by Laura Drake
* * *
“It’s four o’clock, time to head ’em up and move ’em out!” Mrs. Wheelwright calls from the bottom of the stairs. “We want a good seat, right?”
“Coming.” I step into my sandals and check the mirror. I’m glad I took the time to grab a shower and change. My hair curls nicely over my shoulders, and my sleeveless tie-at-the-waist blouse matches my eyes. The denim cutoffs keep me from looking dressed up. Just the right touch. I twirl away from the mirror, tuck my phone in my back pocket, and with my almost-maxed-out credit card and a twenty in my front pocket, I’m good to go.
I walk down the stairs to the kitchen, where everyone’s waiting. “Oh, Momma, you look so pretty!” Her hair is a nimbus of sugar-spun silver curls. Mrs. Wheelwright came over early to do Momma’s hair.
“You’ll be turning all those men’s heads, for sure, Mary,” Reese says.
In spite of the sunscreen, he’s picked up a gold kiss of sun. His hair is slicked back, showing off the strong lines of his jaw. “Did you wash up with the hose again?”
“Yep.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, for cripes’ sake. You could have used our shower.”
His gold tint suffuses with pink. “I’m good.”
I pull the chicken, store-bought coleslaw, and peach cobbler from the fridge.
“You made your famous fried chicken.” Mrs. Wheelwright picks up the large container.
“It’s Momma’s family recipe.”
Reese lifts the cobbler dish. “Well, I can’t wait to taste it, so let’s get moving.”
“Hold on.” Mrs. Wheelwright raises a hand. “With the car seat, we’re not all going to fit in that truck.”
Reese frowns. “She’s right. I didn’t think about that. If it had bench seats in the front, it would work, but…”
“The baby seat is already in my car anyway.” Mrs. Wheelwright heads for the door. “Come on, Mary, you’re riding shotgun. Bring the baby to the car, will you, Reese?”
Well, didn’t she pull that dance off as smooth as Ginger Rogers?
Chapter 12
Reese
Hanging with the Wests today has been a blast. I’m shocked to realize I’m more relaxed in that old farmhouse than I am in Bo’s showplace. Their comfortable routines are like a long-practiced dance, where everyone has a place and a part to play.
After today I kinda feel like I have a part, too.
Lorelei directs me to the high school—an ugly two-story cinder-block square sitting in a field outside town. I’d mistake it for a prison, if not for the lack of razor wire. The weather-beaten sign out front declares it UNFORGIVEN HIGH: HOME OF THE FIGHTIN’ BILLY GOATS!
I wouldn’t house goats in that place, much less kids.
But three hours before the fireworks show, the parking lot is full, and cars are queuing up to park in the hard-packed dirt beside it. I pull into the crawling line. “I thought we’d be the first here.”
Lorelei raises a brow. “There’s not much to do in Unforgiven. Any excuse for a party.” She rolls down her window. “Hey, Ms. Temple!” She waves to an older lady in a wide-brimmed straw hat walking between rows of cars. The woman waves back. “That’s my high school civics teacher.”
A big farmer in overalls steps in front of the truck and raps his knuckles on the hood. “Hey, Lorelei. Movin’ up in the world, huh?”
“Stuff it, Quad. You’re just jealous.”
“Of that truck, I am.”
When he clears out of the way, I inch forward.
A crowd of young girls call, “Hey, Lorrrrelei, nice…truck,” then break into giggles.
Lorelei’s looking out the windshield. I’d swear she hadn’t heard, except for her pink cheeks.
“Friends of yours?”
“Not exactly. Do you like fried chicken?”
“I like chicken any way I can get it.” I ease into the next open space, and a battered truck pulls up beside me.
“Good, because we’ve got plenty.”
I shut down the ignition, climb out, and grab the huge picnic basket from the back. It weighs a ton. I wonder how many people she plans on feeding.
“Oh, hey, Nana, Papaw. I thought you’d be comin’ with Carly and the fam.”
The little old lady comes around the truck beside us. She’s in a cowgirl outfit: puffed-up skirt, suede vest, a neckerchief, and a straw cowgirl hat. But instead of boots, she’s in orthopedic shoes and thick, flesh-colored tights that bag at her knees and skinny ankles. “Gotta get here early for the square dance demonstration. Me ’n’ Papaw…What in sweet hell are you doin’, Leroy?”
All I can see is the baggy backside of worn pants. “Settin’ up for business.”
“Well, get out here and say hello to Lorelei and…Who’s the shiny-lookin’ dude?”
A flustered Lorelei turns to me. “Reese St. James, meet Nancy and LeRoy Beauchamp, Carly’s grandparents. Nana and Papaw, this is Reese, Sawyer’s uncle.”
I sweep off my Stetson. “Nice to meet y’all.”
The woman squints up at me. “Makin’ yourself right at home in the family, I see.”
“Um. Ma’am?” Now I’m getting flustered.
“Aw, I’m just pullin’ your dangly parts, son.” She slaps me on the arm. “You could do a darned sight worse than our Lorelei. A good solid woman, right here.”
The stooped old man straightens from the truck and takes his wife’s elbow. “Come on, hon, before these two explode from embarrassment.”
They toddle off.
“I’m so sorry. Nana is wonderful, but she’s a bit…outspoken.”
“You think?” I put my hat on.
“You’re lucky. She seems to like you. She didn’t cuss you out or anything. Ask Manny Stipple about the time she dumped pea soup over his head.”
“I’ll take that as a warning. I’m not doing anything to get on that lady’s bad side.”
Lorelei cranes her neck. “Mrs. Wheelwright was right behind us. Where—oh, there they are.” She trots across the aisle, and I follow to Mrs. Wheelwright’s car.
Lorelei opens the back door, but I touch her arm. “May I? Peanut’s getting pretty heavy.” I set down the picnic basket.
“Okay. I’ll get the diaper bag.”
“Hey, Sawyer, want to go for a horsey-back ride?”
“Baba.” She reaches for me, her starfish fingers opening and closing. After some figuring, I extricate her from the car seat, pull her out, and swing her onto my hip.
She squeals.
“Hang on, little one.”
Mrs. Wheelwright and Mary step out. “Woooweee, it’s hot!” Mary waves a plastic fan in front of her face.
“Always is at first, Momma. Should get better from here on.” Lorelei pulls two blankets from the back seat and slings the diaper bag over her shoulder.
Mrs. Wheelwright reaches to take the picnic basket.
I grab the handle. “I’ve got it, ma’am. Y’all lead, and we’ll take up the drag.”
The older ladies walk on, chattering like agitated squirrels.
Somewhere past the stands, a band is tuning up. The smell of brats and beer floats to me.
“We’ll try to find a place on the field, but I don’t know…” Lorelei is swallowed by the crowd, and I trot to catch up, Sawyer chortling the whole way.
We round the stands, and the football field is a patchwork quilt of blankets, sleeping bags, and beach towels, dotted with lawn chairs and ice chests. “Wow.”
“Yeah, told you the Fourth was a big deal around here.”
In the middle of the sea of blankets is a raised dais, maybe twenty by thirty feet. In the corner is a band of five playing “Low Places.” People we pass are singing along. We follow Mary and Mrs. Wheelwright’s wandering path to squeeze into a spot right up front, at the other end of the stage from the band.
“Lorelei. Just the person I’ve been wanting.” A reedy but commanding voice comes from our left.
Lorelei’s shoulders hunch an inch, and she turns. �
�Hello, Ann.”
The woman has a long face, skin stretched over strong bones. She narrows her eyes. “Are you not going to introduce me to your date?”
She reminds me of that mean witch from The Wizard of Oz, only she dresses better and her color is more pallid than green.
“He’s not my date; he’s Sawyer’s.” She turns to me, her lips in a thin line. “Reese St. James, this is Ann Miner, head of the Unforgiven Historical Society.”
She puts out a hand, as if I should kiss her ring. “And the lead reporter for the Unforgiven Patriot.”
Probably the only reporter. “Sorry, hands full.” I’m not setting down the basket or Sawyer. If Lorelei doesn’t like this woman, I trust her judgment.
“I’d like to interview you for the paper. We do that with newcomers.”
I tighten my hold on Sawyer, put down the basket, pull a business card from my pocket, and hand it over. “I’m not here full time, but I’m sure we could set up a chat.”
“Very well. Carry on.” She gives us a dismissive wave and turns to the woman beside her.
Lorelei rolls her eyes and walks to where the others stand waiting. She shakes out the blankets and helps her mother to sit.
I set the picnic basket on a corner and settle Sawyer beside her grandma.
“You two relax. I’ll get the meal ready.” Mrs. Wheelwright opens the basket.
Lorelei looks up at me and talks over the music. “We only have water to drink. You want a beer?”
The heat and the sun have baked all the juices out of me. “That sounds like just the thing, as long as you have one with me.”
“I could drink one.”
“I’ll get them. The vendors are under the stands, right?”
“I’ll come with you. Momma, you eat. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” She walks past me, chin high. “Might as well let the crowd get a good look.”
I’m still figuring how to read Lorelei’s moods, but even I can’t miss the burr under her saddle. No hiding for this one; she’s taking on the curious looks with a glare.
There’s a long line in front of the Kiwanis beer truck. I turn to her. “Maybe we should skip—”
“Lorelei.” Carly Beauchamp, the owner of the café, waves from the front of the line. I’ve seen her before, but we’ve never been introduced. She beckons us forward. “Come on up here.”
Lorelei eyes the line. “If we take cuts, there’ll be a riot.”
“Nah.” She puts her hand on the arm of the young buck behind her. “Leonard, would you mind if Lorelei steps in? She’s got a baby and can’t be gone long.” She bats her pretty green eyes at him.
If the kid is legal to drink, his birthday was last week. He snatches the baseball cap off his head and ducks his red face. “No problem, Carly.”
Lorelei steps into the line. “Thanks, Leonard. You’re the best.”
I step up. “Carly, we haven’t had a chance to meet.” I take off my hat. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are.” She leans in, hugs me, and whispers in my ear, “If you hurt her, you’re a dead man.”
I back up. In spite of her bright smile, I have no doubt that hug was camouflage for the message. Her warning hits me with the crack of a slap. Carly seems sure that we’re a couple, and she’s not the first. Are they seeing something I’ve been trying to hide from myself?
Now I just have to figure out how I feel about that. And then what I plan to do about it.
I realize I’ve missed part of the conversation.
“Austin? He’s on the field, trying to herd the cats. I swear, Faith runs more than she walks, and Little Austin is…his dad in a diaper. Let’s just leave it at that.” She swipes sweat off her forehead and moves forward a step.
By the time we get our beers, I’ve gotten an earful of the local “flavor” (read: gossip). I file it away for future reference and follow Lorelei through the crowd, admiring her swaying hips. The square-dance demonstration is in full whirl, and Mary and Mrs. Wheelwright are alternating eating, feeding Sawyer bits of chicken, and watching the show.
I sit, and since the stage is above us, I get way too much of a glimpse of what’s under old ladies’ square-dancing skirts. I turn so my back is to the stage. Thanks to the crowd noise, conversation is impossible. So I wolf down the best fried chicken ever and top it off with a double helping of peach cobbler. I ease back on the blanket, enjoying this small-town Americana scene.
Finally, the square dancers leave the stage to thunderous applause.
“The Squeaky Wheels are next,” Lorelei says. “They’re pretty good. Pat owns the local garage, but he only hires mechanics who play.”
“Wow, that must cut back on the interviews.”
“Yep. And frankly, from what I hear about their work, I think he weights their musical talent higher than mechanical ability.”
I make a mental note to do my own maintenance on the Murphinator. But she’s right; the band isn’t half-bad. The crowd is getting into it, clapping and singing along. A herd of young kids cluster in front of the stage, swaying, stomping their feet, and doing toddler improvisational dance.
“I can’t wait until Sawyer is old enough to dance up front. It’s a family tradition.”
Her eyes are wistful. And sad. She’s remembering her sister.
The sun is a golden ball at the red-rimmed horizon when the band launches into “Rock Around the Clock.” Lorelei is sitting, arms around her bent knees, feet tapping.
I lean over and whisper, “In those dance lessons, you learn more than the waltz?”
She looks down her nose at me. “I was raised on the jitterbug in my Momma’s kitchen.”
I hold out my hand.
“Are you kidding? Get up in front of every single person in town?” She shakes her head.
“Hey, they’re talking about us anyway. Why don’t we give them some fat to chew?” I waggle my eyebrows.
She shakes her head again. “I don’t want to give them any wrong ideas. We’re just friends.”
“But dancing on the Fourth is a family tradition, right?” I shrug. “And friends can dance, can’t they?” I drop the smile and look steady into her eyes. “Come on, Lorelei. I won’t make a fool of you.”
The band swings straight into Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, the perfect jitterbug tune. I hold out my hand again.
She looks left, then right, then back at me, stubborn in her jaw and her eyes. “You know what? Dancing is just what I want to do.” Her smile is a bit wicked when she drops her hand in mine. “Be right back, Momma.” She flips off her baseball cap. “Lead on, cowboy.”
I pull her to her feet, and we step onto the strip of grass between the blanket and the stage. I take her hands, we catch the beat, and when she nods, I pull her into a cuddle back, push her out under my arm, and pull her back in. She’s following like she has telepathy, sensing my next move before I make it. She adds flair, kicking out, and I mimic her. She’s working it, bouncing the rock steps. I take a chance, and when I sweep up her legs, she throws her head back and flips.
God, she’s fabulous.
The band launches into “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg,” and we don’t miss a beat. I’m sweating, out of breath, and loving every second. Lorelei is grinning bright as the sun, her ponytail flipping and bouncing. And she said her sister got all the sparkle. She was wrong.
When the song ends, she puffs a breath, and her bangs fly up. “I need water.”
“Me too.” She turns to walk away, but I still have her hand. I reel her back in, then bow a bit over her hand and kiss it. “Thank you for the dance, miss.”
I look up into her startled-doe eyes, and time goes to slo-mo. In hers, I see laughter, surprise, and a hint of a frown. I wonder what she sees in mine.
Something warm and sure settles in my chest. I don’t know what it is, but it feels just right. A rolling wave of applause breaks the moment. Wolf whistles come from the crowd, and people stomp the wooden slats in the stands. Lorelei turns, and red-faced, waves t
o the crowd, then drops a small curtsy.
This lady is badass. Admiration tightens my chest, and I wave, then follow her to the blanket, where Mary and Sarah are clapping loudest of all.
God, that was fun. Seeing Lorelei open, happy, and sparkling makes me want to throw away all my misgivings about my relationship issues and kiss her senseless.
But…Sawyer. Yes, Lorelei’s different from all the women in my past. Yes, there are happily married couples I know. But how do you trust that this could be different when you’ve never experienced anything that worked out?
I could live without a relationship with Lorelei. It would be wrenching, but I could do it. But I can’t live without Sawyer. I won’t.
Lorelei drops to the blanket, and the two women fuss over her. She’s glowing. I caused that. I made her happy, and that makes me happy.
Where does that leave me?
Here. It leaves me right here, sitting in the grass with people who are starting to feel like family.
And just for tonight, that’s enough.
* * *
Lorelei
In spite of knowing I’ll get teased later, I’m not sorry, because for just a few minutes I got to dance on the Fourth in front of the band again. And what a partner Reese is, dashing and bold and as smooth as new silk—in more than just his dancing. I hope Patsy saw; she’d have joined us if she were here.
I needn’t have worried that Sawyer would be scared by the fireworks; she loves them, clapping her hands and making oh-oh-oh noises until she fell asleep, cradled in my lap. I look around at the wonder on the upturned faces. Even Ann Miner is smiling. I guess on the Fourth, everyone turns into a kid.
I turn to Momma. “Isn’t this—what is it, Momma?”
Her face is in her hands, and when I pull them away, her features are twisted in fright and tears are sheeting down her face. “Momma, what’s wrong?”
“The storm! We have to get to shelter!” She pushes to her knees and claps her hands over her ears when another bang goes off. “Bruce—where is Bruce? He was just here.” She turns to me, and in the light of the latest firework, I can see the terror in her eyes. “Patsy, find your father. We have to go!”