The sheriff. Evan said it like it was nothing, like he was describing the color of Logan’s dad’s car, or his height—not like he knew this man had the power to throw people in jail and keep them there.
Evan gestured toward Logan and Caroline and winced. “That’s gotta hurt.”
Caroline was spinning in rapid circles as Logan did strange contortions with his arm.
Maybe, Alma thought, they were all so used to being around powerful people that they didn’t even notice it anymore. Maybe they never had.
“Come back here, Alma!” Mary Catherine called from the back of the boat. “I can’t hear what y’all are saying and I’m lonely.”
Alma glanced at Evan and shrugged. She made her way back and settled into a bucket seat next to Mary Catherine.
Alma wasn’t sure how to make conversation with Mary Catherine. She seemed so unapproachable—this girl who wore a bikini confidently, like she was hanging in comfy sweats. But within moments, it became clear that Mary Catherine—or M.C., as Evan called her—was not your typical Southern belle.
“So, when did you and Evan start hooking up?” she asked.
For starters, she was excruciatingly blunt.
“Uh, we’re just sort of friends,” Alma replied, shrugging.
“Alma, honey,” she said, “I’ve known that boy forever, and the way he looks at you, he doesn’t wanna be your friend.”
M.C. let out a deep, bellowing howl that sounded like it should come from a balding white guy with a beer gut. Alma was so surprised by M.C.’s laugh that she forgot to be embarrassed.
“OK.” Alma shrugged. “Maybe we’re not exactly friends. But we’re not hooking up.”
“Makes sense,” Mary Catherine responded, sort of talking to herself. “Evan doesn’t really hook up. Plus, I would have known.”
Confused and desperate to change the subject, Alma asked, “So how did you two meet?”
“Meet?” M.C. asked. “We’ve been neighbors for as long as either of us can remember. I mean, we used to play doctor together! I was the doctor. I always made Evan be the nurse.”
Mary Catherine bellowed again.
“So when you and Evan do hook up,” she said, “you can thank me for his gentle, nurturing touch.”
Now Alma was blushing.
“You mean, you and Evan were, uh…”
“Together? Lord, no. He’s like a baby brother to me, Alma. I think I went through puberty something like four years before he did.”
Alma and Mary Catherine turned to look at Evan, his perfectly toned arms casually gripping the steering wheel, his broad shoulders gleaming in the sun.
“My baby’s all grown up,” Mary Catherine continued. “Now, he’s what my grandmomma calls a ‘tall drink of water.’”
They both laughed, catching Evan’s attention.
“What are you ladies talking about back there?” he asked.
“Nothing that concerns you, Ev, sweetheart,” Mary Catherine replied. “You just drive the boat.”
“Not unless Alma gets back up here to finish her driving lesson,” Evan said, reaching his arm out toward her.
Mary Catherine laughed and nudged her out of the seat.
“You heard him,” she called out. “You better get on up there, darlin’, because I’m sure as hell not driving.”
Alma closed her eyes and stood up slowly, her head spinning and her legs quivering.
He took her hand and pulled her body back toward the wheel, and she realized, finally, the meaning of the word “swoon.”
* * *
When they pulled up to the dock, it was already dusk. The other boats were tied securely, and everyone else was getting ready to leave for a free concert on the square—some country band Alma had never heard of. She and Evan started to gather towels and drinks from the floor of the boat, but M.C., Logan, and Caroline just jumped out and began making their way toward the house.
“Hey!” Evan called out. “Thanks for all your help cleaning up. I really appreciate it!”
“Come on, man! We already missed the opening act,” Logan replied. “We’ll clean up later.”
“I’ll catch up to you there,” Evan said, glancing at the empty cans and plates of half-eaten food scattered around the dock. “My mom will kill me if we leave her dock looking like this.”
As they watched everyone else head up the hill, Evan sighed. “My friends are useless.”
Alma figured it was best not to comment on his accurate observation.
“Alma, I know it’s getting late, but can you help me get the boat out of the water before I take you home? It’s a pain to do alone.”
“Just show me what to do,” she said.
They worked quietly to clean the dock and hose down the boat. Evan hoisted it into the boathouse while Alma held the bow steady.
“I think this boathouse is bigger than my house,” Alma said as they watched the boat rise.
“Yeah, there’s sort of a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mentality when it comes to boathouses—the bigger, the better.”
“I’d say that’s a general principle around here, wouldn’t you?” asked Alma. “I mean, have you noticed the massive SUVs?”
Evan laughed heartily. “You mean, like the two in our driveway? Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
They both glanced around the dock, looking for something else to do.
“I guess we’re done,” Evan said.
Alma didn’t want to be finished. She wasn’t ready for it to end.
“So, do you want to see the upstairs?” Evan asked.
Apparently, he wasn’t ready either.
They walked up a wooden staircase to the second floor of the boathouse. Evan casually flipped a switch to reveal a screened porch encircled with twinkling white lights. He pushed the door open with one hand and lightly touched Alma’s waist with the other, guiding her through. The porch was huge, with cushy lounge chairs and tables arranged in groups. Evan led her in the direction of a bed-like lounger, and Alma felt her hands begin to tremble. What, exactly, was he expecting from her?
“Evan,” she said tentatively. She wasn’t sure she could handle getting horizontal with him. She could barely manage to keep breathing when his hand touched hers.
He turned to look at her, grinning, and then leapt onto the lounge chair.
“See that trap door?” he asked, standing on the lounger and pointing his finger to the ceiling. “That takes us to my favorite spot. It was sort of my floating tree house when I was a kid.”
Relieved that she would have a bit more time to pull herself together, Alma felt the tension release from her shoulders. She hopped onto the lounge chair.
“Just pull the cord,” he said.
The trap door released easily, bringing with it a sturdy rope ladder. Touching the small of her back, he gently nudged her up the ladder and onto the roof. She emerged—breathless again—into a small alcove, surrounded by fragrant flowering vines overflowing from huge terra-cotta pots. The alcove had a panoramic view of the lake, rolling gently under the evening sky.
Evan stood next to her, so close that she could feel his arm warm against hers. They both looked out across the lake, saying nothing. It felt right just to be quiet next to him, feeling her heart beat strong, watching the darkening sky.
“Do you want to sit down?” Evan asked, breaking the long silence.
“Sure,” she said, quietly.
He reached into a wooden bin, pulled out two towels, and spread them onto the roof of the boathouse.
* * *
Evan watched Alma lie down on a towel and look up at the sky. It was getting late, and Evan knew that he was supposed to take her home, but they were finally alone and he didn’t want it to end.
“Thanks for coming today,” Evan said, lying next to her but not close enough to touch her. “I’m still sort of mad at my mom, and my friends can be total idiots, but, uh, well … it was great to hang out with you.”
He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but he d
idn’t.
“I had a great time,” she said. “I mean, sort of. At least, I had a great time with you.”
“Me, too,” he said. It was so quiet that he could hear the water lapping against the dock.
“And I’m the one who owes you thanks,” she said. “You rescued me when I arrived at the party—where I knew exactly one person—wearing your mom’s skimpy bikini.”
Evan turned onto his side and propped his head into his hand.
“So, Alma, I guess I have a confession to make about that,” he said, looking directly at her. He couldn’t believe he was about to tell her this, but it seemed right. “As soon as I saw your face, I knew that you felt, uh, naked.”
“For good reason!” Alma broke in, sitting up. “I mean, does your mom actually wear this thing?”
Evan shrugged. He didn’t want to think about that. Ever.
“So, what’s the big confession?” she asked, turning to face him directly.
“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he said, tracing his finger along the edge of the towel, “is that when I saw you in that doorway, looking so … so amazingly beautiful. I mean, your body, Alma. Uh, it’s not exactly what you’d expect to find under the baggy shirts and cutoff jeans.”
Alma wrapped the towel tighter around her. Evan’s heart started to beat fast. He didn’t want to screw this up.
“I didn’t want anyone else to see it—to see you. I wanted to cover you.” He felt a flush rise to his cheeks as his gaze fell to the floor. “I think maybe it was some weird jealousy or protectiveness, maybe.”
Evan looked up and his eyes met hers. The words tumbled out.
“I don’t know. I’m sounding so old-fashioned. It’s not that I have a problem with bikinis or anything. I mean I’ve never even thought about it. But you just—I mean, I just, uh, I just couldn’t take them looking at you.”
Christ almighty. He was mangling this. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“Were you embarrassed of me?” Alma asked.
“No, Alma, not embarrassed. In awe.”
Evan forced his eyes to meet Alma’s.
“Did you want to see me? To look at me like that?”
“I could have stared at you for hours,” Evan replied, with a strong, steady voice that he didn’t even know he had.
* * *
Alma knelt and let the towel fall from her shoulders. She slowly pulled his T-shirt over her head. As it dropped to the floor, Evan knelt to face her. Alma remained perfectly still and Evan’s gaze trailed along her body. Breathing slowly, she took in the honey scent of the flowering vines and the distant hum of a boat’s engine. He wasn’t touching her, but her skin, so alive, felt as if it were being caressed in a thousand different places. Alma was vulnerable and strong at the same time, not at all like the cowering girl she had been earlier, when all eyes turned toward her at the pool.
His gaze spread heat over every part of her.
After a long while—she had no idea how long—Alma reached out and let the tips of her fingers graze his chin. She lifted his deep-green eyes to meet hers, and saw them, questioning, as his hands gently rested on the bare skin of her waist.
“I want to kiss you, Alma.”
Quiere besarme, she thought. He wants to kiss me. Had she imagined the words?
Alma leaned in toward him. The space between them lessened, and she felt the warmth rising from Evan’s chest. She ached to press her entire body into his.
Breathe, Alma, she told herself silently. Respira.
She took in a trembling breath. Brushing her skin softly, his hands fell to her hips. He gripped her body more firmly, as if he sensed how dizzy she suddenly felt. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tightly.
“EVAAAN! AOWWLMA! Are you still down there?”
Calling out from the house, Evan’s mom broke the lush silence.
Alma turned toward the sound, opening her lips to form a reply, but Evan lifted a hand from her back and pressed his finger against her lips.
“Shhh,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Let me kiss you.”
Quiere besarme, she told herself again. She hadn’t imagined it.
His hand slid from her lips to the base of her neck, and he wound his fingers into her hair. She felt her heart thrumming and Evan’s breath warm against her face.
Alma closed her eyes.
“ALMA! ¿Dónde estás?”
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Evan, pulling his hand back so quickly that he tugged her hair from the roots. “Is that your dad?”
Alma’s eyes shot open, and her hands fell to her side. Evan’s body spun toward the house.
“What time is it?” asked Alma urgently.
Evan grabbed his T-shirt from the ground and thrust it once more into her hands. She scrambled to pull his shirt back over her head.
“Ten,” Evan said, looking down at his phone. “Oh, good Lord, Alma, I’m so sorry.”
Alma leapt up and scrambled down the boathouse stairs. Forcing back hot tears of anger and frustration, she ran toward her father.
FOUR
Trouble
Evan shaded his eyes and tried to focus on the white ball hurtling silently through the air. It curved sharply off to the right and landed in a stand of pine trees.
“Dude, you are such a hacker today.”
Logan shoved a tee into the ground.
“Yeah, looks like I’m in jail again.”
“No worries, man,” Logan said, poised for a swing. “We’ll press them on nine.”
Logan loved to play golf; Evan tolerated it.
When Evan was a kid, he used to come to the driving range with his dad on Saturday afternoons. They stood side by side and sent ball after ball sailing across the wide lawn. Evan’s dad gave him the occasional tip, but mostly they just listened to the thwack of metal hitting polyurethane.
Logan and his dad sometimes came out to play nine holes with them. It was a good way to break the silence. Their families were close enough that Evan called Sheriff Cronin his uncle even though they weren’t related.
All those hours spent on the golf course with Logan, Uncle Buddy, and his dad had made Evan a reasonably good golfer, but he never enjoyed it. Today was particularly painful. Evan felt trapped inside this perfect green landscape. He imagined scaling the high metal fence surrounding the club and landing solidly on his feet, like a cat that narrowly avoids losing one of its nine lives. These nagging thoughts threw Evan’s game off, so he kept ending up “in jail”—hooking and slicing his ball into the pines that lined either side of the fairway.
Logan crushed the ball off the tee, and it sailed three hundred yards down the center of the fairway, landing with a soft thud just short of the green.
“It’s a good thing I’m so on fire today,” Logan said. “Maybe I’ll save us from losing a boatload of money to those guys.”
“Not a chance,” Peavey replied, gesturing toward Evan, “not with that duffer.”
Peavey and Conway—friends from the neighborhood whom almost everyone called by some version of their last names—were giddy with the thought of all the money they’d win.
Logan hopped in the golf cart, and they sped off to search for Evan’s ball, nestled somewhere in the thick carpet of pine needles.
“So, did you and that Mexican girl hook up last night, or what?” Logan asked, stepping out of the cart to search for Evan’s ball.
“Her name is Alma, and it’s none of your damn business.”
Logan looked up and examined Evan’s face carefully.
“So this explains your brutally bad golf game,” Logan replied, nodding slowly as his face broke into a knowing grin.
“Shut up, man,” Evan said as he turned his back to Logan and crouched down, pretending to look for his ball.
“That girl is easy on the eyes,” Logan said.
Evan glared at Logan, a sense of protectiveness welling up again.
He spotted the ball nestled against the trunk of a tree and half bur
ied in a clump of twigs.
“Perfect,” said Evan sarcastically. “Just perfect.”
Evan noticed the familiar sound of a lawn mower coming toward them. Conway jumped out of the cart and watched the mower approach.
“Is this guy gonna stop?” Peavey called out.
“Hey, cut the mower!” Conway yelled.
The mower turned but didn’t stop. Instead, it lowered its blades and began to cut the already close-trimmed grass of the fairway.
“What’s wrong? No speak-a inglés?” Conway yelled again, angry.
They all watched as the mower continued in their direction.
“Y’all just cool. The guy’s probably new,” Logan said, trying to break the mounting tension. “I’ll tell him.”
Evan watched in silent disgust as Conway loudly cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. He wanted to say something to Conway, but his throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.
Logan jogged toward the mower, and the other three watched silently. The mower’s engine immediately cut, and the driver jumped out of his seat to talk with Logan.
After a minute, Logan headed back toward the green.
“He’s new,” Logan announced. “We got it worked out.”
“What?” Peavey asked. “No one told him you’re not supposed to mow while people are hitting?”
Logan shrugged and dug into his golf bag.
“Doesn’t even speak English,” Conway said.
“Jesus, Conway. He spoke English fine,” Logan said.
Conway cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled in the direction of the mower. “Go back to Mexico,” he called out, “and mow your own goddamned grass.”
“Quit being such an asshole,” Logan said, shoving Conway back into his cart.
Peavey leaned back in the cart and laughed like an idiot.
Why could Logan say it when all Evan could do was stand there and fume in silence?
“Well, boys,” Logan announced, clearly trying to lighten the mood, “no more putting it off. You’re about to get your little white asses kicked clear down to Tifton.”
* * *
Alma filled a glass with cold water from the tap and chugged it. Glimpsing her reflection in the kitchen window, she sighed and placed the glass on the counter. Her face was smeared with mud and sweat. She grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped off the grime. She’d been working since dawn, and was only halfway through the grueling list of chores that her dad had given as punishment. She glanced out at the lawn she’d just finished weeding. At least she had that behind her.
Dream Things True Page 4