Larkspur Dreams - By Anita Higman Page 0,16

“I tell you what. You can finish this peculiarly stimulating conversation tonight. Everett, why don’t you bring Lark with you to our company party? I read that Lark is single, and you have nothing important to do tonight.”

“Company party?” Everett asked.

“You know,” Zeta said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Ozark Consulting?”

He’d totally forgotten. But then maybe he’d meant to forget it.

“You mean you hadn’t planned on coming tonight at seven?” Zeta asked.

“I’ve been busy with the move, so I—”

Zeta touched her fingers under her chin in a dramatic gesture. “It’s a stylish affair at the Majestic Hotel,” she said to Lark. “I can already tell you’d love it. Then I’d get a chance to visit with you some more.”

Is she arranging my dating life? He chose not to lash out at Zeta, but he had to admit his job and its handsome salary were being worn down by her edges.

Lark’s expression continued to soften when she glanced at him. He thought the look might be one of pity. Please, any emotion but that one. I may look like a toad next to my boss, but I still have my pride.

Then Lark smiled at him, a warm and effervescent one. The kind he was growing very fond of. Something thawed between them like two blocks of ice left in the afternoon sun. Everett decided to set his aggravation with Zeta aside and just ask Lark to the party. “I have to admit it’s a good idea. Lark, would you accompany me to the party this evening?”

Lark hesitated and then stared at him as if trying to read his expression. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Zeta stomped her foot as if she were starting up some Irish dance. “Good. It’s settled. I’m off. See you lovebirds tonight.”

Everett rubbed the back of his neck.

“By the way, Lark, this is supposed to be our company Christmas party. Everett suggested we schedule it in early November on a Monday evening. Saves money,” Zeta said.

Everett groaned inside as he walked Zeta to the front door. With one last salute to her, he shut the door.

“I guess I’d better get going, too.” Lark made a few steps toward the front door.

“I wish you’d stay for a bit.” Everett wondered what was going through her mind.

Lark turned back to him and smiled. “I like your boss.”

Everett could feel his head pound just thinking about Zeta. “I’d better not say anything.”

Lark looked concerned. “Is Zeta really that hard to work for?”

Everett wasn’t sure how much to tell her. “Let’s put it this way. Before she became my boss, I had more hair.”

Lark chuckled.

She actually laughed again. A bubbly kind of noise. Not frenzied, but a pleasant sound of contentment. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d made anyone laugh so much. “Would you like to sit down?”

“I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“Well, I put in some long hours last night, so I’m pretty much caught up for a little while.”

“Okay, then. Maybe I’ll stay for just for a minute.” Lark eased onto the end of his brown leather couch. She picked up a small brass abacus and studied it.

Everett sat on the opposite side of the couch. They sat in silence for a moment, until he thought of how he wanted to apologize about the gavel. “I wanted to—”

“I’m truly sorry about the mothballs.” Lark rubbed her earlobe. “I thought they would be an encouragement. You know, to get out of the house once in a while for some fresh air. I was concerned about you. But it truly was none of my business.”

“Apology accepted.” Everett rested his arm on the back of the couch and then realized he’d made himself too relaxed for what he needed to say. So he leaned forward. But now he couldn’t see her. Oh brother. He gave up and just looked at her. “The gavel represented a way to welcome you to speak. In other words, ‘you hold the reins of speech now.’ I wasn’t thinking of the other side of the meaning. A comedy of errors here, I guess, but I do apologize.”

Lark sighed. “Errors like straws upon the surface flow: He who would search for pearls must dive below.”

“Dryden?” Everett asked. Or was it Shakespeare?

“Wow. I’m impressed,” Lark said. “I thought for sure you’d say Shakespeare. College literature class I presume?”

“Yeah. Forced at gunpoint by a sweet professor lady who loved English authors. Well, I say sweet. I think she really had a broom in the back.”

Lark