It was the sort of thing that stuck with a kid. Especially when she slammed a rolling pin on the table when your grandaddy sat down to eat his favorite fried chicken and hissed I didn’t cook this for you, Emanuel Quartine.
Juju just shook his finely modeled head, as if Tip was too stupid to be believed but he wasn’t going to push the issue. “You got that fuel pump pulled out yet?”
“Shit.” Tip stumped away, and Lee glanced up. He could just see her through the window to the back of the counter—the chair was placed so you could keep an eye on whoever sat in the office. She had her phone to her ear, but her mouth wasn’t moving. She was just…listening.
Family in New York. Well, the news out of there wasn’t good, from what Lee heard on the radio in the Chevy this morning. It was a long way from the Big Apple to the Crossing, that was for damn sure.
When he stepped into the office again, she was sitting like a schoolgirl, her ankles crossed neatly, staring down at her phone as if willing it to ring. He cleared his throat, and when she looked up, those big dark eyes were full of something lost. You could see right into the back of someone when they looked like that. She blinked, though, and had her walls back up. Today there was no sun to bring the honey out in her hair.
He wasn't used to wanting to talk. It was a damn uncomfortable sensation, like a boil in the middle of your throat, pushing any damnfool thing out to relieve the pressure. “Any news from your folk?”
She shook her head, hurriedly rising; the braids wrapped around her head barely keeping the curl confined. Looked like they wanted to work free with a vengeance today. He wondered what her shampoo smelled like, and decided that thought wasn’t good for him. Too damn distracting.
“Not yet.” She stepped to the counter with the nervous quickness of a doe, her heels making soft feminine sounds. “What do I owe you?”
“Don’t you worry none.” He tried to sound reassuring. Outside the office door, Juju cussed at something and Tipton answered him. It was Tip’s day to pick the music, and his iPod plugged into the CD player was full of nothing but country. It was irksome, but not as much as Juju’s opera. Just listen, Juju would say. That’s Kathleen Battle, you asshole. “Phones are probably just corked up.”
“It just rings and rings.” She rested her purse on the counter, digging in it. “And the news…I just don’t even.”
She didn’t say what she just didn’t even, just pulled out a slim calfskin wallet-and-checkbook number. It looked fancy. She flipped it open, and Lee could have kicked himself. “No charge, Miss Virginia.”
That earned him a startled, wary look. “But—”
“Just a hole in the tire. Weren’t no trouble to fix. Here’s your keys.” He handed them over, and wished she didn’t look so…well, so goddamn chary. But a pretty girl was probably used to all sorts of presents that had a price tag hidden under the wrapping. “You just call us if’n you have more trouble.”
“I can’t just not pay you. I mean, I appreciate the gesture, but—”
How about I buy you a cup of coffee, and you tell me all about your folk? That wasn’t something he could say, though. Patience was the best policy right now. At least he could make a few words come out, if he wasn’t looking directly into those eyes of hers. Inspiration struck. “Wellnow, there is something.”
“What?” Her shoulders tensed up, just a bit.
“Well, Tip in there got his Kindle, and he reads all sorts. I never did like reading in school, but it ain’t so bad now. Trouble is, I don’t know where to start.” I am lying my ass off. “Maybe you could do me a list of things a man can work through that ain’t War and Peace?”
“You know about War and Peace.” A smile dawned far back behind her eyes, and spread over her face like sunrise over the mountain. Lee damn near lost his breath. “That’s a good sign. I’d be happy to.”
“I’d be obliged,” he lied again. And he did lose his breath, because that smile was bright enough to turn a man inside out.
Shit. Now he was gonna have to start reading.
Third Reformed Fish Fry
The Third Reformed annual Fall Fish Fry was usually a roaring success. This year was no different, though a bad cold was running through the entire congregation and those heathens who just came for some of Bill Porter’s fish stew. He had some sort of fancy French name for it, but served with cornbread it was good enough nobody cared. Bill never did give out the whole recipe for it, and those who sought to compare versions he parted grudgingly with over the years often came to grief. The weather was fine, mild sunshine but a chill wind, just damp and cold enough to make the long firepit for the baked taters and charred fresh-caught a comfort. Smoke and the smell of good things filled the air, and perhaps that was why there was so much coughing and sniffling going around.
Margie from the diner was there, with trays and trays of her famous jalapeno cornbread cooked in the church’s capacious kitchen, along with Hannah Dee’s braided rolls and pots of Samantha Harlowe’s—Lolly’s granddaughter, and just as stubborn as any of that line—baked beans. Harvey and LaWanda Shellack and their entire brood were there, managing the parking and just generally being officious; Pastor Denbrooke more than once had to shake his head when one of his flock came to him looking worried. No, he kept saying, I talked to the sheriff, there’s no parking tickets this year either.
The Bowes showed up but left early, as did the McCannocks and the Pooles, but that was no surprise since the Pooles were all but feuding with the Crearys and everyone knew they would be late. The only Creary who ever arrived near time for anything was old Elmore, because his mother was a Packer and the Packers were even born early. Old El being on time was splitting the difference, so to speak.
The fry was supposed to be dry, being church and all, but this was ridgerunner country. So of course Harvey Shellack brought beer and the Francklins, who wouldn’t be outdone by anyone, had their usual big jar full of lemons and ice. A couple fifths of vodka were added in the parking lot, the entire thing wrapped in a towel, and the whole Francklin tribe—at least, anyone who was tall enough—walked around “shaking the baby” until the towel froze to the glass. And as usual, every year, some of the kids got their hands on the lemons after they were fished out, and the Francklins looked down their noses at the Shellacks who just snuck in beer, and cheap beer at that.
At least this year nobody fell in the fire, and the barbecue grills brought by every family ended up scrubbed clean as a whistle for once. Maria Porter was heard to say she couldn’t remember a better Fall Fry, which was amazing since she generally found fault with anything her beloved home church First Baptist did not host.
Perhaps one or two people might have been forgiven for thinking that it had gone well because the heathen crowd usually drawn by free food was awful thin, and some familiar faces were missing. It was the first time in a long time Lolly Harlowe hadn’t shown up with her beloved Cadillac, even though Samantha said the boys at Tipton’s had fixed it up just fine, drawing a sour look from any Shellacks around to hear. Polly Denbrooke’s apple pies were missed, since she was laid up with the bad cold that was doing the rounds; the Clooneys and the Beaujolaises were missing too, and half the Howisons. But all in all, everyone agreed, wiping runny noses or feeling the foreheads of flush-cheeked children who had probably been at the Francklin’s lemons, it was a success.
It was also, though none of them knew it, the very last.
An Hour Left
Sunday. A full week since she’d talked to her mother. Still no answer, and she couldn’t raise anyone else. The internet, for once, was no goddamn help at all. All her emails to Flo—or anyone else on the East Coast—fell into a dark well. No reply, not even a bounce.
It was, Ginny had decided last night, time for desperate measures. She already had a call and an email in to Bobbie, explaining the situation and apologizing in advance for the scheduling difficulties that would no doubt result. Just sitting around was no longer an option, even if all the news outlets
said not to travel towards the affected areas.
If there were no trains, no planes, and no buses, she was left with automobile. She was already packed; all she had to do was stop at home after closing up the Cotton Crossing branch and pick up her suitcases, stuff what she could from her fridge into the cooler, and go. She’d already made up her mind to avoid the checkpoints on the freeway towards Lewiston after sitting in her car for a good hour at one Thursday evening, and again on Friday. There was no subway to use, and now she understood Californian road rage better than she ever had living in New York.
Which added up to her taking the most current road atlas the Crossing branch had up to the desk, since she couldn’t call up a map on the checkout terminal or stare at her phone and try to figure out alternate routes while she was supposed to be serving patrons. There had to be a way to avoid the roadblocks, and while she was at it, she’d have to think about the intervening states too. She could pick up an atlas on the way, but a little pre-research never did anyone harm.
Now that she was planning and making mental lists, everything seemed a little brighter, even if the library was full this morning. No few patrons were congregated at the reading tables, buzzing over the latest news. Whatever it was, Ginny barely cared. Come three o’clock, she would be on the road. She didn’t even care that blonde, pink-phoned Philly Lou hadn’t seen fit to show up.
Ginny traced a gray line with her finger. Logging road? It looked like it went over the county line, and if it did—
“Takin a vacation?” Lee Quartine stepped back from the counter, visibly realizing he’d startled her. Today he wore a shearling jacket over that same leather vest and pressed chambray shirt, and it made his shoulders absurdly bigger. “Sorry, Miss Virginia.”
Ginny pressed her right hand to her chest, exhaling. “Jesus.” It came out on a whisper, almost a squeak. “Wow. I didn’t even hear you.”
“Didn’t mean to spook ya.” Today it wasn’t a baseball hat; a battered cowboy hat with a broad leather band dangled from one work-roughened hand. He really looked better without a hat, but maybe it was camouflage. Or like the ugly, boxlike brown sweater she’d worn all through sixth grade, a comfort item. He also held the same paper Landy’s bag as usual. His hands were clean for a mechanic’s, a faint redness around his nails. Looked like he’d scrubbed until he broke the skin.
Lee glanced over his shoulder at the reading tables, and the crowd. “You all right?”
Very few people were using the computers today. It was the first time she’d seen them empty on a Sunday. Some of her regular readers were missing, too. Elmore Creary hadn’t come in, even though she’d laid the paper out for him, and as Ginny blinked, trying to slow her racing pulse, her unease sharpened to a keen edge against her already-frayed nerves. “Yeah, I’m just…” She flipped the atlas closed. “Just making some plans. I can’t get through to my parents. It’s been a week.”
That made him tip his chin down and examine her. His eyes were pretty piercing when they lightened up; she hadn’t noticed how he looked at things before. Maybe he’d just had to watch her for a while before he figured she was worth talking to. Insular, like the rest of this town.
Now that she’d said it out loud, the words kept spilling free. “All the flights east are cancelled. Same thing with trains, and the buses don’t go any closer than Ohio and are full anyway.” I’m doing the nervous talking thing. “It’s so…weird.”
“Huh.” He absorbed this, swinging his hat once, twice, shooing an invisible fly. “Yeah, had to go the back way into Lewiston yesterday.”
“There’s a back way?” That sounded promising.
A brief nod, dark hair falling over his forehead. “Ayup. Need a bit of jacked-up, though. Rip the bottom right out of your Toyota.”
Well, shit. “Great.”
He took a long look at her, his jaw set, and finally nodded slightly, like she’d made a good point. “Might be best to stay where you’re at.”
“I can’t.” She said it as if she’d just realized as much, and maybe she had. “My parents are older, and my sister’s pregnant. She’s about to hatch any day now. I just…I need to be with them.”
“Kin is kin.” He obviously wanted to say more, but stopped and glanced over his shoulder again.
She was probably keeping him from canoodling with his fellow townies. “Oh, hey. Can you wait here for a second? I have something for you.”
He nodded, that short quick decided motion, and she headed for the employee room. She’d even found a camouflage gift bag and some matching tissue paper, and that was part of why she’d been caught in the crush coming back from Lewiston on Friday.
When she returned, he hadn’t moved, other than to set the Landy’s bag on the counter. He was watching the reading tables, a faint line between his eyebrows.
She pushed the camo bag across the counter. “Here.”
“What in the he—I mean, what’s that?” Lee tilted his head a little more, and his look of bafflement was so honest she was hard put not to laugh.
“It’s for you. I stopped at the Schaply’s in Lewiston. Some reading material to get you started.”
He poked at the tissue paper as if he expected it to bite him. “Huh. Do I open it now?”
“Sure, if you want. Your list’s in there, too.” It was the only time she felt actually good about something in a whole week, especially because his disbelief turned to a slow, easy smile that did good things for both his eyes and his mouth. Ginny rested her elbows on the counter, bending to relieve the ache in her lower back. One day she was going to wear comfortable shoes to work, but that day was far off. “I divided it into threes. You’ll see.”
“Huh. Zane Gray.” He fished out the new paperback edition of The Lone Star Ranger. “He a classic?”
“You’ve checked out that one twice, I thought I’d get you one of your own. There’s some Jack London in there, too. I think you’d like him. Plus there’s Hemingway, but don’t be scared. You’ll like him too.”
“Wellnow.” He turned The Lone Star Ranger over in his hands. Shadows of engine grease worked in on his knuckles, looked like he’d about rubbed himself raw to get it off. “I checked it out twice?”
“Uh-huh.” She watched him rustle the paper, looking at the other books. “Thank you for fixing my tire.”
“If I’d known you was fixin to drive I’d’ve changed the oil, too.”
Well, wasn’t that chivalrous of him. “I got it changed a month ago, it’s fine.”
He found the card. It was just a simple blank one, with kittens on the front—everyone liked kittens, even country boys, right? A Mills girl always did her thank-you cards correctly. “Look at that.” He stared at the inside as if it was written in code, and finally closed it, tucking it into his vest. Looked like he had a secret pocket there. “That’s real nice, Miss Virginia.”
“Thank you, Mr Lee.” She straightened, and pulled the Landy’s bag closer. “I’ll check these in for you.”
“Do I take the whole bag?” He rustled the tissue paper again. “It’s a nice one. You could reuse it.”
“Well, it’s yours now. You can carry your ammo in it.” Christ knew the people around here loved their guns.
“Prolly too heavy.” He straightened, too, carefully sliding the card’s envelope into the giftbag. “Guess I got my readin’ material for the week.”
“I guess you do.” I probably won’t be back to hear how you liked it. She had finished emptying the Landy’s sack, and folded it up carefully for him. “Good luck, Mr Quartine.”
He nodded, reached up as if to touch his hatbrim, remembered he didn’t have his hat on when he almost hit himself with the one in his hand, turned around, and marched out, leaving the Landy’s bag. But he carried the gifts close, like a schoolboy with an assignment he didn’t want to let the rain get at.
Ginny’s good feeling couldn’t last, but it was nice while it stayed. It was one o’clock. She had an hour left before she could close up.
<
br /> He Talks Straight
Well, damn. Lee realized he was wearing a big stupid grin just before he walked into the Mayburn Dinette, and pulled the corners of his mouth down to their accustomed places or where he thought those might be. So she was looking at heading out to try to reach her parents? Examining a map with a serious, abstracted air, he’d startled her but good. She was back to the gold hoops in her ears and the thin gold bracelets, and her hair was twisted up in a fancy knot at the back of her head.
The gift bag was heavy paper painted to look like old-style jungle camo, and the note on the card was simple. Thank you so much, signed Ginny. Even her handwriting was pretty. And new books. Fresh, with their spines uncracked and their pages still crisp white. You checked that one out twice.
Was it the kind of thing all librarians noticed, or had she…oh, hell. He hadn’t even asked her when she was fixing on leaving. He’d taken a peek at the fluids in her Toyota when he’d fixed the tire, topping off the windshield wiper tank, but if she was going east it would need—
“Well, Little Lee.” Margie, her hair as red as Clairol could make it and her long-nosed face like an old statue’s, sang out his name soon as he stepped inside. “Been a while, honey. Want some coffee?”
He nodded, heading for the booth in the far back. The church crowd was just finishing up, and he could put his back to the wall and think about things. He had to clean the table off himself, both Margie and Steph had their hands full. He didn’t mind, it got him what he wanted, which was something to do with his hands while he mulled over things.
“Hey Lee,” redheaded Rooster called from the kitchen. “Want your usual?”
Lee tipped a nod his direction too, squinting a bit. Today the cook’s T-shirt was white, and that was a good sign. It was when Rooster got mournful you had to watch out for him.