by Jayne Denker
“‘Working hard on the farm?’” It seemed like everything came back to that.
“Yeah.” Before she could ask for details, he went on, “And speaking of working, what was that Mrs. P said, about a blog . . . ?”
“Girl’s gotta make a living.”
“Well, aren’t you wired—” Casey paused as a cell phone chirped. “Yours?”
George stopped walking and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Nope. You?”
Casey was checking his. “Not me.”
They stowed their phones and started walking again, but their path seemed to be blocked more frequently, and by individuals who were looking at them rather intently.
George whispered, “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
“When was the last time you ate spinach?”
“Two thousand eleven?”
“When was the last time you brushed your teeth? And please don’t say two thousand ten.”
“This morning.”
“All right, then.”
“Are you getting the feeling we’re missing something?”
Casey looked grim, but he said, “It’s nothing. Come on, we’re here.”
The hardware store looked exactly the same as it always had—clapboard front, two plate-glass windows, swinging sign overhead reading “Smithson’s Hardware” even though Tony Smithson, the previous owner and proprietor, had died twenty-five years ago. Because it was June, the window display featured a wheelbarrow, a Garden Weasel, bags of fertilizer, a small stretch of picket fence, and a carpet of fake grass. Just like every year. If you’d just woken up from a coma and didn’t have a calendar handy, you could tell what month it was by checking the hardware store’s window display.
Inside, it was as though time had stood still. The dark wooden shelves were still twenty feet tall (it seemed), the lights high and dim, the farthest recesses dark and dusty, the bins of odds and ends and bits of metal parts, screws, nails, washers, and clamps organized in such a way that only the employees could find anything. Probably, George thought, to ensure job security. You couldn’t fire any of the old fossils who’d manned the counter for decades; if you did, nobody would be able to locate anything they needed.
And sure enough, there were the three of them right now, in various states of apronage, two older gents with eyeglasses flashing, reflecting the lights overhead, the third a bit younger, with more hair and less stomach—the next generation, a future fossil. They all watched Casey and George walk in and raised their hands in greeting.
“Welcome home, George,” the senior fossil said, as George, still refusing Casey’s help with the stroller, worked hard to navigate it around cardboard displays and bins of stuff on sale. “Heard you were coming in.”
She stopped short, stunned. “Thanks . . . ? Henry, how did you—”
He waggled a cell phone at her. “Missy called.”
“Of course she did.”
“Help you with the plumbing fixtures?”
Apparently Mrs. Preston had been listening to their excuses—and had filled in the hardware store crew so they’d be prepared. But Casey didn’t break his stride, just waved over his shoulder. “We’re good, Henry. But thanks.”
George followed, pushing the stroller between the tall shelves, the aged floorboards creaking under her feet, to a far corner where a few faucet sets were on display.
She wrinkled her nose as she examined their options. “Home Depot has, like, fifty different kitchen faucets to choose from. Maybe we should—”
Casey shushed her. “Do you want to get run out of town on a rail? Do not speak a big box name within the town limits! Now get over here and pick one, city girl.”
“They all look the same.”
“Then it’ll be easier to choose.”
George made a face at him and pointed at the middle set. “That one, I guess.”
“If your sister doesn’t approve, it’ll be on your head.”
“Isn’t it always?”
As they approached the counter with the faucet and some other plumbing-related items Casey had grabbed along the way, he ventured, “So how did you end up offering to be Amelia’s nanny, anyway?”
“Didn’t, did she?” senior fossil Henry said as he rang up their purchase. “Sera called and begged.”
“No, she didn’t,” argued the junior fossil—Pete, if George remembered correctly—as he bagged each item after Henry rang it up. “I heard she blackmailed George, threatened to reveal some ancient family secret. She couldn’t refuse after that.”
“Guys. I’m right here.”
“So you know what I’m saying,” junior fossil Pete said with a pointed look at her, as though he shared her secret.
“Why don’t you set these geezers straight, George?” Mike, the future fossil, suggested, resting his elbows on the counter and giving her a wink. “Otherwise they’ll be arguing about it for days.”
“Well, that’ll give them something to talk about besides the weather, won’t it, Mike?”
And George smiled politely before turning her attention to getting Amelia’s stroller back out the door.
“What’re you grinning at?” she snapped at Casey as he held the door open for her, although she couldn’t hide her amusement either.
He grasped the front of the stroller to help ease it over the threshold. “You.”
“Well, that’s quite . . . blunt of you.”
“You seem . . . different.”
“Everybody keeps saying that.” She stopped short as Casey studied her. “What?”
“Just trying to figure out what the recent version of Goose is like, that’s all.”
George snorted and started walking again, navigating Amelia around a knot of meandering tourists who’d stopped to admire some kinetic metal sculptures moving lazily in a gallery window.
“Do you . . .”
“What?” she said again, a little louder this time, to be heard over a rumble of thunder that bounced off the surrounding hillsides. The skies had grayed up—nothing dire, but an afternoon shower was likely. She could smell the rain on the breeze.
Casey glanced at the clouds. “Do you want to get some coffee? Or some food? I really do want to catch up, like I said.”
“Oh, that wasn’t just a line?”
“When have I ever fed you a line?”
George stopped walking and looked him squarely in the eye. “Never.” Not even when I wanted you to, she didn’t say. After a moment, during which he serenely returned her gaze with those brilliant green eyes of his, she added, “Sera and Jaz still don’t have water.”
“They can use the bathroom sink.”
“Good point.” George hesitated a moment. She didn’t want to hang out with Casey. Did she? That would be too awkward. On the other hand, she was curious about how his life had gone, what had happened to him, where he’d been, what he’d seen. Before she could decide, a phone rang—definitely hers this time. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Crap.” Then, “Hi, Sera.”
“What have you done with my child?”
“What child?”
“George!”
“Oh, right—child. Agatha or something, wasn’t it? I told her it was high time she got a job. I dropped her off at the convenience store on Route 237 about an hour ago—I heard they’re hiring. I’ll swing back around for her after her interview.”
“Where are you?” Sera demanded.
George sighed, aggravated. Their parents may have been two thousand miles away, but her sister channeled them very effectively. “Good Lord, Mom, how far do you think I got on foot?”
“Bring my kid back, babynapper. It’s time for her lunch.”
“You might want to wait on that. She’s sleeping,” George informed her sister proudly.
“What?”
George was astounded. She’d done something wrong again? “What ‘what?’ She wouldn’t nap earlier, now she’s out cold. You should be happy.”
“Well, she shouldn’t be napping
now. If she sleeps this late in the day, she’ll never go down at bedtime!”
George, incredulous, shook her head at Casey, who was having difficulty not eavesdropping. “I can’t win,” she whispered.
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head again as her sister babbled on the other end of the line.
Without hearing what she said, George simply snapped, “Fine,” in reply and ended the call without saying good-bye. She turned to Casey apologetically. “Looks like we’ll have to get those coffees to go.”
Chapter 8
“Eeeeee!”
It was a gleeful squeal, not a terrified scream, coming out of Amelia. It only made sense, as she was protected from the downpour by her stroller canopy, and she was thoroughly enjoying the top-speed race back to the house. George and Casey weren’t so fortunate, and they ran full tilt the last couple of blocks, squinting against the rain, to stumble up onto the porch soaking wet. Sera grabbed her daughter frantically, as if she’d been abducted by pirates and returned after a year at sea. Casey couldn’t figure out why Sera was so freaked. Amelia had all the arms and legs she’d had when she’d last left the house, she was well rested, and she was the driest of the three. Pretty good, if he said so himself.
But judging by the look Sera was shooting them, it wasn’t good enough. Not by a long shot.
Casey decided it was best to stay out of the range of Sera’s Medusa glare, so he ducked into the kitchen to install the new faucet. He thought he heard George call “Coward!” to his retreating back, but he pretended he didn’t hear.
As he spread the plumbing supplies on the table and unpacked the new faucet, George appeared with a couple of towels. She held one out to him and he took it gratefully, careful not to give her more than a cursory glance. If he did, then he’d be able to get a better look at just how transparent her pale pink T-shirt had become in the rain. And that wouldn’t do at all.
Lightning flickered less threateningly, the storm farther away now. He threw the towel over his head, rubbed his hair vigorously, wiped his arms down, then hung it on the back of the nearest chair. He’d need it in a few minutes, when he started pulling apart the plumbing.
“Hey,” George said. “You sure you know what you’re doing there?”
He sifted through the supplies and picked up the new jar of pipe dope, tossing a smirk her way. “Well, I’m no Steverino the Wonder Plumber, but I know just enough to be dangerous.”
She was leaning sideways, massaging the length of her hair with the towel. A rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes, and the last of the rain pattered on the ground outside the open back door. He found himself fascinated by the way the damp strands of her hair were starting to curl—the way it had looked when she was younger.
“If you say so. I’m going to put some dry clothes on. Want me to throw your T-shirt in the dryer?”
Casey barely heard her over the buzzing in his brain. He shook himself. Focus. “Oh. Uh, no, thanks. It’s fine.” He should get under the sink as soon as possible and stay there.
“Trying to get a peek of some beefcake, honey?” Jaz joked as she entered the kitchen.
“Are you taking too many muscle relaxants or something?” George snapped.
Casey glanced up furtively; George’s face was growing as red as his felt.
“I’m not criticizing. It’s totally understandable. And worth it,” her sister-in-law said with a wink as she grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. “I’ve seen this boy shirtless, and all I can say is, if I played for your team . . . well . . .”
“Jaz! You’re embarrassing the boy!”
“I don’t see any boys around here. Men, on the other hand . . . well, yes. We definitely have one of those present.”
“Go lie down until this feeling goes away.”
Jaz just chuckled, popped the top of her soda, and studied the two of them with a thoughtful look on her face as another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
George threw her towel over her shoulder. “I have a baby to take care of,” she muttered, turning to go.
“No, you don’t,” Jaz said, taking a sip of her drink. “You traumatized Mama, making the baby disappear for almost a whole hour. So now she’s decided she’s spending quality time with her.”
“You mean she’s finding another excuse not to work.”
Jaz did her barely perceptible shrug. “She’d deny it at every turn.”
“Fine. Then I have some work to do. Casey, if you need anything—” She stopped and gave Jaz a dirty look when her sister-in-law started chuckling again. “If you need any help with the plumbing,” George clarified, “just shout, okay?”
Casey ducked his head to hide a smile. “Sure thing.”
Water on. Water off. Water on. No drips, no explosions and, most important, no screaming. Good. Casey turned the faucet off firmly, smiling to himself.
He couldn’t help it—he got such a sense of accomplishment when he made something that was broken work again. They were simple and clear-cut, these mechanical issues: Something was either broken or fixed. You worked at it till you fixed it. This was fixed.
He wiped down any remaining damp areas around the sink and put all the cleaning stuff back in the cabinet, then packed up his tools. The house was quiet. He wondered if he should just take off and let the girls find the repaired faucet themselves, but at the last minute he decided to stick his head into the living room to see if anyone was around.
As he got closer to the doorway, he could hear the ticking sound of fingers on a keyboard. The now familiar flutter hit his belly again. George was in there. Working, she’d said.
He couldn’t bring himself to walk out of the house without seeing her one last time. So he took one step into the room and cleared his throat. George glanced up and stopped typing. “Sink’s done,” he informed her, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. As if she didn’t know where the kitchen was. Sheesh.
“Oh. Thanks so much. That was really nice of you.”
“No problem.”
Silence. Awkward.
Fill the silence, Casey told himself. Say something, for God’s sake. He looked around, away from George, who sat cross-legged on the slipcovered couch, to the sooty fireplace, the baby toys on the carpet, the mangled blinds pulled up to the top of the windows.
“So—”
“How long have those blinds been like that?”
“What?”
Casey winced. He’d spoken before he realized George had started to say something, and he’d ended up talking over her. “Nothing—go ahead.”
“What about the blinds?”
Oh great—now he had to finish his stupid thought. “I . . . I was just . . . I could fix those. Well, probably replace them,” he said, taking a closer look at their sorry state. “If you’d like.”
George returned her attention to her computer. “That way lies madness, you know. It was great you fixed the sink, but you’ve got to quit looking around this house. You’ll never stop finding things that need to be repaired.”
“So?”
“So? It’s like a handyman black hole. You’d be held hostage here for life. Like a horror movie. ‘He came to do one job. That was twenty years ago . . .’”
Casey couldn’t think of anything he’d like better, as long as George was in the house. “I don’t mind.” He moved a little closer to her. “You working on your blog now?”
“Yep.”
“What’s, uh, what’s it about?” Was she surprised he had to ask? Should he just . . . know? How famous was she? Did he just insult her? Crap. He rushed to explain. “I don’t have a lot of time for, you know, online stuff.”
“You really want to know?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Of course I want to know. Why wouldn’t I? Our Goose is a famous blogger. So let’s hear all about it.”
Casey plopped onto the sofa next to her and leaned over to look at the laptop screen, but all he saw was a gray browser windo
w with a white text box inside it. That didn’t tell him much.
“I’m not a famous blogger,” she insisted, shifting over to make room for him, but not so far that he got the impression she was skeeved out and trying to get away from him. So that was gratifying. “But it keeps me busy.”
“What’s it called?”
She took a breath. “Um, Down on Love.”
“Sounds bitter.”
“It isn’t. I mean, it’s all about how much it sucks when relation-hips go bad. But my readers are there for one another, and we laugh about everything, and everyone ends up feeling better. A virtual group of friends to vent to.”
“And you’re the, what, the ringleader?”
She smiled, and Casey’s insides danced when her face lit up. “You could call me the cat-herder. It sounds easy, but it’s pretty tough sometimes. Especially because I never really expected to get a following at all. I was just posting to have a place to sort out my feelings. And then people just started reading it. It’s a little weird, to be honest.”
“I’ll bet. What are you working on now?”
“Um . . .” Here she laughed softly, letting her hair fall in front of her face, a wavy, reddish-blond curtain for her to hide behind. “Actually, right now I’m creating a flow chart of Taylor Swift’s love life.”
He laughed. “Oh yeah. Sounds really tough!”
“Hey!” She whacked him on the arm. “It’s a good way to check whether you’re choosing good people to date: ‘Are You Acting Like Taylor Swift?’”
Casey felt a bloom of hope in his chest. George’s frostiness was finally thawing a little, and it felt like old times. “You’d better explain this.”
“She always picks the wrong guy for the wrong reason. So the flow chart is going to go something like . . . is the boy—and they have all been boys, emotionally, even John Mayer—popular? Proceed. Flavor of the month? Proceed. Bad boy? Proceed. Guaranteed to dump you in a few weeks? Proceed. And have you hooked up with him within two weeks of breaking up with your previous significant other? By all means, proceed with all due haste. If you want your love life to be like Taylor Swift’s, of course. Which you so shouldn’t.”
