The server was back at our table. “Mr. Will? What can I bring you to drink?”
“Sweet tea.” Then, across the table, he said, “Y’all done ordered?”
“Yeah. Pulled pork.” Rob tipped his head toward me. “She’s never had it before.”
Will grinned. “Of course she hasn’t.” He looked up at the server. “I’ll have the same.”
“That’s nice of Brianna’s daughter’s father to bring her little girl home before church,” I said after the server had walked away, half in observation and half to get the discussion off of my never having had pulled pork.
Rob looked at me. “Couple of young-and-in-loves got caught up in something bigger ’n them, but I’ll tell you one thing. They make sure they have Maris at church every Sunday. They walk in together. Sit together. Can’t say I agree with their decision not to get married, but I applaud their dedication to parenthood.”
Will leaned his forearms on the table. “Rob has always had a soft spot for kids.”
As if he, apparently, didn’t.
I nuzzled closer to my date. “Children are special,” I said, as though I knew it firsthand.
Rob smiled.
A sudden thought washed over me. “Pulled pork . . . ,” I said. “That’s . . . pig, isn’t it?”
Will laughed at my discomfort over the revelation. “One hundred and ten percent,” he answered.
“But it’s not Maris’s pig,” Rob said quickly.
Well, thank the good Lord.
18
Rob?” I asked on our way back to the cottage, elevating my voice just enough to be heard over a song on the radio about some girl whose boyfriend had cheated on her. A Louisville Slugger and four slashed tires. The tune was catchy and the message—I had to admit—made me grin.
Rob turned down the volume. “Yes, ma’am.”
“How long has Will been back from Chicago?”
His head turned toward me long enough that I could see the shock in his eyes. “You know about that?” He looked back at the road before us.
“Only that he worked there, came back here, and he has a Chicago Star coffee mug on his desk.” Ahead, the silhouette of trees filled both sides of the road. As we drove between them, the road grew darker still.
Rob remained quiet for a moment before answering, “About a year now, I guess.”
“So, he worked at the Star?”
He nodded in answer.
“Working at the Star is a fairly high accomplishment.”
“He thought so.”
“What did he do there?” We turned a corner, the car coming out from between the trees. The moon—full and large—stared down on us, filling the car with pale yellow light.
Rob glanced at me again. “He was one of their top journalists. Didn’t he tell you that?”
Surely he was joking. How had a boy from Testament, North Carolina, ended up as one of the “top journalists” at the Star? And, why would anyone with that kind of position give it up for The Testament Tribune? “Ah . . . no, he didn’t tell me. But, you know . . .”
“He’s never been one to talk much about himself.”
Maybe not, but he was certainly full of himself. “Well, yeah.” I crossed my legs and turned ever-so-slightly toward Rob. “So, he was successful?” I paused. “As a journalist for the Star?”
Again, he was silent, until, “He was one of their best.”
An ad playing for Testament Tires and Radiators had managed not to sell me, but to get on my last nerve. I reached to turn off the radio. I had come too close to learning more about Will Decker and nothing but nothing was going to keep me from it.
“Then why did he come back to Testament?”
Rob made a sharp right into the Decker driveway. We bopped along in silence, the moonlight now flickering through the leafy boughs of the trees. I felt the elevation of the winding road and, when it became apparent Rob was not going to answer me, I faced forward. Everything that had become familiar to me—the shrubs, the tree line, the shimmer of water in the pool, the proud U-shaped house, which we now drove around—seemed to pass by in slow motion until Rob brought the car to a stop beside the cottage.
“You’re home,” he said, his voice quiet. Too quiet.
“I . . . ,” I began, then faltered.
Without looking at me, Rob opened his door, “Let me come around and open the door for you.”
“Thank you.”
The door opened and closed with a click. Rob ambled around the back of the car, then opened my door just as I unbuckled my seat belt. I swung my legs out. When I scooched forward, his hand came out, palm up. I looked at his face. His eyes seemed sad, but his face bore a hint of a smile. “Help you out?”
I slipped my hand into his strong one. He pulled me up and out. When we were face-to-face, I said, “I didn’t mean to hit a bad note in our date. I just”—I shrugged—“didn’t know what it might have been to bring him back from such a fabulous place like Chicago and a position with a prestigious paper like the Star.”
“Because you can’t imagine anyone wanting to leave Chicago and the Star for a place like Testament and the Tribune?” He seemed genuinely wounded, though I couldn’t understand why. After all,Rob Matthews hadn’t left the Star for the local paper. William Decker had.
“It does seem to be a little strange by my way of thinking, if I may be honest.”
“Let me walk you to your door,” he said, turning.
“Rob?” I said from beside him. I tried to slip my hand into his, but he’d brought his arm around so that his hand rested somewhere between the small and the middle of my back.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.”
I stopped. Looked at him. “No, I don’t think you do.”
His eyes rested on mine. “Then explain it.”
I looked around. The moon and the front porch light lit up the rock garden and the Adirondack chairs as though it were daytime. “Can we sit for a few minutes?”
He led me toward them, waited for me to sit, then chose the chair beside mine. “I’m listening.”
I chose my words carefully. “I know Will is your friend,” I said.
“More like a brother.”
Of course. In Testament, friends were family. “But ever since I’ve arrived, he’s been . . .” I searched for the right word.
Rob’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Difficult. To say the least. It’s been very evident, to me, that he hasn’t wanted me here. Which I can’t understand. I’ve tried, but I can’t. He didn’t know me—doesn’t know me, really—and yet it’s as if he’s been set on making my time here as difficult on me as he possibly can.”
Rob blinked several times before he smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry.” Rob’s eyes darted over my right shoulder and back to me.
“For smiling?”
“No. For Will. I could . . . I could tell you what I think is going on, but it wouldn’t be right of me.” Again, his eyes darted to the right, then back.
I glanced around. “What are you looking at?” I turned back to him.
“The lightning bugs.”
“Lightning bugs?”
Rob took my hand as he stood. He guided me to the Adirondack settee, which faced the dark, expansive lawn sloping toward the highway. “Sit,” he said.
We sat together and his arm slid around my shoulders. I settled in next to him, felt the warmth of his body against mine. Breathed in the scent of his cologne and the cooling night air. And then . . .
. . . nature put on her show.
I gasped. “Look at that,” I whispered. Tiny dots of light flashed against a blue-black backdrop. One here. One there. Another one and then another. And still one more.
I felt Rob’s eyes on my face. He said, “You’ve never seen lightning bugs before?”
I shook my head, unable to answer audibly. Afraid of breaking the magic of the moment. When several long minutes had passed, and doz
ens of bright pinpricks had broken the darkness, I said, “I’ve heard Gram talk about them. About being out in the country, watching them with my grandfather when they were dating and newly married. She said . . . she said there was nothing more romantic on earth . . .” I stopped speaking, not wanting Rob to get the wrong idea. At least not so soon. If ever.
His arm tightened, drawing me closer. “Now you know why so many call our corner of the world ‘home.’ ”
I rose early on Saturday, the full-to-the-brim day ahead of me providing both goose bumps of anticipation and chest pains from the anxiety that said I couldn’t possibly fit it all in. The previous night, after the lightning bugs and before I walked inside, content for the first time in a long time, Rob had said we’d head over to Chimney Rock for a morning of shopping. But I also had to work later in the day. With Will. The birthday party for Helen Baugh. Followed by another date with Rob.
I pressed the top of the Keurig to make my tea just as my phone rang.
Rob.
“Hey there,” I answered with a smile.
“Ashlynne.” From the tone of his voice, I knew something was wrong. “I’m so sorry. Something here on the property needs my attention. I have to cancel taking you to Bubba O’Leary’s.”
“Oh.” Well, then . . .
“But, listen. Tonight we’re still on, right?”
“Sure.” Which made me happy, but not as happy as the day being bookended with him.
“Okay. Go on to Chimney Rock. The staff at Bubba O’Leary’s can help you. I promise, you’ll be fine.”
Of course I would. I’d been shopping alone plenty of times. At least that part of it wasn’t new. “Okay. See you later.”
After my tea and a shower, I left the cottage in the rearview mirror of my Jag. With my GPS set for Chimney Rock, I turned left at the end of the driveway.
For the next half hour my car wove around deep bends lined by foliage and slabs of jutting rock. Trees stretched and arched. Breaks gave way to vibrant displays of land, lush grass meeting rolling hills in the distance. For a while the road narrowed. Tree branches hung low over the car and the world grew dim.
When it opened again, I passed through the community of Lake Lure, where Rob had promised to take me to dinner that evening. I dared to take my eyes from the curves of the road for a moment. The lake’s water shimmered between cliffs rolling and jutting northward, all brilliant in the early-morning sunlight.
Around another bend, Chimney Rock came into view. I craned my neck to see where the American flag flapped as though it hadn’t quite woken. Already, a small group of people gathered on the landmark, while others on the ground moved to and fro in front of the western and Native American–themed storefronts.
I found Bubba O’Leary’s, swung my Jag into a parking spot nearby, and exited the car. Outside, the air had already turned warm. I dreaded the eventual heat of the day, but right then it felt good on my skin.
Bubba O’Leary’s wasn’t like any store I’d ever been in. Highly polished, narrow plank floors greeted the same shoes I’d worn the night before. Old fruit crates, turned on their sides, displayed hats and throw pillows. Antique sideboards and highboys held silver-framed photographs from days gone by, nestled between scarves and backpacks. Clothes—nothing even remotely close to what I typically purchased—hung off peg boards bolted to “log cabin” walls or in clusters on racks. Bins and long tables were stacked with folded tees, jeans, cargo pants, and thick sweaters I couldn’t imagine needing any time soon.
Dressed mannequins were positioned strategically around the long, narrow room that smelled a little like vanilla and a lot like leather. Near the wide front window, an old metal hat rack boasted a collection of hats, scarves, and purses. A suede purse drew me; I pulled my fingers through the bottom fringe. Then—curious—flipped the price tag to read it.
Remarkably affordable.
I pulled the purse from the hook and turned to find a salesclerk—young, slightly overweight, but pretty—approaching. “Hey there,” she said. “Do you want me to start a dressing room for you?”
“I do.” I handed her the purse. “Actually, if you could point me to what I might need for hiking, going to work every day around here, to dinner in Lake Lure at night . . .”
Her eyes brightened at the prospect of what my purchases would mean to her—I felt certain—commission-based pay. “I sure can,” she said. “Here, let me put this in a room there in the back for you.” She took two steps toward the rear of the store, turned, and said, “Give me two seconds, okay?”
“Not a problem,” I said and flashed my best smile. Without thinking about it first.
And for “two seconds” I thought over the past twenty-four hours. The nail salon and the new relationships I’d formed there. I’d attended a football game, tried barbecue, and avoided a near disaster with a new friend. And fireflies.
I’d experienced fireflies . . . watching their nighttime play while leaning against the warmth of another human being who seemed to like me—me—for . . . me.
By ten-thirty the backseat of my car looked like Christmas, and Lorelei—my salesclerk and hiking boot expert—was practically financially set for college. She made certain to let me know that she worked three evenings a week—Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday—and always on Saturday mornings. “Should you ever need anything else that I can help you with.”
“Thank you, Lorelei,” I said. She and I stood outside the store, loading the Jag. “I’m sure I’ll be back after the weather turns cooler.”
“Until then, I think we have you good and covered should the first dip in temperature be sooner than later.” Her eyes widened. “And you never know around here. It just might.”
I thanked her again, got in the car, pulled out, and headed back to Testament. I had passed through Green Hill when my cell rang. I reached my hand into the purse sitting on the passenger’s seat, dug around until my hand found it, and pulled it out, careful in my reading of the caller ID.
Will Decker.
“Hello?”
“Hey there,” he said, his voice low and sleepy. “Wanted to touch base with you about the party this afternoon for Miss Helen.” He cleared his throat as though to scare the frogs, as my grandfather used to say.
“All right.”
“Uh . . . if you’d like, we can meet at the paper around one-thirty. I’m happy to drive us both out there since you don’t know the way to the family’s homestead.”
I felt too good to argue, but threw an idea in for good measure. “How about we meet at the paper around one-thirty and I’ll drive us out there.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t? Why not?”
“Because the house is way out in the piney woods, that’s why.”
My mind conjured up some of the farms and shacks from The Andy Griffith Show. Deeply rutted dirt roads leading to unpainted wooden structures, with rickety steps and dark porches boasting unstable rockers and butter churns. “So what are you saying? My car won’t make it down a dirt road?”
“Not these dirt roads.”
“What if I said I was willing to take that chance?”
He cleared his throat again, but didn’t answer.
“Did you just get up or something?” I asked.
He chuckled. “It’s Saturday, remember? Don’t tell me you’re an early riser, even on Saturday . . .”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I glanced at the sky. A bright blue canvas dotted by cotton-balls of white seemed to be threatened by larger dark-gray monsters. Occasional trees in wide pastures shimmied in a growing breeze.
“Because then I’d have to change one of my opinions about you,” he said.
“Which is?”
“That you languish in bed on Saturday mornings until the maid or some other house servant brings you your coffee.”
He’d gotten part of that right. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought. First of all, I prefer tea to coffee; secondly, I don’t hav
e a full-time maid; and thirdly, I’m already on my way back from Chimney Rock.”
“What’d you do there?”
“I don’t really see where that’s any of your business, but if you must know, I went clothes shopping.”
A loud sigh met my ear. I pulled the phone away as though I’d felt the warmth of it. “That must have been a short shopping spree,” he said when I returned the phone. “We don’t have Nordstrom’s or Saks Fifth Avenue in Chimney Rock.”
“I wasn’t shopping at Saks or Nordstrom’s. I went to Bubba O’Leary’s, thank you very much.”
Silence met my declaration.
“Hello.”
“I reckon that’s two things about you I’ll have to mark off my opinion list.”
“I reckon so.”
“Back to the driving issue. Listen, I’m trying to be nice here—especially after the whole sixty-yard-line issue . . .” He paused long enough to add a low chuckle. “But if you insist on driving, I don’t guess my backside will mind sitting on luxurious leather.”
“Meet you at the paper at one-thirty then,” I said.
“If you say so.”
19
Clouds grew darker and the wind more threatening with every quarter mile I ventured down dirt roads so rutted, I thought my car would end up in pieces, drizzled between the main road and the site of Helen Baugh’s party. I gripped the wheel. My knuckles grew white. My eyes darted between vine-wrapped shrubs lining the road and the hard-packed dirt in front of us. The ruts appeared like waves on the ocean. Some deeper and wider than others.
Beside me, Will Decker read the owner’s manual he’d retrieved from the glove box as though he might need to know more than just how to adjust the passenger-side air-conditioning. The muscles in my shoulders pulled taut. I shot a glance toward him. If he’d tried any harder to swallow the smirk on his face, he would have choked and I would have been forced to perform CPR.
He should be so lucky.
Without so much as a look up, he said, “Told you the truck would have been better.”
“Hush.” I returned my concentration to the road. “That piece of junk wouldn’t have made it this far, to my way of thinking.”
The Road to Testament Page 17
