Chapter 10
Leah
I end up staying a little longer at Cherry Tree than I’m technically supposed to which is typical for me, and I’m ready to leave at my normal time which is about six o’clock.
Doug is still in his office, and it seems like he’s just sitting there, maybe waiting on me, maybe trying to come up with how he’s going to save our facility.
Whatever he’s thinking, I feel compassion as I walk in, leaning against the doorjamb as he did with mine when he was in my office.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask softly so as not to startle him.
I do anyway, and he drops his hands away from his chin and gives me a little smile.
That’s new.
As is being called into his office without being in trouble. At least, I don’t think I am in trouble.
Of course, after I tell him what I have to tell him, I might be in trouble.
Or maybe the ladies will be. Depending on whether he believes me or not.
“You can come in and sit down,” he says softly, and it feels intimate.
Things usually calm down by the time I leave for the day. None of the folks here are real active in the evening. After supper is over, the whole facility is quiet, almost feeling deserted.
I look at the chair and think about him standing in my office, not walking in.
I guess that’s him and not me. Although I don’t shut the door, I do walk in and sit in front of him.
“I guess things went okay today?”
I nod. He saw the dude I ended up with. “They asked seventeen people before they got him. How many ladies did you guys go through?” I ask, figuring he has similar war stories.
“Melissa was the first one.” He doesn’t say it in a bragging kind of tone, just like he is relaying fact to me. Which he is.
It isn’t what I want to hear, though. Certainly does not make me feel any better.
“It took a while,” I say, just because I don’t know what else to say.
“Chubb and Patrick were kind of particular. They wouldn’t ask just anyone. They insisted she could not be wearing jammie pants, which pretty much excluded at least half of the ladies who left.”
I nod. I’ve gone shopping myself a time or two in jammie pants. I guess it’s man repellent. For some reason, I feel like I should keep this in mind. I’m not sure why.
“Melissa seems like a nice woman.”
I’m feeling like our conversation isn’t going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t invite me in so we could chitchat. Although, part of me wouldn’t mind talking with him. Real talking. Which is weird, considering I don’t even really like him.
“Bain seems like a nice fellow.” He pauses for a minute, and I nod. Because Bain does seem like a nice man. Just not the man for me.
“He had left a message by the time I got back. I’ve scheduled the whitewater rafting trip for next week. And I got a headcount on who’s going during supper this evening, so I’ll call him back first thing and set that up.”
I nod.
“Are you okay with the way everything’s going?” he asks. It seems like a repeat of his earlier question, and it’s almost like he wants me to give a different answer.
“I can’t say that this is the most thrilling thing I’ve ever done, but I feel like Bain is probably as good a guy as any to have a fake relationship with.” I guess that’s what he’s asking. I return the question. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “Melissa’s actually just the kind of woman that would be perfect for me.”
I notice that he says “would be,” and I wonder about that.
Then I decide, since we seem to be partners in this operation, why can’t I just ask him about it? So I do.
“What do you mean ‘would be?’”
I kinda hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to answer.
His head tilts a little like he is lifting a shoulder. “I guess when someone looks at me and then looks at her, we just look like we belong together. Don’t you think?”
Again, it’s like he’s asking me a question that goes a little deeper than the surface words.
Can I answer him honestly?
“I think she’s exactly wrong for you.” There. That was honest.
I think I see a flash of humor in his eyes, or a spark of something. Maybe his lips turn up a little. I think he likes my answer.
“Bain isn’t right for you either,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather and not on something that personal. It’s weird for Doug to step out of the professional zone like this, but I like it.
“I agree.”
“I was trying to think of a good type for you. I wish the ladies would have come a little closer.” I’m not entirely sure he means that, that he hoped that they would come closer, but he continues, “So what is your type?”
Now that question is definitely out of bounds. But it’s after hours, and both of us are about to be out of a job, since neither one of us has really come up with anything that’s going to save the facility.
I don’t want to be the one to say who my perfect type is first, without finding out from him about his, although he basically said Melissa was.
“I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” I purse my lips and squeeze my hands together. “My first husband belonged to a motorcycle gang, with the tattoos and the leather and the chains and everything, and he definitely was not right for me.”
I’ve shocked him. I can tell because of the way he jerks back, just a little, but I see it. His eyes blink, and he looks me over again.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“We all go through a little crazy time in our youth, don’t we? It was a mistake, and I knew it almost from the time we said ‘I do.’ Two years later he left me for a chick who had her own bike.”
So yeah, we’ve really gotten off the rails, and I haven’t even told him what I need to.
Doug seems pretty calm considering what I’ve just admitted. He says, “Your ex sounds like the opposite of mine. She was perfectly proper in everything that she did. Never a hair out of place or foot out of line.”
“That sounds hard to live with.” I don’t mean to say that, because I don’t want to insult his ex, but those are the words that came out.
“It was. But I guess I had faults too, because she told me she couldn’t take it anymore and then left with her personal trainer.”
“Personal trainers are a really bad idea,” I say, meaning it as a joke.
His eyes kind of narrow at me before he smiles. “I agree.”
I’m not sure why we both find that funny, but we grin over it, and then I say, “I...I probably am not supposed to be saying this, but I don’t know if you heard the entirety of Agnes’s bucket list, but...she wants to spend a night in jail?”
As soon as I say that, Doug’s eyes get huge, and he leans forward. “No. She didn’t show it or read it to me. She just told me she would cross off the shark cage if we agreed to hire the fake boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Well, they’ve decided that tonight is the night that they want to spend in jail.” I lift my eyes, pull my lips back, and shrug a little. What more can I say?
“Are you to be involved in this?” Doug asks, lowering his head and looking me with a serious and almost betrayed look.
“I have to be. You know that.”
Spending a night in jail is not on my bucket list. Maybe once I get older, it won’t be so bad, but I have a reputation in town...okay, my mom is in town, and she’s sure to hear about it if I go to jail.
I know I’m an adult, but surely I’m not the only person in the world who doesn’t want their mother to hear about them being arrested?
Doug leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. I think he’s disappointed in me.
“What’s the plan?” His eyes lower just a little. “Or am I not allowed to know? I’ll just be driving around town tonight somewhere and see the ladies from my facility along with my activitie
s director being carted off to jail?”
“Agnes suggested we drive erratically and then fail a field sobriety test.”
Doug kind of nods. “You think that’ll get everybody put in jail? Or just you?”
“I think Agnes thinks she can live vicariously through me. I’m pretty sure if I go to jail and she’s in the car with me when it happens, she’ll cross it off her bucket list.”
“I see.” I think he does. And maybe he’s considering, as I have been, that Agnes’s bucket list is meant to get me out more than her. I think about women, and their tendency to meddle, and their love of romance, and I wonder if Agnes isn’t playing a more complicated game than what I thought she was. Should this bother me?
I’m surprised that it doesn’t. I think though, if Doug is figuring out the same thing I am, he will be bothered.
I guess that’s his problem. The way I see it, there’s probably not a whole lot I can do to stop it, so I might as well go along.
Maybe that’s fatalistic or even negative thinking, but it’s the way I feel. No point getting upset about things I can’t control.
“I guess I’ll keep that in mind. Do you want me to bail you out?” he asks, and I’m surprised he’s taken it so calmly.
“I don’t think you can, not until tomorrow morning, anyway, for it to count.”
He nods again, and then he says, “The reason I asked you to stop in was so that I could make sure that next week suits you for the whitewater rafting. I’ve already booked it, but I said I would give final counts and a firm commitment this evening. It works for you?”
“It does,” I say.
“I wanted to know if you had any other ideas on what we talked about earlier this week on saving the facility.”
Boy, I wish I had a different answer. “Sorry. I really don’t. I mean, advertising and word of mouth are usually the best, and location of course. And those things just take time.”
“That’s what I’ve come up with too.”
I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same way I do. Where, if the facility closes, I’ll miss the ladies, and I will really miss my job. But the worst thing about the closure will be that I’ll no longer be working with Doug.
I think our conversation is over, so I stand. “I guess I will see you tomorrow.”
“Or tonight.”
My stomach turns over, and I nod. “Or tonight.”
I walk out, going home and doing all the things I need to do in the evening, and I finally make it back to the facility around midnight. That’s the hour that the ladies and I had agreed upon.
The ladies are already on the covered porch, and they trample off when they see my car coming up the drive.
I have to laugh, because they must have borrowed overcoats from the men. They look like a bunch of outlaws. The effect is ruined, though, because Harriet still has her big bunny slippers on.
They look warm and fun and definitely not like something that a person spending the night in jail would wear.
I know if anyone ends up in jail, it will probably be me.
We talk and drive...and drive and talk. It’s harder than you would think to get pulled over. It’s almost two AM, and I’m getting ready to suggest we go back and try this again some other time, before we spot a patrol car coming down Main Street in Good Grief
“Oh boy,” Gertrude says from behind me. “I’m not sure I want to go through with this.”
Red and blue lights are flashing in the interior of our car, and I say, “I think it’s too late.”
It’s definitely too late. I eased my car along the side of the road.
At the last second, I decide to park it at a weird angle, maybe the way a drunk person might?
I’m not sure how drunk people park, and I’m not sure whether I can convince the officer that I’ve done anything that I should be taken to jail for.
My parents raised me that honesty is the best policy, and this feels a little weird. Especially considering I’m being devious, not to get out of trouble, but to get in it.
Still, if it helps Agnes with her bucket list, I’m going to give it a try.
I sit in my car while the officer walks up alongside me, his flashlight out, and shines it in the vehicle, standing back away from the window.
I probably know this kid; I know all of the police officers in Good Grief, although I haven’t seen his face yet.
I’m going to have some explaining to do to my parents. Which, honestly, I have already thought of. I know my dad will be okay, and my mom will come around.
Especially when I tell them that I did it for the ladies. I think Mom especially feels an affinity toward them, since they burned their undergarments together.
“License and registration.”
“Sorry, officer. I don’t have them.” I do my best to slur my words. I’m not sure I’m effective.
“Get out of the car, ma’am, and put your hands on the roof.”
“Should we get out too, officer?” Agnes sounds a little too eager in my opinion, and maybe the officer agrees. “No, ladies. You just stay there,” he says as he leans over and shines the light in the back of the car.
I hear Agnes’s disappointed sigh. Maybe the officer does too, although the stern expression on his face does not ease.
Underneath his hat, his face is cloaked in shadow, but I am pretty sure this is Phil Jones, who was a member of the volunteer fire company before he was hired by the police.
I think he still has a certification and responds to calls when he is off duty.
“Phil?” I say.
“Kori?” Phil says, shining the light in my eyes and naming my sister, who is closer in age to him than I am.
“No, Kori’s sister, Leah.”
Just then, bright lights flash in his eyes, and tires squeal, which is a pretty great feat, considering we are on the outskirts of Good Grief and even I wouldn’t go fast enough to get my tires to squeal.
A couple of seconds later, a car lurches to a stop, six inches from where Phil and I stand. I’m kinda kicking myself, because I’m pretty sure that is how drunk people drive.
I wasn’t the slightest bit convincing, I’m sure.
Phil leans down to his jacket and speaks into the mic hooked there. “It’s Phil calling for backup. If you’re in the area, Chuck, I’m on the south side of town. Got a crazy guy here and a couple of drunks.”
The radio crackles, and it sounds like Chuck is on his way.
“Don’t you guys go out with partners?” I ask.
“Not weeknights. Usually on weekends.” Phil isn’t shining the light in my eyes anymore, but he does seem to be peering at me pretty closely. “I thought you were drunk. You know you were driving erratically.”
Cool. I guess I did fool him. My chest puffs out a little. I’m a better drunk than I thought I was.
A car door slams, and Phil’s attention is no longer on me.
I am surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t be, when Doug lurches around the end of his car.
Okay. Let me explain. I am surprised to see Doug, especially knowing he was the one driving so erratically and...squealing his tires?
But I am also surprised to see him lurching. I’ve never seen him do anything but stride with purpose. This is weird.
“Mr. Ripley?” Phil says with disbelief in his voice. Apparently, I’m not the only one who is shocked.
“Looks like I’m a little late to the party,” Doug says, and his words are definitely slurred. Which makes my eyes narrow even more. I wouldn’t have been surprised at him faking it. But his slurring seems real. “You guys didn’t invite me. I guess that means I’m crashing it.” He laughs and sounds as drunk as any person I’ve ever been around. Which, I’ll admit right now, hasn’t been many.
“Stand right there, Leah. Looks like Mr. Ripley’s had a few too many tonight. He should not have been driving.”
“Take your time, Phil. I’ve got all night.” I say that, although I’m wondering to myself if it counts toward spending a night
in jail if I don’t make it to the jail cell until morning.
Doug has made his way to us, and Phil doesn’t actually have to leave me to get to him.
“Mr. Ripley, have you been drinking?”
Doug gives a lopsided smile, and I feel like I could answer that question for him, except his eyes hook on mine, and there’s definitely nothing cloudy or loopy about his eyes. They peer into me, and while there’s no judgment there, I feel like they say that if I’m going to be here, he’s going to be here too, if only to make sure that I don’t get myself into trouble.
Don’t ask me how eyes can say all that, but that’s what I feel when he looks at me.
I now know two things.
Doug isn’t drunk.
And contrary to everything that I’ve ever thought, Doug likes me.
Chapter 11
Doug
This is not exactly how I meant to spend my evening.
Or my night.
I’ve heard that love makes people do foolish things, but I wouldn’t have said that I’m in love.
However, seeing Leah makes me feel like maybe I won’t have to pretend to be dizzy.
My world seems to be swimming on its own. I haven’t drunk a drop.
I did, however, purposely spill beer on my undershirt before I put my button-down on.
Phil sniffs, and his nose wrinkles. “Man, Mr. Ripley, you reek.”
This is not going to be good advertising for Cherry Tree.
I’ve already said love makes people do crazy things. But it can’t be that. What else? Because something is driving me to pretty much destroy my life and reputation and all the things I’ve carefully built.
She’s looking at me with confusion on her face.
“Maybe you just have a cold, Phil. Maybe you need a tissue.” I dig in my pocket for the handkerchief that I doused with alcohol as well, pulling it out and dangling it in front of Phil.
“No thank you,” Phil says, jerking back.
I know, this isn’t exactly the typical big-city stop. I don’t even know if Good Grief is typical for small towns. But we know Phil, and he knows us, and while we aren’t famous upstanding citizens, we aren’t generally known as troublemakers.
Me and the Helpful Hurricane (Good Grief, Idaho) Page 9