by Ann McMan
Roma Jean shrugged.
“Come on,” Charlie nudged her—which Roma Jean knew was really just an excuse to scoot a bit closer. “What were they doing?”
“They were going over her contract with Rockstar. Gramma is going to be a beta tester for Grand Theft Auto VI.”
“For real?” Charlie was incredulous. “I thought those rumors about a version VI were bogus?”
“Gramma says they just wanna keep it on the DL. They’re gonna roll it out, all right. And she’s persuaded they’re gonna set it in someplace offbeat—like Troutdale.”
Charlie’s eyes grew wide.
“No kidding. I mean, after knocking off Junior’s garage and escaping in a beat-up Oldsmobile, what other heists could they plan? Stealing retread tires off the rooftops of all the trailers out there? She’s crazy.”
“I just can’t believe this. They really hired her?”
Roma Jean sighed and nodded. “She’s gotten pretty famous in the gaming world. Her Snapchat posts have gone viral and most of them are about her GTA V record-setting totals for The Big Score.”
“Azalea’s on Snapchat?”
“Yeah. Her handle is @AzaLeavesNoPrisoners.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Nope. Uncle Cletus had to have ApCo do a heavy-up on the power to their apartment because Gramma kept blowing all the circuits, and Aunt Evelyn said all the pennies she kept sticking inside the fuse box were gonna burn the place down.”
“Roma Jean—”
“Uncle Cletus tried putting a lock on the fuse box but Gramma just blasted it off with her .410. That was a real mess because when the lock blew apart it took out about four dozen jars of tomatoes Aunt Evelyn and Nadine put up last summer for the café.”
“Sweetie—”
“Aunt Evelyn said when she got home the apartment looked like a scene from some old movie called Helter Skelter. She was pretty mad. But Gramma was oblivious. She just sat there in the living room on Cletus’s recliner, staring at the TV screen with the game controller on her lap, capping hookers.”
Charlie ran a hand over her face.
“Uncle Cletus says the only good thing about Gramma’s obsession is that she hardly has to take any arthritis medicine any more. I guess manipulating all the controls on that game console night and day has really reduced the swelling in her hands.”
“Baby, you need to stop.”
Roma Jean gave Charlie a sheepish look. “I was blathering again, wasn’t I?”
Charlie smiled at her. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Roma Jean dropped her eyes. “What would you say, then?”
She knew she was being a flirt, but right then she didn’t really care.
Charlie inched closer to her. They were sitting next to each other on the step that led up to the driver’s compartment on the truck.
“I’d say it’s been too long since we had a chance to do this.”
Charlie leaned over and kissed her. It was a gentle touch, more like a brief brushing of her lips across Roma Jean’s. It wasn’t a tease. It was more like an invitation. Charlie was always like that. Slow. Considerate. Not too pushy. Not really pushy at all, when Roma Jean compared her to the other people she’d shared simple intimacies with. Of course, the others had all been guys and each of them had attacked her mouth like starving men who were persuaded that she was concealing the last morsel of food on the planet.
It was pretty gross.
But Roma Jean allowed it because she thought that’s what she was supposed to do. Playing tonsil hockey with a succession of boys who had roaming hands and bad complexions was something she never got used to. That used to worry her. A lot. But all of that changed when she met Charlie. Now she found herself fantasizing all the time about being alone with Charlie. She thought about all the things she’d like to do and imagined herself behaving boldly—like Elizabeth Bennet, who went into any kind of situation with composure.
Charlie smelled good. Like cinnamon and strawberries.
She wondered if Mr. Darcy smelled this good. And whether that made it as hard for Elizabeth to stay focused as the sweet mixture of air shifting around inside the truck was making it for her right now.
“Are you okay?” Charlie’s soft voice was close. So close Roma Jean could feel the warm puffs of air that carried each word to her.
Was she okay?
She shifted closer to Charlie. There wasn’t much light inside the truck. But not even the little bit that managed to filter its way in from the driver compartment separated their bodies now. Charlie’s figure was framed against a backdrop of shopworn classics—books that had been held a thousand times by as many pairs of hands. Treasure Island. Robinson Crusoe. The Mill on the Floss. My Antonia. Pride and Prejudice was there, too. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine Elizabeth Bennet smiling down at her.
The truth was that she was more than okay. She was something miles ahead of okay. Finally. Wonderfully. Entirely.
She raised her hands to Charlie’s face.
“Yes.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Syd gave up waiting on Maddie to make it home in time for dinner. She fixed herself a large summer salad and sat on the wide front porch, enjoying the last hour of daylight. Pete dozed on the big glider but kept one wakeful eye fixed on the driveway for any sign of Maddie’s Jeep.
The salad was wonderful. It was a tumbled conglomeration of lettuces pulled from their small garden and fresh, tender peas clipped from the lattice of lines that Henry had helped her string before the last frost in April. The mound of cherries and strawberries were treats that she picked up at a roadside stand on her way home from the library. All of it was topped with a simple vinaigrette and a few tangy bleu cheese crumbles—an indulgence she could enjoy because she was eating alone. Maddie hated bleu cheese.
Celine wasn’t home yet, either. Maddie’s mother had been staying with them while renovation work proceeded on the dilapidated house she’d bought out near Bridle Creek, but that wouldn’t last much longer. Celine was already talking about scheduling a time to have the PODS containing her furnishings delivered. And lately she’d been making day trips to larger urban centers like Roanoke or Winston-Salem to shop for fixtures or more retrograde bits of hardware than those readily available at the big box stores that defined shopping alternatives in the smattering of larger towns closer to Jericho.
It was a quiet evening. A couple of deer felt confident enough to risk venturing out from behind a stand of trees to drink from the pond while it was still daylight. Pete seemed not to care, although Syd saw him raise his head and at least think about chasing after them.
Henry’s pet Hereford, Before, was equally unfazed by the intruders. She stood placidly beside the rail fence that ran along the lane, chomping at random clumps of taller grass that sprouted up on the pasture side of the barrier. Keeping a seven-hundred-pound heifer as a “pet” was ridiculous. But Henry had grown uncommonly attached to the calf that formerly had been part of Joe Baxter’s herd. The calf, known originally as B4, had consistently sought out breaches in the fencing that divided their two properties, appearing to prefer the less congested dining options presented by their pastures. Henry’s penchant for collecting buckets full of fat garlic bulbs and liberally doling them out as treats hadn’t done much to dissuade the calf from contriving ways to visit. Last year, when Henry left them to live with his father, Syd decided to make Before a permanent part of their family. That way when Henry returned for occasional overnights or weekend visits, he could be surrounded by his menagerie of animals. It was growing to be an impressive list. Before. Pete. The odd assortment of fat fish in their pond. And Rosebud—a black and white stray cat with tuxedo markings who’d taken up residence behind a bin of castoff vacuum cleaner parts in Maddie’s workshop.
Of course, Rosebud hated Maddie. She had a fondness for sleeping on the hood of the Jeep and peeing on its tires. She also enjoyed evacuating beneath the workbench.
Syd smiled. The animus was
mutual.
In typical fashion, Maddie tried chasing the cat away, but it was useless. She would grumble in the evenings when she got home from work and fresh examples of Rosebud’s handiwork were evident.
“Why is that damn tuxedo cat still hanging around?”
Syd would shrug and say nothing. She knew it wasn’t wise to let Maddie know she was sneaking food to the stray.
They indulged in this game of thrust and parry for a few weeks. Then one night, Maddie seemed to turn a corner. She stormed into the house from the barn and dropped onto a stool in their kitchen.
“That tuxedo cat is a total pain in my ass.”
Syd nodded from the island where she was washing vegetables. “I know, honey.”
Maddie glowered and drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
Syd took pity on her. “What do you want to do?”
Maddie thought about it. “Buy some cat food, I guess.”
They named the intruder-cum-antagonist “Rosebud” because Maddie insisted that the cat would likely hold the key to some great, as-yet unsolved mystery in her life.
Syd did not disagree. Mysteries they had in abundance. It was answers that were in short supply. Especially lately.
She looked at her watch. Nine-thirty. Maddie said she’d be home by eight.
Her mug of tea was cold. She thought about taking it inside and sticking it into the microwave to heat it up, but why bother?
She stood up and collected her dishes. “C’mon, Pete. Bedtime.”
They were halfway to the door when Pete stopped, turned around, then bolted for the steps that led to the yard. His figure was a yellow flash in the fading light as he bounded toward the Jeep that was slowly making its way up their lane.
Maddie was home.
Syd deposited her dishes and followed Pete at a more sedate pace. Maddie waved when she saw her coming.
Syd followed her into the barn. Maddie parked the Jeep and grabbed her bag off the passenger seat. Before she turned to greet Syd, she stopped to scrub Pete’s head and steal a quick peek at the ground beneath her workbench.
“Any presents?” Syd asked.
Maddie shook her head and smiled. “Not tonight.”
They hugged.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” Maddie said. “I’m sorry. I was on my way out and I made the mistake of answering the phone. There’s a new pharmacist at the Rite Aid in Wytheville. He somehow managed to screw up about twenty prescriptions. It was simpler just to write new ones than to try and figure them out over the phone.”
“Did you get any dinner?”
“No. And I’m starving.” Maddie linked arms with her and they started walking toward the house. Pete ran on ahead of them. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”
“I nearly wasn’t. I was just on my way up to bed.”
Maddie gestured toward the empty parking space behind the house. “Where is mom?”
“I’m not sure. Roanoke, maybe?”
“She didn’t call?”
“No.”
“That’s strange. This is the third night this week she’s been out late.”
Syd thought about giving her a pass on the comment, but changed her mind. “It must be a family value.”
Maddie stopped walking. “Are we going to have an argument?”
“About?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lemme see. Climate change?”
“Sarcasm won’t get you off the hook.”
“That’s precisely my point. Why am I on the hook?”
Syd plucked at a faded yellow bloom on the rosebush that was slowly overtaking the steps that led to the porch. She really needed to prune this thing. It was gangly and unkempt. But now was not the right time. She’d missed her window. The early spring weather had come and gone without warning, and now it was too late in the season. The thing was already putting on new growth. She dropped the withered petals and looked up at Maddie.
“You’re not caught on any hook you couldn’t dislodge with just a bit of effort.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Are you saying you really don’t know?”
Maddie didn’t reply. In the half light, Syd could see that her face was tinged with worry. And maybe defeat. But still, her blue eyes glowed like night fire.
Syd relented. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
Maddie’s tone seemed so contrite that even if she had been mad, Syd would’ve found it impossible to stay that way. She leaned in and slid her arms around Maddie’s waist.
“No. I’m not mad.”
“Thank god.” Maddie hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head.
“I miss you,” Syd murmured into her chest.
“I’m right here.”
“Not always. Not lately.”
“I know I’ve been working too much. I’m sorry.”
“Maddie?” Syd raised her head. “Don’t kid a kidder. It’s not work. It’s Henry. And you’re not alone in how you feel. I miss him, too. But not coming home to avoid the fact he isn’t here won’t make it any easier—for either of us.”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”
“In a word? Yes.”
Maddie gave her a shy smile. “Are you watching Dr. Oz again?”
Syd pinched her on the butt. “Nice try.”
“Getting fresh with me won’t advance your cause.”
“Cause? What makes you think I have a cause?”
“Well. The fact that your hands are now performing deviant acts might be a clue.”
Syd kissed her. “Nobody ever said you weren’t good at rendering a diagnosis, Dr. Stevenson.”
“Trust me.” Maddie kissed her back. “I’m a whole lot better at cures.”
“Are you? I don’t remember.”
“Maybe I can jog your memory.” Maddie dropped her bag and got serious about reminding her.
Syd was losing focus. Why were they standing here in the yard when they had a big house full of obliging beds?
A big empty house . . .
Syd drew back. They both were breathing heavily. “Do you still want something to eat?”
Maddie gave her a roguish smile.
Syd rolled her eyes. “Pervert.”
She grabbed hold of Maddie’s hand and led her into the house.
Chapter 2
“Would you mind repeating that?”
David made a dramatic eye-roll. He was having a hard time concealing his excitement. As soon as he had got the notification, he called Celine and asked her to meet him at the café for an early lunch so he could give her the good news in person. But she wasn’t getting it.
He snapped his fingers in front of her face.
“Earth to Celine? I said The Tales of Rolf and Tobi just won a ManMeat Award.”
Celine seemed unimpressed. “Is that a good thing?”
“Good thing? No. It’s not a ‘good’ thing. It’s a great thing.”
“Well then, I’m very happy for you, David.”
David dropped back against his chair. “Why do you sound like I just told you that the dryer finally coughed up my missing sock? ManMeat Awards are a big deal in the independent publishing world. They’re voted on by the readers.”
“The readers? The readers of what, exactly?”
“Duh. The readers of top gay fiction books published within the last year. And, lucky for us, that includes self-published books, too.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rain on your parade.”
“Hey?” David interrupted her. “It’s not just my parade—you were the editor on this gem. Half the credit is yours, Dr. Heller.”
Celine’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t use my real name on this, did you?”
“Of course not. I used your nom de plume, ‘Stanford Hopkins.’ Your reputation is safe.”
“Thank god.”
“But, listen. You must know that reco
gnition like this is huge. We have to get busy right away.”
“Busy?” Celine looked wary. “Busy doing what?”
“Duh. Writing volume two, of course. We’ve got to strike while the iron is H. A. W. T.”
“Wait a minute.” Celine held up her hand. “I am not reprising my role in this debatable enterprise.”
David’s face fell. “You have to. I can’t translate those stories without your help.”
“David . . .”
“You said it was fun.”
“David . . .”
“You said the work was instructive.”
“David . . .”
“You said it opened a door to a world you knew nothing about.”
“David . . .”
“You said it would annoy the piss out of Maddie.”
Celine opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it.
“Gotcha.” David flashed her a brilliant smile.
“Much to my chagrin, I have to admit that last inducement does have merit.”
David nodded energetically. “I’ve always thought so.”
“I have to say.” Celine shook her head. “You certainly never can predict how things will turn out.”
David plucked a fat biscuit out of the basket on their table. “Tell me about it.”
“If you’d asked me a year ago if I would be living back in Virginia, renovating a condemned house and moonlighting as a translator of German porn, I’d have said you were nuts.”
“Ex-cuse me?” David cleared his throat. “Porn?”
“Sorry,” Celine amended her statement. “Erotic fiction.”
“Thank you.”
“Still. It’s quite a transformation.”
“It is for sure,” David agreed. “And you didn’t even mention your new inamorato.”
“My what?”
Before David could answer, Nadine Odell arrived at their table carrying two plates loaded with food.
“I guess I don’t have to ask which one of you ordered the fried catfish.” She plopped the large serving of fish topped with French fries down in front of David. “You need any kind of sauce with that, young man?”
David smiled up at her. “That depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what?” Nadine placed a large arugula salad in front of Celine.