by Jayne Denker
“Just think about it, okay? He’s a really great guy,” she added, well aware she was parroting Sera and hating herself for it.
“There’s just so much pressure lately. I feel like everybody’s always watching me. And him. And you.”
“I know.” George thought for a minute, then said, “Well, there is one way to get everybody off the proverbial ledge, if you’re interested.”
“I’ll try anything.”
“Well, this was a total washout.”
George and Celia did their best to blend into the white wall at the Marsden Gallery, despite their colorful dresses. Across the brightly lit gallery, tangled masses of nubby yarn hung on the wall at evenly spaced intervals. Most of the people in the room were staring at the art with interest.
Celia sipped her white wine. “God, this is awful.”
“Bedelia Swift’s weaving, the opening itself, the string quartet, or Paulie’s chardonnay?”
“Is that what this stuff is supposed to be?”
They looked out over the crowd and recognized pretty much nobody, besides Paulie behind his white-cloth-draped table filled with wine bottles, watching them hopefully, ready to pour them another glass.
“There’s nobody here we know,” Celia said, still scanning. “What’s the point of you and me showing solidarity if there’s nobody here to see us?”
“What is the matter with these Marsden natives, not going to the artsy events in their own backyards, leaving them to the tourists? Where’s their hometown pride?”
“Honestly, I think we’ve hit saturation—too many artistic events, you get kind of jaded.”
“I am supremely disappointed in my neighbors.”
“So what do we do now—get drunk?”
“On this swill? Not a chance.”
“Then tonight is a total washout.”
“Oh, I didn’t say we weren’t going to get drunk. Come on.”
George shepherded Celia back into the Pink Lady, fresh from Jack’s garage, and headed into town.
“Now this is more like it.”
Everything in Beers came to a screeching halt when George and Celia walked in. Just like in the movies. All they needed was the spaghetti western whistly music. The crackling of the popcorn popper would have to do. Perfect, George thought. There were enough people here to make the visit worthwhile and to take news of the sighting to all the others who weren’t.
“Time for a drink, Celia.”
The other woman made a move toward an empty table, but George grabbed her elbow at the last minute. “Nope. We’re sitting at the bar.”
“Won’t we look . . . available?”
“Who cares? That way we can talk to Charlie Junior, and he can spread the news far and wide, like the Marsden town crier.”
“I thought that was Mrs. Preston.”
“Oh, I think there are plenty of people who share the title,” George said with a grim smile, sliding onto a bar stool right in front of the owner.
After she and Celia ordered their drinks, a woman came up and put two single-page menus coated in protective plastic in front of them. “Want to try some of our new menu items, girls?”
“Hey, Mrs. Beers,” Celia said. “I didn’t know you changed the menu.”
Ah, so this was the chicken lady, George thought. She was a pretty blonde, but she looked tired around the eyes. Still, she seemed happy.
“Sure did. We’re doing some new burgers, and we’re heavy on the chicken wings and chicken fingers. We’re doing our own chicken now,” she said with a significant inflection, winking at George for emphasis.
George raised an eyebrow. What the hell was that—oh. It seemed Mrs. Beers had given up the, er, Chicken Shack and all its . . . amenities. “Was this new menu your doing, by any chance?”
“Yep. Working right alongside Charlie every night.”
This made the woman beam, and George smiled right back. Wow, she may actually have helped someone with her cockeyed advice. Who’d have thought?
“What was that all about?” Celia whispered as Mrs. Beers scurried away with their order for honey-glazed chicken wings.
“I’ll explain later. Right now we have to look approachable.”
“Are you sure this isn’t crossing the line into pickup territory? I don’t want Officer Will thinking we’re up to something illegal, either.”
“Hey, we look cute, not slutty. Just smile and wait. It’ll happen.”
“What will?”
“Hello there.”
“There we go.” George turned to a familiar-looking guy—weren’t they all, in this town, though?—and made a point of brightening up. “Hello yourself.” She looked him up and down. He was a little scruffy, with dirt-stained jeans, a denim jacket, plaid shirt, and John Deere cap, but she’d seen worse. “Do I know you?”
“Hi, Lester,” Celia said.
“Oh—Lester Biggs! Weren’t we lab partners in chemistry?”
“Hey, good memory.”
“How’ve you been?” Celia asked. “How’re the girls?”
“Good, good. And by ‘the girls,’ she means the cows on my dairy farm,” he clarified, specifically for George.
“I remember your family had a dairy farm.”
“Yep, took it over from my dad. Three hundred head.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, but no girls like wife or daughters or anything like that.”
George tried to smile encouragingly.
He took a pull on his beer, then looked around. “Where’s Casey?”
Ah-hah. “Why would you assume Casey would be here?” she asked disingenuously. She refrained from batting her eyelashes. That would have been a bit too much.
“Well, I heard . . . isn’t he with you?”
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?”
“Well, then, he’s with you, Celia?”
“Nope.”
Lester studied them for a long moment. George knew what was coming next. She’d fielded the next question, in one form or another, and always from terribly uninformed people, many times since Sera came out. “Uh . . . are you two ... together?”
George gave him what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. “No, we’re not, Lester. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t run in the family.”
Suddenly Lester looked pretty darn happy. “Can I buy you girls another round?”
“No thanks, Lester. I think we’re good for now,” George said, glancing past him. Sure enough, people were looking their way.
Over in a corner, Mrs. Preston waved to her merrily, then beckoned her over.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. Celia grabbed her arm and gave her a panicked look. George whispered, “You don’t have to marry the guy. You don’t even have to let him buy you a drink. Just make small talk. I’ll only be a minute, I swear.”
Ignoring Celia’s wide eyes and Lester’s leaning-in leer, she hopped off the bar stool and made her way to Mrs. Preston’s table.
“George, sweetie,” she said. “I don’t mean to interrupt your evening—are you here with Celia Marshall?”
“Yep. We decided to have a girls’ night out. It’s been fun.”
“Well! That is a surprise.”
“Why?” George asked innocently, this time giving in to a little eyelash batting. “Did you think we wouldn’t get along for some reason?”
Mrs. P blushed and changed the subject. “I just wanted to introduce you to my gentleman friend, Harvey Nostrand.”
The elderly man across the table from Mrs. P half-rose from his chair and shook George’s hand. “I remember you, George. But it’s been a long time. How’s your dad?”
“Just fine, Mr. Nostrand. My parents are out seeing the world through the windshield of a big ol’ RV.”
“I heard. Good for them.”
“Harvey’s a woodworker,” Mrs. P said proudly.
I’ll bet he is, George said to herself, checking the woman’s expression. She seemed pretty pleased with herself. She thought
back to the letter from Not Getting Any Younger, which she’d answered with the advice to have a frank discussion about what her beau expected of their relationship. Knowing Mrs. P, she would have gotten right to the point—all she needed was someone’s permission to do it—and Harvey would have had to put up or shut up.
So did this mean Mrs. P was Not Getting Any Younger? Had George helped out another Marsden resident?
Then Mrs. P said, “It was so nice to run into you here, dear. Normally we don’t spend evenings out—Harvey always tended to make an early night of it—but he’s turned over a new leaf lately, and we’re just having a grand old time!”
“I’m happy to hear you’re enjoying yourselves.”
“Oh, there’s no reason not to. We’re . . . not getting any younger, after all.”
That was confirmation enough for George. She smiled at the older woman and her date, then made her excuses to get back to Celia and Lester.
And not a moment too soon, it seemed. Evidently Lester had decided whichever woman was still within striking distance was the new love of his life, and George could see, even from across the room, he was scaring Celia half to death with his . . . enthusiastic pickup technique. He had one arm across the back of her bar stool and was leaning in while Celia was leaning away. She noticed Charlie Junior was keeping a wary eye on the situation, ready to jump in if Lester got overzealous, but she decided to take care of things instead.
She plopped back onto her bar stool next to Celia. “So. What are we talking about?”
Lester looked put off his game for a minute, but he recovered quickly. “I was just telling Celia here she should come by the farm. I’d give her a private tour of the milking sheds.”
“Wow. That is some offer, Lester. Celia, what do you think?”
Cow-eyed herself, Celia just stammered, “Um . . .”
George turned back to Lester. “You know, I’m not sure Celia’s really feelin’ it, Lester.”
“Too bad. How about you?”
“Me?”
“Sure. Or, you know, both of you. I’ve got a lot to offer a woman. Or, you know, two women.”
George glanced over at Celia, who was looking sort of green. George fought back a laugh. “A lot to offer?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Are we talking lifelong companionship, here, Lester? Commitment of the highest order? A forever kind of thing?”
“What? Uh, you know . . . ,” he stammered, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken.
George rested her elbow on the bar and her temple on the heel of her hand. She regarded the suddenly sweaty guy with feigned interest. “Mm, that is quite an offer. I just can’t tell who’s doing the talking—the person who happens to have a penis attached, or the penis who happens to have a person attached. I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, though.”
“. . . What?”
“Right. Les, it’s been a blast, but we’ve got to get going.”
“Aw, but—”
“Celia, I think our work here is done. Unless you want to spend some more time with Lester here.”
Celia was off her bar stool like a shot. “You know, I’m beat. It’s been a long day. Let’s go.”
“Good enough. See you around, Lester.”
Once they were outside the bar, Celia rounded on George. “What in the world was that all about? Why did you sic Lester on me?”
George was unperturbed. “Okay, Lester wasn’t actually part of the plan. We just needed more people to see us hanging out together, being friendly, so they’d lay off the Team George, Team Celia thing. It’s what we agreed on—a united front, right? So now Charlie Junior, and Mrs. Charlie for that matter, saw us, not to mention Mrs. P. That’ll take care of it. Lester was just gravy.”
“I don’t like what just happened.”
“Aw, don’t worry. No harm done. Lester’ll have ‘a couple six’ more beers and forget all about it.” Seeing Celia’s still-stricken look, she softened her tone as she opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for Lester to freak you out.”
“I told you I wasn’t ready to date,” Celia protested, also getting into the Pink Lady.
“And I wasn’t trying to get you a date. You should have more fun with stuff like that. Lester wasn’t serious and you shouldn’t have been, either.”
Celia looked over at her in the dark. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Just . . . I don’t know . . . the whole men thing. Shrug it all off, not take it seriously.”
George laughed ruefully. “I don’t know how to handle men, if that’s what you mean. All I know is, if I’m deadly serious, I end up with guys like my ex before I know what hit me. But if I make sure I don’t take them seriously, I end up in charge. I don’t get backed into a corner. And after everything I’ve been through in my relationships, I’d rather not be serious with any guy.”
“But . . . ,” Celia hesitated, then said, “didn’t you say not to get stuck in the ‘taking a break’ zone? I mean, don’t you worry? About being alone?”
“You mean all that stuff like, when you’re around twenty-nine or thirty, and you think your life is over if you’re not married?” Celia nodded. George gave her a look. “What is this, the fifties? I aged out of it. And lived. And it turned out not to matter in the slightest.”
“I wish I could be so calm about it.”
“You should. You did the marriage thing, and it didn’t work. You said you wanted some ‘me time,’ and you’re absolutely right. Don’t let guys define you. If Lester asks you out, it doesn’t mean you have to go—on a tour of the milking sheds or anywhere else.”
Finally Celia snickered. “You’re right. No milking sheds.”
“You think that was a euphemism, or was he being literal?”
“Either way, it was a scary thought.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Celia was quiet the entire five minutes of the drive. (It would have taken two, but George ended up behind Burt Womack again, this time all the way down Main Street. She wondered where in the world he was going all the time.) George pulled up outside Celia’s little house, but Celia made no move to get out of the car.
Finally, she stammered, “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“What happened at Beers just now was kind of . . . depressing. Talking to Lester just reminded me how few really good guys there are in the world. Lord knows my ex wasn’t one, either.”
“But Casey is.”
Celia gave her a small, shy smile. “Yeah, he is.”
George smiled back and worked hard to ignore the chill feeling that settled in her gut.
Chapter 23
“So how was your date?”
“Very funny. What’s she doing up? It’s almost midnight.”
Sera jogged Amelia in her arms as she stood in the middle of the living room. “Won’t sleep.”
“That’s kinda obvious.”
“She went down at the usual time, but—boing—bounced back up a few hours later. And here we are.”
Amelia lifted her drowsy head from Sera’s shoulder and reached over to George.
“What’s up with that?” Sera snapped. “What have you done to my daughter? Now she just wants you.”
George tossed her bag on the couch and took the droopy bundle of niece from her sister.
“What’s your secret?” Sera demanded.
“Some people actually find me quite lovable. I know you’d find that hard to believe, but it’s true.” She patted Amelia’s back gently. “For the hundred-and-first time: Have you considered the cry-it-out approach?”
“Answer one hundred and one: Yes, we have. Stubborn little thing wailed until her nose bled. We caved, and Jaz won’t ever try it again. Breaks her heart, she says.”
“Well, it proves Amelia’s a Down. She won’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. Go to bed; I’ll take care of her.”
“Oh, and
within a couple of months you’re the authority on how to get my child to sleep?”
“I have my ways.”
“Which are?”
“I read to her from my blog.”
“That I believe.”
“Go to bed, pain in my butt.”
“Not until I find out how your girls’ night went.”
George bobbed up and down slightly, swinging from side to side at the same time, to hypnotize her niece into sleeping. It never worked, but it just seemed like the thing to do, so she did it anyway. “It was fine,” she said in a low voice. “Celia’s really nice. Just like she was in school.”
“But . . . ?”
“No buts.”
“But . . . ?”
George sighed. “She’s sort of . . . boring. Just like she was in school.”
“Boring? I have never heard anyone call Celia boring. A little bland, maybe . . .”
“Yeah, that. And a little timid.”
“So that makes her a bad person?”
“Not at all. I’m just having second thoughts about foisting her on Casey.”
“Ah hah!”
“Ssh!”
In a heated whisper, Sera hissed, “I knew you were looking for an excuse.”
“I am not!”
“Okay.”
The smirk on Sera’s face really irritated George.
“I just think he needs somebody more . . . lively.”
“Why don’t you let the boy choose for himself?”
“He needs guidance.”
“He needs you to get off his case.”
“Go to bed, Sera. I’ve got this.”
“Fine. But only because I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”
“Oh, really? Who with?”
“Gallery. For an exhibition.”
“Nice.” And George was sincere. She truly was glad Sera was getting some exposure. “What gallery?”
“Um . . . the one at Casey’s farm.”
“Oh . . . ! He mentioned that a while back—converting one of the barns, right? Well, good!” she enthused, ignoring the lurch in her stomach at the mention of Casey’s name.
“So you approve?”
“You don’t need my approval.”
“Still, it’d be nice to have it.”