by Lucy Score
A dozen more hands raised.
Chapter Nine
“Okay, so I think we’ve gotten this as fleshed out as we’re able to,” Hazel announced. “No peeping unless the house is on fire, someone’s screaming bloody murder, a vehicle has veered off the road and driven into the residence, you witness suspicious activity such as someone else peeping in the windows and then disappearing, and/or you have express permission from the police department or other community leader including but not limited to myself, the fire chief, and the mayor.”
She looked out over the audience, and Phoebe sent up a little prayer that no one else had an amendment. It had taken them half an hour to get through all the “what-ifs.”
Hazel picked up the gavel and whacked it. “Moving on. We’ve got a few citizens who are gonna talk about some stuff. So, give ‘em your ears.”
First up was Sylvia Needleman, dressed in head-to-toe black, who wanted to educate Blue Moon on the dangers of microwaving food. Her shy librarian demeanor completely transformed when she spoke about radiation waves and TV dinners.
Next up was a burly guy in chinos named Bruce who, for a young preppie, was unusually passionate about history. He was trying to drum up votes for an authentic 4th of July celebration with a recreation of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
When it was John’s turn to take the podium, Phoebe sat a little straighter. She was curious what a man of few words would have to say to an entire community. He looked out into the audience and pulled out his piece of notebook paper.
Someone slid into the empty seat on her right, and Phoebe glanced over into Michael Cardona’s mischievous eyes. “What did I miss?” he asked, reaching over her for Elvira’s popcorn.
“Thirty minutes on reasons why you should peep in your neighbor’s windows,” Elvira whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“Messing with John,” Michael said, throwing an arm around the back of Phoebe’s seat and spreading out in all directions.
Elvira rolled her eyes. “Men are basically children,” she sighed.
Phoebe nodded in agreement until John’s gaze tracked to her. She saw the narrowing of his eyes, and Michael’s corresponding shit-eating grin.
John gave Michael a good hard glare before clearing his throat. The mic picked up something that sounded pretty close to “asshole.” Michael snickered but dropped his arm from Phoebe’s shoulders.
John smoothed a hand over his paper and began to read. “As you know, I reluctantly represent Blue Moon’s farming community thanks to a vote that occurred when I wasn’t present.” The audience chuckled.
“In that capacity, I’ve had the opportunity to discuss some of the pressing matters our farmers face. We can narrow the biggest of them down to two issues: a lack of equipment and a lack of labor. Some of our farms have the equipment necessary but lack the hands to help. Others lack the equipment but have the labor.”
Phoebe listened raptly and noted that the audience was doing the same. It seemed that on the rare occasion when John Pierce spoke his mind, people listened.
“Our community is unique in many aspects, the best of them being our ability and desire to come together as a whole to support those who need it. We share what’s ours just as naturally as we gossip and snoop.”
Again, the audience tittered. Blue Moon apparently had a healthy sense of humor about its own quirks.
“Keeping that in mind, I have a proposal for the farmers of Blue Moon. By working as a team, a family—something we do quite naturally already—we could share access to top-of-the-line equipment and available labor, finishing work faster and more efficiently than if we keep our resources to ourselves.”
Hands began to fly up around the theater.
“Now, hang on. Let me get the rest of this out. If I lose my place now, I’ll never find my way back.”
Good-naturedly, the hands were withdrawn. Who knew community leadership could be sexy? Phoebe mused.
“Let me give you an example of how I foresee this working. Carson’s down a foreman this season, but he does have a semi for hauling grain. Now when Carson isn’t using that truck, it’s sitting there costing money, requiring maintenance. But if he would rent it out to the rest of us—for a reasonable fee—he’d have a nice little income that covers the cost of gas and maintenance. Or instead of cash, we could arrange a labor/equipment swap. I’d give him X amount of hours on his farm in return for use of the truck.”
The hands were back up, but John plowed on, his eyes glued to his speech, determined to get to the end.
“Another option would be renting equipment from the farm supply in Cleary. A couple of us have combines, but none of us have access to the newer technology which significantly cuts harvest time. If we pool our resources for say a four or five-day rental, the rental costs would be negligible, and the work would get done faster than if we tackled harvest on our own.”
Phoebe leaned in to Elvira. “It sounds like a great idea, but isn’t that kind of like communism?” she whispered.
Elvira laughed softly. “We prefer to think of it as commune-ism.”
After revisiting the broader points of unity and sharing, John’s speech stalled out, and Phoebe bet money he hadn’t written a conclusion. She bit her lip when he let out a long “Soooooo…”
Hazel moved up on John’s elbow and leaned into the mic. “So, anyone interested in John’s farm-sharing concept—which, if you want my two cents, is a smart idea—should reach out directly to John. I think we’ve covered everything we need to tonight so let’s adjourn.”
Hazel was smart enough not to let anyone else make a motion or ask one last question. She banged the gavel and hauled ass off the stage.
“All business that one,” Michael said, glaring in Hazel’s direction.
“You’ve just got your Fruit of the Looms in a bunch because Hazel turned you down for prom,” Elvira said, crumpling up her empty popcorn bag.
“You asked her to prom?” Phoebe asked, jumping on what had to be a good story.
Michael sulked and shrugged one shoulder. “I wasn’t serious.”
“Oh, I call bullshit!” Elvira pointed a dagger-like fingernail in his direction. “If you were just kidding, you wouldn’t have taken two Playboy wannabees in her place.”
“You took two women to your prom to spite the sheriff?”
“She wasn’t sheriff at the time,” Michael argued.
“Cardona here hasn’t learned that if he keeps playing games with the ladies, he’s going to get burned,” Elvira predicted.
“I’m the fire chief. I think I can handle the heat.” Michael gave Phoebe an exaggerated wink.
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John wished he could just part the crowds like a tight end and drag Phoebe out of here. He hadn’t been expecting such an enthusiastic reception to his idea, had actually thought there was a good possibility it would flop. But the dozen farmers standing between him and beating the hell out of Cardona seemed to really like the idea.
He tried to focus on what Old Man Carson was saying, but his attention kept getting dragged back to Phoebe laughing up into Cardona’s asshole face. The guy was probably charming the hell out of her and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. His friend never knew when to quit with a joke.
Ernest Washington, one of Carson’s friends since birth laid a hand on John’s arm. “How about we all get together out at John’s later this week to discuss? Sunday work for everyone?” There were nods and “yeps” around the circle surrounding them. “Good. See you all Sunday at 3. Bring beer.”
The crowd dispersed, and John turned to Ernest. “Thank you.”
“Don’t waste time thanking me. Go get your girl away from Prince Charming before he casts his spell on her.”
John didn’t bother arguing that Phoebe wasn’t his girl. He dove into the milling crowd and waded his way toward her. Town meetings always took forever because once Blue Moon got to talking, it was impo
ssible to shut them up. He didn’t blame Mayor Nordemann for skipping out on this one on account of his eczema acting up.
He side-stepped a heated conversation about TV dinners between the town librarian Sylvia and Mrs. McCafferty from the farm store. He was within feet now, and his fingers flexed with the desire to drag Michael out of his seat and throw him down in the aisle. He’d warned him, hadn’t he?
But his chances at a surprise attack were decimated when Jillian Nordemann jumped in front of him. “There’s our farm hero,” she chirped, hands clasped under her chin. “Tell me everything. How’s life on the farm with Phoebe?”
John’s anger was temporarily deflected onto the new target. “Jillian. Why did you tell me Phoebe was a man?”
Jillian’s cat-that-ate-the-canary expression told him it hadn’t been an accident. “Why, that’s ridiculous! Why wouldn’t I have told you Phoebe was a woman?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. That’s why I’m asking,” he said flatly.
She brought a finger to her chin and tapped it. “I assure you I never meant to mislead you.”
Jillian Nordemann was a bald-faced liar.
“Actually. Now that I think about it, I’m sure this mix up is all your fault. Why on earth would you think a man was named Phoebe?”
“You didn’t tell me his… her name was Phoebe. You said Allen.”
“Phoebe Allen,” Jillian nodded, pleased. “That’s her name.”
“You left out the Phoebe part,” he growled.
“Oh, my! Did I? How silly of me.” She fanned her face. “Are you quite sure? That doesn’t sound like something I would forget.”
The ditz card had never been particularly successful with John, and Jillian’s version was only giving him a headache.
“Are you sure I never mentioned Phoebe was a woman? Well, what exactly did you expect when I said Phoebe?”
“You didn’t say Phoebe. You said Allen!” Ditzy and deaf were not endearing traits to John.
“Have you had that eye twitch looked at?” Jillian wondered, prodding him just under his right eye.
“I didn’t have it until Phoebe showed up when I was expecting Allen.” He was almost shouting now, and it still had no effect on the woman.
“Well, I’m glad it all worked out for the best,” she said, waving away his complaint. “It’s very important for her to graduate, and soon, you know. Especially since her father was in that dreadful accident. And her mother has never worked outside the home. Poor things are just drowning in debt. There just isn’t enough money at home for another semester let alone all those medical bills. You’re really doing her a wonderful favor by letting her stay the summer.”
John’s mouth opened and then closed again without any words escaping.
“Oh! There’s Mrs. Beezerman. I need to go ask her about Bunco Friday night. Excuse me.” She dashed off into the fray before John could explain to her what an injustice she’d done to him or grill her about Phoebe’s family.
John decided giving chase wouldn’t give him any satisfaction. What would was making Cardona think he was going to pound his face in.
He had two rows of seats to go when Michael spotted him. His friend’s feet hit the floor, and he was already out of his seat as he tossed a friendly, “Gotta go!” to Phoebe and Elvira. Michael vaulted over the two empty rows behind them before veering into the aisle and sprinting out of the building.
Phoebe watched him go. “You two have the oddest friendship.”
They bid Elvira goodbye but not before Phoebe exchanged phone numbers with her. “I could use someone with lady parts to hang out with on occasion,” Phoebe joked.
“Count on me. And I’ll be on the farm Sunday for the party.”
“Party?” John looked at her blankly.
“Yeah, the farmers and everyone are coming over to talk about the farm sharing?” Elvira prompted him.
“That happened seven seconds ago, and it was just a couple of farmers coming over for a meeting,” John argued.
Elvira gave a dainty shrug. “Not what I heard. You better stock up on picnic food and beer. It’ll be a prequel to the festivities on the 4th.”
John watched her go with a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. And here he’d thought the speech would be the worst part.
Phoebe patted John on the shoulder. “You okay?”
He shook his head. “I just want a cold beer and my nice quiet house and to never see any of these crazies again.”
“Come on, let’s go home and get you that beer,” she said, leading him up the aisle. “You know. This is why people own TVs.”
Chapter Ten
Needing a little distance from Phoebe, John strapped a spray tank of weed killer on her back and sent her off to trudge the perimeter of the wheat fields. She’d cheerfully skipped off for the fields, whistling some pop song that he should know but didn’t, leaving him broody.
Last night had opened a door. One that he hadn’t been prepared to open. One that he needed to close again. Yes, he was attracted to her. Yes, she interested him beyond just house guest status. But attraction and interest? Those didn’t outweigh responsibility and plans.
He’d been surprised by his uncomfortable, visceral reaction to Michael flirting with Phoebe. Sure, he was responsible for her while she was here, but that reaction had bordered on territorial. He didn’t need the distraction of attraction stirring him up every five seconds.
She’d dressed in a tight t-shirt today that he’d immediately noticed and appreciated on an uncontrollable biological level. Her jeans had more rips than denim, and she’d borrowed one of his ball caps from the coat closet and fed her hair through the back in a long tail. And all he could think about was how pretty she looked. Then she’d smiled at him, and she was beautiful.
Fortunately, she’d immediately peppered him with questions about his pull-behind sprayer, its age and dimensions, and whether or not he reckoned it would last one more season. The yammering demands for information made the beauty a little easier to ignore.
The woman had him tied up in knots one minute with her incessant interrogation and then left him smiling like a dope after her as she sauntered out of the room tossing insults at him. She hadn’t oversold her energy or commitment to work. He knew that now and was grateful, even if it did unnerve him. Hell, everything about her unnerved him, including how much he wanted her. His attraction to her was a complication, and John hated those.
Phoebe Allen was the walking contradiction of everything he thought he’d wanted in a woman. Opinionated, aggressive, pushy, headstrong. She made snap decisions, and she never shut up. But here he was, up to his elbows in grease trying to coax the ancient sprayer into operation for one more season, and his thoughts were on her.
He plotted through his options in his mind as he liked to do when faced with a decision.
As far as he saw it, he had two choices. He could pursue some kind of summer fling with her, or he could stay the course, maintain a professional relationship with her, and wait out the summer. Or, they could defy the odds, fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Okay, three choices.
He smirked at the ludicrous idea, twisting the reassembled nozzle back into place on the boom of the sprayer and moved on to the next one. He’d taken them apart, cleaned them, fixed what was broken, and was now reassembling the whole, hoping it would perform as good as, if not better than, before. That’s how he worked. That’s how he lived. He didn’t make snap decisions—with the exception of being conned into taking on a grad student. He figured out how things worked and then carefully maintained, tweaked, and finessed until he was satisfied. It was part of the appeal of farm life. Something always needed fixing, there was always a better way to do things, and there was always a simple way to measure success.
Phoebe operated on a manual he didn’t have access to, and there’d be no fixing her rashness, her loud opinions. Polar opposites did not make solid
marriage material. He was a “stop and smell the bee balm” kind of man. Phoebe was a “blindly stomp all over the bee balm while listing six different ways to make it grow better” person.
John tightened the bolts on the boom and moved on to inspect the hoses.
He was a man that committed whether it was to a task, a woman, a livelihood. He didn’t take relationships lightly. Loyalty, to him, was the most valuable component in a relationship. And an affair with Phoebe while exciting and fun—he shook his head to ward off the half dozen visions of her naked and gasping his name—was still ill-conceived. There was no long-term to be had there. Not even if they magically became more compatible.
Phoebe was here for school, not sex. And at the end of the summer, she’d be off to take some fancy job out of some fancy city—that he’d likely never visited—to buckle down and take care of her family. From the gossip Mrs. Nordemann had dumped on him, it sounded as though Phoebe needed cash and a lot of it. She couldn’t make that kind of money here. He couldn’t provide that kind of money for her.
They couldn’t make a go of it long-term, and he knew that.
And without that potential for long-term… well he was no Michael Cardona. Sex was more than a hobby to John, and he had to care for his partner. Sex. An image of Phoebe, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, bloomed in his mind. Her breath warm on his face, her body soft and pliable under his.
His dick stirred, making known its contempt of the recent dry spell. John’s grip on the wrench slipped and he rapped his knuckles hard against gritty metal. “Get it together, you fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself, shaking out his bloody hand. He looked for a rag to clean up the blood and finding none, shucked off his t-shirt to use as temporary first aid.
The stinging of his knuckles firmed up his decision, and John considered the debate settled. There would be no fling, no affair, just two adults sharing a kitchen table. They could be professional, maybe even tentative friends. In fact, if he got to know her a little better, he imagined their differences would build a bigger gap between them. That would help his physical reaction to her.