“Come on over here,” Shelton said, as William placed his hat on a nearby butcher-block table. “I want you to meet Richard and Connie’s granddaughter we told you about.”
William—who appeared to be a few years older than me but only by a few if I’m any judge of age on a man’s face—crossed in two long strides to where I stood, hand extended. “Will Decker,” he said. His cordiality didn’t meet his eyes.
I slipped my hand into his, which remained chilled from the ice cream. “Ashlynne Rothschild,” I said. “I believe I saw you in town earlier.”
“You did.”
My nerves prickled and I cleared my throat. “I’m here to work at the paper for the next few months.”
He blinked slowly. “I know.”
Bobbie Decker’s voice rose above tension I felt but didn’t understand. “Let’s get the food into serving dishes and onto the table.” She cast a smile my way and a frown toward her grandson. “I see you didn’t follow my instructions of keeping your church clothes on,” she said, as though Cowboy Willie’s attire had just dawned on her.
His face went soft. “No, ma’am, ’fraid not. Besides . . .” A twinkle returned to his eyes. “You know me better than that.”
“Darlin’,” Bobbie said to me, “there’s a little powder room right there if you want to wash your hands.” She looked at her grandson. “You, sir, can use the kitchen sink.”
I thanked my hostess and walked into the little room to the left of the back door.
The first thing I noticed was that it didn’t have a medicine cabinet.
We covered the table with bowls and platters filled with food. Will put ice in the glasses. Shelton poured sweet tea from a decorative pitcher splattered with green and red apples.
When we sat at the table, I waited for grace to be said before placing my linen napkin in my lap, though I noticed it was the first thing Will did. Never, ever place your napkin in your lap until grace is said, Gram had always insisted, so that you show respect to God.
Bobbie Decker peered down the length of the table at her husband and said, “Shelton, give God our gratitude, will you?”
Shelton raised thanks to God for my safe arrival, for the blessing of abundance on their table, their work, their world. After he said, “Amen,” the word echoed around the table. Bobbie Decker slipped her napkin to her lap and I did the same. Shelton didn’t bother, which made me smile, thinking that at least Will had done so, even if not at the proper time.
I quickly became the focus of the conversation, Bobbie and Shelton asking questions, first about my grandmother, then about my father and mother.
Again remembering Gram’s words, I said, “Enough about me. What I want to know is more about all of you.” Will scowled from across the table, then shoved a forkful of roast beef between thin lips.
“What would you like to know?” Bobbie asked. She faced the picture window overlooking the front of the house. Beyond the slope of lawn toward the highway, the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains rose majestically, welcoming the sun as it dipped toward them.
“Well,” I said, looking around the room, my eyes stopping to gaze upon the hutch behind her, “I noticed you have several Lladro pieces. Do you collect those as well as books?”
Will shot a glance to his grandfather. “Looks like Gram’s got someone new to talk pretty things with.” His faux-grin sent deep creases toward high cheekbones.
Shelton chuckled.
“You two stop that,” Bobbie said. “At least she recognizes quality.” She smiled at me. “Never mind them. They’ve been like this since William was old enough to be a nuisance.”
“Oh? And when was that?” I raised my brow in challenge to the man across the table who clearly didn’t like me, though I couldn’t come up with a single reason why. The tension had begun from the minute he placed his boots on the downtown asphalt and it hadn’t let up over the meal.
Will became still. Then, “Tell me something, Miss Rothschild . . .”
“Please,” I said with a canned smile, reminding myself that today—day one—was no time to let Gram down. “Feel free to call me Ashlynne.”
“Miss Rothschild,” he repeated. To my right, Shelton discreetly cleared his throat, but Will ignored him. “Tell me something . . .”
“William—” Bobbie interjected. “I must insist that you remember Ashlynne is our guest.”
And here I’d thought I was family . . .
Gain your composure, Ashlynne.
I placed my hand on the table between her and me. “No, no. I’m fine.” Whether I was or was not had yet to be determined, but I didn’t want Will’s grandmother fighting even a fragment of this strange battle of wits I’d found myself in. Turning back to William, I said, “Yes, Mr. Decker?”
His enjoyment of the moment became apparent when the amber in his eyes flickered. “Is this your first time in our fair state?”
I pushed my shoulders back, placed my hands in my lap, and fingered the edge of my linen napkin. “It is.”
“And, what do you think? So far?” He picked up his tea glass as though reaching for a rare gem, brought it to his lips, and took a long swallow.
I marveled at how much the man across from me managed to rub me the wrong way while, at the same time, managing to be quite charming. And how, in some smooth way, he’d managed to take the conversation from Bobbie Decker’s collection of Lladro to my opinion of North Carolina.
I glanced out the window. To the vista of tall trees, a running brook, and the blue-hued mountains rolling across the bluer sky beyond. “It’s breathtaking.”
“I imagine you spent a great deal of time looking us up . . . say, on Google.”
I gritted my teeth before smiling again and saying, “I did. My best friend and I even watched The Andy Griffith Show on Netflix. You know, to make sure I could understand the dialect.” I drew out the last three words and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Shelton broke out in laughter so hearty it seemed to shake the room. I cut my eyes toward Bobbie, to the mirth in her eyes. “Finally,” she said. “Someone with as much moxie as you, William Decker. She takes it and she dishes it out.”
“I meant no disrespect,” I said to her.
“Oh, honey, you’ll have to do more than that to rile me up.”
But William Decker was not amused. He swiped at his mouth with his napkin, rested his elbow on the table, leaning toward me. “I can assure you, Miss Rothschild, that you won’t find an Otis or an Ernest T. or even a Gomer or a Goober anywhere around Testament.”
I placed my forearms along the edge of the linen-draped table, also allowing myself to lean forward. “What about an Aunt Bee or a Barney?”
Will leaned back at my question, picked up his fork and pretended to play with his green beans. “Bee, maybe.” His eyes met mine without so much as an upward tilt of his chin. “But not a Barney. I suggest you remember that.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. And I silently thanked God that most of my time in Testament would be spent at the newspaper or working on the magazine and not around this table—lovely though it was—with Will Decker.
After Sunday dinner’s “face-off” came to an impasse, and bowls of ice cream had been scraped clean, Bobbie insisted William escort me “to the cottage and help unload the car.”
“Oh no,” I said, as kindly but as insistently as possible. “I can do it.”
“Nonsense,” Shelton said, rising from his chair and reaching for the bowl of half-eaten mashed potatoes. “William, grab the cottage keys by the door.” He looked at me. “There’s a code you’ll enter into a keypad first. That will allow you to turn the deadbolt key. Fifty-five-seventeen,” he said. “Don’t forget it, now.”
I repeated the number.
“William will show you,” he said, as though my repeating the number wasn’t enough.
Minutes later I slid into the stifling heat of my Jag. I started the engine with a push of my finger and rolled down the windows before turning the
air as high as it would go. I felt my escort’s presence more than saw it. When I turned, he stood next to my side of the car. He leaned over and placed his hands on his knees. The brim of his hat shielded any emotion I might read in his eyes. “Nice car,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Daddy buy it for you?”
“No, sir,” I said, confusion rising in my chest. What was wrong with him that he seemed to have it out for me without even knowing me? Just like before . . . just like back in . . .
Will jerked his head toward the cottage. “I’ll meet you up there,” he said. After a pat to the window frame, he stood, turned, and started up the hill.
I backed the car up, turned the selector to drive, and rolled the car behind Will as he lumbered in the middle of the narrow dirt road. Purposely I was sure, so I couldn’t go around him. Two large dogs—one a black Lab, the other a golden retriever—shot out of nowhere. I pressed my foot against the brake. Will slapped his left thigh, and the dogs fell into step with him.
When I had parked in the shade of several tall pines and gotten out of the car, both dogs came toward me. I pressed myself against the closed door. “Do they bite?”
“Only Floridians.” He opened the storm door, shoved the key into the deadbolt, and punched in the code. The door to my new home swung open.
The dogs’ tails wagged happily. They panted in greeting. I patted their heads. “Hey there,” I whispered. “I come in peace.”
Will looked over his shoulder. “Hunh!” he said, with a hint of a smile. “Must not really be a Floridian.”
I pushed past the dogs. “Oh I’m a Floridian all right,” I hollered toward him.
He chuckled as he walked back to my car. “Pop that trunk so I can get your things.”
We unloaded my car in silence, with me so unnerved by his presence I found myself unable to drink in the charm of “the cottage.” After dropping my luggage on the living room floor, William tipped his hat at me for the second time. “See you in the morning, I guess.”
“What?”
He was halfway out, one hand on the storm door’s handle, the other ready to pull the front door closed behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.
“What?” I asked again. “Do you . . . do you work at the paper?”
Oh, dear Lord. Please let him say, “No.”
“Work there?” he answered with a wink. “Yeah, I work there.” He pushed the storm door open and turned. “Didn’t Big Guy tell you? I’m your new boss.”
With that, he shut the door.
5
I made three calls before unpacking.
The first to my grandmother. I had arrived, I told her, I had met Shelton and Bobbie Decker and, yes, I loved them already. This was a stretch, of course, but it made Gram happy.
The second call went to my parents. I shared the same details with Mom, adding a few about the décor of Bobbie Decker’s home when she asked, “What about where you’re staying? I know how important it is for you to get the lay of the land wherever you go. Are you comfortable with your temporary home?”
“I haven’t really had time to look around, although I’d hardly call it a cottage.” My eyes swept over the large room I’d entered earlier with Will and my luggage. “Right now I’m standing in a combination living room and kitchen. There’s a countertop separating the two, a couple of stools for eating, plus a small round table with four chairs in the living room side,” I said. “Bobbie’s touch is all over it as well. Lots of golds and reds and burnt oranges.” A large tapestry with Welcome to the Cottage dominated one wall. The other showcased matted and framed pieces of old handwork—embroidered images of birds perched on dogwood branches. “It’s actually quite nice.” Nothing like my apartment, but neither did it resemble the Darling shack I’d seen in an episode of Andy Griffith—that had certainly birthed some disconcerting mental pictures of where I’d live for six months.
“That’s good to know. I’m embarrassed to admit I had a vision of you in my mind . . . ,” she trailed off, then added, “You, of all people, in a one-room shanty like the Ingalls place on Little House.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll be honest,” I said. “I had something close to the same vision. But it’s nice here.” By now I had walked to an adjoining room. “There’s a small bedroom with a single bed and some antique pieces just off the living room and”—I continued to explore—“over here is a bathroom. Oh.”
“What?”
“There’s a stacked washer and dryer and . . . over the sink, the coolest mirror I’ve ever seen.”
“We should be FaceTiming.”
No way. If I did, if I saw Mom or Dad “face-to-face,” I’d lose it.
“Take a picture. And make sure your reflection is in the shot. I miss you already.”
“I really, really like this,” I said, more to myself than to Mom. Then to her, “I will.” I leaned toward the mirror framed by color-painted blocks, each block displaying words burned into the wood. Across the top, the phrase LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST had been burned into a scene of green trees and brown hills. I glanced at my reflection, shocked at how tired I appeared. If I sent a photo to her now, she’d be frightened by my appearance. “But it may be later, okay?”
“That’s fine. But soon. Here’s your father,” Mom said. “He’s all but dancing on his tiptoes to speak to you.”
He wasn’t the only one anxious.
“How’s it going, Precious?”
Uh-huh. “Dad? Did you know about the Deckers’ grandson?” The pause was so long, I was forced to repeat, “Dad.”
“I take it you mean William.”
I walked back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which had been stocked with everything Bobbie Decker could have possibly thought I might like to eat. “Yes, I mean William Decker.”
“So you met him.”
I closed the refrigerator, swung around, and leaned against it. “Yes, I met him. Dad. He told me . . . just a few minutes ago . . . he told me he was my new boss?”
“Well, yes. Yes, I guess technically that’s true.”
“Technically?”
Dad cleared his throat, so I knew he was sweating through this one. Big-time. I could practically hear him cracking his knuckles, see him looking around to see if Mom had caught him. “Of course Shelton is the overall boss, but my understanding is that he spends less and less time at the paper these days. Will is the senior reporter there. Your grandmother’s arrangement includes that you work with him. Shelton is planning to hand him the paper lock, stock, and barrel soon enough and since William knows the ins and out of the—”
“Daddy-dear?” I asked sweetly. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“Is there a problem, Princess? Because, quite frankly, I have no doubt at all that you’ll do all right working with him. William Decker is a fine young man. Quite smart. Knows the business. And your grandmother says, and I quote, ‘Like his grandfather, he’s not so bad on the eyes, either’ . . .”
Which sounded exactly like something Gram would say. A fleeting thought of Gram trying to play matchmaker came and went. But surely not. That wasn’t Gram’s style. If she were planning to set me up on some six-month romantic adventure, she would have come right out and said so. “I’m sure he knows the business, Dad, but don’t you think you should have told me? I thought I was coming here to work for Bobbie and Shelton.”
“You are. Technically.”
“There’s that word again, Dad. From now on, you and I need to discuss all the technicalities.”
“Is there a problem, Miss Ashlynne?” My father’s voice now held a surprising hint of mischief.
I pushed myself away from the refrigerator and walked into the living room, averting my luggage and heading straight for the sofa. I sat. “He’s pompous. Rude. He obviously doesn’t want me here.”
“What makes you think that?”
Tears I didn’t want to feel stung my eyes. I blinked them back, telling myself I would n
ot go there. I would not think about or discuss the look he’d given me on Main Street, the one that reminded me so much of the looks I’d been given that awful day in . . . “Believe me, Dad. He doesn’t want me here.”
“Then your challenge is to work above and beyond what William Decker wants. Or, what you presume he doesn’t want. And remember, Pet, the senior Deckers do want you there.”
I pressed a hand against my now aching forehead. As much as I hated it, my father was right. If I was going to prove myself to him and Gram—that I could work well with all kinds of people—Will Decker was as good a place to start as any. Not since junior high had I been struck down by anyone and I wasn’t about to lose my life goal to the likes of some cowboy wannabe. “All right, Dad. I’ll stay in the sandbox. I won’t pick up my toys and stomp back home. And I’ll play nice with the playground bully.”
And when playtime was over, Will Decker would be singing a whole new tune.
Dad chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
“Good-bye, Dad.” I sighed. “You know I love you.”
“Love you too, Kitten.”
I stretched out on the soft, brown couch dotted with burnt orange throw pillows. The armrests were rounded and thickly padded, perfect for laying my head upon.
I placed the third call.
“Ash?”
“Hey, Leigh.” I sighed heavily into the phone.
“Oh-mah-goodness. It’s a dump, isn’t it? You’re stuck in the Darlings’ cabin out in the woods.” Sweet Leigh. I’d made her watch the shows on Netflix with me.
“No, Charlene.” I giggled with all the energy of a tired old turtle at the end of the race. “It’s quite nice, actually.”
“Seriously?”
I closed my eyes, unable to remember when I’d ever felt this tired. “It’s not Winter Park, but I wasn’t expecting it to be. Actually, in many ways, Main Street reminds me of Park Avenue. Same cute little shops established in old storefronts. Sidewalks with awnings. The houses here are different, but just as expansive. Less Spanish architecture and more Victorian. Sprawling, you know, with wrap-around porches.”
The Road to Testament Page 4
