But now…It was a gated community, she kept telling herself. It was safe, that was why they had moved out of the city. They were just sitting tight and waiting for it to blow over. Nothing happened in that neighborhood full of retirees, unless you counted heart attacks and broken hips.
Great, Ginny. Real great. “Here you go,” she said, with a bright smile, and handed Mrs Harmon a cup of punch.
The roundfaced old woman merely nodded distractedly, dabbed at her nose with a ragged Kleenex, and wandered away. Mrs Harmon looked more like an Ewok than ever, especially with her thinning grey hair not neatly curled but sticking up anyhow. Was she having trouble getting through to her daughter in Alaska?
Ginny tipped her head back, looking at the ancient bar-fluorescents. Standing on a ladder to change those bad boys out was no fun at all.
Sure, Ginny. Think about the lights.
Someone cleared his throat, officiously. She brought her chin back down. Sol Beauford, the mayor of Cotton Crossing, was at the podium Ginny and Christine Clare, the weekday librarian at this branch, had yanked out of storage in the back just in time. Why this wasn’t at the Grange, Ginny had no clue, and Christie had muttered several times during setup that she didn’t know either and clearly it was some sort of comment on something.
Christie had family in Cincinnati. Presumably she had no trouble getting through to them.
“You’re a lifesaver.” As if the thought had summoned her, Christie appeared at Ginny’s elbow.
“Not really,” Ginny mumbled, as the mayor tapped at the arthritic microphone, producing a squeal of feedback. “Is he running for re-election?”
Christie’s fair blonde face crumpled with glee. She was homely in that attractive way only strawberry-blondes could manage, lacking only a dirndl and a couple of braids to turn her into one of the Von Trapp children. Her ankles were a bit swollen, though, and she moved like it hurt, especially after setting up all the chairs. Ginny’s own back was none too happy about wrestling those motherfuckers out. “You’d think, right? Everyone’s nervous. I think they think terrorists are coming after the Crossing personally.”
Every town in America probably feels that way. Ginny rubbed at her left wrist, where a clattering metal chair had bitten her earlier. “Kind of funny they haven’t made any demands, though.”
“Some people just want to watch the world burn.” Christie put both fists to her lumbar region and leaned back, sighing. The mayor was bloviating on about how this was a national emergency, and the Crossing had a duty that he knew it would fulfill.
A ghost of amusement touched Ginny’s lips. “You saw that movie too?”
The door opened for a latecomer, letting in a burst of smoke-tinted autumn air. It was an old man, his red suspenders holding up a pair of britches probably born the same year Ginny was and a wisp of white hair on his egg-dome head. He shuffled proudly, however, and his escort was familiar. It was Military Felon, Mr Quartine-rhymes-with-brain, and he held the old man’s arm very gently indeed.
“Would you look at that.” Christie blinked her big baby blues. The freckles on her nose had run together, like she’d been baked with sprinkles. “Never thought I’d see him in a library.”
Ginny quit rubbing her wrist. It was going to bruise, there was nothing she could do now. “Huh?”
“Lee Q. He’s hardcore townie.” Christie’s nose actually wrinkled, like she smelled something bad. “Redneck serial killer of the week, right there.”
“He comes in every Sunday for Westerns.” Ginny looked down at the punch bowl. It was holding up tolerably well, it seemed. She didn’t even remember refilling it. “Should I be worried?”
“Westerns?” Christie laughed, cupping it behind a hand so she didn’t disturb Beauford’s speechifying. “Holy cow, really?”
“By the yard.” Ginny’s mouth twitched. She couldn’t help but smile, Christie looked so horrified and amused all at once.
“…our great nation. Now, Sheriff Blotzer and Chief Randall have a couple words to say to y’all.” The mayor smiled pacifically, his oiled-black hair swept back from a ferocious widow’s peak and his maroon tie just a little too tight. His nose was reddened, though, and he rescued a precisely folded red handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket. “Thank you, thank you.”
Polite applause echoed; Christie headed for the checkout counter. She was probably going to search for the old bottle of powdery aspirin or the slightly less ancient ibuprofen. It looked like her back hurt like hell. Mr Quartine got his elderly companion settled, looked around, and aimed for the refreshments table.
Ginny kept the smile plastered to her face. “Punch?” she said brightly, when he came into range.
“Just one.” Without a hat, his dark hair flopped a little onto his forehead. He kept it so short at the back and sides she’d suspected a buzzcut, but the top was a little long. “Horace says he’s thirsty.”
Horace? “Is that your dad?” Her hands moved without any real direction on her part, dipping the ladle and filling the paper cup neatly.
“No ma’am.” He looked a little bemused at the notion. “He knew him, though.” Mr Quartine watched her hands, and Ginny glanced down to see if she’d spilled any.
She hadn’t. He was just staring. Why? The bruise wasn’t showing already. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
That got an immediate reaction. “No need. What I meant to say was, he was a friend of my daddy. I’m driving him, because he don’t see so well at night.”
This is the most I’ve ever heard you talk. “That’s nice of you.” Her throat felt funny. Blocked, a little. Her father didn’t see well at night either. He didn’t drive past sundown. At least, not comfortably. Something hot was in her eyes. She handed him the paper cup, carefully, and his fingers brushed hers. “You want to take him some cookies? There’s mixed nuts, too.”
“Plenty of those.”
She looked up in time to see one of his eyebrows arch a bit. She caught the joke, and probably would have laughed if the rock in her throat hadn’t swelled. God, please, let them be all right. I’m sorry, just let them be all right. “There certainly are,” she managed.
Mr Quartine examined her for a long moment.
Her nose was full. It was just like Christie to head off and leave Ginny here to deal with this.
“You all right?” He sounded honestly concerned. His eyes were a lot lighter than she’d thought at first, and she was only seeing it because he leaned a little over the table to get a good close-up. Just like peering at a bug on a windshield.
“Fine.” Mom. Dad. Flo. They have to be all right. They’re fine, the phone lines are just messed up. “Thank you. Sure you don’t want a cookie?”
“No ma’am.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but ended up turning sharply—he almost spilled the punch—and stalking away. That leather vest of his was really old; the stitching was fraying in a couple places. One of the patches on the back looked familiar, but she had to look away toward the front door, taking a deep breath and willing the tears to go away.
By the time Christie came back, Sheriff Blotzer had sneezed twice and was talking about the need for calm and no foolishness. Ginny headed for the back to start the prep for putting everything away, and sniffled into a napkin, trying to cry quietly.
Get You Home
Lee got Horace settled in the truck. “A damnfool,” the old man muttered darkly, patting at his breast pocket to make sure his tiny notebook and mini-pencil were still where they should be. “Percy always was too big for his britches.”
“So I do believe,” Lee muttered in return. If there was a bigger waste of time on a Wednesday night, he wasn’t sure he’d ever encountered it. The big news wasn’t the curfew, though that was the thing they spent the most time on. Mentioning that there would be checkpoints on the highway and some of the main roads had been glossed over, so smoothly most of the Crossing’s residents—or at least, those who had the time and inclination to come to one of these shindigs—hadn’t even qu
ailed, being more worried about the goddamn curfew.
Terrorist attacks. Was that what Grandon had been on about? Whatever had happened was miles from here, though, and they had to have resources onsite for dealing with it. This was America, for God’s sake. Sea to shining sea, and who in their right mind would decide the Crossing—or even Lewiston—was a good target?
Horace had wanted to stand around bitching with old Skip Grainger, too, and the two old men had settled near the front door of the library while the two girls finished cleaning up. Lee wanted to hurry them, but old Skip, leaning on his cane, couldn’t be moved with anything less than a tractor.
Besides, the two old tortoises twining necks meant Lee got to help stack the chairs for the library girl. Ginny. That’s what the other one called her. A nice name. He hadn’t heard it before, and now keeping his ears open had paid off. Besides, those chairs were heavy sumbitches. Wrestling them around was no job for a pair of ladies.
With the front of the library locked up, the girls said their goodbyes. He guessed the Toyota was her car, and he was right. He slammed Horace’s door, his throat doing some funny things.
Ginny had her phone out, and lifted it to her ear. She stood there for a little bit, watching as the blonde headed for a maroon Volvo with bald tires. Finally, dropping her phone into her black purse—looked like a map satchel, really—the library girl walked with her braided head down, a blue knitted scarf wrapped around her pretty neck, visibly shivering. Her skirt was blue, too, and her calves worked smoothly, bare to the wind. She halted, looking at her car, and her shoulders sagged.
Those circles under her eyes were darker, and she’d disappeared once or twice during the meeting, coming back with a slightly reddened nose and damp, matted eyelashes. Lee kept his ears peeled, but nobody said anything about her. Just about the goddamn curfew.
Wait a second. Take a closer look.
Ginny tipped her head back; the other woman—the blonde with the softly moving hips and gentle, pacific smile—had already started her car and dropped it into gear. Wasting no time getting out of Dodge. Lee’s Chevy was the only other vehicle left in the lot, and the Ginny’s Toyota sagged near the back right end a little more than it should.
Horace was rolling down his window. “What is it?”
“Looks like she’s got a flat.” Lee glanced over the parking lot again, checking his ground. The streetlights looked cold, the circles of glow around their bases pulled tight. The wind had veered around from the northeast, and it smelled not only of ice but of snow, too. Maybe the weather-monkeys had been right.
The night was clear, but it wouldn’t stay that way. The blonde girl’s Volvo vanished, taking a hard right onto Thrush Street.
“The library gal? Oh, shit.” Horace reached for the door handle. “You got a jack in this thing?”
“Course I do.” Lee took another few seconds to think the situation over. Yeah, she had a flat. She stood there, looking up at the sky like she was asking God why he was so damn mean, and her shoulders trembled under her wool peacoat. Shivering, or something else? “You stay here, Horace. No need for you to get frostbite.”
The old man was determined to rescue a damsel or two more in his life, though. “The hell I will. Think she’s got a spare?”
“Hope so.” Lee tapped the door. “I mean it, stay in there. I ain’t having you come down with pneumonia.” With that, he set off across the lot, glad he’d worn his old boots. They gripped just right, and he didn’t have to worry about the glass. Ginny didn’t look down until he got within ten feet, and her sudden, flinching movement made him stop dead.
“Looks like you’ve got a flat.” The words came out smoothly; looked like third time was the charm talking to her. “You got yourself a spare?”
“I…” Her nose was red. There was a glitter on her cheek—a tear-track? Maybe. Good Lord, was she crying over a flat tire? Nah, there had to be something else. “Oh. It’s you.” She sounded surprised, and those big dark eyes were swimming. “I…I think I have Triple A, I just…” Honey curls worked free, falling down into her face, and part of that shaking was the cold. She was out here bare-legged, despite the peacoat. “I should call, or…”
“Come on.” He held out a hand. “You got a spare in there?”
“I…I think so.” She blinked, and yes, those were tears. Blinked back, her mouth firming and her chin lifting a little, like a good little soldier.
Lee’s fingers itched to be doing something useful, and that funny tight sensation in his chest might have made him think he was having a problem with the old ticker if it hadn’t been usual from every other time he saw her. “Well, let’s take a look. That your key?”
She did have a spare, it turned out. Looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Toyota came off the factory line, but it was better than a flat. He started his truck, introduced her to Horace, put her in the driver’s seat with the heater on, and took his jack, his iron, and his flashlight from the shovel box in the truck bed.
It felt good to be doing something right again, even if he skinned his knuckles twice working the jack to where it needed to be.
* * *
The second time she got out of the truck, he had just sworn a lug nut loose—the third one, and the toughest sumbitch he’d wrestled in a while, and was sweating a little despite the wind picking up. It was so cold he couldn’t get even a breath of her perfume when she appeared at his side.
“Can I help?” She bent down to peer at his progress. “Hold the flashlight, anything?”
He craned to look over his shoulder, his breath a cloud shredded by the moving chill. “You can get back on in the truck so you don’t freeze to death, ma’am.”
“It’s Ginny.” A tremor of a smile. “Not ma’am.”
He unfolded from his crouch, glad to rest his legs for a few seconds, and offered his right hand. “Pleasure, Ginny. I’m Lee.”
“Oh. Yes.” She gave a soft shake, and now he was worrying that he’d greased up her fingers. “Short for Virginia.”
“Mine’s just short.”
Her tentative smile eased up and widened. It was getting easier to talk to her, and he wanted that smile to stay, but it was damn cold out here.
“I just…I should help.” She crossed her arms, cupping her elbows, hugging herself. Against the cold, or against him? “I have Triple A, I could at least call someone out to—”
“Take ’em an hour to get here, or more. Be on your way before then. Just go back to the truck, keep Horace company, he ain’t talked to a pretty girl since the Bush administration.”
“The first, or the second?” Her teeth began to chatter halfway through the last word, and Lee scratched at his cheek, smearing a bit of greasy dirt on his stubble. “Seriously, let me do something.”
It was damn nice of her to offer, but this was Lee’s job, and he intended to finish it. “Get on back in the truck, Miss Virginia.” His ears perked, and he half-turned, looking across the lot. “I’ll have this all done up in a jiff.”
The laundromat at the end of the strip, on the other side of the FOR RENT signs in the old Elks Lodge windows, was shuttered, dark and squat. Between it and Thrush Avenue there was a strip of waste green, scrub bush that had lost its green unless it was thorny enough to draw blood. Lee’s eyes narrowed. His night vision was pretty good, and he could swear something was moving in there. Too big to be a possum, and it was too early in the winter for the deer to be desperate enough to traipse through the Crossing. The bushes rustled, and the back of Lee’s neck prickled.
She sounded amused instead of nervous, now. “I think that’s the first time in my life someone’s called me Miss Virginia.”
Might not be the last. “Proud to be the first.” He did not like the idea of something in the bushes, no matter what it was. “Listen, get on in the truck and warm up. Horace gets confused sometimes, and I don’t want him thinking about drivin.”
“Yes sir.” There was that ghost of a smile again. He froze where he was,
his attention split between the way the expression made her even more impossibly beautiful and the sense that something was in those bushes, probably watching them. “Mr Quartine?”
It’s a fair ways away. Just keep an eye on it. It bothered him, though. “You can call me Lee.”
She nodded. Her teeth kept chattering, and she inhaled sharply. “Thank you, Mr Lee.” All in one breath, so the words didn’t get chopped up.
Just Lee. He didn’t say it. At least she didn’t call him Little Lee. He might die of embarrassment. As it was, he scratched again at his cheek and nodded. “Go on now, get warmed up.”
He watched her walk back to his truck, purring along nice and sweet. Horace was probably already asleep in the passenger side. When she got in and slammed the door, whatever was in the bushes rustled and rattled…and took off, vanishing behind the laundromat.
Lee bent back to his work, only slightly slowed by a persistent unease. He kept checking over his shoulder the whole time, but whatever had been in the bushes didn’t come back.
When he was done, he paced back to his truck. Horace wasn’t asleep, his mouth was moving a mile a minute; Lee rapped on his window twice with his unskinned knuckles.
“—tell you, look at that. Good with his hands, that’s Little Lee.” Horace grinned pacifically.
Oh, for chrissake. “I put the flat in your trunk, ma’am. That spare won’t go above thirty mile’n hour, though.”
“It’s all right, I live on Sixteenth.” She peered past Horace’s large nose, her earrings glittering in the glow from the dash, and he had no time to wonder what stories the old man had been filling her with.
“Hm.” He nodded, and hoped his face was shut tight as one of her library books. “Well, let’s see if’n it’ll start up.” Welcome warmth poured through the open window onto Lee’s hand, and she immediately opened the door on the other side. All told, it hadn’t taken more than a half-hour. She’d still be waiting for a tow truck, shivering in her car.