by Lyla Payne
He reaches down a hand, but I don’t take it, getting to my feet without hauling my ninety-year-old grandfather onto the hallway floor alongside me.
There’s no one on the porch, or the path, or in the backseat of my shitty car, which smells like moldy nachos again. Gramps waves from the doorway, waiting for my thumbs-up before retreating into his sanctuary. The weather’s so nice that I make a mental note to make sure the chairs on the screened-in porch are clean enough for him to sit on and maybe pack a picnic for us to take down to the dock on one of my day’s off.
Strange, but my mind assumes this job will be offered. Not only that, but that I’ll take it.
The drive to the library takes fewer than five minutes, the same distance as pretty much every trip in Heron Creek. There’s a single stoplight, as I reminded Gramps, and it’s red for me this morning. Of course. Even so, there are still eight minutes before nine-thirty when I walk into the library, an unassuming one-story tan stucco building nestled between the post office and a gas station. Like everything in Heron Creek, it’s a couple years overdue for a facelift but not falling down.
An unfamiliar woman sits behind the front information desk, draped in a crankiness that makes her seem even older than she is—which must be over sixty. Her ebony skin flakes in the creases on her face, dark age spots like chips of obsidian mar her cheeks and throat, and tufts of gray crowd out the jet black in the plaits gathered in a bun atop her head. Despite the facts that she can barely see over her desk and that there’s no way her feet touch the ground from that giant chair, she’s a frightening, grouchy greeter.
“Yes?” she snaps, looking up from her computer as though I’ve interrupted a project that will cure cancer. A hint of an accent tickles my ears. It’s impossible to place with just the one word.
“My name’s Graciela Harper. I’m here for an interview…”
She leaves without another word before I’m done talking, as though maybe she knows what I’m going to say. Or, more likely, she’s uninterested and going to find someone else to listen to my yammering. The reference desk holds little of interest except for her personal touches of family photographs and a couple of weird stick figurines that look vaguely humanoid situated around some kind of burning incense. When she shuffles back around the corner five minutes later she’s still alone, and remains silent. Seconds later, the sound of her fingers resuming their banging on sticky keys jams in my ears and stirs the beginnings of a headache. Too much excitement, not enough food.
A man hustles into the lobby before I can ask about my interview. He’s harried, wearing a fixed, impatient smile. He’s the spitting image of Roger Freedman, who failed to mention the man that would be interviewing me is his twin. “I’m Ralph Freedman, the library director.”
I smother a giggle. Ralph and Roger. “Graciela Harper. Your brother Roger said he set up an interview for me? An assistant’s job?”
“Oh, right. Grace.”
“Graciela.” I spell it for him as we make our way through some stacks, as though he gives a shit. He pretends to listen. The dance continues.
His manicured fingers press open a heavy, paneled door at the end of the hallway. Door holding remains one of the few Southern traditions that don’t annoy the crap out of me. In fact, I’ve run into quite a few doors back in Iowa expecting the same, as though they’ve magically opened for me my whole life.
Once I’m settled in a cushy, high-backed chair he rounds an oversized oak desk and flops into his own ornate seat.
“I brought a resume.”
He waves away the single, half-assed sheet of paper, the purse to his lips suggesting it might contain a smear of cholera. “That won’t be necessary. You come highly recommended, and you and I both know you’re far overqualified to be shelving books. Although, if you find yourself with spare time on your hands once the dusting is done, the library does have an impressive collection of local historical documents that could use a professional touch.”
My ears perk up at that before I can remember that I don’t give a shit about anything anymore. It also occurs to me that Mrs. Walters must not have spread the news that I’m a total crackpot around too far, since the Freedmans are still sticking their necks out. Highly recommended. It takes all of my effort not to snort.
“Well, thank you. I’m here in town on short notice, of course, but plan to stay for the foreseeable future. I appreciate the chance to get out of the house and get reacquainted with the townspeople.”
“We do story time every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at two, and I’d appreciate you taking that over,” he continues, as though he didn’t hear me. “Mrs. LaBadie doesn’t get on too well with the children.”
If Mrs. LaBadie is the woman doing the Oscar the Grouch imitation at the information desk, I can imagine why. Instead of voicing that particular opinion—or any of my opinions, actually—I nod. He blathers on about responsibilities for another fifteen minutes before dropping the bomb that Mrs. LaBadie will be in charge of my training and oversee the assigning of my duties on a day-to-day basis.
“We don’t need you full time, I’m afraid. Thirty hours a week and you can pick your day off. We’re closed Sundays, and the woman you’re replacing had Mondays, but…”
“Mondays are fine.” What on earth do I care?
“That’s fine, then. You’ll start tomorrow.”
That was easy. It almost pisses me off that he made me drive over here at this unsaintly hour when he had no intention of refusing to hire me. A job is a job, and as I pass the front desk, ignoring the pointed, curious glance of my new boss, the realization that I don’t want to go right back to the house surprises me.
The fresh air, the cracked sidewalks shaded by live oaks, the breeze running fingers through the Spanish moss—it all tempts me for a walk. I’d promised Gramps lunch, anyway, and one of our favorite restaurants is only a couple of blocks away on the riverfront. The combination of margaritas and fish tacos proves too heady to ignore, and no one has better offerings in either department than the Wreck.
I glance down at my watch to find that it’s not long past ten thirty, which means a half an hour until lunch—and alcohol—will be served. It’s only a ten-minute walk, but I can wait. There’s not one single thing in my life at the moment that requires hurry, and as much as the circumstances suck, the reminder that a world exists that’s not racing at breakneck speed is nice.
The streets are quiet, the sun high, and my mind takes leave of the task at hand, tracing maps through my past on the stroll through town. My thin dress sticks to my chest and back before two blocks are behind me, and even tossing the cardigan into my purse offers little in the way of relief. The morning’s reprieve from humidity and heat disappeared with the morning, and I wonder for the thousandth time in my life where my genetic proclivity to sweat like a Sasquatch came from.
Dripping perspiration aside, it feels as though my world is starting to slowly tip back upright on its axis. There’s the job, with the exception of Mrs. LaBadie, but maybe she can be won over. Or bought. Gramps and I are settling in. I haven’t seen Will or Melanie since the night at the Freedmans’, and I’m fine—grateful, even—with the unspoken agreement to steer clear.
Of course, either a homeless person or a ghost has taken up residence in my car, but that’s neither here nor there. There’s still a good chance that’s my inebriated imagination.
I turn onto Oak Lane, pushing my face into the cooler breeze coming off the water. My eyes are closed, which is why the brick wall is invisible until I smack right into it. It bounces me backward and onto the ground for the third time that day, where I sit for a moment while my head spins, wondering when and why the good people of Heron Creek decided to erect a wall in the middle of Oak Lane.
Then a hand reaches through the dizziness, palm outstretched, offering assistance.
Chapter Four
I ignore the hand, getting to my feet and brushing dirt off my dress before confronting its owner.
A
man with an overly strong jaw and wavy, sun-kissed brown hair watches me with humor sparkling in his hazel eyes. Too bad he picked the wrong girl in the wrong year, because nothing about getting knocked on my ass strikes me as humorous.
Undaunted by the cocked eyebrow I shoot his direction, he keeps a hand out, now poised for a shake. “Beauregard Drayton.”
“That’s a mouthful,” I mumble, searching the ground for my purse. It’s lying in a puddle, which stirs up more irritation, as does the fact that he hasn’t moved. He’s tall, at least six foot three, and even under the blue pinstriped suit and red tie, there’s no secret why he felt like bricks. His face is hard, too—all rough angles and sharp cheekbones.
His eyes are soft, though, and the enticing mixture of green, blue, and gold still reflects amusement. “Well, what do you think?”
“About you?” I shrug, even though I didn’t mean to study him quite so openly. “Typical.”
“Interesting.”
“Actually, typical is the opposite of interesting.” I shoulder past him and continue toward my destination, annoyance tightening my chest when the sound of expensive shoes clicks on the sidewalk behind me.
Beauregard Drayton catches up, then slows his pace to match mine. It would have behooved me to drive to the Wreck, apparently. Or skip it all together, no matter how the thought of their fish tacos makes me drool.
“You can call me Beau, everyone does,” he comments, as though we’ve been carrying on a conversation.
“Thanks.”
“What should I call you?”
It’s clear my rudeness isn’t going to make him go away, and the part of me that was raised below the Mason-Dixon Line blushes in shame at my behavior. Grams would tan my hide if she could see me now. The thought of her stern, loving expression makes me relent, along with the fact that my eventful morning has worn me out. I don’t have the energy to outmaneuver him.
“Graciela Harper.”
“Lovely to meet you. Where are you going?”
The fact that he doesn’t comment on my different name moves him up in my estimation. Still, his nosiness makes me sigh. Loudly. “To get some lunch.”
“Are you meeting someone?”
“Yes. His name is Vlad, and he lives to drink the blood of persistent, well-dressed men, so I suggest you run along.”
“Really? Dracula’s making a midday appearance in Heron Creek? Did you call the paper? Danny’s is going to be mad if he misses out on the interview opportunity.”
His quick knowledge of history surprises me, and if liking men was something that interested me, he might be intriguing. As it is, I’m forced to concede he’s not typical, which for some reason makes my fingers curl into my palms. I breathe deep a couple of times, through my nose, and they relax.
“I’m not meeting anyone. I’m grabbing some fish tacos from the Wreck and taking them home. To eat them in peace.”
“Best fish tacos in the world but kind of a local secret. Did someone point you in the right direction?”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re nosy?”
“Not really. Mostly because we all know everything about each other already.” He shrugs, leading me around the final turn. “Which means you’re not from here. One, no drawl. Two, I’d know you.”
My irritation gets the better of me at last, spurred by an irrational anger about the fact that it seems as though no one in Heron Creek remembers me. As though I were never here. As though with everything else in my life, the town means more to me than I ever did, ever could, to it.
The thought makes me want to cry, which stops my feet, and I whip around, planting my hands on my hips as Beauregard Drayton stumbles to a standstill as well. “Look, what do you want?”
“Maybe I’m headed for lunch at the Wreck myself.”
“Except you aren’t. You were walking the opposite direction when you ran me over.”
“Maybe you ran me over. Can I take you to lunch?”
“What in the hell for?”
His eyes dance, as though this tit-for-tat exchange with me is the best thing that happened to him since his first girlfriend got up the nerve to give him a hummer. I can’t remember the last time a single part of me felt as happy as his eyes are, and in that instant, my anger begs to dissolve into tears.
“I’d like to apologize for ramming into you. Walking and texting isn’t cool, and if you’re living here now, I should get to know you.”
“What in the hell for?” I repeat, the words scraping my raw throat. It’s not an empty question. I want to know.
“I’m the mayor of Heron Creek. It’s my job.”
All of the fight bleeds out of me, leaving me wondering whether or not he can see the gooey, stale alcohol–scented remnants of the girl I used to be littering the sidewalk. I smile, because the other option is running, and the ability to stand back up isn’t a foregone conclusion. “Well, if it’s your job. I mean, how can a girl resist an invite like that?”
We fall into an easy pace for the duration of the walk, which lasts less than two minutes. The Wreck of Jack and Anne, named after a couple of famous local pirates who fell in love, or so the story goes, sits out on the boardwalk that faces the Charles River. It looks like a hole in the wall, which isn’t false advertising, and the inside decor reflects the waterside culture of Heron Creek. It’s as cheesy as it sounds, which in no way is a comment on their outstanding fare.
Beau greets the hostess, a pretty blonde probably a few years younger than me, and asks her for a table for two. She bends over to get the menus, displaying way too much of her chest. It’s not for my benefit, obviously, but a sneaked glance at Beau reveals he’s not looking, either. More points.
The girl straightens up and catches him not looking, and the direction of my gaze. She frowns at me, as though it’s supposed to hurt my feelings. “Right this way, Mr. Mayor.”
I fight the urge to mimic her snotty tone, Mayor-chaser or not. A grown woman mimicking people falls under the category of inappropriate, I’m guessing. Even though inappropriate is kind of my thing, these days, for some reason I’d like to keep that a secret from Beau as long as possible. It won’t be long before he figures it out on his own, and then will remember fondly the time he had lunch with that funny girl who didn’t seem too touched in the head at first glance.
The waitress greets us before either of us can open a menu. Handsome Mayor Beau orders water and asks for soup and salad, I ask for two baskets of fish tacos, one to go, and order a margarita. Maybe if he thinks I’m a lush he’ll back off the gentlemanly interest.
“Soup and salad, Mr. Mayor? How manly of you.”
His mouth curls down as he watches me, the first sign of distaste. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Mayor, Graciela. Call me Beau like I asked. Please.”
“Sure thing. Now that you’ve got me sitting in this booth, how about you entertain me. What’s your story? You didn’t grow up in Heron Creek, but based on the accent and the manners, maybe…Charleston?” Something occurs to me that gives me a moment’s pause. “Wait, are you a Drayton, or are you a Drayton?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. How do you know I didn’t grow up in Heron Creek? Are you psychic?”
No, but I see ghosts. “I spent my summers here growing up, and I’m guessing we’re about the same age. I would know you.” I pause. “Are you avoiding my question about your name?”
“No. Who’d you spend your summers with in town?”
“My grandparents. The Harpers.” I offer the information without prodding, then take a sip of water. Twenty Questions is tiresome. Or maybe it’s the having to use my brain for more than ten minutes at a time.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother’s passing—she was a fantastic lady, even though I’m afraid we disagreed about her liberal use of a shotgun. And Martin’s a good man. Braves fan.”
I roll my eyes even though I’m a fan, too, even though preferring them over the Cubs or Cardinals is a sin for an Iowan, and fight a smil
e over the shotgun reference. My grams tended to find shooting annoying critters like chipmunks or snakes or woodpeckers simpler than ignoring them.
We chat for a little while about nothing—baseball, Heron Creek, the weather, boring shit that somehow seems more interesting falling off his too-full lips. By the time the food arrives we’ve lapsed into silence, the poor mayor likely regretting his decision to ask me and my inane blather to lunch. If he thinks I’m asking about his family a third time, he’s wrong. Draytons are a dime a dozen, and chasing after guys with money doesn’t interest me, anyway.
David’s family had money. Asshole.
“How long are you planning to stay in town?”
The question startles me out of my downward spiral, and I ask the waitress for a second drink when she checks on us. “As long as Gramps needs me.”
The flicker of knowledge in Beau’s eyes says he’s not unaware of my grandfather’s failing health. He nods but doesn’t inquire further, as though maybe he senses the fountain of tears a breath away from ruining my surface calm.
“I even have a job now, I guess.” I keep talking to move away from the subject of Gramps. I can’t stay too close to it for long, not without it slicing the last tiny pieces of my heart into ribbons.
His face brightens, as though he’s happy for me. As though he hasn’t met me an hour ago, or been about to fall asleep in his soup trying to have this conversation. “Really? Where?”
“The library.”
“Oh, right. June just moved down to Savannah to be closer to her grandkids.”
His knowledge of the citizens of Heron Creek charms me, no doubt. The smile he flashes a moment later catches me by surprise, and the deep dimples in both cheeks lend him a boyish air, despite his expensive suit, that tries to prod awake parts of me better off dormant.
Gramps’s food arrives in a plastic sack, and Beau grabs the bill, handing over his credit card before I can intercept.
He waves away my protest. “Please, consider it an apology for both running into you and then forcing you to have lunch with me.”