Bluegrass Hero

by Allie Pleiter

  “A second reading is always a wise idea,” she said. “If it still looks bad two weeks from now, we’ll know our first impulses were right.”

  Gil exhaled.

  “Fine, fine, I motion we table it for a second reading. Can we please move on now? We still have the report from the Character Day subcommittee,” Sandy said.

  “That would be you, Sandy,” Howard joked. “You’re a subcommittee of one.”

  “If anyone could be a subcommittee all by herself, it’d be Sandy,” another member of the council said. Howard seemed annoyed that someone tagged on to his joke.

  Sandy plunked her elbows down on the table. “Are y’all gonna let me say my piece or what? Some of us need a full eight hours of sleep, you know.”

  “Go ahead, Sandy, you’ve got the floor.”

  “I put a lot of thought into the Character Day speaker this year. This year’s theme of integrity is highly important.”

  Emily felt the pit of her stomach drop down. Suddenly she was sure she’d made the wrong decision. Sandy would say her name and then the entire town council would groan their disapproval. She’d prayed over this for days, and she was sure—up until now—that this was something she should do. Now she was certain she’d misunderstood God and was about to make a fool of herself.

  “So I’m pleased to announce that our own Emily Montague has accepted my request to be our Character Day speaker.”

  Emily thought the moment would feel bigger. Like some kind of crucial watershed where her heart skipped and people’s jaws dropped in shock. But it wasn’t like that at all. Everyone looked at her, but there was no astonishment, no alarm. “Why, of course,” said Audrey Lupine almost instantly. “Oh, hon, I can’t think of anyone better.”

  “I know this is a big step for Emily, and I think we can all show her that we’re in full-support of her decision to share her story with our young men and women.” Sandy began to applaud enthusiastically, and the rest of the town council applauded, as well. Emily smiled, trying to look as if she was excited about this. It felt more like her stomach was full of tightly wound springs ready to uncoil at any moment. She was grateful when the meeting broke up ten minutes later.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gil hung back, waiting for Sandy and Emily to say goodnight to each other. He was impressed that Emily had taken what looked like a big step for her. That woman has her fair share of courage, he thought to himself as he caught up with her in the parking lot. “Congratulations. And hey, I owe you one—I thought we were dead in the water back there.” His pickup looked enormous next to Emily’s VW—an original Beetle, he noticed now, not the newer one introduced a few years ago.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling on the fuzzy white beret she always wore. “And you don’t owe me anything. I was only reminding the council of our usual practice of first reading. Robert’s Rules of Order, I think—or it ought to be. I didn’t do you any favors, just did my job.”

  “Well, I still feel like I owe you one. And like I said about the soap dishes, I always pay my debts. So how about a slice of Deacon’s pie?” Deacon’s Grill was the only place in Middleburg open at this time of night, but that didn’t stop it from also being the maker of the best pie in the county. It was Late-Night Movie Night back at the ranch anyhow, and he often stole away to Deacon’s Grill to ensure he didn’t have to sit through the guys’ idea of fine cinema.

  She opened her car door. He noticed her keychain was an antique silver spoon twisted into a swirly shape. “It’s late.”

  “I happen to know Gina Deacon starts her baking at 10:00 p.m. If we time it right, we could get pie fresh out of the oven.” If asked, he’d never let on that a shot at Deacon’s just-baked pies was actually the driving force behind the creation of Late-Night Movie Night (and why Ethan was put in charge of the weekly event).

  She paused for a moment, rolling down—rolling down—the too-old-to-be-electric window as her car sputtered to a start. It didn’t sound like a very dependable car. “I’ll meet you there,” she said, pumping the gas pedal a few times. “First one in the door orders the coffee.”

  After he ordered blueberry and she ordered apple—à la mode, no less—Gil sat back in his seat. “I got a mess of printouts pinned up on my bunkhouse wall and boys quizzing each other on Bible verses, so yes, I owe you.”

  “Are you admitting I was right?”

  “Maybe,” he conceded. “Once we add more soap to the mix I might not keep my sense of gratitude.”

  They fell into an awkward silence. Bringing her to the Grill had seemed like such a good idea when he’d thought of it during the meeting—a friendly gesture. Only he wasn’t really good at friendly gestures, and now it just felt uncomfortable. He looked out the window. It was starting to snow.

  “I’ve always liked snow,” she said. “It makes everything look clean.”

  “You run a bath shop. I think you’ve just got a thing for clean.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I also like rain, and if you take away the mud, that’s all about clean, too.”

  “I like mud. I got a dog named Mud, you know. Very fond of mud as a boy. Made my mama nuts.” Now, where had that come from? What could have possessed Gil to suddenly bring up the subject of his childhood?

  Emily eyed him. “I can just bet you gave your mama fits. You don’t strike me as the minding kind. What does Gil stand for, anyway? Gilbert? Gilligan? I gotta admit, none of those fit you at all.”

  Now that was just a little too much personal revelation. “That information is dispensed on a need-to-know basis and I don’t think you need to know.”

  She got that analytical look on her face again, and he could just bet she was pondering possible “Gil” names. He stared right back, as if challenging her not to press the issue. “I suppose I don’t,” she relented.

  He chose a diversionary topic. “So how did West of Paris get its name? What’s with all the French?”

  Her face took on a bittersweet smile. “It’s a bit of a story, actually. I’ve always had a sort of fascination with Paris. Took French in high school, watched every movie set in Paris ever made, that sort of thing. It just seemed so elegant, so…different from the very ordinary town in Ohio where I grew up.”

  “Aha,” Gil said, “an Ohio native. I hear we get a few of you to cross the river and stay.” Was that supposed to be a joke? Man, he was terrible at this.

  “All the time I was growing up I wanted to move to Paris and open a shop. Something very elegant and very female and dripping in French sophistication.” Her face changed a bit. “And then I met a man from Paris. But it was Paris, Kentucky. We talked about going to Paris, France, when we got married, but we could never afford it. And then we…ran out of time to go.” He could see her force the sadness back down, push the thought away and drag herself into a new conversation. “How did you get the idea to start Homestretch Farm?”

  “That’s a long story for a place like this.” And a very dangerous topic, despite the tender revelation she’d just offered. “The short version is that I wanted to make up for a few things. Give back.”

  “Meaning you could have used a place like Homestretch at some point? I mean, if that’s not prying. It’s no one’s business why you do what you do.”

  Gil put down his fork. “Look, if you’re wondering if my own record is squeaky clean, it ain’t. You’re not looking at a Boy Scout here.”

  There was another patch of silence as she considered that information. And he could tell by her face that she was giving it a lot of thought.

  “Thanks,” he said finally.

  “For what?”

  “For not pretending that was a small thing.”

  Emily gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you can tell a lot about someone by how they react to that kind of information. The ones who gush and say things like ‘it’s not how you start, it’s how you finish,’ those are usually the people who’ll quietly hold your record against you the rest of
your life. The people who…I don’t know…respect that for the admission it is, they’re usually the ones you can trust.”

  She didn’t ask for the details. He was glad of that, because he wasn’t ready to give them. It wasn’t exactly a topic of casual conversation, and they’d ventured deeper than he liked already. He changed the subject again. “So, Character Day. I’m not even sure I know what that is.”

  “It’s one of those positive-reinforcement programs they have up at the high school. They take a month to focus on different positive character traits each week, and then there’s an assembly thing where kids get awards for those traits. Students nominate each other. It’s actually a pretty nice thing.” She blushed.

  “Sounds like it’s an honor to be asked to speak.”

  “It is, sort of. It’s supposed to hold you up as a—” she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers “‘—Middleburgian of Character.’”

  “You going to talk about what happened to your late husband?” No one had actually said that at the meeting, but he got the impression from the way people had acted. “I mean, I think that’s really brave of you, if you are. It can’t be easy.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “You know how Ash died?”

  “Just the basics. You know, what people said or what was in the papers. I’m sorry.”

  She toyed with her pie for a moment. “Me, too. Ash was a good man.”

  “I’ve no doubt. You…you want to talk about it? I mean, I don’t know the details and I don’t need to, but if you want…” He couldn’t think of a way to finish that sentence. “Well, you know, I’d listen.” Gil wanted to smack his forehead for bumbling so much. He was so lousy at this kind of thing.

  She gave a sad, thin smile. “Thanks, but it’s a long story for a place like this.”

  “Yep,” he said, putting more cream in his coffee just for something to do.

  “But thanks,” she said. “Really.”

  Gil found that despite the tangled conversation, they’d somehow managed to reach some sort of understanding. Both of them had uncomfortable baggage that didn’t need unpacking just now. Could a conversation be classified as comfortably uncomfortable? “Still,” he said, trying to perk up his voice a bit, “we got a challenge ahead of us, you and I. Don’t you go caving when those guys come in there and try to get on your good side. They’ll come up with eleven excuses for why they couldn’t memorize this or they forgot that. Don’t you fall for it. You’ve set your terms, now don’t get all warm and fuzzy, y’hear? I don’t want you to hand over one bar of soap that hasn’t been duly earned.”

  She managed a smile. “I’ll show no mercy.”

  “You stand your ground and hold the line.”

  She made a funny face and saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

  He saluted back. “I’ve a feeling my sanity depends on it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The shop-door chime rang and Peter Epson shuffled inside West of Paris. It was obvious Peter wasn’t here to report—he had no notebook and didn’t come straight to the counter. Instead, he wandered briefly around the shop, in that forced way of a customer hesitant to come out and ask for what he was truly seeking. Emily had grown to recognize this kind of “faux” browsing—mostly done by teenage girls looking for acne products and males of any age. She returned to arranging a display—such customers got prickly if you watched them too closely—and waited for him to speak up. Within a few minutes she found him nearly peering over her shoulder.

  “I hear y’all got soap.” He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and smiled sheepishly. “Um…Love Soap?”

  So word of the Edmundson’s Fruits of the Spirit Soap had spread. Emily held up a bar of the love scent and nodded. “Yes, it just came in this month and it does smell wonderful.” The soap had a thick, rosy aroma spiced through with something like chocolate.

  Peter edged closer. “There’s this girl…do you think…” He rolled his eyes a bit and shrugged, which made him look excruciatingly young.

  Emily leaned against the table. She loved this, guiding a customer to the perfect, heartfelt gift. She wasn’t sure he wanted to know that she recognized him, so she simply met Peter’s eyes with a warm smile. “She’s special?”

  “Yeah.” He practically sighed and stubbed a toe on the floor. Dinah was right: a textbook case of puppy love, even at twenty.

  “So you’d like something special for her? Something really nice?” She intentionally put the soap down and moved her hand toward a cream wool scarf on the next table. “Tell me about her and I’ll help you pick something out.”

  He pointed to the Love Soap. “No, I pretty much just want that.”

  Emily raised a brow. “Have you been talking to the boys up at Homestretch Farm?” Well, it had to be asked, no matter how odd it sounded.

  “No,” he said, but in such a tone that she immediately knew he had. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I think some people have the wrong idea about some of my soaps. I’d much rather we work together to come up with something she’d really like.”

  He picked the bar up off the counter. “I’m lousy at this. Maybe I should just stick with the soap.”

  “You just need a little help, that’s all. A nice gift, if you present it with a bit of creativity, will definitely get her attention. Now, tell me what she’s like.”

  Peter turned red. “She…um…brings the mail. Her birthday’s today. And she has the most amazing hair.”

  “Peter,” Emily said gently, deciding to acknowledge that she knew who he was, “are you sweet on Megan Walters?” The cub reporter stuck on the town’s newest mail carrier—could it get any more adorable? He nodded. “Well,” Emily said, recalling Megan Walters’s frenzied brown curls, “that she does. Relax, your secret’s safe with me.” She took the bar from his hands. “But I think she might like a few other things. Let’s start with the soap and add some beautiful jeweled hairpins so she knows you like her hair. Valentine’s Day is next week, you know.”

  “Yep.”

  Emily paused, thinking. “I’ve got an idea that should sweep her off her feet, Peter. Come on over here and let’s get planning.”

  Back in Five Minutes the sign read.

  Who leaves their shop? Then again, how should he know? He’d never even darkened the door of West of Paris before this month. Now, it seemed as if every third errand took him past the place. Maybe she left all the time to run errands or handle bath-product crises. He looked over into the small alley beside her shop and could see the blue fender of her VW. She hadn’t gone very far. He turned and scanned up and down the street.

  Five blocks down, at what looked like the corner of March Avenue, he thought he saw her white beret. She had one of those baskets at her feet and she kept reaching into it for things.

  Before he even had a chance to think about it, he started walking down Ballad Road toward the corner where Emily stood.

  He didn’t know what to say when he got close enough to see her task. She was tying a little gift bag—a yellow one from her shop—to…a mailbox.

  A mailbox?

  He watched her for a second or two, but she was so engrossed in making little strips of newspaper curl like ribbons that she didn’t see him behind her. He shifted his weight and leaned down to peer at her face—he had a good foot and a half on her, even bent over like that. “For crying out loud, what are you doing?”

  Emily jumped, sending her scissors clean through the paper she was trying to curl. “Thanks a lot. Now I’ve gone and cut it off and I only have one more.” She made a little hrumphing noise and began to dig into that basket of hers.

  “Sorry, but what exactly is it you need one more of and why?”

  She eyed him, scissors poised midair. “That information is on a need-to-know basis, and you have no basis or business knowing.”

  “You’re tying things to a mailbox.”

  She turned her attention back to her work. “Very observant, Mr. Sorrent.”


  “You know you can call me Gil,” he corrected, trying to ignore how much he liked their banter.

  “Yes, Gil, I am tying something to a mailbox.” She kept her eyes on her task, as if that statement should have closed the matter.

  But it didn’t. People didn’t decorate mailboxes. Well, normal people didn’t decorate mailboxes. “It’s weird.”

  “Weird or not, it’s not your business.”

  That struck him as odd. Given the circumstances, he would think someone as precise as Emily Montague would be eager to explain her unusual behavior. But she was quiet. Secretive, even. He caught a whiff of something in the air, then pointed at the bag. “Is that soap in there?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Why are you tying soap to the mailbox?”

  She turned on him, drawing herself up to as tall as she got—which wasn’t that tall, actually—and lowering her voice to a growl. “This is the private request of a particular customer—and yes, I tried to talk him out of it—but no, I’m not going to tell you a thing.”

  He pointed at her. “Ha! So it’s a ‘he.’” A frightening thought struck him. “It had better not be one of my guys, I’ll tell you that. Cuz you can just pick up your things and go home if it is.”

  “Could you just once stop jumping to conclusions and telling me what to do?” She adjusted the decorations around the bag, checked her watch—why did she check her watch?—and thrust her supplies back into the basket. “It’s not one of your guys, so there.”

  He looked a little more closely at the odd packaging. She’d used red ribbon and strips of newspaper, of all things. “You run out of ribbon or something? That’s newspaper.”

  “Again, very observant. Yes, I’m quite aware I’ve used newspaper. And, again, I’m not going to tell you why.” She checked her watch again. “Come on, we have to get out of here, it’s nearly time.” She started back up the street toward her shop.