His grandpa put a hand on his bruised shoulder, painfully bringing him back to the meeting. “You’ve given us a lot to think about, Greg. I suggest we take all this information home and think on it.”
“Oh, that reminds me of one more thing,” Greg said. Several people groaned exaggeratedly, but he went on. “Hold on. I was just gonna suggest that we have an adult meeting every week to get all this up and runnin’.”
“Assuming we want to do any of this,” Jeff said.
“You will,” Greg said. “But even if you don’t, it’d still be beneficial to meet every Thursday to save Carrie from runnin’ around to give us Oliver’s report.”
“Might also save us any costly mistakes,” Jeff said. “Right, CC?”
Greg shot Jeff a warning glare. That was twice. If it happened a third time, it was going to get personal.
“Even if we only get one adult from each family,” Greg said, “I figure we can make a lot of progress each week.”
His grandpa nodded. “That’s something we can agree on right now. All in favor of an adult weekly meeting, say ‘Aye’?”
“Aye,” the room said as one.
“Any opposed?”
Nobody moved.
“Good,” his grandpa said. “Let’s plan on the same time, same place next week. Until then, I’d like you to give serious consideration to Greg’s ideas. Our clan is strong, but we might have some room for improvement.” He turned to Greg, pride shining in his eyes. “Anything else, son?”
Greg thought carefully a moment before shaking his head. “That’s it. For now.”
twenty-two
“COULD YOU HELP me up, dear? My arthritis is acting up.”
Carrie’s back didn’t feel great after sitting on the floor for Greg’s long meeting. She still wasn’t used to sleeping on the floor either. Standing, she stretched slightly and then took May’s arm. May rocked back and forth a few times before pushing herself up off the couch. Then she patted Carrie’s hand.
“Thank you, dear. Now could you do something else for me?”
“Sure,” Carrie said. “What do you need?”
May smiled. “Gregory needs help taking the chairs back to the kitchen.”
Luckily Greg hadn’t heard.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Carrie said. “See you tomorrow, May.”
“But what if he wants someone to continue his discussion with?” May went on. “Perhaps a cute girl his age who might understand what in the world he’s talking about.”
Carrie put an arm around May’s stooped shoulders. “No more matchmaking,” she whispered. “Okay?”
May pushed up her thick glasses and spoke full voice. “Who said anything about matchmaking? I just want you to tell my Gregory that he did a good job. That’s innocent enough, isn’t it?”
It should have been. After all, Greg had obviously spent a long time thinking through his ideas. But Carrie and Greg didn’t have that kind of relationship. In fact, they didn’t have any relationship at all. Plus, Carrie was still miffed about insinuations he had made about her and Oliver.
Watchdog boyfriend? Nothing like perpetuating a rumor.
“That’s enough, Ma,” Mariah said, joining them. “Leave Carrie be.”
Carrie smiled gratefully at Mariah.
“I made some sweet potato pie, darlin’,” Mariah said. “Some people are stayin’ behind to try it out. You wanna piece before you head on home?”
That explained the great aroma wafting in from the kitchen. Plus, there was something so genuine about Mariah, so welcoming.
Carrie’s smile grew. “I’d love some. Are you feeling better, by the way?” Mariah still looked tired, but she had more color in her cheeks.
“Much improved. Now would you do me a favor and ask that fine-looking gentleman over there if he’d like one piece of pie or two?”
Carrie followed her gaze and froze. Greg was in a deep conversation with Richard O’Brien. Her heart sank. Mariah, too? She couldn’t take anyone else throwing her in Greg’s path.
“Richard loves my pie,” Mariah said, letting Carrie know which of the two men she meant.
Carrie blushed again. May had her paranoid now. Richard O’Brien was in his early sixties with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. He looked part hippie, and she’d never considered him “fine-looking,” but maybe she would have if she was Mariah’s age.
Making her way through the visiting people, Carrie found a spot to hide directly behind Greg.
“Your ideas have real merit, Greg,” she heard Richard saying. “It’s refreshing to have an outsider’s point of view—not that you’re an outsider anymore. But I have some concerns with blocking off the South Entrance. Do you honestly believe we can attempt it without raising the patrolmen’s suspicions?”
Carrie scooted up a bit, hoping to catch Richard’s eye without Greg noticing. Several people had already left, and the rest were putting on their jackets, making her wonder how many people were staying behind. Mariah hadn’t even brought out the pie yet.
Greg shifted a little.
Carrie fell back out of his sight.
“No, but what’ll they do?” Greg said. “Patrolmen are a lazy bunch. If we build the barricade, I figure they’ll leave it be as long as they can access the sub from the other entrance.”
Richard pulled on his graying goatee. “Interesting. I live in the home closest to the North Entrance. I assume you expect me to move under your new plan?”
“Yeah, but we won’t abandon your house completely,” Greg said. “That’ll be our main watch post if Oliver ever turns on us.”
Carrie grunted as he, once again, threw Oliver under the bus. After everything Oliver had done for their clan—that week alone—it was unforgivable.
Greg turned and spotted her.
She took another step back. “Sorry for interrupting, Richard,” she said, “but Mariah wondered if you want one or two slices of pie.”
“Two if she’s offering,” Richard said.
“Oh, I made plenty,” Mariah called from the kitchen.
“I’ll take two as well,” Greg said, lifting his bad hand.
Carrie caught a peek under his bandage and saw an ugly gash running under his wrap. She’d noticed it during the meeting, running all the way down his wrist like someone had slit his palm with a knife. She shuddered. The story about his skirmish with the patrolmen had circled the clan a dozen times over, but Amber said the guy had clubbed Greg’s shoulder, not his hand, and with a nightstick, not a knife. The gash was red and swollen. Infected. It must hurt badly if Greg wanted to find a doctor. She knew a few herbs that could—
Greg caught her staring. He shoved he could of his bandaged hand in his pocket.
“That looks like it hurts,” she offered. “What happened?”
His brows lowered. “You serious? You wanna know what happened to my hand?”
“Um…yes. No. I don’t know.” She hated how quickly he could make her feel flustered.
As he studied her, he almost looked confused, even though she was the one confused. He finally shook his head.
“Nothin’ happened. Nothin’ at all.”
She wasn’t about to argue. She wanted to kick herself for breaking her promise to never speak to Greg again. Would she ever learn?
“Hey, Carrie darlin’,” Mariah called, “could you give this first slice to my dad?”
Grateful for escape, she crossed the room and grabbed CJ’s plate. But when she turned back, she gasped. The Trenton’s house was empty. Every non-Trenton had left except her and Richard O’Brien, leaving six adults. Three male. Three female. Based on how the ages matched up, she felt sick. She’d walked into another trap, only Mariah’s this time. Except that didn’t make sense. Of all people, Mariah should know how much her son hated Carrie, how he’d fly through the roof once he did the math.
Carrie handed CJ his plate and turned back. “On second thought, Mariah, it’s late. I better get home.”
Mariah smiled. “Y
ou’re just fine. Stay and visit a bit. It’d make Mama real happy. Me, too.” Mariah winked at her.
Oh, no! Mariah knew exactly what she was doing.
Carrie stole a peek at Greg who was still talking to Richard. She lowered her voice. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Mariah put a hand on her hip. “Are you tellin’ me you’re not starvin’?”
“No, but—”
“Then stay. Besides…” Mariah tugged Carrie toward the kitchen table. “I need your opinion on my pie. I used some of your lovely spices downstairs, but I’m not sure I got it right. Here. Try a bite.”
Before Carrie knew it, she was sitting at the table she swore she’d never revisit, next to a man she promised she’d never speak to again. Greg was too engrossed with Richard and talk of barricades to notice her sitting next to him, buying her a few seconds of peace. But May sat across from them with a grin that tripled her wrinkles.
Carrie shook her head. She was so gullible.
“Now, I expect you to be honest,” Mariah said. “What do you think?”
Carrie took her first bite. Her eyes widened. She picked up the plate and studied it. “How did you do that? This tastes like pumpkin pie, only creamier like there’s cinnamon in it. I don’t have any cinnamon downstairs, do I?”
Mariah beamed. “It’s a little trick I learned. I’ll teach you sometime.”
As Mariah handed out the other plates, Carrie forced herself to slow down and savor every bite. She couldn’t believe Mariah had pulled off something so wonderful with so few resources.
Greg said something that made Richard laugh, and Carrie glanced sideways without thinking. Her pie was suddenly forgotten.
If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Greg Pierce was happy. He wasn’t smiling—of course not—but there was something in his relaxed jaw, in his eyes, as if he was enjoying himself. It was strange. As he discussed wells and barricades with a man twice his age, Greg looked different. Almost like the guy in the family pictures.
His eyes flickered over and caught her watching him.
Again.
She forced her gaze down to her pie.
“Well, Richard,” Greg said, “we’ve monopolized the conversation long enough, but let me say thanks again for givin’ us the thumbs up today. I wasn’t sure we had you convinced to let us stay.”
Richard laughed. “Who would kick out the best cook in the neighborhood? Not very smart, if you ask me.”
“You should see what my mom can do with a pinecone,” Greg said with another bite. “There were times comin’ north I coulda sworn we were eatin’ filet mignon.”
“Ah!” Mariah cried. “Don’t listen to him. We never ate pinecones, not even once—well, not in the beginning at least. And as I recall, I simply said if you’d rather not starve to death, I could barbecue up one for dinner.”
“Yeah, and you asked if I wanted it medium-rare or well-done,” Greg quipped.
Everyone laughed. Everyone but Greg. Even then, Carrie could have sworn he was laughing on the inside.
“That I would have enjoyed seeing,” Richard said warmly. “I can’t remember a time I was desperate enough to eat a pinecone.”
In an instant, Greg’s expression sobered. “There were days I would’ve eaten the shirt off my back. We were down to skin and bones, literally starvin’ to death, and there was nothin’ I could do about it.”
Mariah laid a hand on his, eyes going soft. “We made it though, didn’t we? And if I do say so, it’s nice to see you puttin’ some meat back on those bones.”
Greg stabbed another bite of pie. “Yes, it is.”
He had, too, Carrie realized. His face had filled out in the last few weeks. His arms, too, especially the forearms. Even Greg’s shoulders fit his faded UNC shirt nicely—which she shouldn’t notice anyone’s shoulders, especially his—but at that moment, she finally spotted the family resemblance. Greg had Mariah’s almond-shaped eyes and her chestnut-colored hair. He had CJ’s square jaw and—
He turned and caught her watching him.
Again!
Carrie shot to her feet. “Thanks for the pie, Mariah. It was wonderful.”
“Anytime, sweetie,” Mariah said. “You wanna stick around for a bit? We’re gonna pull out some cards. Mama says you’re real good at canasta.”
“No. I should get back to Amber and Zach.”
“Well, at least take some pie home.”
Carrie would have turned that down as well, but her siblings were hungry. Starving, actually. She followed Mariah into the kitchen where Mariah loaded her plate with two fat slices.
“Thanks, Mariah,” Carrie said.
“Thanks for stayin’. It was nice chattin’ with you.”
Carrie had barely said a word, but she smiled.
Making her way to the door, she tossed her jacket over her arm and steadied the pie so she could grab the door handle.
“Wait,” someone said, a foot behind her.
Carrie nearly jumped out of her skin. Greg had snuck up on her—on purpose probably. The pie wobbled, but she somehow held it steady. She hated being startled, which he knew full well. A twitch of amusement played on his face.
Stupid Greg.
She brushed some hair from her face. “What do you need?”
“Tell Zach I can play baseball tomorrow, assuming it’s not gonna rain,” Greg said.
Her temper picked up. If he got Zach’s hopes up again with another empty promise…
Stupid, stupid Greg.
“It’s not going to rain,” she said.
See what excuse he’d use now.
He cocked his head to the side. “How do you know?”
She shrugged, unwilling to explain five years of charting clouds, humidity, and his grandma’s arthritis. She already knew what his response would be.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Greg.
“Well, if you’re right,” he said, “tell him I’ll be ready.”
* * * * *
Carrie was right. First time.
The weather was perfect. The gray skies which had held Illinois captive since Greg had arrived had cleared. With the unobscured sun, Greg guessed it was around seventy degrees.
He finally felt warm.
What had started in his mind as tossing a ball around with the overzealous kid somehow evolved into an all-out baseball game. Zach spent the morning running around to ask everybody to play. Surprisingly, he’d recruited half the clan. The other half agreed to cheer. Even Greg’s family insisted on coming.
Not that it was a real game.
The only equipment was the ball itself. They didn’t have bases, all mitts had long since been sold for food—same with the bats. Not to mention most everybody, including Zach, were barefoot since Oliver still hadn’t shown up with their stuff yet. But Zach was determined and pulled everything together. Greg’s job was to find a spot to play.
Greg looked over their mock field. He’d chosen the backyard of an empty home near the North Entrance, one which had the longest yard and a full acre of overgrown grass to pad the tender feet. Since the house was deserted, they didn’t have to worry about breaking a window or two. There was a slight hill next to the house where the spectators spread out their blankets. Greg found some flat rocks for the bases and an old rusty pipe for the bat. As for mitts, he assured Zach that nobody would hit it hard enough with an old hollow pipe anyway.
Satisfied, he adjusted his Yankees cap and turned to the players. “Alrighty. Time to pick teams. Zach, you’re first captain, and…” Greg searched the group and pointed to another teen. “You’re second.”
“I’m Chris,” the boy said. “Tucker’s older brother.”
Greg didn’t know who the heck Tucker was, but he slapped him on the back. “Alrighty, captains. Pick your teams.”
“Greg!” Zach shouted. “I get Greg.”
Greg stepped obediently behind the kid.
“Then I get Braden,” Chris said.
“Terrell.”
>
“Jeff.”
“Sasha.”
Down the line they went. When Zach called Carrie’s name, Greg looked up in surprise. He hadn’t pegged Carrie Ashworth as the baseball type.
Apparently she wasn’t.
“That’s okay,” Carrie said. “I’ll keep score.” Although with the way she glanced at Greg afterward, he wondered if she would have played had he not been there.
When they ran out of willing players, Richard stood. “I’ll ump.”
Greg waited for his mom to protest. She had umpped many a little league game in her day. While she was normally a peace-loving pacifist, that all flew out the window when it came to baseball. Greg had never seen her pass up a chance to ump and half expected her to wrestle Richard to the ground. She didn’t. But she seemed to read Greg’s mind.
“Don’t worry,” his mom said. “I’ll keep Richard honest from here.”
Amber and her two friends jumped up next. “Can we be the cheerleaders?” Amber asked.
Greg groaned. So did Zach. The three girls had ponytails and jeans rolled to the knee. Just yesterday the oldest of that giggly bunch had stopped by to ask Greg how to use a slingshot. It took five minutes just to get rid of her. He could already guess that Amber and her friends would cheer for two players and two players only: him and Braden. The two single men.
“You want cheerleaders, kid?” Greg asked.
Zach made a face. “Do I have to?”
“It’s up to you.”
“Fine.” Zach glared at Amber. “But stay outta our way.”
Greg scanned the two teams. Eight people on each. Not quite a full team, but more than he’d expected. “How many innings y’all wanna play?” he asked.
“Four,” Jeff Kovach called. “I have stuff to do.”
“Nine,” Dylan Green countered. “I have nothing to do, and neither do you.”
Greg looked at his captain. “What’d you think, kid? You up for nine innings?”
Zach punched the air. “Yes!”
“Alrighty then. Nine it is.” Greg adjusted his Yankees hat once more and called, “Batter up!”
twenty-three
BY THE TIME THEY MADE it through five innings, Greg questioned the wisdom of playing nine. It had been painful. The young team captains insisted on pitching, slowing down the game with their wild, inexperienced throws. They wasted twenty minutes alone in the third inning looking for Greg’s baseball after Zach finally pitched a good one and Jeff hit a showoff grand slam into the woods.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 16