Tess in Boots

by Courtney Rice Gager

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I like that flustered look on your face.”

  I tried to give him a stern stare, but his eyes twinkled in such a way I couldn’t help but smile. “Where did she hear a thing like that, anyway?” I asked. “Have you been spreading rumors?”

  He shook his head. “No. I like to mind my own business. Word just has a way of traveling real fast around here. It’s a nice change, though.”

  “What’s a nice change?”

  “It’s a nice change that for once, this whole town ain’t talking about me.”

  I cocked my head and opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but he stood and headed over to the restroom on the far side of the restaurant, nodding to several diners who seemed to recognize him along the way.

  He was gone for a moment or two when a grizzly bear of a man slid into his empty seat. The man leaned over the table toward me. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m… I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve never seen you here before.” It was raining, and we were inside, but he was wearing sunglasses. He pulled them down onto his nose to get a closer look at me.

  I sat there in stunned silence.

  “You ever been on a hog before?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured out the window to a large motorcycle. “A hog. You wanna go for a ride, new girl?”

  “Um, no thanks. I’m with my boyfriend.”

  “She’s with me.” Thatcher returned to the booth and looked down at the man with a serious expression. The man nodded, placed his sunglasses in their original position, and left.

  Thatcher slid into the booth. “Oh, so now you’re my girlfriend.”

  A waitress came and dropped two enormous platters of pancakes on the table.

  “Thanks for that,” I said to him.

  “You’re very welcome, Darlin’.”

  I looked down and concentrated on spreading my napkin over my lap so he wouldn’t notice my flushed cheeks.

  We ate in silence for a while, except for my occasional comment on the pancakes. “These are so good,” I said for what must have been the fifth time.

  “Told you so.” Thatcher shoveled a heaping forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

  “You did. I’ll give it to you. But I hate that expression.”

  “What? Told you so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, all right. I won’t say it again, then. Unless I’m trying to tick you off.” He took a sip of black coffee and leaned back to look at me. “What’s your story, Heels?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what’s your story? Besides that you’re not a stripper. And you don’t like to hear I told you so. And you’re Jake’s sister.”

  I paused and rested my wrist on the table. “Jake’s twin sister.”

  He did a double take. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He squinted at me and turned his head to the side.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Trying to see if you look exactly like Jake, only with long hair.”

  “Do I?”

  “No. He’s much prettier.”

  I scowled and speared a piece of pancake with my fork.

  “I’m only kidding, Heels.”

  “Very funny.” I took a bite and looked at the table as I chewed.

  “So, what’s your story?” He pushed his plate away and crossed his arms.

  “I thought you liked to mind your own business,” I said when I finished chewing.

  He smiled. “I usually like to mind my own business.”

  “Okay, then. What’s your story?”

  “Nope. I asked you first.”

  I shrugged and took another bite of pancakes.

  “What do you do for work?” he asked. “Let’s start there.”

  I shook my head and busied myself by picking up a nearby bottle of syrup and pouring it into perfect little spirals on my plate.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I see… touchy subject, I guess. What about a boyfriend? You got a boyfriend, Heels?”

  I cringed.

  “Ah,” he said. “I get it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what I said. I get it.”

  “Right. Because you know so much about me.”

  “I know you’ve got yourself some boyfriend problems. Am I right?”

  My shoulders tensed.

  “Why else would you drop everything and come down here?” He stared at me as he took another drink of coffee.

  I put my fork down. Could I tell him? Why not? He didn’t know me. What did I have to lose? And it might be good to get a male perspective. Besides Jake’s, of course.

  “Okay. Fine. If you must know, Logan…” My voice broke a little when I said his name. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “Logan and I have been dating for a while now. Almost seven years.”

  The waitress came by with our check and Thatcher handed her a few bills before she could put it on the table.

  “So,” I continued, “I don’t know. I’ve been… wondering, lately. Why…” I took a sip of coffee, unsure of how to word this next part. “Why he hasn’t proposed.”

  He nodded, eyebrows furrowed.

  “So I asked him,” I said. “He took me out for this perfect evening, and I thought to myself, this has to be the night. But it wasn’t. So I asked him why he hadn’t proposed. And I guess I ended up giving him an ultimatum.”

  “You guess?”

  “Fair enough. I did give him an ultimatum. I told him if he didn’t propose by the end of summer, I’d leave.”

  “And how’d that go over?”

  “Not so well. He hasn’t called since. So I sort of ran away. Honestly, I thought if I left town for a while it might scare him a little.”

  Thatcher nodded and looked out the window.

  “I’m going to be thirty soon,” I said. “How long am I supposed to wait around to start my life? I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping this will give him the kick he needs to take some initiative.”

  He gazed out at the parking lot for a bit longer before turning back to look at me. “It’s funny. I have a hard time picturing you waiting around for anything.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you don’t strike me as the waiting-around type.”

  “Well, I’m not. I came here, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. But it seems like you waited around for an awful long time before you did.”

  I pursed my lips. He was right. I wasn’t about to admit it, but he was right.

  “So what’s the story there?” he asked. “Why have you been waiting around, being as you’re not the waiting-around type?”

  I shrugged and took another sip of coffee.

  “Does this boyfriend have a way of turning you into someone you’re not?”

  “No!” My instinct was to be defensive, but I never considered the question before. Did he?

  He backed down. “I’m sorry. I was just asking. I don’t know your situation.”

  “It’s fine.” And it was. For some reason, I wasn’t angry with Thatcher for prying. Perhaps it was because I invited him to weigh in. Or perhaps it was because he didn’t seem to be accusing me of anything. It was a simple question; a simple question I couldn’t answer.

  “But I do know”—he fished around in his pocket for his keys—“sometimes we can pretend for so long we get used to pretending.”

  “And how do you know that?” It felt good to turn the tables on him; to ask a question that put him in the hot seat.

  But he didn’t take the bait.

  “Because I know a lot of things.” He winked. “You ready to get outta here?”

  I nodded and followed him out the door and into his truck. We drove along without speaking for a while. The longer we went without tal
king, the more pressure I felt to say something. I glanced over at Thatcher. He didn’t seem to be uncomfortable at all. He turned the radio up a notch.

  “Doesn’t anyone around here listen to anything but country music?” I asked.

  “You don’t like country music, Heels?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well you just gotta let yourself like it, is all.”

  “You don’t just let yourself like something.”

  “You do when it comes to country music. Go on, let yourself like it. Stop trying to pretend you’re better than country music, Heels.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I may be crazy, but I’m right.”

  He turned up the music louder and sang all the way home. When we pulled up in front of the house, he stopped singing, put the truck in park, and turned to look at me.

  “About the flat tire,” he said, “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “Oh, thanks. You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s no problem,” he said.

  I hopped out of the truck and shut the door.

  “And about the boyfriend—” I heard him call out through the window, and I turned around. His left arm was propped on the steering wheel of the truck, and he seemed to be studying my eyes for a few seconds before he spoke. “All I can figure is he must be a fool.”

  Was he… was he hitting on me?

  “Thanks, um, for the pancakes. They were good.” I was so flustered it was the only thing I could think of to say.

  He grinned as he put the truck in reverse. “Told you so.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Giddy.

  I stayed in bed for almost an hour the next morning, trying to place the feeling that had taken residence in my stomach and refused to leave.

  It was giddiness, I decided. It took me a while to come to that conclusion because I hated to admit it, even in my own thoughts. I felt… anxious. But wonderfully so.

  This was wrong. I loved Logan.

  So why had I spent the whole night thinking about Thatcher?

  Because he was interesting, maybe. He annoyed me, and yet he intrigued me. He was kind to me. He made me laugh. And, dirty, ripped clothing aside, he wasn’t terrible to look at, either. If I was being one-hundred-percent honest with myself, I’d developed a little crush on him.

  It was strange and embarrassing to even let the thought pass through my mind. What was I, sixteen? This was ridiculous. I had Logan. This thing with Thatcher last night, it was just a little bit of harmless flirting. And so what if I liked it? I wasn’t going to do anything about it.

  He was a friend. No. Less than that, even. He was a colleague. And that’s all he would be.

  But the trouble with feeling giddy, I realized, is you can’t use logic or reason to make the feeling go away.

  A distraction, that’s what I needed. There was plenty to do for the vineyard today. I would keep my mind off Thatcher by staying busy. Really, really busy.

  I kicked off the covers and got out of bed, walking over to the French doors and pulling back the curtains to reveal a beautiful sunny morning. I tried pushing open one of the doors to let in some fresh air, but something blocked the door from swinging out.

  It was a box, I realized. A white shoebox.

  I bent over to retrieve the box and brought it inside, placing it on the kitchen counter. There was an envelope taped to the top, with one word scrawled across it. One word that made the anxiousness inside me bubble up with renewed vigor.

  Heels.

  So much for being distracted.

  I pulled off the envelope and opened it with caution, as if the contents were going to pop out of it and hit me in the face.

  Inside was a note, scribbled on an index card: Thought you could use something more practical.

  I lifted the lid off the box to find a pair of women’s cowboy boots inside. They weren’t new, but they were clean and freshly polished. I picked one up and held it in my hand, admiring how soft and worn the tan leather felt. They were authentic, vintage maybe. I peeked inside one of the boots to check the size. Seven. How did he know my size?

  Should I wear them?

  No, I decided. I couldn’t accept these. I didn’t want to encourage him. I had a boyfriend.

  But they were cute. And he was right, they were practical. And maybe it would be rude not to wear them.

  A half-hour later, I stepped out of the cottage and headed down the path toward the barn, wearing an old soft T-shirt, jeans, and the boots. So I was wearing them. So what? It didn’t mean anything.

  I checked the time on my phone and picked up the pace. The day after I first told Jake about the wedding idea, I’d been in a whirlwind of productivity. On a whim, I rush-ordered a sign for the roadside. Jake gave me free reign, and the sign was an essential part of my marketing plan. If we were going to book weddings here, we needed a proper name for the place. So, I took the liberty of coming up with the name myself and ordering the sign with the credit card he gave me to use for expenses. The sign was scheduled to be delivered any minute.

  A big white truck pulled up as I reached the barn. I gave the driver a wave, and he rolled down his window.

  “You Tess?” he asked.

  “I am. Good morning.”

  “Morning. Where do you want it?”

  “Out at the entrance. I’ll show you.”

  He gestured for me to get in the truck, and I hopped in, guiding him back down the drive until we were several feet from the main road.

  “Right… here.” I pointed to the empty spot of land where I envisioned the sign. It was the one place where it wouldn’t be hidden by the trees.

  “Looks about right,” he said. He turned off the engine, stepped out of the truck and walked around back, opening the door and retrieving a post digger.

  As the man completed digging the hole and pulled the wooden sign from the truck, I started to doubt my decision to keep it a secret from the others. This was a big deal. A really big deal. What if they didn’t like it? Maybe I should have run it by Jake and Sara first.

  What had I been thinking?

  But there was no turning back. The money was spent, the sign was made, and it was being secured in the ground for everyone to see.

  “That good?” the man asked as he finished tamping dirt around the post.

  I stepped back to examine the sign. It was painted milky white with brown loopy lettering, and it had a distressed, antique look. It was rustic and beautiful in a classic way, a fitting first impression of the place. I hoped Jake and Sara would agree.

  I smiled. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  I tipped the man and watched as he merged onto the main road and disappeared. Then I went off in search of the others.

  I made my way back up the drive on foot, enjoying the sound of the creek gurgling alongside me. The natural beauty of my surroundings was impossible to miss now that the junk was cleared away from the path. After about a week of hard work, the vineyard was a far cry from the unkempt place I first laid eyes on. I would return later today with my camera and snap a few photos for the website.

  It was a little before ten in the morning, but the air was already heavy with humidity. I pulled an elastic band out of my pocket and gathered my hair into a ponytail as I came to the clearing. I could see Thatcher, Sara, and Jake standing outside the barn, and though I was too far away to hear anything, they seemed to be engrossed in a serious conversation. As I approached, Jake looked up at me and they all stopped talking.

  “Where’ve you been, Tessy?”

  “Down by the road. Everything all right?” I asked.

  Jake glanced at the others, and then back at me. “Yep. Just fine.”

  I studied their faces, but they weren’t giving anything away. “Good. Hey… I have a surprise for you.”

  Jake titled his head. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. Come see.”

  Jake and Sara started down the path. Before I turned to follow them, I caught Thatcher’s
eye. There was a discreet smile on his face as he looked at the boots, then back up at me, then at the boots again. I smiled in return, and then headed after Sara and Jake before he could see my cheeks turning red.

  I moved at a brisk pace to avoid small talk with Thatcher, but not so fast as to interrupt Sara and Jake’s whispered conversation. They walked with their arms linked and their heads tilted toward one another. I strained to hear them, but I couldn’t make out their words over the sound of the creek.

  When we reached the end of the path and neared the road, I ran ahead to put myself between them and the sign. “Wait!” I said.

  The three of them stopped walking and looked at me. I hadn’t thought about how I would unveil the sign, but it seemed like there should be some sort of fanfare involved. Or at the very least, an explanation.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but I had a little something made up. Something to honor Carl. Something to let people know we’re here.”

  No one said anything. I couldn’t think of anything else to add, so I swept my hand in the direction of the sign and they stepped forward to read the lettering: Carl’s Creek Vineyard.

  For the longest time, everyone remained silent. I stood there, trying to gauge their reactions.

  Did I overstep?

  Finally, Sara turned to face me, her eyes wet with tears.

  I gave her an apologetic look. “I should have asked first. I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s perfect.” Her voice was a soft whisper. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  Jake smiled and gave her shoulders a squeeze. Thatcher nodded once, and then started back toward the barn, head down, hands shoved into his pockets.

  I looked after him, wondering whether I should follow. But before I could make up my mind, Sara came to my side and placed a gentle hand on my arm. “It’s fine. He just needs a minute.”

  I watched him disappear around the bend.

  CHAPTER 9

  My eyelids were heavy after hours of staring at the laptop screen. It was raining outside, so I spent the entire day in the cottage finalizing the details of the website. Well, webpage. So far, the site consisted of a single page with a few photos and some copy I wrote. But it was a decent start. You didn’t have to be a professional photographer to take beautiful pictures of Carl’s Creek. And, thanks to the years I’d spent planning my wedding to Logan, I was able to write a pretty convincing description of the place as an ideal wedding venue. I already set the website live and listed Jake’s cell as the contact phone number for inquiries. Tomorrow, I would get a few ads up online, and see about placing an ad in the local paper, too. Then, my work at the vineyard would be done. The rest would be up to Jake and Sara.