by Jo McNally
“Did you know she hated me that much?”
The other man shrugged. “Kinda. We all learned a long time ago not to bring your name up around her. I can’t say I knew she still felt that way, but yeah—she was burning-hot after you left. Cursed your name every time someone said it.”
“A heads-up would have been nice,” Mark sighed. They started walking back to the truck, and DeAndre laughed.
“A heads-up? You dated that girl all through high school, even talked marriage, and then you left town. How did you not expect her to still be pissed about that?”
“I left her a note.” The words made his heart cringe. It was a lousy way to leave, but he’d never have been able to say goodbye to her face. His grandfather had forced his hand, and forced his silence, too. No wonder she hated him now.
“Oh, yeah,” DeAndre scoffed as he put their supplies in the back of his battered old pickup. “I’m sure your ‘Dear Evie’ letter made her feel so much better about being dumped out of the blue. Can you imagine how angry she would have been without the note?” He shook his head. “She’d have drop-kicked you into the next county instead of burning your flesh with her eyeballs back there.”
His friend wasn’t wrong. He’d felt the burn from Evie’s big brown eyes as she raked him with her glare. And it was the most alive he’d felt in a long damn time.
By noontime on Sunday, Mark was feeling a little more human. It took that long to shake off his run-in with Evie, along with all that caffeine, and finally get some quality sleep. He sat at his grandmother’s kitchen table and looked over his plans for the mural. He’d promised the festival committee, chaired by DeAndre’s grandmother, that he’d work on it every afternoon for the next few weeks, to give the summer tourists something to take pictures of. Who’d have thunk it?—Mark Hudson, CPA, was now a tourist attraction.
First, he’d fill in the larger blocks of color. By festival week, he’d be doing things like adding eyelashes to people, and putting flowers on the teapot visible in one window. In his “spare” time, he also had to finish three of his own paintings, so he’d have enough to display at his festival booth.
ArtFest was one of the newer festivals in Rendezvous Falls. After just five years, it was drawing hundreds of artists and crafters, as well as the tourists the town lived for. Mark knew that because he’d been following all things Rendezvous Falls online for years. It gave him a connection to home. More importantly, it gave him the hope of spotting Evie Rosario in some photo or video. And he did, once in a while. When her grandmother won the grape pie contest at the Blessing of the Grapes festival eight years ago. When Evie got a top-five medal in the bike race last year. He pushed aside his sketches, shaking his head at himself.
“Are you going to start painting today?” His grandmother walked into the kitchen. Nancy Hudson had just come from church, her miraculously still-red hair piled high on her head in a crown of carefully arranged curls. She’d undoubtedly slept with it wrapped in a scarf last night to preserve the stylist’s work.
“I think so, Grandma. I should get going pretty soon, huh?”
She tossed the Sunday paper on the table, where it landed with a thud. “I would say yes, since the paper announced you would be. Knowing this town, there’s already a crowd gathering.” She tousled his hair as she walked by. “You’re famous, sweetie.”
Mark picked up the paper. Half the front page was taken up with a photo of the wall, with the outlines he and DeAndre painted Friday night clearly visible. A photo of him, taken in Philadelphia last year, was superimposed over one corner. The headline made him cringe:
Local Boy Comes Home to Pursue His Passion
Pretty much the same thing Evie had said. Art was his passion, but that wasn’t the passion he’d come home to chase. And he could have done without the “boy” reference.
The article went on to say he’d left town to pursue an accounting career, but left that behind a year ago to paint a now-famous mural that stretched the length of a city block in downtown Philly. The mural depicted famous historical figures dressed in modern-day garb, doing routine Philadelphia things: Ben Franklin eating a cheesesteak sandwich, Jefferson running up the art museum stairs, Rocky-style. The article made it sound like Mark just woke up one morning and painted an enormous mural in a major city, like he had a vision or something. But the Philadelphia job was the one that put his name on the map.
“Mark? You are going to paint today, right?”
“I’ll go down there and get started, Grandma.” Mark stood and gave his petite grandmother a quick hug. “Can’t leave the fans disappointed, right?”
“I might stop by myself later. Now that my grandson is front-page news, I should learn a thing or two about this ‘passion’ of his.” She raised her coffee in a mock toast. “Before your mother calls and demands answers.”
She left without waiting for his reply. He was here on probation, at least in his family’s mind. Once they learned the “passion” he’d really returned for was the diner waitress they’d torn him away from years ago, they’d put on a full-court press to get him out of here and back to the skyscrapers of Manhattan to add up columns of numbers all day. But it wouldn’t work this time.
Grandma was right. A smattering of applause went up from a small crowd downtown when he came around the corner. He acknowledged them with a quick wave. This was the first-ever mural in little Rendezvous Falls, so it was a big deal. Mark answered a few questions as he got set up. But once he was ready, he said his goodbyes and headed up the scaffolding. Time to stop being a celebrity and get to work.
* * *
“YOU ACTUALLY THREATENED to kick him?” Whitney Foster sipped her coffee and grinned. “Evie, I thought you liked the guy?”
Evie rolled her eyes as she set a burger in front of Whitney. The Spot Diner had been a typical Sunday madhouse for breakfast, but was settling down now. Enough so that her mother had hung up her apron and gone into the back to get off her feet an hour ago.
“Where did you get the idea that I liked Mark Hudson?”
Whitney leveled her gold eyes at Evie. “Oh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe it was the way your whole body kind of melted when I told you I’d met him?”
“You met him on a date.” Evie started wiping down the counter vigorously. “Why would I melt about that?”
“That was a setup that neither of us knew anything about, so it wasn’t really a date. It’s not like you’d be taking my sloppy seconds.” Whitney took a bite of her lunch. “You got all dreamy-eyed when I told you he was an artist again. So what’s the story?”
Evie glared at Whitney, then relented. She liked the edgy corporate accountant, in town to help her aunt save her winery. Whitney had a sharp wit and didn’t take any crap from anyone.
“It’s an age-old story,” Evie said. “Girl from the wrong side of the tracks meets the only son of a wealthy family. His parents figured it was just a phase.” Memories of those stolen moments came flooding back. Making out in the backseat of his car while parked by the lake. Sneaking kisses under the bleachers during football games. “But when things stayed serious after high school? His family wanted us to be over. Mark swore it would never happen, then he transferred from the local college to. All I got was a goodbye note. A note.”
It happened ten years ago, but the pain was still fresh and sharp. Then Papa died two months after Mark left, and she’d felt so alone.
“Evie...” Whitney laid her hand on Evie’s, which had stopped moving on the counter a few minutes ago. “I’m sorry.”
She swallowed hard and forced a smile on her face. “I’m fine. Screw him and his stupid mural.” Hopefully he’d be gone as soon as it was finished.
“He never tried to reach out to you after he left like that?”
“Nope.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.” Whitney brushed her black hair ove
r her shoulder. “I need to get out of Aunt Helen’s house once in a while, so let me know if you ever need a wingman. Wingwoman. Whatever.”
“I might take you up on that.”
The bell chimed over the front door. Forget about running into Mark Hudson somewhere—he’d just walked into the diner. Whitney straightened and muttered “uh-oh” under her breath when he nodded at her. Their smiles for each other were friendly, but that was it. Whitney told Evie there’d been no spark when she and Mark were set up together on that ridiculous blind date, but it was still a relief to see. Of course, she didn’t care who Mark dated. At all.
He walked over to the counter like he belonged there. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He looked at Evie. “You still offer the supersized float?”
That was his drink back in the day. The biggest cup they had, filled with root beer and two scoops of vanilla ice cream. He’d always stick two straws in the lid so they could share it. He had a warm, somewhat determined, smile on his face, but it faded at the edges when she just stared back at him. She would not let him see her crumble. Her voice was as tight as her thin smile.
“It’s still on the menu, but we don’t usually see anyone over the age of seventeen order it.” She looked him up and down. “Oh, yeah. I forgot who you were for a minute there.” She started to turn away. “And you’re only getting one straw.”
“Christ, Evie, can’t you cut me just a little slack?” Mark shoved his hair off his forehead, then intertwined his fingers, leaving his hands on top of his head as he blew out a breath. “I’m trying to be...” His voice fell. “It’s obvious you’re still pissed off at me, and I get that. But come on. We were best friends before we ever dated. Can’t we at least get back to that?”
Before she could come up with an answer, the diner door swung open with a jingle. Lacy Dalton breezed in, still wearing her Sunday best. She whipped off her enormous sunglasses and gave Mark a dazzling smile.
“Mark Hudson! I just read the article in the paper this morning. How are you, you handsome thing?” She threw her arms around Mark, who seemed frozen, his hands still on his head like he’d been playing Simon Says. Lacy had her sharp green eyes fixed on Evie over Mark’s shoulder. “Evie, honey, isn’t it wonderful to see Mark again?”
“Yeah. Wonderful. Booth or counter, Lacy?”
Her former classmate looked appalled. “When have you ever seen me sit at the counter?” She glanced at Whitney sitting there and didn’t bother to apologize. “A booth, of course. Mark, come join me.” She was tugging at his hand, but he stepped back, looking to Evie for help. She just folded her arms and lifted an eyebrow. She used to rescue him from Lacy’s infatuation all the time in high school, but that was a lifetime ago, and she didn’t owe him squat. Mark’s eyes went wide when he realized she wouldn’t be any help at all. Then he...smiled at her.
It was the first real smile he’d given her since his return—mainly because she’d been on the attack and hadn’t given him the opportunity. But now, when he realized she wasn’t going to do what he expected, it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. Seeing Evie the woman, not Evie his old high-school girlfriend. His smile, followed by that still-familiar laughter, melted a little part of her heart she didn’t think would ever melt. Especially for him.
“Sorry, Lacy.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to my adoring fans. I just came in to pester my girl for something cold to drink.”
Wait. What?
Evie’s chest went tight. Whitney, eyes wide, looked back and forth between Mark and Evie. Lacy grimaced, then quickly recovered and managed an almost smile.
“Your girl? You mean Evie? The waitress?” And there it was. Lacy Dalton’s not-so-subtle reminder that Lacy was a doctor’s daughter and Evie’s mom ran a diner. “I’m surprised you recognized her, Mark, with all those tattoos and the blue stripe in her hair. She’s put on a few—”
“Hi, I’m Whitney Foster. I don’t think we’ve met?” Whitney—who just got promoted from new friend to dear friend—thrust her hand forward. Lacy blinked a few times, then took the hand graciously. Evie made her escape to the soda fountain at the far end of the counter. While the two tall, beautiful women—one she liked, one she did not—talked, Mark’s eyes followed Evie everywhere. She felt them sizzling on her skin as she filled a large cup with root beer. She felt them raking over her as she plopped two scoops of ice cream into the soda. She felt them, damn it.
My girl...
Those words should have made her blood boil, not sizzle. But there was something about how he’d said them. How he’d begged to be “friends” again. What was he after? Forgiveness? Something more? She could feel his hands on her skin as if it was yesterday. No! Whatever he wanted, she wasn’t giving it to him. She snapped the lid on the cup. No way could she risk that kind of hurt again. She willed herself to meet his gaze when she very carefully put one straw in the opening. He gave her another warm smile, damn it, then he...he winked at her.
Whitney was on her feet, physically moving Lacy toward a booth, away from where Mark stood. Evie slid his drink across the counter, cursing the way her hand trembled. It was the wink that undid her. Made her heart go all flippity-floppity. Made her remember the way his smile used to be the sun her world orbited around. She licked her lips and looked anywhere but into his damnable eyes.
“That’ll be three dollars.”
“Wow. I remember when it was a buck-fifty.”
“That was a long time ago, Mark.” It was another lifetime. “Time marches on.”
“I always thought of time as more of a circle.” He laid the money on the counter. “You know, cyclical—moving in and out of lives, then coming back again—”
“And then leaving again,” she scoffed. Damn him to hell for being so charming.
He leaned forward, suddenly serious. His voice dropped. “I’m back for good this time, Evie. And I’m not giving up on us. Ever.”
Well, damn. He sounded like he actually meant those words. But she’d believed his pretty words once before.
“Look, whatever you think you’re doing here?” She gestured between them. “With me? It ain’t gonna happen. Enjoy your float. And get out of my diner.”
Copyright © 2020 by Jo McNally
ISBN-13: 9781488055942
Barefoot on a Starlit Night
Copyright © 2020 by Jo McNally
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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