by CF Frizzell
She knew Mel understood what wasn’t being said. And there was so much to say, not the least of which was if they would dance again. Would they share another walk in the sunset? Dare take a moonlight ride? Back off.
“Well, ah, I hear a Subaru calling my name,” Shay said at last, restarting the Softail. “I’ll call when it’s ready and come get you to pick it up, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, Shay. I’d appreciate that.”
“My pleasure.”
Her mind on Mel’s precarious situation, she took the usual route back to Sonny’s, glad to find no accident scene, no remnants of one anywhere, in fact. Impressive, how quickly it was cleared. It wasn’t until she was elbow-deep in the Subaru that the possibility struck her that there never had been an accident at all, and Mel had just preferred a longer route home. She wanted more time. But there was also the possibility that Mel had preferred the less visible route to avoid being seen with the dyke from Chicago. Shay figured it wise to bring that to mind, next time fantasy beckoned.
Chapter Ten
Nana settled into her recliner in the living room and shook her head as she brought her knitting onto her lap.
“It was perfectly safe, Nana,” Mel insisted, off to the kitchen to make their lunch. “I know how to be a good passenger.”
“Aside from the fact that that was long ago, Lissa, when you were young and foolish, it simply doesn’t look proper.”
“Oh, Lord, Nana. There are millions of bikes on the road today. That stigma you place on motorcycles is long gone. Unacceptable today. You’ve got to get with the times.” Understatement of the year.
“As the respected editor of our newspaper, you need to consider public opinion. You won’t continue to receive that respect if you’re seen gallivanting around with some rogue on a motorcycle.”
That concept stopped Mel’s mixing of the tuna salad. She actually had considered public opinion. She’d diverted their route away from traffic and observant pedestrians, but not because she was riding on a motorcycle. Suddenly quite ashamed, Mel conceded that she had hidden her association with Shay. Nana’s issue with the public’s perception of motorcycles didn’t compare to Mel’s issue. Mel knew hers was far worse.
How could she show such disrespect to someone she liked? And she really liked Shay. More than that, she was attracted to her for all sorts of reasons, including a few she couldn’t explain. If only circumstances were different. If everyone would only be respectful, open-minded. If the Chronicle could survive the revenue crash. If I didn’t have everything at stake. She’d love to see more of that “rogue,” Shay Maguire.
She stared into the bowl, trying to remember where her conversation with Nana had left off. Vacantly, she began mixing again.
“First of all, I wasn’t gallivanting. I was given a courtesy ride home from the repair shop. And secondly, riding a motorcycle is not demeaning. It’s fun, exhilarating. I have advertisers who ride. I wish you’d stop thinking it’s something evil. Priests ride, for God’s sake.”
“They do no such thing for God’s sake,” Nana stated, outraged.
“Well, not literally for the sake of God, Nana,” Mel answered, trying not to laugh, “but priests do ride motorcycles. So do doctors, school teachers, everybody—”
“Melissa Baker doesn’t have to be one of them.”
Mel set out their lunch on the kitchen table and guided Nana in from the living room. Once situated in her favorite chair, Nana rolled right along.
“What would I ever tell Helen if she’d seen you, hmm?”
“No one but Helen cares what Helen says.”
“Just disgraceful.”
Mel poured two glasses of iced tea and sat down. “Enough, Nana.”
“Are we having those brownies you made this morning?”
“Only if you drop the motorcycle nonsense. If the opportunity presents itself again, I’m going to enjoy a motorcycle ride. End of subject.”
“I don’t think—”
“Or no brownies.”
“You’re being cruel to an old woman.”
“Yes, you’re next week’s lead story: ‘Abused Grandmother Denied Brownies.’”
“That’s fresh.”
Mel tickled Nana’s chin. “Who taught me the tricks, huh?”
Nana actually giggled, and Mel had to shake her head at how things had changed between them in such a short time. Only a few years ago, they were roommates, teasing and teaching each other at every turn. Bingo, church, and social circles highlighted her days now, and Mel worked hard to keep her happy.
“Your father called while you were out,” Nana said, and Mel cringed. Somehow the man managed to “appear” in her life and remind her of their arrangement too often, even from miles away. She wondered if he had called today or sometime earlier in the week. Nana often confused the days.
“Did he? Did you jot down any notes?” That always sounded better than harping at Nana to “write it down” when someone called.
“I certainly did.”
Mel went to the table next to the recliner and came back with Nana’s “official” notepad. That’s what the pad of paper was entitled. Mel had had some printed and, being an editor’s grandmother, Nana seemed quite proud to use them.
“What’s this about flowers?” Mel asked, studying the handwriting. “Is he sending you some?”
“No, he wanted to make sure you planted around the house. I told him we have plenty of petunias and geraniums and that the roses should be lovely this season—but he still won’t come.”
Thank God for small favors.
“We’ll take some pictures, Nana, and you can pick the ones to send him.”
“Do you see there, how he commented on the Harvest Ball?”
Mel sighed and bit into her sandwich. Here we go again.
“He was quite upset when I told him you don’t intend to go.”
“Nana, he never went when he lived here, either.” She knew he was checking up on her. Again.
“Lissa, he was in the army and then college. But you, you have no excuse. You’re the newspaper editor.”
“Please do not start.”
“Your father asked if you were dating yet, and I had to say no to that, too.” She clutched Mel’s hand desperately. “Surely, someone will take you to the ball.”
Mel ground her teeth at her father. “Please don’t Cinderella me.” She picked up Nana’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You know, I’d be proud to take you, seeing as you think so much of this—”
“Oh, poo! The Harvest Ball is Tomson’s biggest event of the year. You should—”
Before she could think twice, Mel’s mounting irritation took control. “Hey, I wonder if that rogue on the motorcycle would take me.”
Nana’s face went blank. Then she slapped the table. “You’ll do no such thing!”
“Just teasing. I’m not going, Nana. Relax.” She sipped her iced tea and let her mind wander.
And it wandered back to the circuitous route she’d had Shay take for a very shameful reason. She pushed away what was left of her sandwich, her appetite gone—along with, she feared, a sizeable portion of her mind.
Could anyone live happily in her situation, she wondered. If she had her car, she’d drive directly to the Exchange and drag Misty into one of their heavy world-summit conversations and vent all her frustrations. She certainly needed to talk with someone and hoped that Misty would be available this evening.
She cleaned up after lunch and went out to weed the flower beds. The mindless work always helped her think and she needed to resolve this conflict.
Like it or not, it hurt to see she was fully capable of doing something very wrong to someone she liked very much. Sometimes she found it hard to imagine that, after a fairly affluent childhood and emerging from USC with a master’s degree in communication and sociology, her life had come to this: running a newspaper in Tomson, living with Nana, and stuck in her father’s closet. It seemed to be creeping in on her more each
day.
The sound of a car door closing in her driveway made her check her watch. Shay’s back already?
“God, where did the time go?” Scrambling to her feet at the side of the house, she cursed her appearance, and that she’d completely lost track of time. Thanks to a heavy conscience. She hated that Shay would see her like this, hands and knees caked with dirt, her clothes, arms, and legs smudged, her ponytail a disarrayed bush.
But knowing Nana was seconds away from meeting that “rogue” she saw on the motorcycle, Mel hurried around to the front yard, brushing herself off wildly.
“Shay.”
“Hey, there you are.” Shay detoured from the porch steps and met her in the yard. “Damn, you’re such a dirty girl.”
Oh, if you only knew.
“And you’re too fresh for your own good.”
Shay tilted forward in a mock bow. “I present your trusty chariot, raring to go.”
“Boy, you do work fast.”
“I promised record time,” Shay said. “I called a half hour ago, but there was no answer, so I just thought I’d take a chance. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Nana probably turned the ringer off again. I’m sorry.”
“No problem, I hope. If it’s not too inconvenient, could I ask for a ride back to the garage?”
“Absolutely. Just one second while I tell her.”
Shay returned to the Subaru and Mel headed for the porch, wondering what Nana had seen and heard. She swung open the door and poked her head inside. “Be back in a few, Nana. Going to the garage to pay the bill.”
She didn’t wait for a response and promptly joined Shay in the car.
“I’m sure she’ll be full of questions when I get back.”
“Like who the hell was that?”
“I’m afraid so,” Mel said as she drove away. “She already went into a tirade about the ‘rogue’ on the motorcycle.”
“That’s me, the ‘rogue.’ Will she give you a hard time?”
“No more than usual. Her crusade-of-the-moment is getting me to attend the Harvest Ball this September.”
“The Harvest Ball? I haven’t heard of it. A formal thing?”
“God, yes. Tomson’s own social gala, fancy dress-up, and chauvinistic bullshit.”
“No question where you stand.”
“Oh, it’s awful, Shay. My position in town puts me in a quandary, though. Nana’s right, saying the newspaper editor needs to attend, but I just can’t do it. Just the thought of it makes me nauseous.”
“Yeah, tough decision.”
“The last time I went was three years ago, and I spent the entire night fending off the owner of Bissett Ford.” Shay snickered. “Honestly. He’s a widower in his mid-sixties and a pig.” Mel curled through the Main Street intersection and waved to a woman on the corner. Suddenly, she became all too aware of her surroundings, and wondered if the woman noticed her passenger. She winced internally and kicked herself. You’re doing it again.
“A pig, huh?” Shay asked. “All hands?”
“Oh yeah. A one-track mind.”
“I gather you, well, you didn’t have a date?”
“You’re kidding, right? I didn’t want one anyway.”
“It must be very hard for you.”
In a way, she was glad Shay spoke toward the windshield. If those eyes had been on her, she might have driven off the road.
Mel puffed a quick exhale upward, blowing a strand of hair off her face. The need to explain, the desire to talk, the honesty she felt she owed Shay pressed against her conscience, and dots of perspiration broke out across her forehead. Would Shay understand her predicament? Respect her decision to adhere to her father’s demand? He’ll take away everything I’ve worked for… A wave of shame washed through her, seeing Shay so out and honest, so relaxed beside her. They were almost to Sonny’s and such a conversation required far more time than they had, even if she could summon the courage to share her secret.
“Sometimes I think struggle comes with the territory,” she said carefully.
Now Shay did turn toward her, and Mel’s body hummed.
“In more ways than one,” Shay observed, and looked around the lot as Mel parked beside the Softail. “So…this is my stop.”
“Oh! I need to pay you.” Mel rummaged for a credit card in her console. “Forgive me. I completely forgot.” She handed Shay the card.
“I’ll be right back. It was five-twenty, total.”
“Okay.” Mel didn’t think twice about the numbers. She didn’t care. The softness in Shay’s expression was all that registered, right before she spun out of the car and that long, capable body trotted to the garage.
Sweep me away, why don’t you, Shay Maguire. God help me.
Mel tried to read her own look in the rearview mirror, but it was difficult. She wasn’t proud of who she saw. Shay’s honesty was written all over her face, and Mel couldn’t say the same. It roused a degree of shame, of anger with herself that she had never experienced.
“What a mess you’re making,” she told her reflection. “How in God’s name are you going keep this up till Dad’s off your back? Eight freaking months?”
Shay bent down to her window. “Sorry, I missed what you said.”
“Oh. Nothing. Just talking to myself,” Mel said, thankful Shay hadn’t heard. “I get into the worst arguments this way.” Mel signed and returned Shay’s clipboard. “Thank you again for such fast work and such a great price. You are good.”
“Not if you know what you’re doing and things go smoothly. Or if you’re inspired.”
Mel fought back a slight blush. “Well, I appreciate it very, very much.”
Shay crouched at the door and gripped the window frame for balance. Mel admired her broad, heavily veined hand, the dominant look of the long fingers.
“Mel.” Her voice unbearably soft, Shay paused and Mel had to make eye contact. “Come out with me, Mel. For a ride, a walk, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just talk.”
Mel’s entire body flushed with heat. Her hands shook and she folded them in her lap, as dozens of excuses raced through her mind.
“Just us, Mel. No pressure. I think we both could use it.” Shay’s hesitation weighed heavily. “Maybe you’re free tomorrow some time? Any time?”
Mel prayed for faith in her own instinct. She did need to talk. “I take Nana to church in the morning, but…after lunch, maybe?”
“Could we meet at the stone bridge, beyond Maclin’s? Does two o’clock work for you?”
Mel couldn’t look away. Somehow, I have to get past this, before it blows up in my face, before it hurts more than it already does, before I hurt her. “I’ll see you there.”
“Yeah?” Shay’s face brightened with surprise. “That’s great.” She tapped the window frame twice and stood up. “I’m glad.” She stepped back and Mel started the car. “Two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock it is.”
Chapter Eleven
In no frame of mind to deal with another of Nana’s inquisitions, Mel decided to grocery shop before heading home. That way, she could lose herself in cooking supper while Nana ranted. Thank God it was a routine errand because she had no room in her head to think of anything except Shay and just what and how much to say on their upcoming date. She was still shaking her head when she passed through the supermarket’s automatic doors.
Mel waved back at the toddler in the passing shopping cart, then turned at the sound of her name.
“Hi, Helen. You’re looking awfully spiffy for a trip to the market.”
Nana’s gossiping pal straightened off her cane. “Sheridan is home, you know, so we’re just picking up a few necessities. Then he’s taking me to dinner at the River House. He’s here, somewhere.” She looked up and down the aisle. “Probably fussing over his wine. How are you, dear?”
“I’m well, thank you. Nana’s home fussing over her flower catalogs.”
Helen giggled.
Gossip and shopping. Insepar
able in Tomson. Mel was starting to dread these trips.
“I’m sure he’ll be right along, dear. He’d love to see you again. Have you decided to attend the ball?” That took all of one minute. “You know he’d—”
“I’ll be working, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense.” She scanned the aisle again. Mel did, too, and spotted her salvation at the opposite end.
“Oh! Helen, I’m so sorry to run. Please excuse me, won’t you? I’ve been trying to reach Chuck Ryan about the Heights work and I’ve finally found him.” She wheeled her cart around and patted Helen’s shoulder. “Now, you take care. Have something yummy for dinner.” She promptly headed in the direction of the Chandler worker she’d known for years.
“Mel,” he said. “How have you been?”
“Save me, you two, please.”
Chuck and his wife grinned at Mel’s plight. “How long did Helen hold you prisoner?”
“Not long, thank God. She was just getting warmed up. How are you?”
“We’re doing well,” he said. “Plenty of work these days.”
“Chuck’s working like a dog out there,” she said. “They all are.”
“I bet. Those pictures we ran of the grading were dramatic.”
“You should see the site now, Mel,” Chuck said, sending his wife a glance. “I mean, I know it’s just dirt but, really…different.”
“I just might take you up on that—as long as Angelo isn’t around.”
“We heard about that episode,” his wife said. “I believe that man gets out on the wrong side of the bed every blessed day.”
“True,” Chuck added, “and he’s there with Ed a lot, so unless you want their official tour, make sure you stop by off-hours.”
“Duly noted. I picked up my own set of plans, so at least I’ll know what I’m looking at.”
“Oh? Well, that’s good,” he said, nodding. “Real good.” His attention then shifted to items in his shopping cart.
