“No,” I said, probably too quickly. “No, I’m not . . . Rob and I aren’t an item or anything. I mean, it’s just a first date.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t even call it a date. I’d call it ‘just getting to know you.’ ”
Will’s fingers remained poised over the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen. His brow furrowed. “I think Rob is seeing it as more than that.”
“What do you mean? We’ve had two phone calls and a brief meeting over some freaky graves.”
He cut his eyes at me and gave a faux smile. “He thinks you’re pretty.”
I bit my lip. The deepest part of me wanted to giggle. The teenage girl who’d not had many boyfriends along the way, in spite of her “pretty looks” and her family’s money, went to war with the adult Ashlynne, who’d learned not to care so much. This mattered. As much as I didn’t want to act like it did . . . it did. And so I smiled, in spite of the lip-biting. A smile I felt all the way to my toes. “He does?”
“Mmm.” Will’s eyes returned to the screen. “And sweet.”
“I am sweet. Not to hear you tell it, of course. But I can be.”
He shook his head. “All I know is, it’s going to be awfully lonesome sitting up there in the stands by myself.” He shrugged. “Of course, Big Guy and Gram will be with me, but it’s hardly the same.”
The absolute last thing I wanted was to sit with William Decker on Friday night while I was supposed to be on a date with Rob Matthews. Still . . . they’d probably been attending football games and softball games and everything in between together since they were young. And yet still . . . Oh, Gram!
“But, it does my heart good,” Will continued, interrupting my guilt trip, “knowing that you love football the way you do.” Again, he cut his eyes toward me. “You know, enough to give up dinner at beautiful Lake Lure for a simple high school scrimmage game.”
“Well, yes. Of course . . .”
He swung around to face me. “Tell me something. Just so I know, because honestly, the last thing in the world I want to do is mess up your first date with Rob. He is my best friend, after all. But more than that, he’s really a great guy.”
My breath caught in my throat. “What do you want to know?”
“Rob and I always, always sit on the sixty-yard line. You loving football, I’m sure you know it’s the best for viewing the whole game.”
“The sixty-yard line. Yeah, yeah. I know,” I said, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible. “That’s where I always sit, too.” I swallowed. “When I go to a game.”
“Oh, good. Well, then, how about if Gram and Big Guy and I sit on the fifty? Close enough that we can say hey and be friendly and all. But, you know, not so close as to intrude.”
I raised my brow. From the fifty to the sixty. That was what? Thirty feet? Close enough, as Will said, to say hello, but not so close as to ruin my first date in Testament. In all honesty, my first date in forever. “That sounds perfectly fair.” I smiled. “Thank you. I like that idea very much. That’s kind of you.”
“And you’ll tell Rob, of course.”
“Tell him what?”
“That since you always like sitting on the sixty-yard line and so does he, I’m happy to give that to you. I am more than happy to take the fifty.”
I squared my shoulders and tilted my chin. “I will do just that, Will Decker.” I reached across the narrow aisle separating our desks for a handshake. “And again, I thank you.”
His uncalloused, warm hand pressed against mine. “My pleasure.”
On Thursday afternoon, about a half hour before “story time,” as Alma called it, I received an e-mail, forwarded from Will.Decker2, originating from someone named MBrown@TestamentNursingHome. “What is this?” I shot the question across the aisle between our desks. I kept my voice low enough so as not to disturb Alma and Garrison, who worked on the other side of the room in their respective corners.
“The nursing home news. Comes in once a week, on Thursdays, so we can print it in the Saturday edition. You’ll have tomorrow to work on it, but it really doesn’t take much. Maria Brown is the admin over there. She does a pretty fine job of wordsmithing.”
“The nursing home news? They have news?”
He grinned at me. “You just may be surprised.”
I clicked on the attachment as I said, “I’m sure I will be.” As the document opened, I added, “By the way, why are you Will-two?”
“Because my father is Will-one.”
“He still has an e-mail account here at the paper? Even though he’s out of the country?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Will’s fingertips continued across the keyboard.
“What did he do when he was here? Your father.”
“Same thing I’m doing now.” His typing ceased and his eyes cut toward me. “But without the constant interruptions.”
I frowned, then looked at the document of nursing home news. First on the agenda: longtime resident Helen Baugh would turn ninety the following week. (The good Lord willing, Maria Brown added parenthetically.) The family was planning a celebration to be held at the “homestead,” which would be enjoyed by fellow residents, family, and friends and—according to Ms. Brown—The Testament Tribune would cover it. On Saturday. From 2:00 to 4:00. Community also invited.
“We’re covering Helen Baugh’s birthday party?”
“You bet.” Will opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper, which he made notations on. “Should be interesting. Ninety is quite the milestone, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure. So, we’re working Saturday afternoon?”
“That’s right.” He looked at me. “Why? Do you already have a date?”
No, but I’d hoped . . . “I’m just trying to get my calendar straight. Is there some way you could let me know in advance? I mean, some sort of calendar by which we all know what our schedules are?” I couldn’t imagine Parks & Avenues being run without the schedule Gram had her assistant send to all personnel.
Will sighed. Rubbed his forehead with thick fingertips as though he had a monster of a headache. “I keep it all right here,” he said, pointing to where his fingers had just pushed and pulled.
I crossed my arms. “Well, since you and I don’t share a brain—thank goodness—how am I to know what is expected of me on any given day?”
He stared at me. Nodded. Then said, “You’ve got a point. I’ll work on that.”
I returned my attention to the document and read about four paragraphs of information before giggling. I looked up to catch Will smiling at me. “What?”
I fought to sober myself. “ ‘On Monday,’ ” I read from the document, “ ‘during Bingo Hour, Mr. Lucas Snyder and Mr. Brian Weatherman both called out “Bingo” at the same time, which resulted in a near-fisticuffs over who would win the week’s prize of an extra slice of chocolate cake on Sunday.’ ”
Will chuckled. “Who won?”
I read, “ ‘It was decided by the Bingo Angels that Mr. Snyder and Mr. Weatherman would have to split the slice of cake.’ ” I tried every trick I knew to keep my giggles suppressed, like the ones from when Leigh and I would get the adolescent silly-giggles during church services. Mom had instructed us to think on sad things. Like children going to bed without food. Or puppies left out in the rain. “If you can’t control yourselves,” she’d said, “excuse yourselves.” Now, sitting across from a puzzled William Decker, I caught my breath and said, “What’s a”—I looked back at the screen—“Bingo Angel?” I swallowed twice more. Hard.
“They’re men and women in the community—usually retired, although some are homemakers who never worked outside the home—who volunteer their time at the nursing home. There is a statewide group of them. Each year one Bingo Angel is named Volunteer of the Year. They go on to state competition—if you can call it that. Our local Angel Volunteer of the Year will ride on a float in the Harvest Day Parade in a couple of months.”
“The Harvest Day Parade?”
“Actually, it’
s a festival.” He smiled, but the smile faded quickly and a shadow ran across his face. “I’m sure we’ll”—he wagged his finger between the two of us—“cover it. And, I’m equally as sure you’ll be miserable throughout the whole week.”
A harvest festival. I wondered if art would be involved, like at the Winter Park Arts Festival. “But I could enjoy it.” And by then, the magazine would be in full swing . . .
Will turned back to his desk. “Doubt it.”
I continued reading the nursing home news until I reached the end of it. “So, Will Number 2, is there a form for the nursing home news?”
“I just shot you the document you’ll need to drop Maria’s words into. Be sure to edit.”
“All right.”
I opened my e-mail. Sure enough, an e-mail with an attachment from Will.Decker2 stood at the top. A thought ran through my mind and I giggled again.
Even Mom’s tactics weren’t working, though I don’t know why, other than that happiness had somehow managed to swell inside me. And happy giggles naturally ensued.
“What is it now?” he asked, though not with the same amusement as before.
“Just a play on words that came to me,” I said, still laughing.
Will stopped what he was doing and watched as I tried to compose myself. “And I suppose there will be no rest for the weary until you share.”
I waved my hand in front of my face, in some lame attempt to regain self-control. “I was just thinking that . . . if your father is Will one . . . but he’s no longer in Testament . . . and you’re Will two and you’re still in Testament . . . well then.”
His brow rose as he waited.
“I guess that makes you the last Will in Testament.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “Just a little play on words.”
He didn’t “get” it. Or perhaps he did and he wasn’t willing to meet me halfway with the joke. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d tried and failed at reaching those I wanted to connect with. Obviously, it may not even be the last.
But, I thought, I bet Mom would laugh.
And Dad.
And Leigh.
I frowned as I turned back to my computer, then bit my lip to stifle another laugh.
. . . and Gram.
15
I sent a text to William on Friday morning reminding him I’d be in later than usual. That I was going to get my nails done.
Of course u r, his return text read.
With a roll of my eyes, I put down my phone, picked up my hot tea and my new morning read, and headed outside. Heavy air met me, reminding me of Winter Park, where humidity lay like a wet blanket nearly all year long.
“Bad for the hair,” Leigh always said, “but great for the face.” And then she always patted my cheeks.
How I missed her.
I sat in what had become my favorite place to sit and read. Behind me, the sun made its slow ascent, casting shades of gold and ash across the lawn and the river rocks. A sliver of glitter in my flip-flops caught one of the rays and shot back a brilliant reflection. Overhead, birds had already begun their morning song. The notion that we were becoming friends fluttered across my mind, and I smiled.
As I crossed my legs and took a leisurely sip of tea, I caught a glimpse of my two furry friends from between the red-tipped bushes. They sauntered up the path. Over the past few days we’d formed a morning ritual whereby I drank tea and read; they sat and watched. Our actions, when done together, worked out beautifully.
I’d also learned their names.
“Good morning, Buddy,” I said as the black dog reached me. I placed the mug between my thighs, extended my hand; he eased his head under it. His tail swished back and forth before looking back to see how close his constant companion had come to stealing my attention. “Come on, Sis,” I said, using the nickname Bobbie gave Kelsey. “Come on, old girl.”
Kelsey easily pushed Buddy out of the way for her love pat. Buddy’s dark eyes stared at me for a moment. Unfazed by my shift in attention, he walked over to sniff a decorative garden stone with “DREAM” carved into it.
I continued to rub Kelsey’s head, scratching behind her ears. I laid my head back against the glossy slats of the chair and closed my eyes. “Ah, Sis,” I said. “Do you know what I’d be doing right now if I were back in Winter Park?” I opened my eyes. Sis now sat, her long tail wrapped around one hip and leg. Her pink tongue dropped between sharp teeth, and her mouth formed a smile. “I’d be rushing off to work, that’s what.” Buddy rejoined us and I shifted my hand to his head. “You see,” I continued, “back home, when I get up—I get up very early—I do my reading inside my apartment. I have a settee that once belonged to my grandmother—ah, you probably don’t want to hear about that. But I don’t get to go outside and sit under the trees and feel the breeze on my skin when I do my reading.”
Both dogs stared at me, looking at me as intently as Gram and Mom when I bared my soul to them. “What I’m trying to say,” I continued, “is how special this is becoming and how much I will miss it when I leave.”
The dogs blinked in unison.
“Well, then.” I raised the book with my free hand. “I guess I’d better get to reading so I can shower and go get my nails done.” Kelsey panted deeply, as though, being a girl, she understood.
I propped my mug on the armrest farthest from the dogs and opened the book to: SING AND DANCE. The artwork on the corresponding mirror tile was of a woman with her mouth open and of a ballet shoe with wide pink ribbons.
“Sing to God,” I read to Buddy and Kelsey. “Sing praise to him; dwell on all his wondrous works.” I looked at the dogs, both curled near my feet. “That’s from First Chronicles, chapter sixteen, verse nine.”
Buddy groaned as he rested his head on his front paws.
“I take it you’ve heard me sing,” I said.
Kelsey followed her companion’s motions. Her eyes rose to meet mine as though to say, “Uh . . . yeah.”
“I’ll keep reading then,” I said. “There’s a season for everything and a time for every matter under the heavens . . . a time for mourning and a time for dancing.”
I thought of the upcoming swing band dance. Bobbie had indicated I’d go with Will, but I had begun to think better of the idea. Perhaps Rob would consent to be my on-the-job escort. By then it would be obvious I knew absolutely nothing about football. Faking it wouldn’t even be an option. No doubt Will Decker would call me out. He’d probably put some sort of sign on my desk: HERE SITS THE DUMBEST FOOTBALL FAN IN ALL OF NORTH CAROLINA.
Well, the joke would be on him. I was not the dumbest in all of North Carolina. I was the dumbest in all of the world. But what I knew about dancing . . .
. . . well . . . that was another matter entirely. I’d been trained at one of the best schools of dance Central Florida had to offer, after all, and I excelled at everything from the Lindy Hop to the Cha Cha Slide.
I called Mom on my way to Tips to Toes, as I did most mornings on my way to work. “Mom,” I said, “I’ve got a little dilemma.”
Mom’s smile could be heard across the miles. “I can’t imagine.”
“Seriously. I realized this morning that I don’t have a ‘Connie’ up here.” Connie, the woman who’d cleaned my parents’ home every other day for as long as I could remember, had been coming to my apartment every other Friday since I’d moved in. She took out my dry cleaning, brought it back, did my wash, dusted, swept, mopped, and gave the bathrooms and kitchen a once-over. “I’ve hardly been at the cottage long enough to make a mess, but I’m running out of towels and I’m sure my bathroom could use a scrub.”
“Have you asked Bobbie who helps with her house?”
“No . . .” Somehow I couldn’t imagine Bobbie allowing anyone to clean her house but her.
“I suggest you start there. And, sweetheart?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes, ma’am? That didn’t take long to start, did it?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “A
ll right. All right. What did you want to say?”
“I was merely going to suggest that you might want to learn how to do your own laundry.”
The smile faded. “Good-bye, Mom. Tell Dad I love him.”
“We love you, too. And Dad says let’s set up a FaceTime call soon.”
“Absolutely. I miss you both.”
I arrived for my mani and pedi fifteen minutes early, hoping to get ahead of schedule. But every station in Tips to Toes had already been occupied, including one in the front corner. Who knew so many Testament women got their nails done on Fridays?
Behind the angled desk-type station sat a girl so young, I found myself surprised she was old enough to have a license to do nails. Much less that she was doing nails.
Will’s school friend, who I now knew was named Natalie, met me with a wide smile and a welcome. “We have some real comfortable chairs over there,” she said pointing toward the back of the room. “With some magazines and coffee, if you’d like a cup.”
“Thank you,” I said. I went to the back of the salon, picked a magazine I knew I’d only glance through, and sat.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Natalie called to me from the workstation she’d returned to, her voice rising over a song about exes in Texas, which played overhead.
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Something cold? We’ve got some co-colas back there.”
Co-colas? Testament really was a Mayberry. I hadn’t heard cokes referred to as co-colas since watching Goober offer one to Andy. “Ah . . . no. Really. I’m good.” I thought to smile and did so. “But, thank you so much.”
“All right. Well, let me know . . .”
I smiled again in answer, opened the cover of the magazine, and studied the first ad, which was for Cover Girl mascara. Which reminded me . . . Sunday. After church. I was to go see . . .
The Road to Testament Page 14
