If she was aiming for a memorable entrance, Ms. J. Ross Nelson calculated correctly with her loud and fashionably late arrival on the banks of the James River, in her spiffy little collector car.
However, if she was looking for favorable attention for herself, Janelle Ross proved that she had been gone too long from the prairies of South Dakota.
The women, who congregated around Stu's pickup, were irritated by her willingness to be the center of attention, her fame, and her high, firm bosom.
And while the men certainly appreciated all of the above, they were far more interested in the car.
"Must be nice," Gina Adler muttered, watching Ron edge shyly over to the 'Vette, as if drawn by a magnet.
"Told you they were fake," Del said. Hugh had also joined the male throng.
"Who does she think she is?" Junior asked, glaring at the men, the car, and Janelle.
"The 1969 homecoming queen," Debbie Fischbach said nastily. "The most popular girl in school. Don't you remember?" Doug had trotted over to the convertible even before the engine died.
Like Janelle, former cheerleader Lisa Franklin Hauck-Robertson seemed to have the ability to materialize at will. I had not seen her arrive—she was just suddenly there, in the middle of the crowd at the river, looking even less well-preserved in the flickering firelight than she had at the football game. She sipped from a plastic water bottle but said nothing.
The women watched resentfully as all the men, except Stu, gathered in an admiring circle. Occasionally one would reach out and stroke the car softly, but mostly they stood, hands in back pockets, a small but reverent distance away. A couple of them asked polite questions, which Janelle answered from the driver's seat with a laugh.
Doug watched the others with a smirk, then sauntered around to Janelle's side, leaned down, and said something in her ear. In the fading light of the bonfire it was difficult to gauge her expression. He laughed loudly, then gave her neck a squeeze. Or a caress, I couldn't tell.
I heard a small, sharp, intake of breath, and out the corner of my eye, saw Debbie stiffen. Then suddenly she was in motion, patting her hair, pulling down her sweatshirt, grabbing a beer from the six-pack on the tarp. Anything but watching the circle of men.
Lisa stepped out of the circle of women and said something to Debbie, who laughed quietly and bitterly.
From the center of her admiring crowd, Janelle perched herself on the back of the seat, swung her long legs over the side, and stood up, stretching. She mimed a shiver and pointed at the fire. Everyone nodded and followed. "Hey you guys," she called to us, on the way past. "What are you waiting for? Come on over and get warm."
Gina hesitated. "What do you think?" she asked quietly.
"It beats standing around with our thumbs up our butts," Del said. Used to an exclusive hold on the male attention in Delphi, she was not sharing the spotlight easily.
"I was thinking of going over there anyway," Junior said. "I am kind of chilly."
Debbie sighed. "Can it be avoided?" she asked Lisa.
"Unlikely," Lisa said. They headed toward the fire, bright and patently phony smiles on their faces.
"What about you, Tory?" Rhonda asked. She was the only one young enough to be unthreatened by J. Ross Nelson's intoxicating presence.
"In a minute," I said, shooting a look at Stu, who was still leaning against his pickup, an unreadable expression on his face. "You go ahead, I'll catch up."
I opened another beer for courage as the rest regrouped around the bonfire. The wind had died and sparks floated up lazily on columns of hot air. Someone had set up a dozen or so lawn chairs, and people arranged themselves, talking, drinking, and laughing comfortably.
"You were saying, before we were so rudely interrupted?" I asked Stu, lightly as I could. Someone had replaced the James Taylor tape with Garth Brooks. At least I wouldn't have to associate the heartbreak I felt sure was coming with my favorite singer.
He reached out and ran a gentle finger down my cheek. "It'll keep," he said with a small shrug. "Go, meet the actress."
"I met her already," I said. "Sure you wouldn't rather talk instead?"
"Nah," he said, looking at the ground. His glass was still full of Southern Comfort, though I didn't know if it was the same drink, or if it had been refilled.
"Tory Bauer," Good Ol' Girl Janelle called. "Get your ass over here. And bring me a beer while you're at it."
"Better go," Stu said softly. "Her Majesty is calling."
I hesitated, wondering if I should force the issue or wait until Stu felt more comfortable about dumping me. Janelle called again. Stu insisted that I go, and I finally agreed, though the reprieve weighed heavily.
With a last, solemn glance backward, I walked over to the fire, pausing only to grab a full six-pack of beer from Ron's cooler. In the shadows, except for occasional sips from his glass, Stu's silhouette was motionless.
"It's about damn time." Janelle laughed, pulling a beer can from the plastic ring, pointing to an empty chair beside her. "A girl could thirst to death in this crowd."
"You only had to ask." Ron blinked gallantly, standing by.
"Yes, honey, I know." Janelle winked at me and patted Ron on the butt.
Gina frowned.
Ron blinked wildly.
Del scowled.
Though Janelle was the center of attention, others were carrying on their own conversations, mostly about the football debacle. Janelle tried to fit in, to be treated like an ordinary human. She laughed at jokes, oohed and aahed at pictures of kids, and listened to everything everyone had to say. Maybe only an insider would spot that everyone treated her with deference, and more than a little awe. No one interrupted her, no one contradicted her. No one brought up probing or embarrassing questions. And only the bitter attempted sarcasm.
Neil was still interested in her car. He had studied the body and engine, and was now asking about the hard top, the single headlights, and the top-end speed.
"Have you always lived here?" Janelle asked Neil, instead of answering him. "I don't remember you from high school."
"That's because he was a child when we graduated," Debbie said sweetly, finishing her beer in a final gulp. She opened another. Lisa laughed.
"I remember you," Neil said gallantly. "And I have most of your movies at the library."
"That's right," Janelle said, tilting her head speculatively, "you're the librarian. The millionaire."
Neil blushed. His bank account was not something he announced at parties. "I run the library. And I restore old cars. Mostly Chevys. You say your engine is original?"
"Yup, a 283 Hurst transmission with a reverse lock-out," Janelle said, in car code. She darted a sideways grin at me, then continued with Neil. "So, are you in love with Tory here too? Like every other man in town?"
"We all love Tory," Rhonda piped. "Who could resist?" She threw a companionable arm around my shoulders. "Right, everyone?"
Everyone laughed, a reaction that did not exactly signal agreement.
"Hey, we're runnin' outta beer," Doug interrupted loudly from the other side of the fire. His voice was slurry, and a little hoarse. "Tory," he shouted, "be a good lil' waitress—run an' get us some more beer. Then we can all go swimming."
"Now why should Tory get your beer?" Rhonda demanded indignantly.
"She don't mind, it's her job. Do ya mind, huh Tory?"
"I'm not on duty at the moment," I said with the little dignity I could muster, "but no, I don't mind." I would even wait on a drunk Doug Fischbach if that would get me away from the fire and everyone's scrutiny. "Anyone else want anything?" I asked.
Ron, still reeling from the fanny pat and oblivious to the tension, said, "There should be at least four more six-packs left in my cooler—why don't you bring 'em all. Then you won't have to make another trip."
"Sure," I said woodenly, determined to ask Stu to take me home.
Unfortunately, he wasn't standing next to his pickup. Or anywhere else that I could see.
"Tory, wait up," Janelle called. "I'll help you carry."
"I can get it," I said, elbow-deep in Ron's cooler. It's my job, I thought. I pulled a couple six-packs from the ice, but could not find any more. "Ron must have miscounted, there're only two left."
"You'd think an alkie like Doug would bring his own beer," Janelle said in disgust. "You know what the creep said to me when I got here? He asked if I wanted to go skinny-dipping with him. He said he'd piss Debbie off so she would go home early, and then we could get together after the party."
"Ick," I said, though I did remember when Doug had not been so repulsive to Janelle. Right here at the river, no less. "That wouldn't be a good idea even if it was summer—the river is near flood stage. Besides, Doug doesn't have any skinny to dip."
"You got that right," Janelle said, tucking one cold six-pack under each arm with a smile. "By the way, thanks for coming tonight. It's nice to have at least one real person to talk to."
"Sure," I said, pleased, disarmed, and slightly embarrassed by my earlier jealousy.
"While we're up, I need to go behind the little girls' tree and pee. Think you could stand guard?"
I imagine that movie stars have to be careful when they go to the bathroom in public; the paparazzi are everywhere, hoping for that once-in-a-lifetime shot.
No one around the fire was looking our way. "All clear," I said. She ducked around a clump of chokecherries, and I heard the sound of shifting clothing and some other unmistakable sounds.
I hummed a little to myself along with Garth and his friends in low places, so not to eavesdrop. The bushes rustled.
I hummed some more, idly wondering why the bushes were rustling since the wind had died down long ago. Then the bushes giggled.
"Tory," Janelle said from the other side of the chokecherries. "I think you better come over here."