I picked up a stick and absently tapped it on my knee. “At first I thought you stuck out like the queen at Walmart, my lord. But now I am rethinking things. Is it possible you feel right at home here?”
He laughed at my comparison. “Actually, the queen wouldn’t look so out of place at Walmart. But, yes. I do feel at ease. Things here are a bit newer, though. I like that. Big cars and lots of high school sports. We don’t have as much of that. In both places, though, there’s a strong sense of community.”
“Really? You feel at home here?”
“Actually, yes. I lived in the same village until I went away to school.”
I waited for him to say more. He didn’t, so I nudged him like an old pal might have. “In a castle?”
He elbowed me back. I guess neither one of us was ready for true confessions.
I threw up a truce flag. “Apologies, my lord. No more teasing . . . Today.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall we walk back before he lies down in the sand?” I asked, nodding at Moby.
“I imagine sand on a collie would be quite difficult to extract.”
“Yeah. I’d have to rinse him several times to get it all out.”
“Kind of like hot sauce in the mouth, don’t you think?”
“Smart-ass.”
Chapter 8
On Friday night, Kit picked me up in a Ford F150 pickup truck. He had stopped by Books from Hell twice since our lunch at the diner. I told him I could handle Aunt Gertrude’s wreckage myself. He should be off studying horticulture and such. Only I screwed up the word and called it “horrorculture.” Which somehow fit, considering the upcoming haunted house. When he did nothing more than grin at my gaffe, I forgot everything. His expression was so sweet and understanding it made me feel warm inside. I was developing a major crush on him. Despite his little white-lie politeness problem, the man was flawless. It bothered me that my infatuation put me in the same category as Marva O’Shea. Perfect wasn’t usually my thing. I liked shabby fixer-uppers.
“Thanks for the ride. Hopefully Lulu will be her old self soon.” I played with the controls on the dashboard, “I thought you’d be driving something small and sleek.”
He revved the engine. “Are you kidding? I love American four-wheel drives. When I saw this in the rental-agency lot, I paid extra just to get it.”
I winced at the way he handled the truck as we drove to the stadium. “Don’t forget to drive on the right side of the road.”
“You mean the wrong side of the road,” he complained.
I ignored his comment and flipped on several switches, playing with the interior lighting. “You may want to take your turns a little slower. Truck driving is a lot different than driving your Mini Cooper.”
He seemed affronted by my comments. But he slowed down at the next curve. When we pulled into the stadium parking lot, we were hit by the unmistakable odor of barbecued meat and popcorn.
At the ticket booth Kit insisted on buying both our tickets. He smiled at the woman in the booth and made some inane comment about the weather.
She perked up. “I love your accent. Where are you from?”
“Ohio,” I said, before he could respond. This earned me a frown from both of them.
As we searched for a seat, we were hailed by the crowd of women standing in the bleachers. They flapped their hands madly and shouted, “Over here! We saved you a seat.” Sitting in the football stands with Kit was going to be another repeat of the Kit fan club.
The pecking order was immediately obvious. Kit was flanked by Marva O’Shea on one side and the mayor’s wife, Regina Bloodworth, on the other. Behind Kit, Corinne sat with Jenny and a group I recognized from the diner on Wednesday, including Flo, her fishing hat replaced by a foam “number one” hat. They sat on a blanket spread across the seats and handed a thermos back and forth.
Kit gestured for me to squeeze in next to him. “Budge up, everyone,” he said, laying the accent on thick. “Let Trudy in.”
“Sure.” Marva smiled. “There’s plenty of space, Trudy.”
I shook my head and sat at the end of the row. “I’m fine. This seat has a better view.” I indicated the empty row in front of me. Kit drew his brows together, but he was swallowed up by the women around him who talked over each other trying to explain American football traditions. They introduced him to dozens of people in the stands and politely included me each time. Despite that, I felt invisible in the crowd.
I knew the gist of the sport, that the football needed to make it to the other end. I watched the game with detached interest. But I couldn’t help but wonder at the flock of ladies around me. It was strange how little attention they paid to the game. They plied Kit with tea and called out to friends. I wondered if any of them even knew the score. Several times Regina Bloodworth bragged that her husband, in the press box behind us, was presenting an honorary award to an alumnus of the class of 1948’s state semifinalist team at halftime. Hopefully, the man would make it until then. He sat in a wheelchair on the sideline, looking as bored as I felt.
Before the end of the second quarter, Marva took orders for refreshments. “The line really picks up at halftime. But Joe is flipping burgers. He’ll make sure to get to us before the rush. Excuse me, Trudy.”
I was forced to stand out in the aisle as she and her considerable girth moved past me. After several ladies went to the restroom, Kit slid across the empty void.
I held out my hand.
At first he was confused. Then his eyes lit up. “Brilliant, love.”
He passed me his Styrofoam cup and I dumped his tea over the side of the bleachers when no one was looking.
When I returned he put an arm around my shoulders. “This is rather fun, isn’t it, Trudy?”
“There are no words,” I said, nodding my head and enjoying his touch.
“You went to high school here?”
“Unfortunately.” He removed his arm as someone entered our row.
Halftime started. The frail former football player shook hands with the mayors of both Truhart and Harrisburg. The older man kept trying to pull his hands away, but the mayors clung to him as they smiled for the cameras.
“Poor bloke,” Kit said.
I knocked his elbow with my own. “What about you? I’m guessing you were too busy studying to play many sports in school.”
“Me? I dabbled in sports, actually.”
“I wasn’t talking about ping-pong.”
His mouth twitched. “I enjoyed a little football of my own. And rugby. Even though I wasn’t really good at it. And cricket. I loved cricket.”
Cricket? It figured. “Did you dress like you were going to the Ascot races when you played that as well?”
“What’s wrong with this?” He looked down at himself. “Are you criticizing my clothes?”
“No. It fits your personality perfectly.” He wore a button-up blue shirt with a maroon wool pullover sweater. A gray scarf was tied around his neck. It was a chilly evening and it made sense to bundle up. But still . . . “You look like a professor.”
“I have on a jumper. And I am a professor.”
“Jumper. You kill me. Look around, dude.”
He scanned the crowd. It was a chilly night. Baseball hats, fleeces, sweatshirts, windbreakers, and Harrison County High School letter jackets seemed to be the dress code of the evening. “I’m not that out of place.”
“I feel like I should give you a pipe and a Sherlock Holmes hat.” Not really. He looked hot. But I liked teasing him.
His eyes traveled over me in turn. I wore my army boots, tights, argyle socks, a long peasant skirt, and a flannel shirt with my favorite tapestry coat.
“I suppose I should have worn my Boy George coat.” Was that a sense of humor again? At least he was comfortable enough to quit the polite stuff around me.
The energetic beat of the drum line during the halftime show made it impossible to carry on the conversation any further. We watched and cheered the ban
d, the best part of the game so far, in my opinion.
As halftime came to a conclusion, Marva returned, followed by a small pack of teenage boys carrying cardboard trays filled with burgers, soda, and nachos slathered in orange cheese. “Thanks, boys,” she said when they passed the food to the ladies who had returned to their seats. She gave each of them a quarter and they looked amused as they pocketed the coins.
“Thanks, Mrs. O’Shea.”
“Now, you pay close attention to Ms. Scott’s nephew, boys. Richard Scott. He may be skinny, but he has a lot of power in that kick. You remember that when you’re on the varsity team. It’s not the size that counts. It’s the skill.”
“We’ll remember that.” One of the boys said something to the others as he turned away. She didn’t have a clue how amused they were by that comment. I guess I wasn’t the only person people made fun of in this town.
Kit returned to his place when Marva waved him over. She passed him a burger.
I called over to Corinne. “Where’s Jenny?”
“I told her to sit with her friends. She’s over there with a few of them from school.” Corinne nodded below us to the end of the stands. Jenny sat in a row of bleachers that was almost empty. But she didn’t seem to care. She watched the game starting up again and clapped along with the cheerleaders. Scattered around her were several other girls who could have been anywhere from ten to eighteen. A bright-haired girl clapped from a wheelchair that was placed at the top of the ramp. A tall girl next to her held the handle and sipped soda. A curvy girl with a shaved head and a nose ring leaned back against Jenny’s knees and let Jenny pat her head to the beat of the cheers.
I rose from my seat and walked through the bleachers, dodging up and down the rows in-between spectators. When I finally plopped down next to Jenny, she smiled and said, “Hi Trudy. Did they make you sit here too?”
I looked over her at the girl with the shaved head and our eyes met.
“I wanted to sit with the cool people.”
That made her laugh. “I wish you could have brought Moby.”
“Dogs hate football.”
“Cause they can’t fit it in their mouths, right?” Good point.
Jenny introduced me to her friends. Gina, who held Stacy’s wheelchair, and Bibi, the fierce one with the nose ring. While I watched the game and tried to understand the play, the girls around me were focused on something else: The cheerleaders. Even Bibi, who slouched against Jenny with her hands in her pockets, watched the cheerleaders with a long face.
Jenny held out her popcorn. “Want some?”
I took a handful and one of the boys, who had carried trays for Marva, passed into the row near us. “Hey, look at the sped row.”
Jenny’s face fell and she stared at the ground. Sped? Then I remembered what it stood for: special education.
“Get lost, loser!” Bibi flipped up her middle finger.
Jenny giggled and said, “Good job, Bibi. My cousin does that.”
One of the boys crossed his eyes and made a face at us.
“Down in front, lard face. You’re blocking my view. I can’t see the game!” I grabbed a handful of popcorn and threw it at the boys. The girls thought that was hilarious coming from a grown-up. They joined me in throwing popcorn.
A lady behind me huffed. “That’s so rude—”
“Who is that?” another woman asked.
“Gertrude Brown’s niece. She’s loonier than Michigan’s lakes.”
I stuffed popcorn into my mouth and chewed furiously.
A particularly popular cheer began and the crowd joined in. “Oh, I know that cheer.” Jenny started chanting along. So did the other girls.
Except Bibi. She made fun of the team mascots and changed the words to the cheer. “Go Huskies, it’s okay, we’ll use our Trojans another day!”
Stacy and Gina laughed. Jenny said, “That’s not the right words, Bibi. It doesn’t make sense that way.”
Bibi leaned against Jenny and said. “Sorry, girlfriend.”
Jenny put her hands on Bibi’s shoulders and turned to me. “I wish, I wish, I wish I was a cheerleader.”
Bibi kept her eyes on the field. “You’d be better than they are, Jenny. Look, they don’t even look at the crowd. They just watch each other.”
Jenny pointed at one. “And the football players. Look, that one keeps looking at my cousin Richie.”
“Well, he’s pretty cute,” Gina said.
Jenny put a hand to her nose. “Gross.” They all giggled.
Bibi stared at my feet. She had been covertly checking out my wardrobe since I first sat down. “I like your boots. Where’d you get them?”
“An old army surplus store. I got them years ago, before they were even cool to wear.”
I found myself enjoying the rest of the game. The girls were funny and sometimes gross. And I felt right at home. The game ended in a field goal for the Harrison County Huskies that left them two points up over the Alpena Trojans.
In the stands above us, no one cheered louder than Jenny. “That’s my cousin! Woo-hoo! That’s my cousin Richie! He won the game!”
Her enthusiasm made even the snarky woman behind us laugh.
We filed out of our seats and I felt Kit’s hand on my elbow. “Did you have fun?”
“I did.” I actually meant it. “You?”
“It was interesting. A little slower paced than our own football. But it had an excitement that was really quite invigorating. And much more social, I must say.” He tilted his head toward the ladies ahead of us.
We filed out of the stadium and moved toward the parking lot. Reeba Sweeney and two other women were gathered around a large SUV that had its back gate up. They waved to us as we passed. The night was growing cold and I paused to reach inside my rucksack for my old mittens. Then I dropped one and crouched down to pick it up.
“Did you see her?” The nasally voice behind me made my ears hurt.
“How could I miss her?” Reeba’s familiar voice answered. “I may not be the right one to judge, of course, but that bright red hair and those awful clothes don’t exactly make her look normal. She belonged right in that row with those kids.”
“That coat looks like my grandma’s carpet. Her hair makes her look like a clown.”
I stood, smoothing the coat that reached my knees, and shrugged. I happened to love this overcoat. It was Mom’s. The owner of a store in Greenwich Village had tried to buy it from me once. He claimed he had a celebrity client who would pay big bucks.
“What does he see in her? Is it just pity?” asked the third woman with a booming voice. She wore a full-length mink coat and ran her hands up and down her collar.
“It’s not like he’s attracted to her. I told him she might be odd when he asked about the bookstore,” said Reeba. The three women continued to talk over each other loudly, as if they were still in the bleachers.
My back burned with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Thinking of Reeba talking to Kit about me made me feel sucker-punched. I paused in the shadow of a large van and tried to catch my breath as people moved past me.
Suddenly Kit was beside me. His voice carried over the cool evening breeze. “I didn’t get a chance to say hello, Ms. Sweeney.”
Reeba and her friends froze. “Oh—I didn’t see you there, Dr. Darlington.”
“I figured as much,” said Kit. His voice held a different tone. Gone was the flirty British lilt. In its place was something stern, almost austere.
“You met my friend, Trudy Brown?”
“Yes. Of course. I let her into the store the first day she arrived.” Reeba sent me a brittle smile.
“We know all about her,” the fur coat said under her breath. She still sounded like she had a megaphone.
“Good. Then you’ll know how wonderful she is. One of the kindest people I’ve met in the county.”
I felt a roaring in my ears and tried to shake off the feeling that I was fourteen years old again. Sitting in the school social
worker’s office while he made platitudes and clichés out of how my mother’s death must have affected me.
Reeba nodded her head like a puppet. “Of course, we’ll remember that.”
He put his arm around my shoulder and sent them a killer smile. “Good. Don’t forget it.”
* * *
We pulled into the alley behind Books from Hell and I jumped out of the truck. Even though he didn’t deserve it, I almost slammed the back door in Kit’s face.
“You wouldn’t talk the whole way home and now you try to smash my head. Are you mad about those inane women in the parking lot?”
Moby watched our argument from the stairs. Confused by Kit’s loud voice, he barked and I walked over to the step and buried my face in his neck.
I wished I had beaten Kit to the back door. If only I could have put a barrier between us, I could make Dr. Darling go away. “I’m just tired.”
Kit reached out and patted Moby on the back. Moby licked Kit’s hand. I turned and started up the stairs. “Good night.”
The sound of Kit’s shoes brought me to a halt. “Would you stop following me?”
“I want to make sure you’re all right.”
“Why? Because you’re afraid someone like me will do something crazy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t have to pretend now. You heard what those gossips in the parking lot said about me.”
“You shouldn’t care what they say. It doesn’t matter.”
How could he act like he had no idea? “What? Not care that they called me dumb? Stupid. The fact that I belong in a row with—” I stopped myself. God forgive me, I was doing exactly what I had accused everyone of doing to me. Categorizing people in easy-to-define ways that had nothing to do with who they really were.
“Is that what this is about?”
At the top of the stairs, I gave up hope that he would leave anytime soon. I opened the door to the apartment and stomped inside.
The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Page 10