The Oldest Virgin In Oakdale. Wendy Warren

“You can pick Sadie up tomorrow.”

      “What time do you close?”

      “Six. So if you can’t get here earlier, we can keep her until closing. She’ll be very comfortable.”

      “Are you married, Eleanor?”

      “I— Am I— Uh, no. Mmm. No.”

      “Living with anyone?”

      Returning her pen to her breast pocket—three jabs before she got it in—she raised her brows, a study in forced nonchalance. “Why? What do you mean?”

      “Just a friendly question. If we grab dinner, catch up on old times, is there anyone whose feathers could get ruffled?”

      Slowly Eleanor shook her head.

      “Good.” He nodded. “I’ll pick you and Sadie up tomorrow evening.”

      “Well, I…”

      “Be good for the doctor, Sadie.” Reaching over, he gave the big puppy a solid pat.

      Moving past Eleanor, Cole grasped the doorknob, then turned. “I realize you’ll be working, but try not to be late.” He gave her a long, steady look. “I may be ‘straightforward,’ but I’m a devil when I’m hungry.”

      Chapter Two

      Eleanor, who in a dozen years of driving had never had a ticket, managed to run a stop sign on her way home from work.

      Inside her apartment she tossed keys, coat and purse onto a bar stool, deposited a paper sack of take-out Chinese on the kitchen counter and atypically ignored her cat, Gus, who yowled in complaint while she made a beeline for the hall closet.

      Sliding open the closet door, Eleanor stood on her toes to extract hats, mittens and other winter gear, sending items sailing to the floor until her hands closed on a box shoved all the way to the back of the shelf. Lugging the heavy carton to the floor, she rummaged through the contents until she found what she was looking for.

      Oakdale High 1990. Her senior yearbook.

      The broad flat album smelled musty. Sitting on her heels, Eleanor wiped a finger across dusty gold lettering while her heart beat with anticipation. She opened the stiff maroon cover, turning pages without pause until she came to the senior high students whose last names began with S, then scanned the page until she reached “Sullivan, Colvin Orson.”

      From a black-and-white photo the size of a tea bag, Cole stared up at her, looking exactly the way she remembered.

      “Cole,” she murmured, letting the name linger in her mouth again after all these years. She shook her head. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

      Long necked with a lean jaw and defined cheekbones, in high school Cole had worn his hair in a military-style buzz cut that gave no clue to the ebony Samson’s locks he sported now. He’d been quite thin then, too, with a teenager’s sinewy vitality, not the blatant power and muscular grace of the body he had grown into.

      He had come to her for tutoring in their senior year of high school. Working nights at the same meat-packing plant that employed his father, Cole had faced challenges the other, more affluent students at Oakdale had known nothing about. There had been mornings when he was so tired he had barely stayed awake in class. By first-semester midterms, he’d realized he was in danger of failing his math and science classes, and that was when he approached Eleanor one day at the school lunch tables.

      She had been sitting with her usual lunch mates, a small group of girls who, like her, excelled more scholastically than socially.

      “I need a scholarship to college.” Cole had seemed brusque and straightforward.

      Gazing up at him while he stood over their table, Eleanor had nearly choked on her tuna sandwich. He’d never spoken to her before. Few boys had. It wasn’t that she’d been unpopular, exactly. More like…invisible.

      Blinking behind her glasses, Eleanor forgot to chew the bite of sandwich she’d taken. One of her friends elbowed her in the ribs, and she managed a dazed, “Huh?”

      Cole stood with his hands in his pockets, blue workshirt open to reveal a white T that had been bleached one time too many.

      “I need a scholarship,” he repeated. “But I’ve got to bring my math and science grades up.” His gaze remained fixed on Eleanor exclusively, but she could feel her friends holding their breath. “I can’t pay you, but Mr. Howell says he’ll give you extra credit toward final exams in physics. You want to be my tutor?”

      Eleanor struggled to swallow. Tuna on white stuck to the roof of her mouth. Reaching for a carton of milk, she sucked up as much liquid as she could, gulped, then replaced the carton clumsily on her lunch tray. “Okay.” She gave a jerky nod.

      It was without question the best “okay” she’d ever uttered.

      A plaintive meow from Gus commanded Eleanor’s attention, and she set the yearbook gently on the floor. Curving her arms around the big orange cat, she murmured, “What do you think he’s been doing all these years, Gus?” Gus purred and used her chin to scratch his nose. Eleanor rested her cheek on his head and sighed.

      Once upon a time, Cole had given her what no one else ever had—the chance to see herself as something special.

      As long as she lived, she would never forget the day Cole set his pencil down during one of their study sessions, leaned an elbow on the desk and stared at her while she described in detail the function of stomata in plant respiration.

      “Hey, Teach,” he’d murmured lazily, using the nickname he’d given her. Unabashed admiration shone in his eyes. “How come you know so much?”

      Pressing her nose to Gus’s fur, Eleanor closed her eyes. Being admired by Cole Sullivan had been heavenly.

      “Until I ruined it.”

      Gus meowed, alerting Eleanor that she was holding him too tightly and that his patience regarding dinner had come to an end.

      “Okay.” Standing with the cat in her arms, she walked to the kitchen, set Gus on the floor and spooned cashew chicken into his bowl. His tail twitched as he attacked his supper.

      “I let my imagination get the best of me, Gus.” And there had been no end to her humiliation once that happened.

      After that moment with Cole in the library, Eleanor had begun noticing things. The triumphant wink he gave her when he turned in his physics midterm, for example. Every glance, every smile started to seem profoundly personal. And Eleanor began to daydream in a way she never, ever had before.

      She—straight-A, left-brained she—had become a closet romantic in less time than it took to say, “I think I love you.”

      One afternoon, with fewer than three weeks before their senior prom, Eleanor found herself standing in front of Fortmeyer’s department store, somewhat dazed, as if she’d arrived by osmosis, staring at a window display of taffeta dresses.

      Without any awareness of a conscious decision, she was inside the store, putting a deposit on the frosty lime-green dress with the little shoulder-strap bows.

      “Gardenias would be the perfect complement to a dress this color,” the saleslady advised her. “Tell your date you want gardenias in your corsage.”My date. “Yes.” Beaming, Eleanor promised. “Yes, I will!”

      Somehow at that moment, the fact that Cole hadn’t asked her to the prom didn’t seem like much of a hurdle.

      She began dropping hints, subtle ones, she thought, about how hard they’d worked all year and didn’t they deserve a little fun?

      Preoccupied with grades and final exams, Cole hadn’t paid much attention. When there was only a week left before the big night, Eleanor got worried. So, during one of their regular afternoon study sessions, she mustered her courage and broached the topic