The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Leave the door open, will ya?”

  I sat at my desk, opened my purse, and pulled several items from inside, including the notepad and my cell phone. The latter showed I had several missed calls. “That’s weird.”

  “What?” Will asked from his desk.

  “I’ve missed several calls, but I never heard my phone ring.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. He booted his computer and flipped through a few pages of a legal pad. “That happens up here sometimes.”

  “Leigh . . .” I looked at Will, pointing the face of my phone at him. “My best friend. She’s called seven times and left a bunch of text messages.”

  Will didn’t respond.

  “Do you mind if I call her back?”

  He glanced at me. “Yeah, yeah. But keep it short, okay? We’ve got this story and several others to do before the story meeting today.”

  “Sure,” I said. Did that mean I would actually write one of them? Or was he going to give me time to work on resurrecting the magazine?

  I hurried to the break room, passing Alma on the way. She looked busy, but I said hello, she said hello back. I poured a cup of coffee for myself and dialed Leigh’s number, but it didn’t ring. After I finished preparing my coffee, I walked into the growing heat outside and dialed again. This time, no problem.

  “What is going on up there?” Leigh asked by way of answering.

  “My phone . . . it didn’t ring. I don’t know why.”

  “You promised to call me last night. Remember? As soon as you got home? I waited and waited and finally fell asleep. When I woke up this morning and you still hadn’t called—”

  “Oh, Leigh. I’m so sorry. Really. I was so tired last night. I collapsed as soon as I got back to the cottage.”

  “I almost called your father. That’s how worried I was.”

  “Ohhhh. Noooo. I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “So? What’s going on? You said something about a him when we talked on Sunday.”

  Sunday. That had been two days ago. Had it only been two days? “William Decker. He’s the grandson of the people I came up here to work with.” I swallowed. “For.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think he wants me here. But I only feel that way sometimes.” I looked past the low-lying stores and various businesses to the landscape beyond—the rolling hills and eventual mountains. “What I mean is, sometimes I think he doesn’t want me here and other times I think he’s okay with it.”

  “Did he come right out and tell you that? That he doesn’t want you there?”

  “No. Never. I don’t think that’s his style. And, like I said, sometimes he actually acts pretty decent. But even that’s like . . . it’s like he says or does something nice and then he realizes he’s said or done something nice and he kind of takes it back. And it’s like . . . like he’s holding something against me. Me personally. But until Sunday I’d never met him.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  I laughed. “Leigh.” Seriously . . .

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I guess so.” I took a sip of coffee. “Okay, he is actually. But that has nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, Ash. You haven’t dated in so long, you’ve forgotten one of the first rules of attraction.”

  Okay. I would bite. “Which is?”

  “That when a guy likes you, he acts like he doesn’t.”

  I shook my head. “Yeah. If he’s in fifth grade.”

  Leigh chuckled. “Hey, kiddo. I know you. How are you doing with that? The not-being-fully-accepted part?”

  I closed my eyes against the struggle. “I’m doing all right. Besides, he’s only one person.”

  An important “one person,” but still only one.

  “You still think you can make it six months?”

  “Do I have a choice? I want Dad’s position. If I have to deal with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for six months, then so be it.” The sun dipped behind a cloud, turning the mountains to French-blue. “Look, I’ve got to get back inside. We’re on a big story and I think it might help me figure a cover story for the first issue of Grounds & Parties. I’ll keep you posted, okay?”

  “Okay.” She sounded disappointed that our conversation was coming to such a quick end. “But can you call me later? I miss you.”

  “I will,” I answered. “You know I miss you too.”

  And I did. More than as a best friend; more like a sister.

  I spent the rest of the morning researching, not even breaking for lunch. At 2:00, Will informed me that we had another story. According to a tip from Alma, Sean Flannery, brother of Sarah, whom we’d interviewed the day before, had made some fairly magnificent plays on the practice field. “Word is,” William said as we headed to his truck, “several colleges are going to be looking at him early on. Alma’s covering one side of it, but wants me—us—to cover another angle.”

  He opened the truck door for me and I climbed in.

  Something I found myself getting uncommonly used to.

  “And that’s a good thing, right?” I asked as the truck door slammed. And if it were, could I use a story like this one, too, for the magazine? I knew we would look at hunting and I knew something with teas would be involved. But should I also consider football?

  Will ran around the back of the truck. He opened the driver’s door. “And that’s a good thing?” he asked, hoisting himself up and in. “Listen. In a small Southern town there are three things you pay attention to. For clarity, I’ll call them ‘The Three Fs.’ ”

  “The Three Fs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And they are?”

  “The first is faith. Here in Testament, everybody goes to church. You can be Baptist. You can be Methodist. Presbyterian. Catholic, Jewish, or Pentecostal. You can even be a snake handler. Doesn’t matter. But you go to church on Sunday, Wednesday-night supper if your church offers it, and prayer meeting. No matter what night of the week they hold it.”

  I hoped he was kidding about the snake-handling part. “Where do you go?”

  “To church?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cabbot’s Creek Baptist.”

  I wondered if he wore his hat in the house of God. “And the second F?”

  “The second is family. Only God comes before family and, by the way, friends—when they’re good friends—are family.”

  “Should I assume then that you and Rob Matthews are like family?”

  “You bet. All the way back to diapers.”

  I tried to picture that but feared I’d break into laughter. I took a deep breath and said, “The third?”

  “The third is football.”

  Aha.

  “You do not,” he finished, “want to miss a home game.”

  I pulled my seat belt around me with a smile, happy to know I may be on to something when it came to living in Testament, and more than I imagined I could be in two short days. “Faith. Family. Football. Got it.” I swallowed the smile.

  He pointed at me. “Don’t make fun.”

  “I’m not.” And I wasn’t.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I wasn’t—I . . . um.” I ran my tongue between my lips and felt the seat belt. “Hey.”

  He looked at me. “Hey.”

  I pulled at the seat belt, let it slide back across me. “Thank you for cleaning it up.”

  His smile grew lopsided at first, full within a second. “Just took a little Goof Off.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but I smiled back anyway. “Still. Thanks.”

  I’d just finished off a light dinner of pita chips and hummus when my cell phone rang. “Leigh,” I said out loud. “Dollars to donuts.”

  But it wasn’t Leigh and I didn’t recognize the number lighting up the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Ashlynne?”

  The male voice sounded familiar, but not one I fully recognized. “It is. Who is this?”

  A light chuckle came from the other end. �
��You met me today. Rob. Robert Matthews.”

  I smiled, remembering the kind man with mischievous eyes, who owned a spooky piece of property and an impressive house. “Oh, yeah. Hi.” I sat on the living room sofa. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. I’m not calling too late, am I?”

  I flipped the Juicy Couture bracelet watch dangling from my wrist so that its face pointed upward—only eight o’clock. “Uh, no.”

  “Some people like to go to bed early, you know.”

  Not anyone I knew. But I said, “Last night I fell asleep before I even ate dinner.” I smiled as I spoke. Like this, Gram? Is this how it’s done? “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I . . . uh . . . I got a call from Will. He says his grandpa said I shouldn’t say anything to anybody for the time being. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.” I crossed my legs. “Mr. Decker wants to make sure you’re not overrun by the crazies.”

  “Like ghost hunters and things like that, Will said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey . . . uh . . . did the mud come out of your jeans?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got them soaking in the downstairs bathroom sink. I probably should have come right back and changed, but . . .” Where was this going? “But it didn’t look as bad as I thought it would.”

  He laughed nervously. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling.”

  He had that right. “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “Well . . . uh . . . I just wanted to see if . . . would you like to go out? Say Friday night?”

  I paused long enough to allow the words to replay themselves. Was he asking me out? Like, on a date? “I’m sorry, what?” Leigh had been correct when she’d said it’d been a long time. More than six months to be exact, and even that had been a benefit dinner with a friend. Not even a close friend. Just someone I felt safe to call and say, “Would you like to go with me to a benefit dinner,” and know he’d say “yes.” For no other reason than for the free meal.

  “Would you—”

  “—like on a date?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if there’s someone you’re serious with in your hometown . . .”

  “No.” I laughed again. “No, there’s no one. And yes, I’d be pleased to go out with you on Friday night.” I remembered then what Will had said about Friday nights and football. “Will we go to a football game?”

  “Football starts next Friday,” he said, now a little more animated. “I was thinking dinner. There’s a great place not too far from here. A restaurant on Lake Lure. You’ll like it, I think.”

  It sounded lovely. “I’m sure I will. What time?”

  “Pick you up around seven?”

  “That would be wonderful. I’m sure you know where I live.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? But before I could make a comment, a thought occurred to me. “How did you get my number, by the way?”

  He chuckled. “I called Will.”

  A funny sort of melancholy fell over me. “And he gave you my number?”

  “Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine.” Giving away phone numbers without asking permission was not something anyone I knew would do. But, in an effort to get along . . . “I’ll . . . um . . . see you on Friday evening about seven.”

  We ended our conversation and I stared at the phone for several long moments. I had a date. A man I’d just met had called and asked me out. Had actually called someone else to get my number so he could do so.

  But why? Did he find me pretty, perhaps? Or smart? Or did he simply feel sorry for me that I’d fallen on his property . . .

  He had asked about my jeans.

  Or maybe he felt sorry for the new girl.

  And, if he did, was feeling “sorry for” built on the same intention as out-and-out rejection?

  12

  Will’s truck was not in the parking lot on Wednesday. Nor was he in the office when I walked in carrying my purse and briefcase in one hand and a potted plant I’d picked up from a street vendor in the other.

  “Is William already out on assignment?” I asked, setting the plant on the nearest corner of my desk.

  “He’s putting in a half day off,” Alma told me from her desk. “Called in a little while ago.”

  “Is he sick?” I opened a bottom drawer I’d previously emptied and dropped my purse and briefcase into it.

  “Oh, no. He’s just taking some time off because of overtime.”

  My brow furrowed. “Overtime?”

  “Yeah,” she said, standing. “We’re not supposed to work more than forty hours a week. Didn’t they tell you that when you got here?”

  “Yeah, I just didn’t realize . . .”

  She sashayed across the room to my side. “Where’d you get that?” she asked, pointing to the plant.

  I smiled. “Street vendor. Saw it on my way in and thought it would brighten things up in here a little.”

  “Or kill the poor thing,” she said. “I know if I were a plant, in here is not where I’d want to be.”

  “I’m hoping the fluorescent lighting will be good for it. If not, I’ll take it home.” I looked at William’s desk. Oddly, I missed his being there. Of course, now I would be able to get preliminary work done on the magazine, but somehow, having him close by . . . “William told me about the forty hours a week, but nothing about how we take time off.”

  “Oh,” she said with a toss of her curls, “we don’t just not come in. You’ll need to let Will know. See, Mister Shelton doesn’t want any of us putting in more than forty hours a week. He says working more than that is no way to have a family, a friend, or a life. William knows he’ll put in hours on Saturday—so will you, by the way—and that means something has to get cut during the week.”

  I slid the plant closer to the top corner of the desk. “So should I have not come in this morning?”

  She held up her hands as though in surrender. “I have no idea. Not my job, girl, to keep up with you when I can barely keep up with Alma.” Her words held no sting. She smiled too wide for that and her eyes sparkled. She touched the sleeve of the Burberry blouse I wore with a simple pair of Diane von Furstenberg black slacks. “You sure do have some pretty clothes,” she said. “And my bet is they’re not cheap.”

  No, they weren’t. Not that I would say that. Even I knew better. So I said nothing, because if I did, would that mean I had to say she had pretty clothes too? When clearly, she needed my expertise in the worst way . . . as badly as I needed hers. “Say, Alma,” I said, pulling out my chair and sitting. “I’ll bet there are some nice places around here to walk.”

  “You mean, like, hike?”

  “Yes.”

  “All over. Yes, ma’am. You can start right there at the Deckers’ place. They’ve got all kinds of trails in the woods around their home. Then there’s Rails to Trails. That comes through here. And, of course, you’ve got all the hiking trails at Chimney Rock.”

  “Is that close to Testament?”

  “Very.”

  I looked at my feet, shod in an unadorned pair of Dolce Vita black pumps. “I really, really need the right kind of shoes,” I said, looking back at her. “Where should I go for something like that?”

  “In Testament?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nowhere.” She pulled Will’s chair out from under his desk and sat in it. I crossed my legs, but I noticed that Alma kept both feet on the floor. So like her personality and so unlike mine. She was solid. Somehow, even with all life had afforded me, I was like a bird with one leg pulled up, easily toppled over in the right breeze. Which may be precisely why Gram and Dad had sent me here in the first place.

  “Now, if I were you,” Alma continued, “I’d go over to Chimney Rock, to a place called Bubba O’Leary’s. They’ve got what you need. In fact, they’ve got everything from shoes to clothes to penny candy to Old Mule barbecue sauce.”

  I grabbed a pen from the middle drawer of my desk, along with a stick
y-note pad. “And it’s not far from here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but it’s right there in the middle of downtown, where Chimney Rock Park is.” She chuckled as she stood. “Look it up, girl. You can find it on your computer, I’m sure.” She started toward her desk, then turned. “Want coffee? ’Cause I’m going that way.”

  “Do we have any tea in the break room?”

  “Tea? In a newspaper office? Not that I know of.”

  “Coffee then,” I said, making myself a mental note to bring some with me the next day.

  Alma left the room, and me, in silence. I booted my laptop, signed in to my new Testament Tribune account, and found, on the top of a short stack of e-mails, one from WillDecker2@TheTestamentTribune.net. It came with an attachment.

  I opened the e-mail, wondering at the “2” in his name.

  Hey there.

  I’m taking the morning off, but I need you to open these attachments. They’re the forms we have folks fill out for upcoming wedding announcements, nuptials, engagements, registries, and things that make girls get all tingly.

  I frowned at the insinuation, but continued reading.

  Go back to last week’s Thursday edition and look at how I’ve written these things up in the past. I’m sure you’ll do fine at the assignment since you’re such a good writer. Meanwhile, if you need me, call. My cell number is below my signature.

  See you around 1:00.

  W.

  Oh, yeah. I gave Rob your phone number last night. Hope that’s okay.

  Alma returned with two mugs of coffee. One she placed on her desk, the other she brought to mine. “Just the way you like it.”

  “Thank you.” I peered at it. Indeed, it appeared “just the way I liked it” and it smelled heavenly. Alma walked back to her desk as I clicked the Reply tab on Will’s e-mail.

  Hey back at you.

  Got it. So glad you’re ready to admit I’m a good writer, even though you haven’t read a word I’ve written, I’m sure. (Insert smiley face here.)

  And, yes. He called. Funny that you have my cell number but I didn’t have yours until two seconds ago. How is that, exactly?

  Ashlynne Rothschild