Exhausted, I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night, curled beneath the sheets I’d purchased before leaving Minnesota, one pillow tucked against my stomach, my customary sleeping position. Sometime in the night it rained, as the sharp pleasant scent of it was in my nose as I woke up; the sky out my bedroom window faced south and was lit with a rosy glimmer, suggesting a little lingering cloud cover. I snuggled a second pillow beneath my jaw, curling tighter and thinking about everything I had discussed with Al and Helen Anne last night; I had left their house feeling like a beloved granddaughter, gifted with loaves of sourdough bread, a Tupperware of leftovers from dinner, and an entire pan of spinach quiche that Helen Anne had baked for my breakfast.
Don’t get used to this, I reminded myself. This is way beyond what you should expect.
I showered and applied make-up appropriate for a day appointment, the amount I would have worn to try a mock case for appellate court in school. I twisted my curly hair up high on my head and pressed both hands to my stomach, drawing a fortifying breath. I was dressed in bra and panties only, and eyed myself critically in the minuscule bathroom mirror. As a teenager, I had been so self-conscious of my growing breasts that I’d worn sports bras until my first year at the U of M in Minneapolis, when it had finally dawned on me that maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to hide what some people would consider an asset.
Before the mirror now, I turned to the side and sucked in my belly severely, sticking out my chest and wiggling my shoulders. I rolled my eyes at myself, giggling a little, considering that I was hardly wearing seductive lingerie, the kind appropriate for such a pose. My bra was a serviceable nude-tone from Victoria’s Secret, my non-matching panties a flowered, department store pair that a girl of twelve could wear. I giggled again, clearly already beginning to go a little crazy, here in Montana.
I quit fooling around after a glance at the clock on my phone display; it was seven-thirty-six and Al was expecting me by eight. I dressed in a hurry, slipping into nylons, my favorite indigo-blue blouse, sleeveless and with a subtly-ruffled v-neck, and my cream-colored jacket-and-skirt set. With these I paired my nude heels and buttoned my jacket with only a little tremble in my stomach.
There. You look good. Professional and polished.
Not a bit frightened or uncertain.
I locked my apartment (having foregone breakfast, determined to start a better routine tomorrow) and drove across Jalesville under the morning sun. The town was bustling as I braked to a stop at the streetlight where I would turn right to get to the law office. Al had said to park in the lot to the side. I realized there wasn’t any traffic and that I didn’t need to wait for the green, rolling my eyes at myself as I turned. I drove slowly, peering at shops and wondering at the people moving on the sidewalks. Would I get to know any of them? Well, that is?
I saw an appliance shop, a diner, the hardware store where Wy had said he worked, and then my eyes roved over a shop with a front window adorned by the words Spicer Music, and my heart gave a sudden, unexpected thump.
Is that…
I wonder if…
The sign in the door was flipped to OPEN. I couldn’t see anyone through the window, though the sun was at the wrong angle, gilding my vision. I realized the car was barely doing more than crawling along the street and that there was a truck behind me, surely wondering what the hell I was doing, so I accelerated and drove on to the law office, where I found the lot with no trouble, and parked beside Al’s rusted-out pickup. This wasn’t exactly a confidence-inspiring vehicle; I wondered if he switched it out with another when he appeared in court. Or maybe around here, people knew him well enough not to judge his legal abilities based on his wheels.
Heart clipping along, I entered the law office to the tinkle of a bell above the door. The room smelled of coffee and books. Al was bent over a desk, pointing out something on a file folder to a woman who appeared old enough to be his mother. Both of them looked my way and both of them grinned as though I had come to inform them that they’d won the state lotto.
“Tish, good morning!” Al welcomed. To the woman at the desk, he said, “Mary, this is our new associate, Patricia Gordon.”
New associate.
I liked how that sounded. I went directly to her and offered my hand. She carefully reached to remove her carnation-pink reading glasses, which were linked to a bejeweled chain around her neck, lowering these to her ample bosom. She took my hand into both of her soft, wrinkled and much-spotted own hands, patted me twice, and then said, “Oh heavens, I wish my youngest grandson wasn’t yet married. Albert, you didn’t tell me our new girl was so beautiful. I just wish this was last year instead of this year. That way Harold wouldn’t be married to that Denise.”
I blinked, seeing Al’s mouth lift into a smile out of the corner of my eye. The woman at the desk released my hand and continued to peer at me. She was eighty if she was a day, dressed in a pink dress with pleated sleeves and lace at the collar, matching lipstick and eyebrows drawn upon her face with great care. She smelled of a delicate, floral perfume.
“Tish, this is Mary Stapleton, our dear secretary.”
“I’ve been at this firm since I was a girl your age,” Mary explained. “I worked for Rupert James’s father before him, God rest him now. Rupert’s retired just recently. He wasn’t as good at his job as Albert here, however. Don’t be fooled by Albert. He’s sharp as a little tack. He just looks absent-minded.”
I choked back a giggle and nodded seriously. I said politely, “I’m happy to meet you. And thank you for the compliment.” I had never been one for being able to comfortably accept words about my looks, so I added, “I take them where I can get them, these days.”
“Bosh,” Mary said at once. “Those eyes of yours, blue as a spring-fed lake. You’ve had compliments by the dozen, or young men these days don’t know their rears from a hole in the ground!”
I did giggle then, looking helplessly at Al.
“Now, if you’ve got the brains to back up the looks, you’re a force to be reckoned with,” Mary continued. “You’ve got the look of it, somehow.” She gave me the kind of eagle-eye worthy of a Northwestern Law School professor, and I felt my shoulders squaring in response.
“I do, and I am,” I said, and she smiled wider.
“Thatta girl,” Mary said, and then to Al, “Give this young lady something to do, Albert, for heaven’s sake.”
Al showed me around the office while Mary began clickety-clacking on a computer keyboard, reading glasses back in place, pink lips pursed. My desk was to the right, just beside the front window, with a view of the activity on Main Street. I saw a computer, file cabinets, an old-fashioned phone with a long corkscrew cord, a wheeled desk chair.
“You can bring whatever you’d like to spruce up the space,” Al told me, leading me behind the counter that ran the length of the main room; his desk was towards the back, near a closed door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM. “There’s one bathroom, just over there, and a storage room down that hall. We haven’t redecorated in some time,” he added, as though apologetically.
“No, this is great,” I said, recalling the lack of any personal space I’d ever been afforded during my summer externships at Turnbull and Hinckley.
“I’ll have you start researching right away, if you would,” Al said. “This next Tuesday, a week from tomorrow, there’s a city council meeting at the courthouse. An information session I requested, actually, and Derrick Yancy has also requested to present. He wants to argue why people should sell to him, why it’s in their best interest. I want to prove him wrong, and that’s where you can help me.”
I nodded, tucking stray hair behind my ears. I said, “Just point me in the right direction.”
Four hours later, I had shed my jacket. Al had left an hour earlier to attend a hearing at the courthouse, and Mary a second ago, for lunch. She had addressed me as ‘Patty’ when she bid me farewell, but I felt impolite correcting her. I looked up from my notes to watch her make her way down the sidewalk under the brilliant noon sun, which sparked in her jeweled glasses chain, nearly blinding me. I took the opportunity of being momentarily alone to stretch, twisting at the waist and rubbing the back of my neck; this office was not air-conditioned, not that I was a complainer, but the only window that actually opened was on the opposite side of the room, near Mary’s desk.
I had been gathering information all morning, and was proud of the stack of notes I’d already managed to take. Al had tasked me with looking into Capital Overland’s activity over the past five years, specifically the fates of the people displaced from the towns the company had purchased and then typically dozed and resold. What I had discovered wasn’t a pretty picture. The families that I had found information for had not fared any better after selling and relocating; so far, dozens had since declared bankruptcy.
“Draft up an argument,” Al told me. “We want to rally all the locals at the meeting. We want solidarity. Point out that they aren’t assured of finding a better circumstance by selling and relocating.”
I was thinking about getting a batch of t-shirts made that read Save Jalesville!, as this had been my mantra for the last month. Truly, though, I felt I was doing something worthwhile, a feeling I had not experienced in some time. If ever. I was just about to bend back over my notes when a movement out the window caught my eye and I unexpectedly received a jolt of pure and unrefined adrenaline. A man who was unmistakably Case Spicer was approaching the law office from across the street, and my heart stuttered, kick-started and then pounded hard, fueling the rush of angst in my entire body.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Is my picture still in his wallet?
All those things he said at Camille’s wedding…
He said he knew we were meant to be together…
That’s long gone now, for fuck’s sake, Tish.
Wow, he looks different than I remember…
The bell above the law office door tingled as he entered, his gaze scanning the otherwise empty room before coming to rest on me. Maybe I imagined that his eyes held all of the attraction and longing that I remembered from years ago, the puppy-love he’d so openly admitted to back then.
You’re imagining it, I told myself harshly, heart thudding so hard it was probably audible, even as I rose to my feet and offered what I hoped was a professional and impersonal smile. Currently he was stone-faced and serious looking, no trace of a return smile or even recognition. I had been imagining anything else present in his expression.
“Hi,” I said, my voice embarrassingly husky. I lightly cleared my throat and continued, “How have you been?”
“Great,” he said shortly, and his deep voice was just as I recalled, though tempered by its new, somber nature. “And you?”
“Well,” I responded, just a tiny bit breathless as he came to a halt on the far side of the hip-high counter, my heart still going crazy. “Very well, thank you.”
Case nodded at this, without saying a word, while our eyes held and I tried not to appear to be marveling at him as much as I actually was. The guy I remembered from my sister’s wedding had been shitfaced drunk. The man before me could not have been more different; he regarded me with a solemn expression and I studied him just as silently.
He was taller than I remembered, lean but with broad shoulders, and close-cropped reddish-gold hair. I vaguely recalled at the wedding that it had been longer, and even a little curly. His eyes were a rich auburn-brown, like cinnamon, and held no trace of apparent humor, hardly even seemed to acknowledge that we knew one another, at least marginally. I did a quick calculation and determined that he was now probably about thirty years old. My gaze dropped to his lips, crisply sculpted above a strong chin, and then I realized I was staring, very non-professionally. Almost moronically.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to fill what was rapidly becoming a tense silence, but then he said, a little more softly, “You got in on Saturday night, Clark said. You were still sleeping when I was there yesterday morning.”
“You were there?” I asked weakly. “I was…I was a little…”
I couldn’t tell if he seemed amused, if that’s what was subtly present in his voice as he said, “Clark explained.”
I swallowed at my own foolishness. What a lovely impression to make after seven years, hungover and sleeping it off in someone else’s guest room. When I had accused him of being a drunk moron, years back.
“Oh,” I stumbled, embarrassed and flushing, fidgeting with the bottom hem of my blouse. I was terribly self-conscious of my less-than-completely-professional appearance. To change the subject I said, “Clark invited me to dinner at their place on Friday.”
“It’s been a long time,” Case finally allowed, still holding my gaze prisoner. He seemed to be trying to get a read on me, to discern who I was now versus who I had been; or maybe that was just what I was doing to him. He added, “You’re a lawyer now, just like you wanted.”
I flushed even worse, feeling the heat of it move from cheeks to chest. And I never flushed. I affirmed, “Yes, I just graduated this last spring.”
“Clark said you were out here to work for the summer.”
“Yes. It’s more a favor for my future boss, indirectly, who owns land out here. Apparently there’s a buyer snapping up acreage, who wants —”
“Capital Overland,” Case said at once, and his face grew instantly more animated. He said, “They’ve approached everyone in the area. They want quick sales, no trouble.”
“That’s the company,” I said. “Actually, this is good. I mean, not that they want your land, but that you have information. I need all the info I can gather on them,” and I gestured behind me at the paper mess sprawling across my desk. I turned back to his eyes and my heart continued to kick at my ribcage. I ignored this and asked, even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer, “What is your position on the sale?”
“Over my dead body,” he said, and for the second time just a hint of a grin lifted the right side of his lips. He said, “Those were my exact words. I doubt they appreciate me much.”
I felt myself smiling grudgingly back.
He asked, “Turnbull is your future boss?”
I nodded affirmation.
“We share a border with him,” Case said. “South side of our property runs up against his north. Though he’s only on the land in the autumn, for a month or so usually.”
I nodded again, saying, “Yes, he lives in Chicago. I’m planning to work at his firm starting this fall.”
Case studied me silently at this information. Then he said, “He has a local guy who manages the property. I could put you in contact with him, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You also share a border with the Rawleys, isn’t that right?”
“We do,” he said. He had an envelope in one hand, and he tapped the edge of it against the counter as though slightly restless.
“Your family?” I asked, not sure why a small, sharp hook suddenly inserted itself into me at the thought that he might be married. Of course he probably he was, and I was incomparably vain and immature if I thought he could possibly still carry a torch for me after nearly seven years. To compose myself, I turned and riffled through the shit on my desk to extract a notepad and pencil.
Case was watching me quietly. As I turned back around he affirmed, “My family has been on the land since the late nineteenth century, yes.”
“You and…” It didn’t matter one bit who lived with him, but I used my most professional tone of voice, implying that this was a business question.
“Just me, these days. Dad passed a few years back,” he said. “And Gus lives with his girlfriend in town.”
“No one else?” I pressed, keeping my eyes on my notepad. Seconds ticked past and beneath my blouse I felt a trickle of sweat skim down between my breasts. He was still studying me as though attempting to read my mind.
“Not since Lynnette and I divorced,” he said calmly, and I realized he clearly understood that I was transparently fishing for personal information that was absolutely none of my ever-loving business.
I dared to look up at him again, immeasurably curious to know more. I wasn’t at all relieved that he was no longer married. Not one bit. There was surely no logical reason for me to be feeling that way. I noticed that his skin was tanned and freckled. Freckles were scattered all along his arms, disappearing up and under his black t-shirt. He had strong, wiry arms, corded with muscle and dusted over with red-gold hair.
“Any children?” I asked him, as though just making conversation.
Just a hint of a smile as he replied, “None that have ever been brought to my attention, anyway.”
“Do you still play guitar?” I asked.
“Couldn’t live without it,” he said in response, and I damned my heart for responding even more frantically to those words. I was about a step away from experiencing tachycardia. His smile had vanished and he looked hard at me for a fraction of a second before seeming to gather himself together and saying, “I stopped out to drop off something for Al.”
“He’s out,” I said, stating the glaringly obvious. I laughed at myself a little and offered, “But I’ll be sure he gets it straight away.”
“Much obliged,” Case said, setting the envelope on the counter that separated our bodies. He seemed to hesitate, as though unwilling to leave even though his errand here was complete. I tried to conjure up a reasonable excuse to keep him a little longer too.
“This is a beautiful area,” I said. Great, Tish, talk about the weather next. What a sparkling conversationalist you are.
“Isn’t it? Although where you’re from is gorgeous too,” he said. “I was only ever there the once, but I’ve never forgotten it. Mathias and Camille are still having babies, huh?”
I giggled a little; I knew he and Mathias talked frequently. I said, “Yes, they’re like bunnies.”
“I never saw two people so happy,” he said, smiling a little at my words. “So I’m glad for them.”
“Me too,” I admitted. A strand of hair came sliding down the side of my face. I tucked it back behind my ear but it wouldn’t stay put. Case’s eyes followed the movement of my hand as I messed with it again.
“There’s something…” he said, and all breath snagged in my chest as he reached and used the tips of his fingers to carefully extract something from my hair. He explained, “I think you had a piece of tumbleweed,” showing me the wiry little stick. He set it on top of the counter. He had inadvertently tugged free another piece of hair from the clip at the back of my head, and I felt disheveled and sloppy.
“Thanks,” I said, simultaneously tucking both strands behind my ears. My face was about a hundred degrees.
“Well, I better get back to work,” he said then. Somehow we had ended up much closer than we’d been when he first came into the office.
“It was good to see you,” I told him, surprised at how much I meant this. “Will I see you around?” I hurried to explain, “I mean, to talk about Capital Overland, and all of that…”
“Friday,” he said, heading for the door. “Gus and I always eat dinner at the Rawleys’ on Fridays.”
But before I could reply he was already back outside, the bell tingling as the door closed. I sank slowly to my desk chair and watched as he climbed into a well-used maroon-red truck and drove away, east along the dusty street.
I turned at once to my computer and typed his name into Google, reflecting that the amount of personal material available online was shockingly terrifying, though at the moment I was enormously grateful for the capability. Ignoring my work for the moment, I scrolled through hit after hit, glutting on the info dump at my fingertips.
In a short order I discovered that his full name was Charles Shea Spicer. I cupped my chin in one palm, staring out the window at the sun-drenched street, and wondered how ‘Case’ had come from that. Born December fifth, 1983, to Owen and Melinda Spicer. He’d mentioned that his father had passed relatively recently, but my heart clenched to realize his mother had been gone much longer, dying back in 1991. His dad, Owen, had never remarried.
He must have loved her too much to find someone new, I thought, painfully, and continued scrolling, even more intently, addict-like.
Case was something of a local celebrity; there were dozens of articles featuring him singing, songwriting, performing in area festivals. I clicked on photo after photo, some professional-grade, taken for a newspaper, and others informal, clearly posted by friends. In many, he was both singing and posing with Garth and Marshall Rawley.
He is really good-looking, I acknowledged, almost unwittingly. He looked so utterly at home on stage, in complete enjoyment, grinning widely in some shots, cradling his instruments (clearly he favored the guitar and the fiddle), eyes closed with concentration in others.
This is what he was doing all those years you never gave him a thought, I realized. Out here living his life. So what’s he do now? Surely he can’t make a living performing on weekends.
Manages an instrument repair shop, I discerned minutes later. Spicer Music, which I had seen just this morning, a few blocks from where I was sitting right now. Lessons offered.
A woman with shiny, shoulder-length brown hair and very large breasts kept appearing in pictures with him, and I assumed, pursing up my lips in judgment (Did she really feel the need to wear shirts that tight on such a regular basis? That much cleavage is tacky anywhere outside of Las Vegas, doesn’t she realize?), that this was his ex-wife. Then I found a Facebook picture in which she was tagged and realized this was indeed Lynnette ‘Cleary’ Spicer. Case didn’t seem to have his own Facebook page, though he was tagged by name in dozens of images.
Aren’t they divorced? Why does she still have his last name?
When the bell on the door tingled again I jumped about a foot, instantly closing the search screen, as though I’d been surfing for porn. Al held the door for Mary as they entered.
“Hello, Patty!” she said cheerfully. Again, I didn’t bother to correct her regarding my name; if that’s what she felt like calling me, I supposed she had a right.
“Holding down the fort all right?” asked Al, giving me an indulgent wink that acknowledged Mary’s misuse of my name.
“No fires or famines,” I assured him. “I’ve got quite a pile of notes here. And Case Spicer dropped this off about a half hour ago.”
“Oh, great, thanks,” Al said, collecting the envelope from my hand. He asked, “Did you get out for lunch?”
“I brought a sandwich,” I told him. “I’ve been busy. I usually eat on the go.”
Mary disappeared into the employee bathroom and Al ducked behind his own desk. He said, “I’ve got a second hearing, over at the courthouse at two-thirty. If you’d like to accompany me?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I responded.
Al and I spent the afternoon in the county courthouse, an old brick building on the east side of a well-groomed town square. I refastened my hair and made sure that my jacket was buttoned properly into place before we met with the client, a man in the midst of a custody battle over his two children. I observed more than anything, letting Al do the talking; he was a soft-spoken man but he meant business before a judge, I could clearly discern. The hearing was relatively brief, over before three-thirty, and we walked together across the town square in the afternoon sunshine, back towards Main Street. Al favored walking; I was reminded of Landon, where people walked everywhere. It was only a few blocks to all the downtown businesses here too.
“Tish, you’ve worked hard today,” Al said. “Why don’t you beg off early?”
I was on high alert as we strolled along, taking especial notice of people; was that a part of me hoping to catch a glimpse of Case? I realized that my eye had been caught twice now by maroon-colored vehicles, and mentally slapped the back of my own head.
Stop it, I told myself.
In the courthouse, Al had introduced me to a number of people, including the city clerk and the mayor, both of whose names appeared on my mental Unsold list. Many others offered greetings as we walked, prompting Al to introduce me as his newest associate. We had only a block to go before reaching the law office when a voice behind us said, “Mr. Howe, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Al and I turned at the same moment. Immediately I was aware of a big white smile and shiny-dark hair. I found myself thinking that I could very nearly see my own reflection in his teeth as a tall man approached us, suit jacket slung casually over his right shoulder.
“Derrick Yancy,” he said in a cultured voice that spoke of educated, privileged pleasantry, though I had already recognized him from his picture. A chill surged across my gut. He stopped just a hair too close to us and I refrained from the instant urge to lean slightly backward from him. Instead I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely.
“Patricia Gordon,” I returned, offering my hand and shaking his firmly.
His eyes held a hint of suggestion, calculated as I could clearly tell, before he said, “It is indeed a pleasure. I asked Albert here when you would be arriving, just last week. I understand you represent Turnbull and Hinckley’s interests here in Jalesville?”
Not exactly, though he wasn’t about to get that out of me. I said lightly, “At this moment, I represent Howe and James.”
“You’re not planning a long-term residence here though, isn’t that correct?” he continued.
Al said mildly, “Derrick, you know well that my associate is only here for the summer,” though his tone casually implied, Quit wasting our time.
“I’ll settle in Chicago, this autumn,” I answered, not about to be intimidated by him.
“Myself, as well,” Derrick replied. “I look forward to bumping into you in the city.”
“You may not as much as you think,” I said, with not so much as a hint of challenge in my tone. I could not, however, repress a flare of anger in my eyes. Here was the man attempting to destroy this town, a place he cared nothing for; it was a matter of capital for him, money and more money. Capital Overland, taking over land for capital. Their name was an apt descriptor.
He flashed his teeth again, openly amused by me now.
Al said, “Good-day.”
“Oh, to you as well,” Derrick said, tipping his head to the side and studying my face intently, the kind of look that was meant to induce obedience, the kind of look you might give a dog you were training.
I repressed the urge to drive my shoulder into his as I walked past him.
Back at Howe and James, Al said, “Yancy believes he has the upper hand, as you can see. Spoiled little bastard. He’s staying over in Miles City, at some fancy hotel. Tish, don’t let him get to you.”
“I won’t,” I replied, with more assurance than I felt. I was all sweaty again, this time with outright discomfort, and shed my jacket once more. I told Al, “I think I might take off a little early, if that’s all right with you.”
It was approaching four anyway, and Mary had already left for the day. Al said at once, “Of course, you go on. You’ve had a productive first day, and I appreciate it.”
“See you tomorrow,” I told him, and collected my purse.
Driving up to the single stoplight on Main a minute later, I suddenly realized, from a block away, that I was approaching the back bumper of Case Spicer’s big, rusty-red truck. A burst of tension squared my shoulders and caused even more sweat to form on my temples, along the back of my neck; in light of how I had Googled him this afternoon I felt more like a spy than ever, and tried to sink lower into my seat.
There’s no way he could know your car. He doesn’t realize you’re behind him, jeez, Tish.
I eased to a stop a good ten feet away, unobtrusively scrunching lower into my seat. My driver’s side window was rolled down to allow in any cool air that felt like drifting into my scorching vehicle, and I could hear country music emanating from Case’s truck; I recognized the Eli Young Band, and I peeked cautiously at the back window before me. He was wearing a cowboy hat and seemed to be messing with the radio, his left hand hanging from the top of the steering wheel as he leaned towards the middle of the dashboard.
My throat felt a little tight and I looked instantly away, my gaze flickering to the tailgate. A grudging smile tugged at my lips then as I observed the detailing present there: the top edge of a black horse, scrawled as though in mid-stride, leaping over an acoustic guitar; beneath these images were the words Gotta Ride, Gotta Play.
So he’s cool. So what?
“Tish! Hey there!” I heard to the left and my attention snapped that direction to see Wy Rawley emerging from the little hardware store, backpack slung over his shoulder, probably just getting done with work. He waved energetically at me, stepping out into the street and jogging towards my car, which could only happen in a town as tiny as Jalesville. Or Landon.
In front of me, in his truck, Case straightened as though jabbed in the side.
“Hey, Case!” Wy called to him, such a friendly little shit. “How’s it going?”
“Wy, you’re gonna get run over!” I scolded as he reached me, my face flushing as hotly as though I’d been caught peeping into Case’s bedroom window.
“Are you coming for dinner Friday?” Wy asked, leaning a hip on my car.
“I sure am,” I said to him. I really liked the kid, but I was flustered as hell right now and not up to conversation. The light turned green and I indicated with my left hand. Though I couldn’t move unless Case drove forward, and at present he wasn’t moving an inch, turned as though to peer over his shoulder at Wy and me.
To my consternation, Wy reached in the window and honked my horn, holding it down for extra emphasis.
“Hey!” I squeaked, horrified. I wanted to simultaneously yell that I hadn’t done that and sink right through the ground.
In front of us, Case lifted his right arm as though in a wave and then drove away. I sat there with my foot still on the brake, all hot and irritated.
Wy said amiably, “See you Friday then!”
“Friday,” I agreed as he headed back to the sidewalk, before turning left and out to Stone Creek.
***
I liked my little apartment. It was lit cheerfully by the late-afternoon sun as I stepped inside and I turned in a slow circle after I’d shut the door, indulging in a space that was completely my own. No roommates, no sisters, no parents. Just me. To illustrate the freedom of this, I tossed my keys onto the floor, kicked out of my heels and tugged the clip from my hair, shaking out its length. Then I clicked on the radio on the otherwise mostly-bare kitchen counter, still tuned to the country station I’d found yesterday, cranking it loud.
And in the next second I was debating who I could call to alleviate my loneliness. I ran through the list of my family; Camille would be serving supper for six (seven, counting the baby). Ruthie and Mom would be out on the lake probably as it was a summer afternoon; likewise with Aunt Jilly. I could no doubt drive out to the Rawleys’ place, certain that they would welcome me, but I felt a little silly imposing upon them like that, especially since they’d hosted me Saturday night and would again on Friday. I had no real desire to talk to Grace or Ina, or my dad. And I had no friends in Jalesville as of yet.
Maybe I need a pet, I reflected, slipping out onto my porch and taking a seat on my single lawn chair, bracing my bare feet on the railing. I shaded my eyes against the low-lying glare of the slowly-setting sun, catching the scent of grilling meat from someone’s nearby apartment. My stomach growled in hunger and I was going to have to face cooking something for myself, sooner or later. I closed my eyes then, at last letting myself focus on the thoughts that had been clamoring for attention in my mind since noon today.
So…what’s Case doing right now?
Does he play somewhere tonight?
He said he can’t live without playing guitar.
Maybe he’s at the Rawleys’ house, right now.
My heart fluttered even harder at this thought. I knew that Case and his brother Gus were like family to the Rawleys. Maybe he had stopped over there for some reason, this very evening. He said he ate dinner there on Fridays.
But that’s four days from now.
Maybe he’s there, maybe right now…
I was holding my phone in my right hand almost before I realized I had moved. I swiped through my contacts, finding the one for Clark, pressing the icon to call his house before I could second-guess myself. Clark answered on the second ring, asking, “So how was your first day?”
My heart was thrashing around, but I kept my voice calm as I replied, “Good, it was actually really productive.”
“Good, good,” Clark said. “Have you had a chance to go shopping? For food, I mean. Camille warned me that you aren’t good about cooking for yourself.”
Bless my big-mouthed big sister. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to cook; I thought for a moment about summers past, at the café, begging Blythe and Rich to let me help them on the line. I just hated cooking for only me. I admitted, “She’s right on that count.”
“Why don’t you stop out for a bite, hon?” Clark went on. “I have a couple of chickens baking. Wy said he saw you this afternoon, and I told him he ought to have invited you for supper right then.”
“You’re so nice,” I told Clark. I wanted to beg, Will Case be there? I know he lives close by…
As though reading my mind, Clark said, “Thank you kindly. Case said he saw you today too. He came by on his way home. Just left.”
Just left?
No…
“He did?” I asked, hoping for any additional snippets of information. My voice sounded suspiciously reedy and thin, but Clark didn’t know me quite well enough to perceive that this meant I was all jacked up.
“Wanted to see if Marsh was able to play drums on Thursday night,” Clark said. “Lee Heller asked the boys if they would play at The Spoke, as it’s been a while. It’ll be a good show. I meant to ask you to join us there.”
“I will plan on it,” I said, feeling a surge of anticipation spiral outwards from my belly.
“And how about some baked chicken in about an hour?”
Clark was such a dear. I said, “Count me in.”