Shore Lights by Barbara Bretton Read Free Book Online Page A

special spice mix to the huge vat of chili bubbling away on the stove when he heard the bell that signaled new mail. Wiping his hands on the dishtowel looped into the waistband of his jeans, he made for the laptop on the table.
    Point. Click. Damn, he was getting good at this. Next thing you knew he’d be asking Santa for a pocket protector and a laser pointer.
    JerseyGirl hadn’t wasted any time answering him. She must have some kind of office job where she could play around on the Internet and still look like she was working.
    Â 
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4 December
SUBJECT: Re: Samovar—Item #5815796
    Â 
Nice try but fuhgedaboudit. I bought the teapot for MY kid and believe me, she’s going to be very happy Christmas morning. Better luck next time.
    Â 
The fuhgedaboudit was a nice local touch. He limbered up his index fingers and started pressing keys.
    Â 
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4 December
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Samovar—Item #5815796
    Â 
Sorry. Wrong answer. What does YOUR kid want with that dented piece of junk anyway? (How does an extra $35 sound?)
    Â 
“Poor FireGuy,” she said to the screen. “You’re spending way too much time at the keyboard.” Unemployed , she thought as she started typing. Who else would have so much free time? Probably an ex-dot-comer like herself who suddenly found himself on the outside looking in. If she didn’t want the teapot for Hannah, she’d almost be tempted to sell it to him.
    For a small profit, of course. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter.
    Â 
HE DIDN’T BOTHER getting up to check on the chili or mix a batch of blue cheese dressing for the Buffalo wings. JerseyGirl would be sitting in his in box before he reached the stove.
    He grinned at the sound of the new mail chime. He grinned even wider when he read her response.
    Â 
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4 December
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Samovar—Item #5815796
    Â 
An extra $35 sounds great, but you’re not getting the teapot. (And, since you brought it up, what does YOUR kid want with MY dented, rusty teapot anyway????)
    Â 
He clicked on Reply and started typing. Who knew you could type so fast with just two fingers? (Who knew he had so much to say to a stranger?)
    Â 
FIREGUY DIDN’T DISAPPOINT her. She fiddled with the screen brightness, deleted a half-dozen spams, then started grinning like a fool when the new mail icon started flashing.
    Â 
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4 December
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Samovar—Item #5815796
    Â 
My kid wants to give it to her one-hundred-year-old great-grandmother for Christmas.
    Top that, JerseyGirl!
    Â 
Her reply seemed to appear on her screen by magic. She hadn’t had this much fun since her senior prom. She hit Send, then leaned back to wait for his answer.
    Â 
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4 December
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Samovar—Item
#5815796
    Â 
Oh, please. I can do better than that with my typing fingers tied behind my back. Maybe you were bidding on a teapot, but I was bidding on Aladdin’s magic lamp. Would YOU take a magic lamp away from a four-year-old child? I think not. . . .
    Â 
She had a four-year-old child.
    He stared at the screen as the fizz went out of the enterprise. If she had a four-year-old child, she probably had a thirty-four-year-old husband.
    He caught himself and laughed out loud. What difference did it make? All they were doing was exchanging some e-mail banter about an old samovar. They weren’t flirting. They weren’t baring their souls. It didn’t matter if she was twenty-five or seventy-five, married or single, mother of eight or not mother material at all. The only thing that mattered was the fact that she had won the auction and he hadn’t.
    He glanced up at the clock.