“He told you that?”
“No. I read it in his body language. It’s something they teach when you’re studying theater. Body language is almost as important as voice projection on stage.”
“Oh. Did you act in plays?” She was a few steps ahead of him, navigating around a sunken grate designed to catch runoff. “I glanced at your bio online, but I can’t remember if I read that or not.”
He made a wide detour. “Summer stints at Knott’s Berry Farm when I was a kid. I played all kinds of roles, including--but not limited to--a singing bear.”
“Not exactly MacBeth, but I bet it was more fun.”
“Maybe. I can’t remember.”
She stopped walking. “You can’t remember if you had fun as a kid?”
He tried to picture the kinds of things she’d call fun: playing with friends, camping, swimming in a lake, skateboarding… “My mother didn’t do recreation. My career took center stage from the time I could talk. Before, actually. I made my first commercial at six months.”
“For what?”
“For the money.”
“What were you selling?”
“Oh. Vacuum cleaners. A woman was vacuuming with a baby in her arms. Me.”
They continued walking with further comment. Since there wasn’t a sidewalk, Coop was limited by how much he could look around. He’d already fallen once in her presence and didn’t want to look like any more of a klutz.
The air temperature was as pleasant as a winter day in southern California but the pine scent definitely told him he wasn’t in L.A. anymore. That and the quiet. He could actually hear bug sounds in the trees. That was a first.
“How many people live in Sentinel Pass?”
“The sign outside of town says nine hundred and seventy-two, but I think at the last census we were over a thousand. We add a couple of new mail addresses every year, but some of those are somebody’s kid moving home or splitting off a lot for an aging grandparent or something.”
“So, you must know a lot about everyone’s business.”
She looked at him. “I try not to pay too much attention beyond what I need to know to make sure the mail gets to them. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Until you mentioned it, I hadn’t really given your job much thought. Do most people get their mail delivered to their homes or do they have postal boxes?”
“Half and half. Some do both. Some have businesses and home delivery. A few have a box in Rapid City so they can have more privacy. I figure if they need that much privacy, I don’t want to handle their mail in the first place.”
She sounded okay with that, but he had a feeling she was offended that anyone of her townsfolk wouldn’t trust her. He guessed that she took her job very seriously and wouldn’t appreciate anyone who violated her trust. That made him a little uncomfortable.
She continued. “There might have been a time when the postmaster could ascertain certain facts from mail that passed through his or her hands. Nowadays there’s just too much volume to even think about individual pieces of mail. I barely have time to read my own, let alone worry about someone else’s.”
He frowned. There went one of the ideas he’d been toying with for a story line. He hated it when reality messed with his version of life.
“Do you know everybody who lives here?”
“Pretty much. I’m usually the first to meet someone new. And, of course, I’ve lived here my whole life, so I know all the family connections.” She made an offhand gesture. “Which comes in handy when I get a letter addressed to Uncle Joe and no other information. If there’s a return address, I can usually figure out whose box to put it in.”
“Wow. That’s a skill.”
She shrugged. “I don’t always get it right, but my grandmother was uncanny. She can still remember people who have been dead for forty years. Where they lived. What they did for a living and how many kids they had.”
“She’s your town historian.”
“Was.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Her mind is still sharp…at times. But more and more often there are days when she doesn’t remember even the people closest to her.”
“Bummer.”
“I know.”
“Could I meet her?”
“Sure. I’ll take you there after I check in.”
He could hardly wait. Every good sitcom – hell, every good story – needed a wise old person. Andy Griffith had Aunt Bea. Cheers had Coach. And his would have Granny…somebody.
His speculation was interrupted when Libby stopped abruptly. “This is a good view of downtown. Four blocks, pretty much, although there’s Smiley’s Garage and a couple of other businesses on the edge of town. My building is one of the oldest. The bank, the original jail and the hotel were built first, but the hotel burned down twice.”
She continued to talk about the town’s history as they walked. Although her voice was well modulated and her delivery devoid of any hype, he read a certain amount of pride. This was home to her, and even if she knew it was an apple to Malibu’s orange, she liked it here.
He regretted leaving his camera in his bag. He hadn’t wanted to look too much like a tourist. Besides, Shane would send someone to take stills when they were further along in the process.
“Is there a coffee shop or restaurant? They don’t feed you on the plane, anymore.”
“Even in first class?”
He mumbled something about not liking the entrée because he didn’t want to admit that he’d only been able to afford economy class.
“Hmm…sure. The Tidbiscuit is open at six every morning. The Icee Hut – that brown shack-looking place with the watering trough in front – is set to open next week. Phyllis and John, the owners, are snowbirds. They spend the winter in Arizona. They make frozen mochas and things like that. If you want a Starbucks, you have to go into Rapid.”
“Regular coffee and a sandwich will do. I’m not a foodie.” Because Mom wouldn’t allow it. You’ll eat what I give you or you’ll go hungry.
She gave him a speculative look. “Do you cook?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been told I’m a danger to myself and others when I try to whip up something in the kitchen.”
They’d reached the sidewalk that fronted the stores on each side of the street. Progress was slow because they had to pause at intervals to let other pedestrians cross in and out of shops. Libby greeted everyone with a friendly singsong hello. Most appeared to notice him, but not one showed any sign of recognition.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was used to being recognized. He couldn’t walk anywhere in L.A. without having to stop and sign autographs. Here, he was just a stranger walking with Libby. People might be curious, but not a single one exclaimed over him. For possibly the first time in his life he knew what it was like to be a regular person. Normal.
“Out of the way. Out of the way. Big package coming through,” a booming voice warned.
Cooper automatically reached out and pulled Libby to one side to let the person behind them pass. The contact set off alarm bells that distracted him so much he didn’t manage to get his own body positioned safely. A solid object collided with his right kidney area.
“Umph,” he grunted as his body propelled into hers.
“I warned ya’,” the grouchy person grumbled in lieu of an apology.
“Rufus Miller,” Libby snapped, shifting away from Coop. “What’s your hurry? The lobby window doesn’t close for another ten minutes.”
The man, Rufus, who resembled a woolly mammoth from the back made an abrupt turn into an open door without answering. Overhead, swinging from two hooks, was a sign bearing the red-white-and-blue U.S. postal logo.
Libby motioned for Coop to follow. They stepped into the building that cried time warp. Pine wainscot gleamed with a soft patina from years of touch-up varnish. Posters – honest-to-goodness Wanted posters – were scattered among informational notices and advertisements for stamps. The ornate overhead light
fixture looked right out of the Long Branch Saloon.
The giant bear of a man dumped his armload of mismatched boxes on a chest-high table across from the open window, which was so quaint and old-fashioned, Coop almost smiled. Except his new ache was still throbbing. Where’s my stunt double when I need one?
“Sorry, Miss Elizabeth.” The apology came through a small gap in the man's thick beard and mustache. “Didn’t know it was you. Watcha doin’ on this side of the cage?”
Cage? Coop looked again. Sure enough, wrought-iron bars protected a double-hung window of frosted glass bearing the emblem U.S. Mail in gold-and-black lettering. He assumed the window could be lowered when the office was closed.
“This place is perfect. Quaint. Charming. Historic. I love it.”
Libby gave him a look that made him regret his exuberant outburst.
“I mean…you must love working here.”
She gave a skeptical snort. “Oh, I do, except for the fact it was built in the late eighteen-hundreds before anybody ever heard of junk mail. Today, our volume is about a zillion times what it was back then, but our space is still the same. Come Christmas, it’s a real zoo around here, isn’t it, Rufus?”
The man’s broad shoulders, clothed in a faded plaid shirt that seemed too warm for the weather and gave off a distinct odor of old sweat, rose and fell impressively. “You always get the job done, Miss E.”
The average person might have heard the name as “missy,” but Cooper knew the man was still paying his respect to a woman younger than himself that he regarded as a person of authority. Intrigued, Coop turned to watch Libby interact with the man, who could have been anywhere from forty to sixty-five.
“Thank you, Rufus. What have you got for us today? Nothing alive, I trust.”
Alive? Coop looked at her questioningly.
She shook her head and mouthed, “Later.”
A small thrill he couldn’t account for zinged through his chest and landed somewhere below his belt. Later held all sorts of connotations, and he was certain she didn’t mean the one his mind instantly jumped to, but still…they were going to have a later. He liked that.
“No, ma’am,” the giant replied. “Learned my lesson on that one. Snakes don't do well in the belly of an airplane. These here are rustic crafts I'm starting on sell on eBay. Miss Kat, over at the adult learning center, showed me how to put them up for sale. Darned if the first three didn't sell like hotcakes.”
Libby put her hand on the man’s shoulder, causing a red flush to color the small areas of skin visible between the brow of his hat and start of his beard. Cooper felt another odd twinge. One that didn’t like or approve of her touching a man who was so visibly affected by her touch.
“That’s wonderful, Rufus. I’m glad for you. And I’ll be sure to tell Kat what a great job she’s doing at the center. Give me your URL and I’ll help spread the word.”
The man’s woolly caterpillar eyebrows met above his nose. “Huh?”
“The Web address of your listing. Never mind. I’ll get it from Kat. We'll get out of your way so you can make today’s cutoff. Bye."
She motioned for Cooper to follow, then used a key she’d withdrawn from the pocket of her jeans to open a door that blended so well with the paneling he hadn’t even noticed it. She held it for him to enter first.
Two people scurried about the small, crowded square room that featured a high ceiling of pressed metal. The tall windows on two sides of the place also featured prison-like bars. An open door at the rear led to another room.
“Jenna, Clive, this is Cooper Lindstrom. He’s renting Gran’s cabin from me for a couple of weeks.”
Renting? Interesting. “Cooper, Jenna Murphy -- my PMR, as I told you earlier. And back there is Clive Brumley. He’s our---”
“HCR,” Clive hollered before Libby could complete her sentence. “That stands for Highway Contract Route.”
Cooper gave him a mock salute since the man’s tone sounded military.
“I take it Sandy’s gone for the day?” She looked at Cooper and explained, “Sandy is called a rural carrier, but she delivers to the homes and businesses around town. Clive handles everyone else.”
The pretty redhead pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose to get a better look at him. With the right makeup and wardrobe she'd be a knockout. Did he have a place for a redhead in his cast? Geekish best friend, maybe?
She took a step closer. Instead of shaking his hand as he expected, she gave him a squinty look. “Lib’s my best friend. I’ve got her back. Just wanted you to know that in case you’re planning anything funny.”
Coop held up both hands in surrender. “I promise I won’t even make her smile, let alone laugh. If that’s the way you want it.”
“Down, Cujo. We’re just passing through to see if you need any help closing. It’s been a while since I took any time off.”
Her friend shook her head but continued to watch Coop intently until a customer – Rufus, the artist backwoodsman – shoved one of his boxes through the gap below the bar. “Gonna have to unlock the door for the rest of these, Jenna Mae.”
The redhead let out a grumbling sound and walked to the door. “I told you not to call me that, Rufus. Just because you played Snidely Whiplash to my mother’s Poor Penelope Plaingood does not give you the right to use my ridiculously outdated middle name.”
Coop pulled his attention away from the exchange at the window to Libby, who had moved farther into the enclave. Two beehive-looking cubicles with wide metal desks below sat across from each other. A man about Libby’s age sat at one of the desks, hunched forward on a high stool. He didn’t look happy.
“Clive, what are you still doing here? Did your route run late today?”
Blondish hair at the beginning stage of a comb-over. Baggy jeans that exposed a gap of flesh between his blue-gray polo shirt and his belt. Tightie whities. Underwear of choice of most men in this town, no doubt.
“Nope. I was waiting to talk to you. I think I finally figured it out. I knew something was up. You’ve been all secretive lately, rushing home to your computer every day after work. But, holy heck, Libby! Online dating?” He looked at Cooper, his expression turning from concern to antipathy. “Do you how dangerous that can be? Any kind of kook or weirdo could show up at your door.”
Coop looked at Libby. Her emotions weren’t as clearly broadcast, but her sigh told him she didn’t want to deal with this roadblock.
He stepped around her. “Listen...Clive, is it? I’m sure everybody is going to have an opinion about what Libby should and shouldn’t do with her life, but when it comes down to crunch time, she’s the only one who can make that decision. She’s a smart lady, wouldn’t you agree?”
Clive’s lips puckered as if he’d eaten a sour grape. “Of course, but—”
“And as her friend and colleague, you want to see her happy, don’t you?”
“Yes, more than anything. But you don’t know her. You shouldn’t even be here. She didn’t need to go looking outside for someone to love her. I---we…all do.”
Very telling slip. A shy, unrequited lover in the picture. Perfect. Audiences love that kind of character, one part of his brain noted. Another part-–the one trained by his mother-–knew it was time to start his spiel.
He put a reassuring hand on the man’s rounded shoulder. “That’s good to know, Clive. Because if things don’t work out between me and Libby, she’s going to need that kind of support. I feel better knowing Libby can rely on you and her other friends.”
He looked at Libby. Her raised eyebrow told him he’d laid it on a little thick, but Clive heaved a big sigh and nodded. “You know I’m here for you, Lib. Don’tcha?”
She smiled her real smile. “Of course, Clive. And I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. And even though Cooper is here…we haven’t…um…we’re still getting to know each other. So, I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.”
Clive gave Cooper another once-over. H
is expression didn’t hold much hope that that was going to happen. This man would gleefully begin a smear campaign if he thought it would keep Libby from making a huge mistake. Coop realized this wasn’t a slam-dunk. He was going to have to sell himself if he wanted Libby’s consent and cooperation where his project was concerned.
“Now, if you guys are okay, I’m going to introduce Cooper to Seymour and Gran.” Her smile turned to a grin. “It’ll be interesting to see which impresses him more.”
Coop already knew the answer to that question. Granny McGannon, of course. He had an image of her in his head, and an actor in mind to play her.
---
“This is Seymour?”
The disappointment in his voice made her smile. She couldn’t help herself. Even though she’d been expecting it.
“To scale,” she said, studying the miniature replica of the gigantic dinosaur which had once roamed this region. The size of a pony, Seymour was a surreal shade of green with a white underbelly and blunt, concrete ridges along his back. These had been worn smooth by countless school children who had climbed up on him for a class photo. “I might have forgotten to mention that. Happens a lot around here.”
He fingered a spot where the concrete was showing through-–Seymour was due for a touch up-–then looked at her and burst out laughing. “I love it.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. He’s perfect.”
“For what?”
He sobered. “I mean…he seems to fit the town perfectly.”
She agreed but she wasn’t sure she liked a stranger jumping to the same conclusion after only a couple of hours in her beloved hometown. “He’s an important educational tool and a lot less maintenance than the full-size models on Dinosaur Hill in Rapid.”
He didn’t argue or ask for more information, so she continued talking, telling him the same spiel she usually gave to tour groups that called ahead asking for a docent. She was a bit surprised by the level of interest he seemed to take in Sentinel Pass. His blue eyes were as wide as some of the children who visited Seymour for the first time.
Black Hills Baby Page 7