by Jayne Denker
“See? And everybody remembers that!”
“Well, it’s kinda hard to forget, especially if you ate one of those pizzas.”
“My point is—”
“I get it.”
“It messes things up.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Look, I left Marsden so I didn’t have to drag the younger version of me all over the place like a ball and chain for the rest of my life.”
“Was it worth it?”
“I used to think so,” she stammered, keenly aware of Casey’s hands traveling up and down her arms, lightly, raising goose bumps. Ha. Goose bumps. Oh God.
“What about now?”
“This place makes me miss being . . . known. And not in a famous kind of way.” George closed her eyes for a moment, just focusing on the lazy movement of Casey’s hands on her skin. Then she opened them again and looked at him squarely. “You said you know me.”
“Better than you’d ever admit.”
“I didn’t see that as a good thing. But—”
“You feel differently now?”
“I think you know.”
“Goose, don’t be afraid of this place. People knowing you really well . . . that’s a good thing. Sure, they remember all your mistakes. But they also remember all your achievements, all your acts of kindness, all your good moments. How cute you were as a baby.”
He chucked her under the chin as though she were that baby. She just smirked. “Don’t muddy the waters with sentimental crap like that.”
“And you should be able to be whoever you want, no matter where you live. Even here. Sera did. So did Darryl.”
“Some people can’t. Celia, for one.”
“Celia?”
“She—well, it’s her business to tell you her news, not mine.”
“Really? Wow, that’s different—letting someone share their own news. Around here, it seems people are more than willing to speak for others. And I think somebody was doing that—speaking for me—with the e-mail.”
“Who sent it, Casey?”
“I don’t know. But I’m grateful. Because they said what I would have, anyway.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The message said . . . something else.”
“Which was—?”
“That you loved me.”
“Mm,” was his neutral reply, although he was smiling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They got it right.”
“Really?” she breathed as he slid his arms around her waist.
“Mm.”
“That all you got?”
He kissed her, a tiny peck that still sent tingles all the way to her toes. “Are you going to stay this time?”
“Looks like I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m choosing Mars, then.”
“It hasn’t been Mars since I ripped those letters off the sign.”
“It’ll always be Mars to me.”
Casey pulled her tighter, and George melted into him. Now she didn’t have any reservations. There was nothing inside her urging her to run. Finally, all she wanted to do was stay. Casey kissed her again, deeply this time, and she realized she just couldn’t get close enough to him to satisfy her. He ran a finger down the underside of her arm until she laughed and squirmed. He kissed her neck and the hollow of her throat.
“Is it hot in here?” she whispered, breathless.
He chuckled and drew her back from the fire. “Better now?”
“Nope, still hot. Way, way hot.”
Casey drew her down onto the nearest sofa. “Afraid I can’t help you, then. Might as well go with it.”
He pulled her close, kissing her cheeks, her temple, her brow, as he twined his fingers in her hair. George was astounded. Casey. Casey Bowen was really and truly hers. Then all coherent thought deserted her as his lips met hers again. His hands roamed over her body, one caressing her back, the other snaking up her thigh.
“Such a pretty dress,” he murmured, pulling back a bit so he could look her up and down. “Shame if it got all wrinkled. Maybe we should . . .” And in one swift move, he untied the bow at the back of her neck.
She caught the two strips of fabric before they fell. “Casey Arthur Bowen! And you with a house full of caterers and a mess of guests in the barn.”
He sighed. “You’re absolutely right.”
George’s heart dropped as he stood up and crossed to the doors. Her and her big mouth. She sighed and started to tie her dress back together, then she looked up. Casey closed the double doors and pushed the vertical deadbolt up into the frame. He came back to the sofa, sat down, and drew her into his lap. “Now. Where were we?”
She smiled as her hand wandered down his chest. “Right about . . . here?”
He drew in a breath. “Seems about right.” He kissed her again, and again, and again, deeper each time, his hands grasping her hips.
George unbuttoned his shirt, slowly but deliberately. “You’re not going to walk away this time, are you, Bowen?”
“Not a chance, Goose. You?”
She shook her head, concentrating on the task at hand, which had gone from unbuttoning his shirt to undoing his belt buckle.
“So,” he whispered, “missed that whole virginity train, huh?”
“You had your chance.”
“I accept full responsibility for screwing up.”
She leaned into him, kissed him, drew her tongue along his, then down his neck and into his open collar.
His breath ragged, he muttered, “Of course, virginity’s overrated.”
The party was in full swing by the time George and Casey made it back to the barn, a bit disheveled, but far happier than either one had been in a long time. Casey caught George’s arm just before they walked up to the door—which was still closed.
“What?” she whispered, turning to him.
He smiled, said nothing, reached behind her, and pulled the hem of her dress out of her underwear.
“Good grief,” she muttered.
“I’m pretty sure somebody would have noticed that.”
“And mass texted a photo of it?”
“Most likely.” He stared at the closed door. “Gee, I sure feel welcome at my own party.”
“They wanted to make sure we spent some time together.”
“Well, we did that.”
George felt herself redden, but Casey held her and kissed her until she wasn’t embarrassed anymore. He wanted her. She wanted him. This would work. It was—dare she think it?—perfect.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I love you, Goose.”
“I love you too.” And she didn’t even mind him calling her Goose. Now she liked it. A lot.
He kissed her again, for a good long time. When she drew her head back, she spotted at least three people with their heads mashed up against the nearest window, staring at them. “Goddammit!”
“Ignore them.”
“That’s a little difficult—” Casey kissed her again. “Oh. That’ll work.”
Then the door opened and light poured outside, making the two of them squint as they turned toward the barn.
“You gonna stand out there all night?” Sera demanded.
George and Casey sighed heavily. But they were both smiling.
“Ready to face the music?” he asked, touching his forehead to hers.
“Might as well.”
Arms around each other, they walked through the door, past Sera . . . and into a sea of blue.
“Um, what—?” George started. She looked at Casey for an answer, who seemed just as bewildered as she was.
Everyone in the room was wearing a Team George T-shirt over their dresses and dress shirts. Celia was in the center of the group, clasping her hands in front of her and beaming.
“Now, which one of these meddlers wrote that e-mail?
” Casey said to George.
“Only one way to find out. All right, you vultures,” she demanded in a loud voice, “which one of you sent that e-mail to my blog? Er, the one from ‘Feeling Down,’ not the other ones,” she hastened to add.
No one moved for a moment. Then, slowly, Sera pointed at Jaz. Jaz pointed at Celia. Celia pointed at Darryl, who pointed at Jill, who pointed at Nestor. Nestor pointed at Nate, who pointed at Charlie Junior, who pointed at his wife. Pretty soon everyone’s fingers were pointing in one direction or another, hardly any of them at the same person, and none at Casey. Well, almost everyone’s. Ray just scowled and crossed his arms. But Mrs. Preston pointed at him. He flushed and looked away, but he didn’t deny it, although it seemed he was wearing his Team George shirt under duress. From the smug look on Celia’s face, it was apparent who was the ringleader—and probable letter writer.
“Well, that explains a lot,” Casey murmured.
“They’re never going to leave us alone, are they?”
“Marry one person, you marry the whole town,” Henry, hardware store fossil, called out.
“Okay, that’s more than a little creepy,” George said. “And—hold on—who said anything about—”
“When’s the wedding?” Mrs. P shouted, her strident voice revealing she was unable to contain herself a moment longer.
“Can’t you let us go at our own pace?” George pleaded.
She was nearly knocked over by the collective shout of “No!”
Chapter 29
The pumpkin farm was running so well, thanks to Casey’s crew of dedicated workers, that he felt comfortable enough to take a break two weeks later to escort George to the most important football game of the season: Marsden High vs. Whalen Central. He knew she’d never been much of a football fan, but everybody in town, including George, felt the town rivalry in their bones. So she was on the bleachers next to him, a plaid blanket over her lap, screaming right along with the rest of the crowd. He couldn’t help smiling. He’d been doing a lot of that lately.
George glanced over at him. “What? Is my hair sticking up or something?”
The breeze was indeed lifting a strand or two from time to time, but artfully; it just made her all the more beautiful. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes bright . . . and this gorgeous woman loved him. He couldn’t get over it sometimes. And when he realized it, he ended up staring. And smiling.
“Keep that up, Bowen, and they’re gonna cart you off to the loony bin.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Are you even watching the game?”
There was a tweet of the ref’s whistle, and everyone around them stood up. “It’s halftime.” He grabbed her hand. “Time to go.”
“What, and miss the marching band?”
“It’s twelve kids. Six drums, two trumpets, and four flutes. You want to subject yourself to that?”
“But I heard they got the Richmond kid on the tuba. That could be interesting. It’s bigger than he is.”
He stood in front of her and tugged. “We have a job to do. Did you tell Sera?”
“It took some doing to convince her.” She finally stood up. Casey took the blanket from her, threw it over his shoulder, and followed her along the row and down the steps.
“But she’s coming, right?”
“She is. She’ll meet us in the parking lot.”
At the bottom of the steps, Casey threw his arm over George’s shoulders, and she nestled into him. A warm feeling spread through his chest. There was something to be said for having plans for today, and the next day, and next week, and next year. He knew better than to freak her out by getting down on one knee right now, but he knew what he wanted. Hell, he’d always known, but now he was finally being honest with himself about it. Now he’d sorted everything out, and he and Georgiana Down were finally in the same place—geographically, and in their hearts. In each other’s hearts. He liked that a lot.
They passed through the opening in the chain-link fence that surrounded the football field and headed across the parking lot, then George put a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Hey,” she said, staring off toward the school. “What’s going on there?”
It took him a minute, but finally he focused on what she was looking at: a very thin figure in a black jacket and knit cap, in an alcove of the building. Spray painting.
“Is that—?”
“Marsdy,” she whispered excitedly. “Come on—I want to catch this guy once and for all.”
They hurried around the perimeter of the lot to come up behind the street artist. But when they got closer, Casey squeezed George’s shoulder and stopped walking. “Wait,” he murmured. “Look.”
They peered around a corner. Marsdy was putting the finishing touches on his latest painting, a person on bended knee, a stylized heart in his hands, held up like an offering. Then Marsdy turned, and another person walked up.
“That’s Tyson,” Casey whispered.
“Who?”
“Remember I told you a while back—the prom king?”
“He’s Marsdy?”
“No, he’s the one who just walked over.”
As they watched, Marsdy got down on one knee alongside his painting, as though making it three-dimensional, and pulled off his ski cap. Casey started to laugh softly.
“What?” George demanded. Then, “Hey! That’s a girl!”
“That,” Casey said with a satisfied grin, “is Madison. Our prom queen.”
“She’s Marsdy?”
“And it looks like she’s been doing it all for Tyson.”
As George and Casey watched, Madison held up her hands, and it looked like the painted heart was in her palms. Tyson pulled her to her feet and kissed her.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” George breathed.
“I think maybe this town finally has a new love story to focus on.”
“What’s going on?”
Casey and George jumped a mile; Sera had come up behind them.
“Hey, is that that Marsdy person? Should we call the cops?”
“No,” George said with a conspiratorial smile at Casey. “Leave them alone. Besides, it’s not vandalism; it’s street art.”
“And speaking of street art, you’d better come with us,” Casey added, leading the sisters back across the parking lot.
“This had better be good,” Sera growled, climbing into Casey’s truck. “I’ve got work to do.”
“So. That ad on my blog is working pretty well, then?” George grinned at her from the front seat. To illustrate the power of the Internet to her skeptical sister, she’d donated some prominent ad space on her blog to show off her sister’s pottery, and business had tripled. Sera was up to her eyeballs in orders, but she wasn’t complaining.
“The ad, and the space at Casey’s. I’ve sold almost everything in the exhibition to the tourists. Pottery and pumpkins—who’d have thought? Now, where are we going?”
“Just have to make one stop first,” Casey said, heading for Main Street.
“I feel like I’m being kidnapped.”
“You’re coming along willingly, so I don’t think you have a case,” her sister said.
“‘Willingly’ is a relative term.”
Casey pulled up at the corner closest to Nora’s diner, and George rolled down her window. “Hey, Darryl, hop in.”
“Oh my God,” Sera cried. “Nope. Nope. Let me out right now. I am not going to be party to—”
“Shut up and move over,” Darryl ordered, squeezing into the backseat beside her. “We’re doing this for Casey and George. They’re together, we’re going to have to spend a whole heck of a lot of time together too. If I can get over it, you can.”
Sera addressed Casey as they started down the street again. “What are you going to do, lock us in Lester Biggs’s hunting cabin until we settle our differences? Or till one of us is dead?”
“Don’t think that hadn’t crossed my mind,” Casey shot back, but good-naturedly. “No
, the two of you are going to help me and George with a little job.”
“Is it illegal?” Darryl asked, a bit hopefully.
“Maybe.” Casey winked at George. “Nothing like a little criminal activity to encourage some solid bonding.”
“Oh, cripes,” Sera muttered. “I’m not going to jail. I have a daughter. If we get arrested, I’m testifying against you so I can be granted immunity.”
“Nice solidarity you’ve got working there,” Darryl groused. “Feels familiar.”
“What are you implying, Sykes?”
“Oh, I dunno. Only that you sell out your friends at the drop of a hat, maybe?”
“I did not sell you out!”
“You outed me!”
“You said you were ready!”
“I only said that! I didn’t mean it!”
“Aaand we’re off,” Casey murmured.
“You sure this is going to work?” George whispered.
“Nope.”
Casey continued on their way out of town, the two former best friends rehashing old arguments all the way. They hadn’t reached any sort of truce when he pulled over onto the side of the road.
“We’re here.”
Darryl and Sera stopped arguing.
“The town line?” Sera said. “What for?”
George picked up some tools from the floor of the cab, handed a couple of screwdrivers and putty knives to her sister and friend in the backseat. “Let’s go.” To Casey, she said, “You might want to keep the truck running.”
“Oh yeah. Fast getaway. Good thinking.”
He leaned over and kissed her before they got out of the truck, and Sera grunted. “Illegal activity gets you all hot, huh? You are a couple of sick kids, you know that?”
The four of them piled out of the truck, and Casey gestured grandly toward the “Welcome to Marsden” sign. “Let’s do this. For old time’s sake.”
“You operated alone last time, dude,” Darryl pointed out.
“It’s always more fun with friends. Now get vandalizing.”
George acted as lookout while the other three pried off the now familiar last three letters of the sign. The road remained empty, except for Burt Womack, chugging along at a glacial pace, eyes fixed on the road intently, not willing to split his attention to check out what the vandals were up to, bless him.