I giggled a little; I knew he and Mathias talked frequently. I said, “Yes, they’re like bunnies.”
“I never saw two people so happy,” he said, smiling a little at my words. “So I’m glad for them.”
“Me too,” I admitted. A strand of hair came sliding down the side of my face. I tucked it back behind my ear but it wouldn’t stay put. Case’s eyes followed the movement of my hand as I messed with it again.
“There’s something…” he said, and all breath snagged in my chest as he reached and used the tips of his fingers to carefully extract something from my hair. He explained, “I think you had a piece of tumbleweed,” showing me the wiry little stick. He set it on top of the counter. He had inadvertently tugged free another piece of hair from the clip at the back of my head, and I felt disheveled and sloppy.
“Thanks,” I said, simultaneously tucking both strands behind my ears. My face was about a hundred degrees.
“Well, I better get back to work,” he said then. Somehow we had ended up much closer than we’d been when he first came into the office.
“It was good to see you,” I told him, surprised at how much I meant this. “Will I see you around?” I hurried to explain, “I mean, to talk about Capital Overland, and all of that…”
“Friday,” he said, heading for the door. “Gus and I always eat dinner at the Rawleys’ on Fridays.”
But before I could reply he was already back outside, the bell tingling as the door closed. I sank slowly to my desk chair and watched as he climbed into a well-used maroon-red truck and drove away, east along the dusty street.
I turned at once to my computer and typed his name into Google, reflecting that the amount of personal material available online was shockingly terrifying, though at the moment I was enormously grateful for the capability. Ignoring my work for the moment, I scrolled through hit after hit, glutting on the info dump at my fingertips.
In a short order I discovered that his full name was Charles Shea Spicer. I cupped my chin in one palm, staring out the window at the sun-drenched street, and wondered how ‘Case’ had come from that. Born December fifth, 1983, to Owen and Melinda Spicer. He’d mentioned that his father had passed relatively recently, but my heart clenched to realize his mother had been gone much longer, dying back in 1991. His dad, Owen, had never remarried.
He must have loved her too much to find someone new, I thought, painfully, and continued scrolling, even more intently, addict-like.
Case was something of a local celebrity; there were dozens of articles featuring him singing, songwriting, performing in area festivals. I clicked on photo after photo, some professional-grade, taken for a newspaper, and others informal, clearly posted by friends. In many, he was both singing and posing with Garth and Marshall Rawley.
He is really good-looking, I acknowledged, almost unwittingly. He looked so utterly at home on stage, in complete enjoyment, grinning widely in some shots, cradling his instruments (clearly he favored the guitar and the fiddle), eyes closed with concentration in others.
This is what he was doing all those years you never gave him a thought, I realized. Out here living his life. So what’s he do now? Surely he can’t make a living performing on weekends.
Manages an instrument repair shop, I discerned minutes later. Spicer Music, which I had seen just this morning, a few blocks from where I was sitting right now. Lessons offered.
A woman with shiny, shoulder-length brown hair and very large breasts kept appearing in pictures with him, and I assumed, pursing up my lips in judgment (Did she really feel the need to wear shirts that tight on such a regular basis? That much cleavage is tacky anywhere outside of Las Vegas, doesn’t she realize?), that this was his ex-wife. Then I found a Facebook picture in which she was tagged and realized this was indeed Lynnette ‘Cleary’ Spicer. Case didn’t seem to have his own Facebook page, though he was tagged by name in dozens of images.
Aren’t they divorced? Why does she still have his last name?
When the bell on the door tingled again I jumped about a foot, instantly closing the search screen, as though I’d been surfing for porn. Al held the door for Mary as they entered.
“Hello, Patty!” she said cheerfully. Again, I didn’t bother to correct her regarding my name; if that’s what she felt like calling me, I supposed she had a right.
“Holding down the fort all right?” asked Al, giving me an indulgent wink that acknowledged Mary’s misuse of my name.
“No fires or famines,” I assured him. “I’ve got quite a pile of notes here. And Case Spicer dropped this off about a half hour ago.”
“Oh, great, thanks,” Al said, collecting the envelope from my hand. He asked, “Did you get out for lunch?”
“I brought a sandwich,” I told him. “I’ve been busy. I usually eat on the go.”
Mary disappeared into the employee bathroom and Al ducked behind his own desk. He said, “I’ve got a second hearing, over at the courthouse at two-thirty. If you’d like to accompany me?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I responded.
Al and I spent the afternoon in the county courthouse, an old brick building on the east side of a well-groomed town square. I refastened my hair and made sure that my jacket was buttoned properly into place before we met with the client, a man in the midst of a custody battle over his two children. I observed more than anything, letting Al do the talking; he was a soft-spoken man but he meant business before a judge, I could clearly discern. The hearing was relatively brief, over before three-thirty, and we walked together across the town square in the afternoon sunshine, back towards Main Street. Al favored walking; I was reminded of Landon, where people walked everywhere. It was only a few blocks to all the downtown businesses here too.
“Tish, you’ve worked hard today,” Al said. “Why don’t you beg off early?”
I was on high alert as we strolled along, taking especial notice of people; was that a part of me hoping to catch a glimpse of Case? I realized that my eye had been caught twice now by maroon-colored vehicles, and mentally slapped the back of my own head.
Stop it, I told myself.
In the courthouse, Al had introduced me to a number of people, including the city clerk and the mayor, both of whose names appeared on my mental Unsold list. Many others offered greetings as we walked, prompting Al to introduce me as his newest associate. We had only a block to go before reaching the law office when a voice behind us said, “Mr. Howe, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Al and I turned at the same moment. Immediately I was aware of a big white smile and shiny-dark hair. I found myself thinking that I could very nearly see my own reflection in his teeth as a tall man approached us, suit jacket slung casually over his right shoulder.
“Derrick Yancy,” he said in a cultured voice that spoke of educated, privileged pleasantry, though I had already recognized him from his picture. A chill surged across my gut. He stopped just a hair too close to us and I refrained from the instant urge to lean slightly backward from him. Instead I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely.
“Patricia Gordon,” I returned, offering my hand and shaking his firmly.
His eyes held a hint of suggestion, calculated as I could clearly tell, before he said, “It is indeed a pleasure. I asked Albert here when you would be arriving, just last week. I understand you represent Turnbull and Hinckley’s interests here in Jalesville?”
Not exactly, though he wasn’t about to get that out of me. I said lightly, “At this moment, I represent Howe and James.”
“You’re not planning a long-term residence here though, isn’t that correct?” he continued.
Al said mildly, “Derrick, you know well that my associate is only here for the summer,” though his tone casually implied, Quit wasting our time.
“I’ll settle in Chicago, this autumn,” I answered, not about to be intimidated by him.
“Myself, as well,” Derrick replied. “I look forward to bumping into you in the city.”
/> “You may not as much as you think,” I said, with not so much as a hint of challenge in my tone. I could not, however, repress a flare of anger in my eyes. Here was the man attempting to destroy this town, a place he cared nothing for; it was a matter of capital for him, money and more money. Capital Overland, taking over land for capital. Their name was an apt descriptor.
He flashed his teeth again, openly amused by me now.
Al said, “Good-day.”
“Oh, to you as well,” Derrick said, tipping his head to the side and studying my face intently, the kind of look that was meant to induce obedience, the kind of look you might give a dog you were training.
I repressed the urge to drive my shoulder into his as I walked past him.
Back at Howe and James, Al said, “Yancy believes he has the upper hand, as you can see. Spoiled little bastard. He’s staying over in Miles City, at some fancy hotel. Tish, don’t let him get to you.”
“I won’t,” I replied, with more assurance than I felt. I was all sweaty again, this time with outright discomfort, and shed my jacket once more. I told Al, “I think I might take off a little early, if that’s all right with you.”
It was approaching four anyway, and Mary had already left for the day. Al said at once, “Of course, you go on. You’ve had a productive first day, and I appreciate it.”
“See you tomorrow,” I told him, and collected my purse.
Driving up to the single stoplight on Main a minute later, I suddenly realized, from a block away, that I was approaching the back bumper of Case Spicer’s big, rusty-red truck. A burst of tension squared my shoulders and caused even more sweat to form on my temples, along the back of my neck; in light of how I had Googled him this afternoon I felt more like a spy than ever, and tried to sink lower into my seat.
There’s no way he could know your car. He doesn’t realize you’re behind him, jeez, Tish.
I eased to a stop a good ten feet away, unobtrusively scrunching lower into my seat. My driver’s side window was rolled down to allow in any cool air that felt like drifting into my scorching vehicle, and I could hear country music emanating from Case’s truck; I recognized the Eli Young Band, and I peeked cautiously at the back window before me. He was wearing a cowboy hat and seemed to be messing with the radio, his left hand hanging from the top of the steering wheel as he leaned towards the middle of the dashboard.
My throat felt a little tight and I looked instantly away, my gaze flickering to the tailgate. A grudging smile tugged at my lips then as I observed the detailing present there: the top edge of a black horse, scrawled as though in mid-stride, leaping over an acoustic guitar; beneath these images were the words Gotta Ride, Gotta Play.
So he’s cool. So what?
“Tish! Hey there!” I heard to the left and my attention snapped that direction to see Wy Rawley emerging from the little hardware store, backpack slung over his shoulder, probably just getting done with work. He waved energetically at me, stepping out into the street and jogging towards my car, which could only happen in a town as tiny as Jalesville. Or Landon.
In front of me, in his truck, Case straightened as though jabbed in the side.
“Hey, Case!” Wy called to him, such a friendly little shit. “How’s it going?”
“Wy, you’re gonna get run over!” I scolded as he reached me, my face flushing as hotly as though I’d been caught peeping into Case’s bedroom window.
“Are you coming for dinner Friday?” Wy asked, leaning a hip on my car.
“I sure am,” I said to him. I really liked the kid, but I was flustered as hell right now and not up to conversation. The light turned green and I indicated with my left hand. Though I couldn’t move unless Case drove forward, and at present he wasn’t moving an inch, turned as though to peer over his shoulder at Wy and me.
To my consternation, Wy reached in the window and honked my horn, holding it down for extra emphasis.
“Hey!” I squeaked, horrified. I wanted to simultaneously yell that I hadn’t done that and sink right through the ground.
In front of us, Case lifted his right arm as though in a wave and then drove away. I sat there with my foot still on the brake, all hot and irritated.
Wy said amiably, “See you Friday then!”
“Friday,” I agreed as he headed back to the sidewalk, before turning left and out to Stone Creek.
***
I liked my little apartment. It was lit cheerfully by the late-afternoon sun as I stepped inside and I turned in a slow circle after I’d shut the door, indulging in a space that was completely my own. No roommates, no sisters, no parents. Just me. To illustrate the freedom of this, I tossed my keys onto the floor, kicked out of my heels and tugged the clip from my hair, shaking out its length. Then I clicked on the radio on the otherwise mostly-bare kitchen counter, still tuned to the country station I’d found yesterday, cranking it loud.
And in the next second I was debating who I could call to alleviate my loneliness. I ran through the list of my family; Camille would be serving supper for six (seven, counting the baby). Ruthie and Mom would be out on the lake probably as it was a summer afternoon; likewise with Aunt Jilly. I could no doubt drive out to the Rawleys’ place, certain that they would welcome me, but I felt a little silly imposing upon them like that, especially since they’d hosted me Saturday night and would again on Friday. I had no real desire to talk to Grace or Ina, or my dad. And I had no friends in Jalesville as of yet.
Maybe I need a pet, I reflected, slipping out onto my porch and taking a seat on my single lawn chair, bracing my bare feet on the railing. I shaded my eyes against the low-lying glare of the slowly-setting sun, catching the scent of grilling meat from someone’s nearby apartment. My stomach growled in hunger and I was going to have to face cooking something for myself, sooner or later. I closed my eyes then, at last letting myself focus on the thoughts that had been clamoring for attention in my mind since noon today.
So…what’s Case doing right now?
Does he play somewhere tonight?
He said he can’t live without playing guitar.
Maybe he’s at the Rawleys’ house, right now.
My heart fluttered even harder at this thought. I knew that Case and his brother Gus were like family to the Rawleys. Maybe he had stopped over there for some reason, this very evening. He said he ate dinner there on Fridays.
But that’s four days from now.
Maybe he’s there, maybe right now…
I was holding my phone in my right hand almost before I realized I had moved. I swiped through my contacts, finding the one for Clark, pressing the icon to call his house before I could second-guess myself. Clark answered on the second ring, asking, “So how was your first day?”
My heart was thrashing around, but I kept my voice calm as I replied, “Good, it was actually really productive.”
“Good, good,” Clark said. “Have you had a chance to go shopping? For food, I mean. Camille warned me that you aren’t good about cooking for yourself.”
Bless my big-mouthed big sister. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to cook; I thought for a moment about summers past, at the café, begging Blythe and Rich to let me help them on the line. I just hated cooking for only me. I admitted, “She’s right on that count.”
“Why don’t you stop out for a bite, hon?” Clark went on. “I have a couple of chickens baking. Wy said he saw you this afternoon, and I told him he ought to have invited you for supper right then.”
“You’re so nice,” I told Clark. I wanted to beg, Will Case be there? I know he lives close by…
As though reading my mind, Clark said, “Thank you kindly. Case said he saw you today too. He came by on his way home. Just left.”
Just left?
No…
“He did?” I asked, hoping for any additional snippets of information. My voice sounded suspiciously reedy and thin, but Clark didn’t know me quite well enough to perceive that this meant I was all jacked up.
&nbs
p; “Wanted to see if Marsh was able to play drums on Thursday night,” Clark said. “Lee Heller asked the boys if they would play at The Spoke, as it’s been a while. It’ll be a good show. I meant to ask you to join us there.”
“I will plan on it,” I said, feeling a surge of anticipation spiral outwards from my belly.
“And how about some baked chicken in about an hour?”
Clark was such a dear. I said, “Count me in.”
Chapter Five
Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a blur. By Thursday morning, I had established a tentative routine – up at seven to shower and dress, grab a slice of banana bread from the incredible supply that Mary had gifted me with, toting my empty coffee cup along to the office, where a large pot was perked every morning, again courtesy of Mary. Maybe I drove a little too slowly past Spicer Music on my way to work. Possibly I kept watch for big maroon trucks. If my back was turned when the bell above the office door tingled, my heart became a firecracker in my chest.
Despite everything, I had not set eyes on Case since Monday. Since Monday when I’d been behind his truck at the stoplight. I was far too chicken to walk down the street to his music repair shop. But I thought about doing so almost constantly. Meanwhile, I drafted legal documents as directed by Al, made phone calls to families who had not yet sold to Capital Overland, encouraging them to come to the informational meeting next Tuesday. According to Al, not all of the sales were yet final, and he tasked me with contacting these folks as well. By the second day of phone calls, people were referring to me by name, even before I’d introduced myself.
“You’re that new lawyer of Al’s,” I heard more than once. It seemed my presence was feeding the grapevine pretty well.
“I am, thank you,” I responded crisply.
One woman said, “You’re the one taking over for Al, aren’t you? When he retires?”
“No,” I was quick to inform her. “I’m only here for the summer.”
The First Law of Love Page 7