by Rachel Hauck
After all, Peg had been saying for months now, “Girls can be bold. It’s nearly 1950.”
Ever since that cold Friday night on the football field, when Jimmy’s dropped ball lost the game, he’d been coming round Uncle Fred and Aunt Jean’s almost every evening, pretending to visit Clem after supper.
Then he started showing up before supper and Aunt Jean instructed Colette to set a dinner plate for him.
A week later, he popped round right after school and did his homework at the dining room table with the rest of them. He even got roped into helping with Clem’s chores.
By Christmas break, Colette’s crush was complete.
Male voices resonated behind her and she gently closed her locker. A shiver surfaced as she leaned against the metal door, clutching her coat to her chest, watching the boys come down the hall.
“This way, y’all.” Peggy led a band of girls past Colette, her perfume swarming, her Southern accent practically perfect. The sad orphan girl from England had become a true American beauty.
Colette looked askance at her big sister, the one who’d blossomed in the six months they’d lived in Heart’s Bend. She was popular. Even the head cheerleader, Christy Eames, doted on Peg. But Colette knew it was based on fraud and fakery.
As she’d promised, Peg showed Christy a letter from Princess Elizabeth, inviting her to tea with her and Princess Margaret at Buckingham Palace. Peg invented a life for herself that was very far from her reality. Christy told the whole school and now every girl treated Peg as if she were a princess herself.
When Colette was asked if she too had tea with the princesses, she had no choice but to say, “No, only Peg.” And in one sense it was true. In Peg’s mind she probably did have tea at the palace. Who knew what reality she’d created in the space between her ears?
“They’re coming, girls.” Peg adjusted the stack of books she carried on her hip, fixing her smile on Clem and his friends as they walked through the hall like the four horsemen.
Colette shivered again. Weren’t boys marvelous? So powerful and rugged. But Jimmy was head and shoulders above them all with his football stride, thick chest, and big shoulders.
“Hey there, Cousin Clem.” Peg joined the stride of the boys, tossing her hair and flirting over her shoulder at the others. “Jimmy . . . Spice . . . Mike.”
Christy and the other girls joined in, batting their eyes. “Hey, boys.”
“You’re looking pretty, Peg,” Spice said.
“Why, thank you.”
Colette remained against the lockers, the cold stain of disappointment on her heart. Jimmy walked right on by, talking and laughing, before disappearing through the steel double doors, hiking his collar against the cold and tugging on his cap.
Colette dropped her books in her locker and slipped on her coat. Forget it. She was through with Jimmy Westbrook.
Tugging on her gloves and hat, she gathered her books again and slammed her locker door. Take that!
At the end of the hall, she burst into the cold, startled to find Jimmy leaning against the bricks.
“Better hurry, you’ll fall behind step with the others.” She skipped down the steps, eager to be away from him, eager to hide her wash of tears.
“I wanted to wait for you.”
“You just walked past me like you didn’t know me.” Her foot slipped on a patch of ice and Jimmy steadied her with a firm grip.
“Whoa, careful. Can’t have one of Rock Mill’s best dancers breaking her leg.”
Colette leaned into him a bit, taking longer than necessary to steady herself. Never, ever, did she imagine she’d feel this way about a boy. Or want to feel this way. Not after Papá died.
She missed him. Sometimes she pretended to see him walking toward her from the shadows.
“Lettie, love, I’m here to take you home. Have you missed me?”
“Terribly, Papá.”
But Jimmy, with his square jaw, kind blue eyes, and thick dark hair creamed into place, was a man to be admired. Like Papá. He made her feel warm and safe.
Peg, on the other hand, held herself in reserve when Papá came to the farm. Angry at him for sending her away, she punished him by refusing his kisses and attention.
“G-guess we’d better catch up to the others.” Colette found her footing, slipping free of his hold.
In the distance, the gang straggled in pairs. Boy, girl, girl, boy.
“I reckon so.”
Since that one night on the field, they’d never been alone. Colette liked having him to herself.
“Come on, slowpokes.” Peg ran back to them, her silky brown curls bouncing against her rosy cheeks, the roundness of her breasts showing beneath the thick coat.
Colette hesitated. When did her sister become a beautiful, alluring woman while she still felt like an awkward girl?
Peg had been somber in England, angry and bitter. Especially after the business with Mamá dying. Colette shuddered. Peg was enraged when Papá came to tell them she’d died. Even more so when he confessed six months had already passed.
Peg was young, but that moment changed her. Colette could see it now.
Peg wrapped her arm with Jimmy’s. “Come on, you two. What are you talking about? Who is going with whom to the winter dance?”
Jimmy smiled, the red hue on his cheeks deeper than the cold. “Who are you going with, Peg?”
She shrugged, giving Jimmy a grin that Colette felt through her middle. Her sister, the bombshell, a brunette Betty Grable. “Depends on who’s asking me.”
Colette flared with a jealous spark. She’d like to kick Peg in the shin. If she had the courage.
Spice, the most popular boy in school, mooned over her daily. But Peg ignored him.
Oh, Peg . . .
Colette slowed, letting Jimmy and Peg walk ahead. If Peg wanted Jimmy, then Colette mustn’t stand in her way.
“I declare, I’m freezing,” Colette said, suddenly skipping ahead. “I’ll catch up to the others.”
“Wait, Colette—” Jimmy’s voice iced on the breeze.
“Run, sweet Colette. Tell Aunt Jean we’re on our way, frozen and starved.”
Colette brushed away the burn of warm tears. “Cousin Clem, wait up.”
“Hurry up, Lettie.” Clem waved her on.
Before she could reach him, a firm hand caught her shoulder. Colette looked around into Peg’s eyes.
“He’s going to ask me to the dance.”
Colette stopped. “Are you sure? Peg, everyone knows Spice wants to ask you.”
“Then why hasn’t he?”
“Perhaps because you keep flirting with Jimmy.”
“Then phooey on him if he can’t endure a little competition.” Alone with Colette, Peg relaxed into the familiar accent of home. Of England.
“Competition? Between men? You’re only seventeen. What do you know?”
“I read the romances in Aunt Jean’s Cosmopolitan.”
Colette gasped. “Let Aunt Jean hear you and see what comes of your worldly ways.”
“Listen to you. She wouldn’t care. She lets me wear makeup, doesn’t she? Even when Pastor Brown preaches against the evil of a woman’s paint.”
Peg laughed, a sound Colette rarely heard in England, and offered a flirty wave to someone. Colette traced the length of her gaze to find Jimmy square in Peg’s sights.
“If you chase him too hard, he’ll never let you catch him.”
“Chase him? Naive Colette, I’m luring him in, setting my hook. I’m going to make Jimmy Westbrook my man.”
“Why, Peg, when all of the other boys beg for your attention?”
Peg shrugged. “Because I like him and—”
“Come on, you two,” Clem called from the porch, leaning over the rail. “Mama’s got hot chocolate and cookies.”
“—he’s the only boy not chasing me.” Peg hurried inside while Colette hesitated, debating her sister’s motivation. She had half a mind to warn Jimmy.
But ratting out he
r sister felt like the worst sort of betrayal. What would it hurt if she wooed Jimmy? He was smart and clever, man enough to look out for himself.
The kids piled their coats on the dining room table and gathered in the kitchen.
Colette slipped into the downstairs bathroom, checking her hair, smoothing down the fly-aways electrified by the cold.
She regarded her heart-shaped reflection, jutted out her chin with a harrumph, then jerked open the door. If Peg wanted Jimmy, then she could have him. But at the notion, sadness pinged her heart.
Around the door she bumped square into Jimmy.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, low, his warm breath tickling her ears.
He shuffled her through the living room, out to the porch and down the steps, into the first flakes of an afternoon snow.
“Jimmy, what’s wrong?” Colette shivered, gripping her hands at her waist. In his haste, Jimmy had forgotten she had no coat. “Is this about the dance? You know if you ask Peg, she’ll go.”
“You think I want to take Peg? Colette, don’t you know? It’s you. It’s always been you.”
“Me?” The chill on her skin manifested in her voice.
“Colette, sorry, here—” Jimmy shifted out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Now what’s this about Peg?”
“She’s the pretty one. All the boys are moony over her.”
Jimmy laughed. The look in his eye was one she’d never seen before and it made her shivers sink deeper, making her giddy and weak at the same time.
“Girls like Peg are a dime a dozen. No offense. I know she’s your sister, but, Colette, you’re . . . I don’t know, special.”
She could no longer feel the ground beneath her feet. Only the power of his words.
“The first day I met you I knew you were special. I even told my dad about you. Then you sat with me on the field after that awful game.” He stepped closer. “I wanted so badly to kiss you.”
“Wanted to?” Colette could swoon at his nearness, at his electric confession.
The snow thickened, padding the air with a white calm, turning the everyday lawn and house into a magical kingdom. Colette was the damsel and he the handsome prince.
“Are you shocked?” He reached for her hand and gently guided her around the giant fir, out of view from the house. “I still want to kiss you.” Jimmy pressed her hand to his chest where his heart thumped beneath her palm.
“Your heart is a drum.” She withdrew her hand, smiling, her palm vibrating with the reverb of his heartbeat.
“So, will you?”
She pressed her lips into a tight line and nodded. She might just scream otherwise.
“You will?”
“Yes.”
Jimmy scooped her up, spinning her around. “You’ve made me the happiest fella.” He set her on her feet and swept the back of his hand against her cheek, then lowered his lips to hers, warming her with love’s first kiss.
In that moment, Colette unlocked the inner door of her heart and invited Jimmy in. Such a sensation, his lips on hers, hot tingles rushing over her cold skin. What choice did she have but to love?
When the kiss ended, he wrapped her into him and she rested her head against his chest.
“Want to tell the others?” he said, kissing the top of her head.
She shook her head. “For now, let it just be between you and me.”
After he kissed her again, Jimmy led her from behind the tree, cutting a path through the fresh snow toward the house where Peg watched from the porch, a silent fury exploding all around her.
Chapter Sixteen
TAYLOR
Saturday morning Taylor woke late, to a big glob of sunlight heating her room. Kicking off the covers, she fought through a sleepy fog, shuffling from the bedroom to the bathroom.
She’d stayed up late playing around with the chapel pictures. As she thought, most of them miraculously did not need editing. Each one possessed an ethereal, magical quality she did not want to tamper with.
So she uploaded the best raw images to Architecture Quarterly’s Dropbox and sent an e-mail. Job done.
Nevertheless, she’d made up her mind to go back to the chapel for more photos. Or to just sit. Think. Try to figure out the fractured pieces of her life. Try to understand what made Coach’s place so special.
The image of him sitting in the back pew, staring out the window, lingered with her. Played a melody within her heart. A song she felt but did not hear.
But first she needed to shower, to wake up. Man, she was tired. Now that the pressure of travel and work was off, she deflated like a cheap balloon.
The warm shower water cleared the sleep from her head and thoughts of Jack surfaced. He left soon after their phone swap last night, and while she encouraged him to return to Nashville, she wanted to run after him, calling for him to come back.
Argh! They seemed caught in a cycle of pulling each other near, then pushing away.
But if she thought about it, his first promise to her was not to love and cherish, but “If it doesn’t work out . . .”
“Hello? Tay?” Emma’s voice climbed the stairs. “I brought breakfast.”
Taylor leaned out the bathroom door, dripping on the white tile. “Just out of the shower. Be down in a minute.”
“I brought fresh bagels from Ella’s.”
Taylor grimaced. Bagels? Ever since her Fry Hut binge, she’d not been hungry. In fact, she felt sort of queasy, with a heavy stomach.
Taylor dried her hair and turned to hang up the towel. The quick movement caused her to lose her balance. She reached for the sink, the porcelain cooling her warm hand.
“Mmmm,” she moaned, sinking down to the toilet, her head spinning, her stomach roiling.
Breathing deep, she swallowed a small sting of bile. The bathroom walls inched closer and heat beaded up on her forehead.
“Hot . . . in here . . .” Another deep breath and the dizziness waned. Taylor steadied herself, reaching for the flimsy cotton robe on the back of the door, and moved to her room.
But the room spun around and she stumbled to the window. Shoving it open, she pressed her face against the screen for a pure, cleansing breath.
“Taylor?”
“Yeah, coming.” Don’t come up here, Emma, don’t come up.
Taylor moved to dress, holding steady, breathing deep. Please don’t tell her Fry Hut fries made her sick. She might just have to mourn if true.
“What do you want to do today?” Emma called.
“I-I don’t know.” She fell back on the bed to slip on her jeans. “I want to go back out to the chapel. Where are the girls?”
“Javier has them. Welcome to divorced life.”
Taylor tugged on her top. Emma’s bravado didn’t fool her. “Sorry, honey.”
“Ah, forget it. What can I do? Let’s shop.”
“Maybe.” Man, she was warm. Still sweating from her shower and the Fry Hut crud, Taylor wandered down the hall to the bum room, searching the closet for an oscillating fan. “We need to finish going through the house.”
Taylor plugged in the fan and dropped to the sofa, letting the breeze swish through her. She was too tired to answer. Closing her eyes, she waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. It was then she remembered her weird Jack dream.
She saw his face over and over, morphing into weird, distorted images, cackling at her, pointing and shouting, “I don’t want you!”
Shaking off the memory, Taylor leaned close to the fan.
“What are you doing?” Emma’s question came from the doorway.
“Cooling off. Shower made me hot.” The fan stirred the settled air of the bum room, raising the scent of Granny. “Smells like her, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does.” Emma entered and curled up on the couch next to Taylor. “You miss her?”
“I do. Sorry I didn’t see her more before she died.”
Taylor ran her hand over the top of an antique mohair sofa facing the old boxy analog TV wi
th its VCR hookup. Granny’s “hi-fi” stereo took up the front corner and a portion of the wall on either side with its giant faux panel speakers.
One wall of shelves was filled with vinyl LPs.
“Remember how she used to play Glen Campbell over and over?”
Emma’s soft laugh sealed Taylor’s memory. “ ‘Get on up, shug, turn the record over for me.’ ”
Taylor glanced at her sister. “Pretty good imitation.”
“Ever wonder why she gave the house to you but the contents to me?”
“Keep us friends, maybe? Maybe she had her relationship with Colette in mind.” Taylor stood slowly, feeling better, and stepped over a box of books to the album shelf and started flipping through. “You think these are worth money?”
“The estate appraiser thinks so. If you want any of them, take them now. Otherwise I’m carting them to auction next month.”
Taylor stopped at the Fleetwood Mac Rumors album. “Em, look, I didn’t know Granny was so hip.”
But Emma’s phone was ringing and she stepped into the hall to answer.
Removing the album from the shelf, Taylor frowned as a white envelope with her name scrawled across the front dropped to the floor.
“Tay, I’ve got to go.” Emma popped into the room. “Javi just called. Alena is sick. Threw up in his car and now she’s crying for me.”
“Did she have Fry Hut fries?” Taylor held up the envelope. “Did you see this? I found it tucked in with the albums.”
“What is it? And no, she didn’t have Fry Hut fries. Why? Did they make you sick?”
“Yeah, still dealing with it.”
“I ate them and I’m fine. What’s in the envelope? Never mind, I’ve got to go. Tell me later.” Emma exited the room, then returned. “If you want, come by the house later.”
“And catch whatever Alena has? No thanks.”
“Is that your speech for Aunt of the Year?”
“I’m nominated for Aunt of the Year?”
“Not anymore.” Emma checked her phone. “I’ve got to run. But I’ll see you at Mama’s tomorrow night? For dinner?”
Mama had a standing deal with her daughters—Sunday night dinner at her place. No excuses. Except maybe moving to LA and New York.
