Grounded

Chapter Nine: Monday

by Lynn Saunders

John and Anna walk in step along High Street, through the December chill near dawn, with her hand tucked neatly into his. The moon is still risen, illuminating a ringed swath of grey clouds with an ethereal blue glow. The lamppost wreaths are dipped in frost, and the berries and bows glisten. He has the larger of her two bags slung across his back. She is bundled into her wool coat, hunching her shoulders so that only her eyes are visible above the red of her scarf. Theirs are the first footprints to mark the morning snow.

In only a few hours, she will fly away from him. Everything is so new, yet so familiar so soon. He already can't wait to give her a secret smile from behind the coffee house counter upon her return, to feel his eyes light up as the shop doors jangle her arrival each morning after, knowing they have only recently parted. She huffs out a frosty breath, as if steeling herself to face the day. He squeezes her hand, and she smiles up at him.

Last night he'd fallen into her bed again, and this morning found him warm and happy, marvelling at the way she fits against him - her petite frame, surprisingly thick hips and trim waist all cut perfectly to complement his stoutness. His hands glided over her skin so easily in the dark, across her shoulders, down the curve of her spine to the rise of her buttocks and back again. He wanted to etch her into his memory. When she stirred against him, he'd hugged her close, rolling them so that she was draped across his chest before tangling his hands in her hair and kissing her fully awake an hour early. She didn't seem to mind in the least.

He holds tight to her hand, tugging her around the corner to the shop's rear door. His key sticks in the cold lock for a moment, and he pumps the handle gently until it creaks open. The warm memories of the evening before greet him even before the familiar smell of coffee and sweets. They shuffle inside and stow her bags by the door. He settles her onto his mother's favourite stool, and she watches intently as he sets about his morning routine. The kitchen is fresh and clean, carefully tended as always. He needs only grind the beans before starting a pot of coffee. A long broom is affixed to a bracket beside the door, and he sweeps snow from the back and front stoops in turn. He lights a small fire in the front room, then nestles a steaming cup into her chilly hands. She sighs and stretches happily.

Soon the deliveryman calls, and John inspects the parcels with a careful eye. He has pulled a pair of readers from his shirt pocket and is reviewing the order receipt when he catches Anna staring.

"You will need to wear those more often." She sips her coffee with a smile.

"Sometimes I forget I need them at all," he replies, almost apologetically.

"I fancy them."

"Oh yes?" He comes to stand before her. The mug passes between them easily. The brew is dark and velvety on his tongue.

She rises, gazing up at him with her small hands on his chest. "Definitely, yes."

She slips inside the split edges of his coat, and he moves the mug to the safety of the counter before wrapping her in his arms. She gives a contented hum. For a precious moment there's nothing but the sound of her soft breathing and the faint pop and crack of the fire. The shop is calm and still, and he thinks of the evening before, of her skin painted golden in the firelight. He stoops to press his lips to her forehead just as a horn sounds from the street, intruding.

"That'll be the car," she sighs.

He buries his nose in her hair. "Only a week?"

Her arms tighten around him. "Only a week."

He eases back and winds the loose ends of her scarf securely around her neck once more. She reaches up to straighten his tie, traces his jaw with her fingertips, and blinks up at him with her pale blue eyes. He wonders how he can feel such longing for her touch when he's only just come to know it. He can barely imagine the week ahead without her near.

Outside, the horn blares again.

She turns to pluck her bags from the corner, and he opens the door for her with a flourish. The driver hurries around to secure Anna's luggage. They have but a moment more, and John resolves to make it count. He wants her to long for him too, to be the one she daydreams about. He turns to her in the arch of the doorway, pulling her close.

"Now, Miss Smith…"

"Mr. Bates…" she teases, grinning up at him.

The sparkle in her eyes is so distracting that he loses his train of thought. He chuckles as he cradles her face in his hands, searching for the right words. Finally, he stoops to kiss her sweetly.

Don't forget about me in London, he thinks. "Keep warm," he says.

He pulls a paper-wrapped slice of gingerbread from his coat pocket and tucks it into hers. She smiles, clearly touched. The driver scrapes his boot heel on the curb and clears his throat pointedly.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'll message you when I land."

"Message me any time."

She rises on tiptoe to kiss him once more, and then she is whisked away. He watches until the tail lights fade in the pre-dawn fog. He has put on a brave face, but he is lovesick already. He can't believe he didn't think of bringing mistletoe.

John pulls risen dough from the fridge and halves it on the floured countertop. He has just taken up the rolling pin when he hears the chime of the door and his Mum's familiar voice from the front of the shop.

"Oh, it's brass monkeys out!"

She hates the cold. He imagines her brushing snow from her shoulders and moving to stand before the fire with outstretched fingers. He pauses to put the kettle on as her voice drifts through the kitchen door.

"William, dear, how are you?"

John begins to roll out the first section of dough, listening with a smirk as William gently declines Margaret's offer of the phone number of 'that nice lass from the church bake sale.' She's nothing if not persistent.

"Well, alright then, but you let me know if you change your mind," she says with just a hint of disappointment.

William offers the fresh brew of the day, but she waves him off. "Oh, no coffee for me, dear. I'd be up all night. I'll pop to the back and see about my Johnny. I can hear the click of the rolling pin from here."

John feels rather than sees her enter. "Hi mum," he says without looking up. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"I do indeed, but it can wait a bit." The kettle whistles, and she carefully moves it from the burner. "I need to make sure you don't make a mess of these sticky buns." She winks at him, her eyes full of mirth.

He shakes his head with a smile as she washes up, ties on her red apron, and takes her place at his side.

"You're looking quite well," she says.

He chuckles. "Would you expect otherwise?"

"Well, I know you're often here late."

"Yes, we'll have to bring someone else on soon. It's a bit of a stretch with just two, but business is good."

She quickly works her half of the dough into a perfect rectangle, grinning to herself for a moment. "Have you been sleeping well?"

He thinks of Anna's honeyed hair spilling across his chest in the moonlight. "Quite well, actually." When they actually sleep, that is.

He liberally coats the dough with butter, sugar and cinnamon, trying to appear completely focused on the task at hand. Together they carefully lift the sticky edges and ease each section into a tight spiral.

She eyes him sidelong for a moment. "And what of Anna?"

He smiles before he can catch himself. "She's becoming quite a close friend."

"A friend, indeed." Margaret shakes her head with a knowing look.

She sets about slicing the rolled dough with practiced ease while he moves to manage the tea. He always has to chill the loaves first, but his mother can cut them masterfully even when soft. He is reminded that there is no substitute for experience.

"I happened to pass by the shop on my way home from the church last night."

"Oh yes?" He keeps his response carefully neutral.

She pauses her work with the pastry knife for a moment to watch him settle bags of Earl Grey into two of her old cups. The china is delicate but sturdy, dwarfed by his large fingers. He remembers Anna's small hand in his, the pop of the fire from the night before, and the spicy scent of gingerbread.

"Well, maybe times have changed, but I've never kissed a friend quite like that, my boy."

He starts a bit at that, and hisses as the gleaming base of the kettle glances against his ring finger. John chuckles but doesn't immediately comment. His mother means well, he knows.

"Oh, don't look so embarrassed." She triumphantly arranges the cut cinnamon buns on a baking sheet. "You do fancy her, then?"

He fiddles with the milk saucer and gives a small sigh. "She's a breath of fresh air."

"Are you going to call round and take her for dinner?"

"She's in London for the week, actually."

"And when she returns?"

He gives a soft smile. "I'll have to see when she's free, Mum."

She sets out the last roll and dusts her hands on her apron before turning to him with a serious expression. "You best make sure she knows how you feel."

"Mum…" He passes her a cup of tea.

"Don't play it cool like young men do, Johnny. If you are serious, then carry on."

She moves to hug him, squeezes his arm affectionately, then settles onto her favourite stool as he transfers the baking sheet to the oven. The ingredients for the icing are already softening on the counter, and he whisks them together while his mother animatedly relays the latest church news.

Later, after the cinnamon buns are cooled and glazed, he lifts the glass lid to snap a photo for Anna before storing them in the fridge for the night. He has sent William home early, and the shop is warm and still. He pauses for a moment at the back door, surveying the kitchen with a nod of satisfaction before turning out the light and locking the door behind him.

* For awesomegreentie, who achieved a huge accomplishment this week. Congratulations!

* Also for annambates, who requested a Mama Bates heart-to-heart talk.

* Beta thanks to giginutshell and breakfast-at-bateses.

* terriejane is having a rough time of it, and I hope maybe this makes your week marginally better.