“‘Kyle Channing, lately of Trapperstown, Colorado,’” another woman read aloud, “‘has risen to the top of the Hollywood crème de la crème like magic. In this first exclusive interview - and likely not the last for this blue-eyed charmer - the actor himself called his story a real life fairytale.’”
One of the men picked it up. “‘I left a stifling marriage, a life lived on someone else’s terms, and never looked back.’” He laughed, the sound somewhere between a hyena and a wounded dog. “‘Stifling’ is a good word for that one. I had Econ with her in high school. She yelled at me once for answering a question. Real ball buster. Guy never stood a chance.”
“Did you hear what she did at Alyssa’s son’s birthday party?” one of the woman asked, not bothering to keep her babyish voice down. “She bullied the kids until one of them threw up on her shoes, and then she tracked it in all over Ally’s gorgeous house. Apparently, she thinks they can still be friends after that. Can you imagine?”
“Hello, Tessa,” Mrs. Clarkson said from behind the first register, louder than strictly necessary. I looked up in time to see her shoot a meaningful glance at the busybodies a register away, but she smiled at me without any malice afterward. “That for your mom’s party this afternoon?”
I forced a bright smile onto my face and practically threw the cinnamon onto the counter. A second later, my feet finally obeyed my orders to move forward. I didn’t realize I’d halted, but there I had been, statue-like and moron-like. “You know my mom,” I said, working hard to keep the quaver out of my voice. “She never remembers to estimate in the accidents.”
She rang me up with speedy efficiency and folded up the top of my paper bag in a way that reminded me of origami. “Give her and Bob my best, and apologize for Mr. Clarkson and I not being able to make it, would you? It’s a busy day for us.”
For some reason, I didn’t believe her. Sure, the store was busy. But Mrs. Clarkson had been taste-testing my mom’s baked goods for years. And for that really embarrassing year in junior high, she and Mom and a collection of older town ladies had gotten together for high tea. It was supposed to be a book club but had really been an excuse to eat scones and brag about their kids. Mr. Clarkson must have watched the store then. He could have watched the store for an hour this afternoon, right?
My suspicion must have shown on my face, because as she handed me my change, she said, “I’m really sorry, Tessa.” The way she said it, I got the feeling she was saying a lot more than politely declining the party invite. Or maybe she was, and my situation was inextricably tied to her declining the invitation. Was she apologizing for not attending because she didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of the gossip? Because somehow, my reputation was spilling over? Was my situation affecting my mom’s life, too?
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Clarkson,” I said with a false smile. The little chime of the automatic sliding doors seemed to say, Hurray, she’s gone!
Tears blurred my vision as I wove my way through the people, leashed dogs, and kids walking their bikes on the sidewalk. I managed to stay out of everyone’s way despite not being able to see very well. At least, I did until I rounded the corner onto Stagecoach Drive. There, smack in front of the post office, I crashed into a little old man minding his own business. My bag went flying. His hat rolled into the street.
“Oof!” was about all I managed to say before we untangled ourselves and rebalanced. Wiping away the tears that had escaped, I said, “Let me just grab your—” I darted into the street, practically leaping in front of a car to stop it before it crushed the man’s hat.
A warm, sweet-smelling wind stirred as the car shimmied to a stop. The hat blew onto the opposite sidewalk, all safe and sound while I nearly got run over. That would have been a spectacular end to a tremendously short and sucktastic day. Really, I couldn’t remember any day ever packing in so much random awful into so short an amount of time. I had barely been awake for an hour!
I waved apologetically to the irritated driver and retrieved the hat. This time, I waited until the cars had all passed like a good little girl before I trotted across the street. The sob now perpetually lodged in my throat threatened to overtake me as I said to the old man, “So sorry. Really. I…” I swallowed hard, shook my head, gave him what was probably a truly pathetic smile, and headed up the street toward the movie theatre. There was a dirt path behind it that swung back toward the house. It would take longer to get home, but I was guaranteed to see no one but bike-riding kids and the occasional pair of teens lip-locked among the trees. I could sob my heart out and nobody would notice.
“Oh, my dear!” the old man said in a lyrical voice redolent of England. “That was unnecessary heroism, but I do so appreciate it.” He brushed off his ‘50s-style hat, ran his hands around the decent brim, and placed it on his head with an impressive bit of Mad Men style. When he smiled at me, his wrinkled, age-spotted face gave hints of a handsome, roguish youth. It also triggered an undeniable sense of familiarity in the back of my brain.
I tried to clear my throat, but it was futile as always. “It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“If I hadn’t gotten my cane stuck in this wretched grate, I wouldn’t have been standing here in the way.” He tucked the newspaper he carried under his arm and extended his hand to me with a slight tremor. “Harry Roundtop.”
I took his hand, surprised to see mine shook more than his. “Tessa Channing,” I said without thinking. My stomach gremlin rolled over in his sleep. “Uh, Hargitay. Tessa Hargitay.”
“Oh, my dear!” he said again, pulling the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blue button-up shirt. He gave it a practiced shake before offering it to me. “Did I hurt you?”
The idea that this hunched little man with his 80-year-old bones had hurt me made me laugh. It was a sad, pathetic thing perfectly reflective of my life up to this point. “No, Mr. Roundtop. You are possibly the only person who hasn’t hurt me today.” I dabbed at my eyes with the thin hanky.
“Go ahead. They’re meant to be washed,” he said with a twinkle in his grey eyes.
I wiped my nose delicately, not wanting to leave the nice old man with a pocket full of my drippings no matter what he said. It folded up neatly, as if it had been folded so many times it knew which way it went without my help.
“There now. Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?” He tucked the hanky into his back pocket when I returned it. “And it’s Harry. Though most people call me Gramps more than anything.”
“Let me help you with that.” I unwedged his cane from the grate, the brass tip sparking as it gave way. A little sound of surprise escaped me.
“Careful there. They don’t make them like they used to.” He gave me that roguish-old-man smile again.
The bronze handle was still warm to the touch, as if it absorbed part of his spirit. Or, you know, like the sun was up and shining on it… My melodrama was running on high today. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I asked as I handed the cane to him.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m sturdier than I look. Always drank my milk as a child, and all that. Well, except my back. Were that fitter, I would retrieve your parcel for you. As it is, I must settle for the less gallant reminder that you not forget it.”
I found myself smiling, just a little, as I stooped to pick up the paper bag. A quick sniff proved the plastic hadn’t broken. Relief flooded me; there was no way in hell I was going back in Clarkson’s. “Thank you. I would have forgotten it, and then my mom’s party would have been ruined and she would probably never forgive me.”
He set both hands atop his cane and leaned on it, the newspaper still under his arm. “I highly doubt that. Parents always forgive their children. It may take a while for us to realize our own pride and stupidity and admit it, but we always forgive them.”
“Oh, I’m sure she would. That’s just the kind of life I’m having right now.”
“Well, you know what they say. Life is a carousel—what was onc
e always comes ‘round again. All you need do is be patient and wait out the shadows.”
Did people say that? Maybe it was a British thing. Regardless, my stomach gremlin woke up and stomped his feet. “I don’t know why people say things like that when there are so many people in the world whose lives never get any better. Starving children, homeless people, war vets stuck with memories they’ll never escape. A lot of them die that way, in the shadows. Where’s their sunny carousel?” Realizing how belligerent I sounded - and hearing Steve from the grocery saying, “stifling is a good word for her” in my mind - I shook my head and buried my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. I just…I’m just having a really bad month. You’re probably right.”
His grey eyes watched me for a long, pensive moment from under the fuzzy white caterpillars of his eyebrows. I glared at the sidewalk, trying hard to get my obvious depression under better control and searching for something more polite and kind to say.
Finally, he tapped his cane on the cement and chirped, “Come with me.”
“Why?” I asked, dumbly.
“I wish to show you something. It’s just at the end of the street. And we’ve already established that I am no physical match for you. You’ve no reason to worry about my intentions.” His eyes sparkled with amusement.
“I didn’t mean…” I was doing such a great job of talking today. “Lead the way.”
We meandered down the street, crossing in front of the movie theatre and continuing to the western side of town. Downtown Trapperstown was only four blocks, so ‘the western side’ was pretty much just Mountain Street. Mountain Street was home to four churches, a centuries-old cemetery that housed the original settlers, Westward Town Park, and a smattering of little stores. Harry took us to the park, discussing the weather and how lovely it was to see young people out enjoying the summer instead of being glued to their ‘rampant technology.’ Slowed by his shuffling gait, I had no choice but to notice that it was, in fact, a perfect summer morning. Little kids screeching on the playground made it less calming than it might have been, but I was being deeply gloomy for such a gorgeous day.
Harry stopped beside a picnic table tucked out of the way beneath a twisting pine. With an unexpected little hop, he settled onto the bench and pulled a bucket from the shadows under the table. “I sell these on weekends. Normally they’re a little pricey for a single stem, but I find that people value them more if they feel they’ve earned them. Here.” He pulled the most amazingly perfect rose from the bunch lolling out of the bucket. Deep red, the edges of each petal lined in near-black, it had unfurled to that perfect U with the tips bowing out just slightly. I could smell it from three feet away, the cloying sweetness melting the hard edges off my nerves.
It was in my hand before I realized it, the water slicking the stem cool on my fingertips. “How much?” I asked, trying to reach into my pocket for my mom’s change with the hand still clutching the paper bag from Clarkson’s. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the flower.
Harry smiled as he watched my reaction, but waved one of the hands perched again on his cane. “It’s a gift.”
“But you said people don’t value—”
“I said people only value what they’ve earned. You’ve earned it, Tessa.”
My stomach gremlin jumped up and down in my belly so suddenly, I blinked away from the rose and staggered backward a step. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter, the colors of the grass, the orange-and-blue playground equipment, the sky overhead all appeared more vivid, as if Rainbow Brite herself had thrown color sprinkles across the park. The rose’s perfume swirled all around me, dancing on the breeze but always coming back to me. It made me light-headed, so I sat down on the bench.
“This is, after all, my favorite hat.” Harry touched his brim.
I felt myself smile reflexively, but all I could see was how soft the rose’s petals looked. Did they feel like velvet? Silk? Calico? I jerked my fingers back with a yelp. Blood welled on my fingertip.
“Careful there. The greater the beauty, the sharper the thorns, I’m afraid. Here, let me just…” He took the rose from me, a cool, clear breeze wafting in to take its place. My head cleared in time for him to hand the rose back, now wrapped in a sheet of his newspaper.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “Thank you.” My eyes welled again, but at least this time I kept them from hitting my cheeks.
Harry squeezed my hand, his grip firmer than it had been before. “Remember, Tessa. No day is over until the clock strikes midnight. And even then, there’s a whole new day waiting to unfurl.” He winked at me.
I smiled at him, and this time it was genuine. My stomach gremlin was silent, my angst from the grocery store gone. Even the picture of my mom’s butt with…no, thinking about that brought it back, all fresh and embarrassing to my mind’s eye. “Thank you, Harry. Really.”
He nodded to me with that same charming expression, and my sense of familiarity grew. I turned away, just for a second, weighing the awkwardness of asking against my future obsession. Obsession won. I turned back around as I asked, “Have we met bef—”
The old man and his roses were gone, cane and ‘50s hat and all. I scanned the park for him, then the line of pine trees behind me. I saw no hat, no shuffling gait. Only playing kids, chatting parents, and one nicely-contoured guy playing catch with his dog.
I checked to make sure I still held the rose. There it was, wrapped in its newspaper, solid in my hand. Not hallucinating, then. “Note to self,” I murmured aloud. “Weighing options takes longer than it seems. Which…probably means your mom is going to be pissed that you took your sweet time.” Bob’s handprints flashed in my mind again. “Or maybe she’ll be pleased I didn’t come home sooner.” That came with a visual thought, too, making me shudder in disgust. “Ew. Never go there again, Tessa. Got that?” I glared at myself as best as I could without a mirror.
From halfway across the park, I heard a masculine voice shout, “Heads up!”
I turned just in time to take a flying disc to the forehead and a black-and-brown lab to the gut.
Chapter 4
Down I went, my bag flying again, but the rose held carefully aloft. My reflexes weren’t all gone.
“Oh, God. I am so sorry! Dave, get down. Dave. Dave!” The yelping, bouncing, sniffing end of the dog disappeared, but I got a strong, excited tail to my face for his trouble. “Damn it, Dave! Sit, or I will never take you to the park again!”
The dog sat. On me. His tail thumped my thighs and then my chest, over and over and over again as he whined.
“Wow, Dave. Just…wow.” The guy shoved his dog away and helped me up. “Are you okay? The wind really got hold of that toss. And the dog…the dog’s just an idiot. And they say dogs are like their owners, so…”
I was too dazed to do more than mumble, “S’okay. I’m fine.” And I was. My butt was still bruised from meeting the tile floor the other day, but aside from that pain redoubled, I only had a slight bruise on my head. Destiny must have inured me to the annoyances of dogdom.
There was a slight pause as he examined my bruise. “It doesn’t look too bad. Look up for me? Good. Now, follow my finger.” I trained my eyes on his finger as he moved it from one side of my field of vision to the other. No ring on his left hand. I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face yet, but I had admired his athleticism when I first noticed him. And his voice was warm and friendly. Three pluses in his favor.
And then he asked hesitantly, “Tessa? Fourth period English with Mrs. Poindexter?”
“Pointer,” I corrected, now focusing on his face. It was older than how I remembered it, but he’d grown even more handsome than the last time I’d seen him at graduation. “Nicky Mikkelsen? You were a friend of…” I trailed off, glancing at the dog.
“Dave Delucha. Yeah.”
“He was a good guy.”
He quirked that same half-grin I remembered, and my stomach gremlin twirled. “Yeah, he was. What’ve you been up to? I haven’t s
een you around town.”
The last ten years stacked up in front of me, a giant wall of shame and heartache that amounted to nothing but angst. But the guy with the dark blond curls gleaming in the sunshine and a dusky summer tan riding his outdoorsy frame didn’t need to know any of that. “Got married, moved away.” Was it my imagination, or did he look a little bummed by that? “Got divorced, moved back. I’m staying with my mom right now, just until I get settled.”
“I get that.” He nodded low and slow, but his pretty brown eyes seemed to brighten. “I’m home, taking care of my mom. She had a stroke not too long ago.”
That put me and my issues in our place. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Nicky.” My hand reached for his before I knew what it was doing. “How’s she doing?”
“Better, thanks.” He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath a couple days’ worth of dark gold stubble. His eyes darted to our hands. “Oh, hey, you had a bag. Let me find…” He broke the contact to fetch my Clarkson’s bag. “That’s a lot of cinnamon,” he said as he gave it back.
I slumped. Sure enough, the tasty smell was just as strong as the scent of the rose in my other hand. The container had broken. “My mom’s having a party.” I actually made an effort not to let my disappointment show. After a slightly too-long pause, I stumbled over saying, “You could come. If you’re not busy. It’s mostly her friends, so I’m going to be totally outnumbered.”
He sort of half-laughed before his dog butted him in the leg, knocking him sideways. “Jeez, Dave. He’s such an attention hog. Here, fetch.” He grabbed up the neon orange disc and threw it.
The dog whined once, his big brown eyes watching his owner for a strange, long moment before he bounded off with an excited, “Woof!”
“He’s a weird dog,” Nicky said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’m on call this weekend so I need to be more or less sober and at home. I mean, more or less at home, and totally sober.” Was that a blush? His tan made it hard to tell.
One Good Wand Page 3
