“Ah. Clayton’s Place. Celia says to go there. You know it?”
I bugged my eyes at him. “Clayton’s Place, you’re kidding me! That’s the most expensive restaurant in Albertsville. I’ve never been there in my life.” The restaurant had earned a reputation, and folks would drive a long distance to it for a special night out. It was known as the place for romance, the restaurant for making an impression, for proposing, even. Daddy and Mama had celebrated their last anniversary during her healthy days at Clayton’s Place.
“That is why I take you,” Greg replied grandly. “We are lucky to get in. They give me a table because they have a . . .”
“Cancellation?”
“Yes.” He flicked his eyes upward. “Cancellation.”
We grinned at each other.
“The restaurant makes you happy?” he asked.
“Greg,” I gushed, “just being with you makes me happy.” Instantly, I felt my cheeks flush. Great, Jackie, real demure.
Greg leaned toward me, touched my shoulder. “And I am happy being with you.”
Well. What to say to that. Maybe the world wasn’t so upside down after all.
“Are you worried about going out? I mean, what if someone recognizes you?”
Greg watched the winding road straighten like a pulled ribbon beneath our wheels. A breeze through his cracked-open window riffed the sleeve of his shirt. “People do know us here in the States. That surprises me. We are known in Athens, as I tell you. But that’s home. Even the people I don’t know—they are like friends to me because they are from my city. Here, it feels different when people know me.”
“Girls, you mean.”
“Mostly.” He sounded almost apologetic.
The thought irritated me more than it should have. But, glory, fine time to hear that our date could be interrupted by a drooling slew of girls. Most of whom were no doubt prettier than I was. For some reason I pictured Katherine at my age, how forward and charming she’d have been to encounter some singing star in a restaurant. That thought really irritated me.
“I should talk before about this,” Greg said. Had I spoken aloud? “But we have no chance. Albertsville is not a big city, right? And I ask for a table in the back.”
“Mm.” We came up behind a slow-moving pickup that had seen far better days. Route 622 offered few places to pass; we’d likely be stuck for a while. I tapped the steering wheel.
Greg waited for me to say something. I could feel his worry over my terseness. I worried about his being worried. “It will be okay,” I assured him. “We’re hardly in New York. Girls don’t expect to see you here. Especially with a bruised jaw. Oops.” I cringed. “Wasn’t supposed to say that.” He smiled. “Even if someone thought she recognized you, she’d probably figure, ‘Wow, he looks a lot like that guy from LuvRush.’”
“You mean she will not know my name?” Greg feigned disappointment.
I laughed at that. “Oh, I know! Let’s make up a first name, in case someone does recognize you. Some back-hills-sounding name.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, a back-hills-sounding name?”
“A name like . . .” I thought a minute. “Willy Ray, Junior.”
“Three words? Junior is the last name?”
“No, no, it’s all part of the first name. It means he’s the second to be called that, and his father was first.”
“Ah, I see.” He said the name a few times under his breath. “Willy Ray, Junior; Willy Ray, Junior.” The “j” sounded like a “ts” again. It all sounded so refined in his accent that I had to laugh.
“Only you could make a back-hills name sound classy, Greg.”
He drummed his fingers against his knees, obviously pleased. “So you are not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” I shook my head. Guys were sure hard to understand sometimes.
We rolled too close to the truck. I eased off the gas. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“Ah, I don’t like music much.”
I threw him an “oh, ha-ha” glance and punched on my favorite station. Commercials. I turned down the volume. “You know what would be the greatest thing in the world right now? To hear ‘Hung Up on You’ with you sitting right here.”
His lips curved. “You should see the first time I hear the song on the radio. I am getting ready for school. I run out of my bedroom, yelling like a fool. ‘Aaahhhhh!’” Greg shook his hands in the air. “My parents think something terrible happened. Mamma is making breakfast, and she pours my little brother’s milk on her feet.”
I laughed with him. “Hope you helped her clean it up.”
“No. I am too busy calling Demetri.”
I couldn’t imagine what that would be like—hearing your own voice on the radio after years of dreaming about it. Well. I’d dreamed about a first date for a long time, hadn’t I? Now here I was. With Greg Kostakis, no less.
Music sounded low on the radio, and I turned up the sound. A lineup of songs played, but not Greg’s. Twenty minutes later we arrived at Clayton’s Place. It turned out to be all that I expected, intimate, white cloths and a red rosebud in a dainty cut glass vase at every table. Couples and foursomes filled the tables near the front, with about six still empty. “You’re the first ones here,” the hostess said to Greg with a smile. She looked to be in her midtwenties, with blonde hair and oh-so- straight teeth. I paid little heed to her words, watching her eyes linger on Greg’s face, his cheek. Greg may have looked like he’d been in a fight, but it seemed to me all the bruises in the world couldn’t hide his incredible looks. I wondered which caused her the most pause.
“First ones?” He glanced at the other filled tables.
“I mean first of the prom bunch.” She turned from Greg’s puzzled expression to me. I looked down the length of my dress. I was hardly dressed for a prom. Bradleyville didn’t even have such a thing. Still doesn’t today. A lacking, certainly, that gives Albertsville high schoolers one more reason to look down their noses at our town.
A second later, the woman’s words registered. “This is prom night?” I demanded, almost as if she were to blame.
“A prom night is what?” Greg asked.
The hostess smiled at him again, indulgently. “You have such a wonderful accent.” She laid down her pen. “Sorry, I was assuming. Yes, it’s prom night. But you must be the reservation under ‘Greg.’” We nodded. “We’ve saved you a table in the left corner, as you requested, sir. Come right this way.” She picked up two menus and led us to our seats as I explained to Greg what a prom was. He pulled out my chair for me, then sat across the table facing the wall, his back to the room, rosebud and fancy china and silverware spread elegantly between us.
“Perfect,” he announced with satisfaction. “All I look at is you.”
I felt myself blush. “Yeah, and you’ve got your best side out.” I gestured at his perfect right cheek.
We both ordered a salad and the steak. I couldn’t believe the prices and would have asked for nothing but soup if Greg hadn’t quickly announced what he’d chosen, graciously paving the way for my own indulgence. I wondered if singing had already made him rich. He certainly had more money and better clothes than any Bradleyville guy.
Over salad, he told me more about LuvRush’s tour. And, surprising me, he talked openly about his Christian faith—how hard it was sometimes to be a Christian around Alex and Lysander and Demetri, who weren’t. “I keep talking to them about it, though. And praying for them. They know I am . . . different for a reason.”
He wanted to hear about me, but what was there to tell? I urged him to keep talking, drinking in the sound of his voice, picturing the long hours of practice, the road trips they would take on their special bus. His co-singers, the concerts. Slowly, I felt my worries over Daddy and Katherine slip away.
The waiter arrived to remove our salad plates. I placed my hands in my lap, eyes flicking about the restaurant. Trying to think of something new to say. Fleetingly, I wondered about su
pper at our house. Had Katherine sat in Mama’s chair? Could Robert talk to her?
Greg leaned over the table. “Jackie.”
“Hm?” I looked into his warm gaze, sudden butterfly wings sweeping inside my chest.
“You go away sometimes. I don’t know where.”
“Oh. I’m . . . I just think about a lot of things, I guess.”
He nodded. “You think about your mamma a lot?” he asked quietly.
The question surprised me. Greg seemed to flow from easy talk to serious in no time. Maybe he hadn’t lost enough to understand how difficult that was supposed to be.
I looked at the rose, picked of thorns and perfect. “All the time.”
“You are very close to her.”
“Yes.” I rubbed a finger along the tablecloth. I could feel his gaze upon me. “Are you close to yours?”
“Yes, very much.”
“How about your brother?”
He rested his elbow on the table. “Danny too. I don’t see him much now. But Danny . . . teaches me things. Like a big brother, you know? He has a long talk with me before I leave Greece.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Ah.” He cocked his head. “Things about being a Christian in a world that isn’t. Things about traveling. How to . . . watch myself. Family.” He smiled. “Girls.”
“Really?” I teased. “And what did he tell you about girls?”
“You want to hear what he says before I leave, or what he says this morning on the phone?”
This morning. Oh, glory, I could imagine that conversation. Hey, guess what, big brother, I got beat up at this girl’s house. “This morning.”
Greg fastened his eyes on mine, all seriousness. “He says ‘the best girls come from Bradleyville.’”
Well. Of course Greg’s brother would say that, having married Celia. But to say it this morning, most certainly after Greg had told him about what happened at our house. For Greg to make a point of telling me . . . Was I reading too much into this?
Oh, hoo-fah, Greg probably talked this way to all the girls. Tried to make them feel special. It was part of his charm.
I rubbed a small circle on the tablecloth.
Greg reached out his undamaged hand to lay it over mine. Then he lifted it up, lacing our fingers. “I think my brother is right.”
I stared like an idiot at our fingers, wishing for some witty word. None came. I did manage a little, tight smile.
Sudden voices caused a stir at the front of the restaurant. I glanced up and Greg twisted to look, our hands still linked. Three girls our age, looking like knockouts in formals pinned with corsages, swept into the restaurant, followed by their dates in suit and tie. Greg turned back to me. “The ‘prom bunch.’”
Were they ever. Three more girls and their dates followed, filling up the small lobby like multicolored flowers, all fresh and sun-kissed and beautiful. Four had their hair up in elegant twists, adorned with baby’s breath. Another’s shining blonde hair hung to her bare shoulders in unbelievably thick layers. A pink strapless dress, immodestly low cut, hugged every curve of her body to the floor. The girls chattered with the confidence of the glamorous, laughter and anticipation flowing through the room and causing heads to turn. “There goes our quiet,” I commented. Why couldn’t I have worn something more fancy? The hostess began leading them toward the three remaining tables near us. They milled about, dividing themselves into quartets, the girls rustling into their seats and setting beaded purses at their feet.
“Doesn’t matter.” Greg squeezed my fingers.
The blonde shook her hair back and glanced our way, then did a double take, her gaze landing on Greg. From the corner of my eye I could see her brow rise with approval. How nice for her that she found him attractive.
I smiled at him. “So. What else did your brother tell you?”
The girl stared a moment longer, her expression crinkling into puzzled suspicion. If Greg noticed, he paid no attention. She leaned over to the girl on her left, her pink formal meshing with the blue satin of her friend’s. They whispered, and I knew what was coming next. Sure enough, both coiffed heads turned to assess Greg once more, then checked me up and down. I felt myself grow warm beneath their dismissive looks. Finally, they turned their attention back to their dates.
“I think they recognize you,” I whispered to Greg. He nodded but did not look at them. I felt a wash of gratitude that his eyes remained on me.
The waiter arrived with our entrees. Greg pulled his hand from mine as we were served.
We talked of this and that as we ate, of Greece and Bradleyville and our families. Trying to ignore the increasingly animated banter at the prom tables. After their salads, four of the girls decided to flock to the bathroom, swishing past us with proud chins and lingering glances upon Greg. They caught each other by the arms, exchanging whispers as they flowed up the aisle and around the corner. “I’m telling you,” the blonde’s insistent voice floated over her shoulder, “he looks just like the picture on my wall!”
Left to their own devices, the girls’ dates traded teasing insults back and forth. One pulled at his bow tie, complaining, “How many more hours do I have to wear this thing?”
Greg smiled at that. “Glad I don’t have one,” he said.
“Glad I don’t have a formal dress on.” I suppressed a cringe, wondering if he saw through my lie.
The four girls returned. One of them pulled a small camera from her purse and started taking pictures of the others. “Here, do us.” She handed the camera to a cohort and leaned close to her date with a sultry smile.
“Want some dessert?” Greg asked as our waiter took our plates.
I hesitated. “Are you going to have some?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, you all,” the blonde said loudly enough for all of her friends to hear, “we should get a picture together.”
“That’s too much trouble,” one of the guys protested. “We can do it at the prom.”
“We’ll all get separated at the prom.” She pushed back her chair and stood, motioning impatiently for the others to follow suit. “Come on, I’ll find someone to take it.”
Instantly, I knew that “someone” would be Greg.
She approached our table, dripping with feigned innocence. “Would you take our picture for us?” she asked Greg without so much as a glance at me.
“Ah.” Greg forced a smile. “Of course.” He accepted the camera with an apologetic glance in my direction. As he stood up, the girl inhaled sharply.
“Oh, my! What happened to you?” She reached out a painted fingernail and touched his cheek.
Greg flinched in surprise, then tried to hide it, ever the gentleman. I could have knocked the girl’s hand off. “Just a little accident.”
If I’d have thought fast enough, I’d have answered for him. The words flowed in his soft and intriguing Greek accent. The girl studied him with unabashed interest as two of her friends appeared magically at her side. “You’re not from here, are you?”
My, how perceptive. I’d had enough of her. I’d had enough of all of them. “Willy Ray,” I spoke in a clearly annoyed tone, “just take the picture.”
A flicker of amusement tugged at Greg’s mouth. He played along perfectly. “Okay,” he said with an apologetic shrug at the girl.
“Willy Ray?” she repeated with narrowed eyes. I could practically see the wheels of suspicion turning in her head. “With an accent like that, your name is Willy Ray?”
“Come on, Charlotte, let’s get this over with.” Her date clamped firm hands on her shoulders and pulled her back to their group, her friends following. Greg aimed the camera and they posed, instant dazzling smiles appearing on each girl’s face. He clicked and a brilliant flash lit the room.
As her friends reseated themselves, Charlotte retrieved her camera. “Thank you,” she purred, her fingers grazing Greg’s. “You know, you sure look like the lead singer from LuvRush.” She waited for a denial, but Greg didn�
��t respond. His silence etched anticipation into her face. Her blue eyes widened. “You are, aren’t you?”
Greg hesitated, then nodded.
“And that accent,” she gushed, “I knew it!” Her gaze slid to me and back. She smiled at Greg with sickening indulgence, as if they shared private thoughts. “But what are you doing here? And with a girl from Bradleyville?”
The question rained over me like acid. I glared at her in rage and disbelief. What did this stupid girl think—that Greg would be impressed by her snotty attitude? And how did she know I was from Bradleyville, anyway? Charlotte surveyed me snidely, apparently reading my thoughts. “It’s the dress,” she smirked, her eyes falling to my neckline.
Well, hoo-fah for you, I railed, at least half my chest isn’t falling out. All the same, her words bubbled right through my skin. Catty or not, she outshone me a dozen candles to one, and I hated myself for it. Greg stood in shocked silence, his cheek mottling deeper red. I pressed my lips and stared at the tablecloth, muscles stiffening. I wanted to melt right through the floor.
A tsk escaped Charlotte’s teeth. “Greg,” she pressed her fingers into his arm, “let me take a picture with you.”
“No, thank you,” he managed levelly enough, but she paid no heed. She turned her head quickly to hiss over her shoulder, “It’s him!”
Everything happened so fast. A fluttering gasp rose from Charlotte’s friends. Chairs pushed back, excitement springing to their faces. “Could I have your autograph?” one girl called as two more rushed over, spouting questions. Other diners in the restaurant craned their heads at the sudden commotion.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Charlotte fluttered her hands in the air. “I saw him first!” She thrust her camera into the closest friend’s hand. “Here, take our picture.” She pivoted to press herself against Greg, her cheek against his jaw.
Greg pulled away. “No!” He grabbed the camera from the surprised girl, pressing it until his battered knuckles whitened. Everyone froze. Greg inhaled, as if he didn’t know what to do next. In that moment I understood the dilemma that would plague his life. If he’d been a nobody, he could give in to his anger. But how to control himself as fans watched, the same adoring fans whose tongues would surely wag with disdain if he appeared anything less than perfect?
Capture the Wind for Me Page 18
