Chapter Ten

Saturday morning found Darla Jinks transferring trays of apple fritters into her bakery case, sending the aroma through the propped-open door and down Main Street. Grace sat at a corner table and dived into a fritter, accompanied by her standing coffee order: French roast with a shot of espresso, heavy-handed with cream and sugar. The apples folded over her tongue, the blend of pastry reminiscent of Granny Stillwell’s fried doughnuts. She promised herself no dinner tonight, just a good long walk back to the Petite River. She glanced over the Reporter, the local news a mindless blend of easy reading:

CONSERVATION DEPARTMENT ON THE LOOKOUT FOR POACHER

Deer season was rapidly approaching and crime was on the rise in Toller County.

THREE PRIZE WINNERS IN ANNUAL HALLOWEEN PARADE

A Power Ranger, a smiling apple and a gypsy girl held up five dollar bills, happy expressions showing missing teeth.

COME SEE ROBERTA’S - NOW OPEN ON MAIN STREET

A photo graced page two, showing a secondhand store with an elderly black woman standing proudly beside a sign which proclaimed “Roberta’s Revisited”.

Darla Jinks appeared around the corner just as the door ding announced another customer. “Why, Lance Curtis! Look at you in here on a Saturday morning!” A fair haired, well-dressed man entered. Lance Curtis wore a heather-green sweater, no doubt calculated to match the color of his eyes, and dark grey pleated slacks that had not, Grace was certain, been purchased at the local Sears. Grace put him at just under five foot six, his pant cuffs hiding what appeared to be elevated shoes. She looked back down at her newspaper and cut into the fritter.

“Why, it’s just so nice to have you back in town, Lance! My goodness, we haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays!” Darla gushed.

“Only a fortnight Darla, truly.” The faint English accent seemed preposterous to Grace, but she refused to look up. She could feel the man staring at her while he barely acknowledged the bakery’s proprietress. She’d thrown on a sweatshirt over her jeans and combed her hair but make-up had, once again, escaped her. Lipstick would have been a waste of time on a beautiful day like today. She had moisturized before leaving the house and decided she was going with the natural look, whether it worked for her or not.

“Lance, this is Grace Phillips, the new administrator over at the school! She’s a local, “ Darla whispered conspiratorially, “just come back from the City to live near family.” Grace smiled quickly and looked back down, thinking maybe she could slide by this introduction. But Lance Curtis was headed her direction like a hound on the scent.

“A schoolteacher! I, too, am a teacher, Miss— It is Miss?” He blasted her with a broad smile, the effect ruined by the frank assessment in his gaze. The dimple in his cheek deepened. Grace made a mental note: weak chin. Never a good sign in a man under the age of fifty. There was a time when the English accent might have caught her attention, but she was no longer a girl of twenty-four. She caught a hint of heavy musk aftershave as he leaned in — Oh, God, he wasn’t! — to kiss her hand. She flinched, but masked the response, retrieving her hand back to her lap, moving the napkin over the wet spot. She picked up the newspaper again, and took another sip of coffee.

“No, not a teacher. Just administration.” Grace sighed quietly, realizing her private coffee and newspaper moment was now over. For Lance Curtis was obviously someone who did not read reaction well. Long experience had taught her that men who did not take social cues were either so intelligent they were caught up in their own esoteric thoughts, possibly painfully shy, or so self-involved they could only see, feel and hear the planet “self” around which everyone else orbited. Observing her new acquaintance, Grace knew instinctively that she could eliminate the first two possibilities.

Lance moved himself into the chair across from her, sucking in a moderately paunchy stomach and striking a pose, one leg crossed over the other. Grace wondered how long he’d be able to maintain that posture without turning blue. She glanced at him pleasantly, but did not speak, preferring to hide behind her cup of coffee.

He launched into a detailed explanation, nearly a lecture, really, on his various degrees received at Oxford, his summers studying in France, and his decision to come to the “States” (accompanied by a jovial chuckle which had a slightly forced edge to it), to work where he could once again take up the book he hoped to have published very soon, but then, editors, you know, could be so very pushy and he was a writer and must have time to reflect.

Grace was downing her coffee faster than the temperature would safely allow and praying for relief. Where was the talkative Darla when she needed her? The door jingled again. Her reprieve had arrived.

The day could only get better from here. Nola Brayton walked through the door and tapped her way across the shop on stilettos to tower over the short man. “Lance! I wondered when we would see you. Oh. I see you’ve met our new resident, or rather former resident. Where was it that you lived, Gracie?”

Grace felt contrary, as Granny Stillwell would say. “Please, Nola, call me Grace.” She returned to sipping her coffee. The bell chimed again as Darla’s customers began to fill the shop.

“Gracie is just here to help out in the school office. Now, isn’t that right, Gracie?” Nola exaggerated her name sweetly.

“School administration isn’t quite the same as office work, Nola.” Lance muttered, having risen at Nola’s entrance, but still ogling Grace like a fresh piece of fruit, the last on the platter.

The door opened again and Grace grabbed her coffee, then managed to exit as Nola turned to face Lance, putting her back to Grace. Grace waggled her fingers at Darla from outside the shop window and realized that Lance’s eyes, assessing and interested, followed her exit. She groaned inwardly. “Don’t get any ideas, Buster. Nola has the field.”