved it. Until that last day.

She’d bet a dollar to a doughnut that the women Cole dated had nicknames like “Bunny” or “Kitten,” endearments evocative of small cuddly creatures, not one’s high school algebra teacher.

Who could imagine murmuring sexy endearments to a “Teach”?

Glumly, Eleanor shoved serving spoons into the food. “Let’s eat.”

Before they moved to the dining room, Cole spied today’s edition of the local paper lying on one of the bar stools. The Oakdale Sentinel. He lifted the thin paper. “‘Our commitment,”’ he read from the top of the front page, “‘to educate, inform, illuminate.’ The good old Sentinel.” He grinned. “Always a leader in gritty journalism. What’s the big story today? Mayor grows two-pound zucchini?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to read it yet.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

She shook her head. “I should reheat this food, anyway. It’s probably cold by now.”

Perching on one of the kitchen stools, Cole snapped the community paper open and laid it on the counter. “New skateboarding area opening in Quinn Park. City council approves longer parade on Labor Day. Looks like the hometown is still hoppin’.”

Eleanor depressed the latch on the microwave door and placed their dinner inside. “I suppose Oakdale seems pretty tame after living in Los Angeles.”

“Oakdale seemed pretty tame when I was living right here. Ah, this item hot off the press,” he quipped, “‘Nun passes away at the age of eighty-nine.”’

Standing at the microwave, Eleanor turned around. “What?”

Cole read the front page. “‘Sister Marguerite Bertrice died peacefully at her niece’s home in Oakdale late Sunday evening.”’ Quickly he scanned the rest of the article. “It says she was from an abbey in Mount Angel. I wonder what she was doing in Oakdale?”

“She had a hip replacement four years ago and moved here to be closer to her family.” Abandoning their meal, Eleanor scurried to the counter and spun the paper around. Her lips moved silently as she read the article.

“She was a friend of yours?”

Raising her gaze slowly, Eleanor nodded. “I took care of her cat. Mr. Winky.”

“Mr. Winky.” Cole suppressed a smile.

The full impact of Sister Marguerite’s passing settled on Eleanor bit by horrifying bit. “Oh, no,” she whispered, then groaned. “Oh, no!” She leaned over the counter. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Her breath began coming in gasps. Immediately Cole crossed to her side. “Hey. It’s okay, Teach. Take a deep breath. You’re hyperventilating.”

With effort, Eleanor lifted her head. “It is not okay!” She continued to suck air in choppy gasps.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Teach, but you’ve got to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick. Come on. Try to take a deep breath. In—” he breathed with her “—out. Shooo.”

Straightening up, Eleanor nodded and followed his instruction. Three deep breaths in, three slow breaths out. Her body quivered like the bow of a violin. She rubbed beneath her tearing eyes.

Cole handed her a paper napkin. “You want to talk about it? Maybe that’ll help.”

Grimly Eleanor studied the man who’d passed her by on prom night twelve years earlier. He met her gaze with intrinsic kindness. Pressing the napkin to her nose, she shook her head automatically, then changed her mind and nodded. “Yes. All right. Sure. Why not? Talking helps.” Carefully she daubed her eyes. “You see, Sister Marguerite turned eighty-nine in March. Her family threw a party at Der Schnitzel Haus. Lots of fondue. Good cake.”

Folding her makeshift tissue, she took a shaky breath and looked into Cole’s impossibly warm and attentive eyes. Pressure built in her chest and throat. Forcing herself to continue, she spoke with as much control as she could muster. “Sister Marguerite has passed on, and that must mean—” her voice caught as the tears began again “—that must mean…”

“Go on, Teach, let it out. What does it mean?”

Eleanor’s chin quivered. Her brow began to pucker.

“If Sister Marguerite is dead, that must mean that I…that I’m—” It took three tries before the next sentence emerged, but then it burst forth like an uncorked geyser: “I’m the oldest living virgin in Oakdale!”

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