The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder

by Cookie O'Gorman

  He paused, waiting for silence.

  “This man, Willie Stubbs, has done me no wrong,” he said. “There’s nothing for him to repent as far as my wounds are concerned. I don’t know who committed the crime. I don’t know why. But I tell you now, Willie is a good, God-fearing member of this church, and he was not the one who shot me.”

  Jim Wilder turned and patted Willie on the shoulder. They embraced, and then Willie went back to his seat. Now I knew why I hadn’t seen him. He was all the way up in the very front pew with Jessica. His wife looked relieved.

  My eyes went to Jim again, willing him to say something to exonerate his son, waiting for the words to come—but they never did.

  “Whoever the guilty party is,” he added, “I’ve forgiven that person. Everyone makes mistakes, but God requires something more. His is the only judgment that counts. So to everyone here today, I say ask for forgiveness, and He will grant it. Let the Lord into your hearts, and go in peace.”

  At the end of his speech, blaring music filled the room, and everyone stood.

  I moved on, dragging the tea behind me, trying to understand. How could he defend Willie and not say a word on his son’s behalf? Jim Wilder didn’t seem to care a lick about him. To make matters worse, I couldn’t help but think the reverend’s easy forgiveness made Wilder look even guiltier. If people had suspected him before, they’d have no doubts now. After all, who would a man forgive for such a dreadful act other than his own flesh and blood?

  I’d never liked the reverend. I couldn’t pretend. Yet since first meeting him, my feelings had changed, morphed into something uglier. Jim Wilder was a bad man. I’d developed a severe disgust for him that bordered on loathing. I was just glad Wilder wasn’t in that room to hear what had—and hadn’t—been said.

  Ronnie and I headed back to the bakery, leaving Aunt B to take care of things at the church. I’d planned to work the register for at least two hours before going on break but didn’t make it. The black bike that’d been in the parking lot when we drove up was still there, teasing me. It could only mean one thing.

  Wilder had returned.

  Looking at the clock again, I sighed. I’d lasted an hour and forty-two minutes, but my mind had walked out long ago. Eighteen more minutes left.

  “Just go, already,” Ronnie said, and I looked up in surprise. “You keep eyeing his motorcycle like that, and someone’s going to call the police. Looks like you’re planning to steal it or something.”

  I laughed. “I’d never do something like that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But just go, would you? It’s pretty dead. I can cover things here.”

  “Thanks, Ronnie. You’re the best.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. So long as you tell me what happens after.”

  “After what?”

  “After...whatever,” he said suggestively, adding a wink.

  I left quickly before he could say more.

  I’d already felt nervous, but the wink added a whole other level of anxiety. Suppose Wilder didn’t feel anything that deserved that wink? Maybe I was just kidding myself. One kiss and a little hand holding didn’t have to mean something. They did to me, but to an experienced guy like Wilder, they were probably as common as asking a stranger the time.

  I stopped outside the music store, gathered myself then went in.

  Wilder had his back to the door. He was busy showing a customer one of the guitars on the wall, so I made the familiar walk to my stool. I thought about listening to some music, but strangely the idea held no appeal. With him occupied, I could look my fill—and I did.

  Wilder looked good. Better than good. He showed no obvious signs of distress. Compared to how I’d seen him a few days ago, white-faced and kneeling beside his fallen father, he seemed downright chipper.

  As I watched, he pointed out the features of the guitar, fingers gliding over first the neck, down the body, the strings. There was absolutely no reason for my blush. It came up so fast, I couldn’t fight it down.

  Resolutely, I faced the other direction. Watching him from afar was fine, but the way he was handling that instrument reminded me of the way he’d held my face, gently cupped between his hands.

  Good Lord, this was going to be a disaster. I needed to get out of there.

  “Need anything, Doherty?”

  Too late.

  I took my time turning around. “No, I’m good.”

  Wilder nodded. “So, how are you?”

  “Okay. And you?”

  Shrugging, he took the stool opposite me, resting the guitar on his lap. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer. “But are you alright? Is everything…” I hesitated, wondering if he’d take offense. “Is everything okay at home?”

  “Oh now, be careful,” he said, the corners of his lips turned up. “Asking after my wellbeing? People might start to think you like me.”

  Was it that obvious? “I’m sure a lot of girls like you.”

  “Yeah, but do you?”

  “A little,” I lied in self-defense. Best not to reveal the whole truth.

  His grin widened.

  “One of the many, right?” I said, trying to sound indifferent. “Honestly, Wilder, considering all the girls I’ve seen in here, you could have your pick.”

  “They think they know me,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “They think I’m deep, complex.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No, not really.” He paused, then, “I’ve been in love with the same girl since I was eight.”

  My heart sank. “You can’t be serious.”

  He nodded. “It’s true.”

  I stared at him. He didn’t look like he was lying; in fact, just the opposite. He couldn’t have sounded more genuine. Well, so much for our kiss. Apparently, it was just another in the long slew of devastating kisses delivered by Ethan Wilder, practice until he caught the one girl he actually wanted. I wondered who she was.

  The customer said he’d have to think about the guitar and left. Wilder said alright, looking as if he hadn’t just dashed all my hopes.

  Aiming to make him feel as uncomfortable as I did, I said lightly, “You know, I heard first kisses aren’t supposed to be that great. But after last Friday, I have to say, I think you’ve ruined me for all other men.”

  I’d tried to make it sound like a joke and not the sad fact that it was, but Wilder didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. He just looked at me, stared like I’d said something astonishing.

  “That wasn’t your first kiss.” He made it sound like a statement.

  “Um, yeah, it was.” Goodness his eyes were intense, his gaze narrowed sharply. It was hard not to be intimidated. “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Well, yeah.” Why was he getting so tense all of a sudden? “As a kid I kissed my mom and Aunt B, but that was different. There was just never anyone…”

  “Never?” He sounded incredulous. “You’re telling me you’ve never been kissed?”

  Okay, this was starting to get weird, not to mention humiliating.

  “No,” I said exasperated. “Not like that.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “Not really.”

  His stare was assessing. “So, no kisses?”

  “None that I recall”—I shrugged—”None that counted.” Desperate to change the subject, I asked, “Would you mind playing me something?”

  He shook his head, wearing a strange expression. “What do you want to hear?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Whatever you want.”

  Propping the acoustic on his knee, he seemed to consider a moment then smiled.

  “Here’s one.”

  I recognized the song within the first few chords. I’d learned to hate it after being teased so often, the phrase “Hey there, Delilah” becoming the bane of my existence. But when Wilder sang it, I didn’t mind so much. Hi
s voice was surprisingly good. My name had never sounded better.

  After the first verse, he stopped eyebrows raised. “Learned that one to impress girls.”

  “Did it ever work?” I asked, trying to stay cool. Impressed was an understatement for what I was feeling. No one ever sang to me, not unless you count the Birthday song. And with that single act Wilder tugged on my heartstrings, manipulated my emotions as skillfully as he played the guitar. Man, I was in trouble.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “but most girls want something they can hold. Flowers, jewelry.”

  “Oh, I don’t like those.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just always seem to lose jewelry.”

  He gave a pointed look to my wrist. “That’s some scar.”

  Looking down, I realized I’d been rubbing it, a reflex. I flipped my hand, hiding the ugly white line. “Yeah, it happened when I was younger.” No need to mention that was the day I’d stopped wearing jewelry. I frowned. Stupid Grant McCreary.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  I smiled. “No, it just looks terrible.”

  A phone rang, and a moment later the door to the back office opened. Doc stepped out, phone pressed to his ear, concern etched in his features.

  “Delilah, they need you at the bakery,” he said. “There’s trouble with one of the customers.”

  Thinking it was probably just Ronnie wanting to know “what happened after,” I sighed. “Okay, okay. Tell him I’ll be right over.”

  “She says she’ll be right over,” he said into the phone. Doc turned to me. “Ronnie says to hurry.”

  Frowning, I walked to the door.

  “I’ll see you later,” Wilder said.

  “Alright.” Inwardly, I did a little jig. “Bye, Doc.”

  “Delilah, if you need me...” Doc said, letting the sentence hang.

  I nodded.

  Slipping outside then into the bakery, I realized I might just have to ask Doc for help. The scene in front of me was alarming: Ronnie, alone behind the counter, Drew and Finch Hicks, bearing down on him, our other customers, fearful yet excited, waiting for something to happen. The Hicks brothers were a few years older than Ronnie and me, and they were aptly named. If there were two bigger rednecks in Bowie, I hadn’t met them—which wouldn’t be bad at all if they weren’t such jerks.

  Rushing over, I slid in beside Ronnie. “Is the register acting up again?”

  “Yeah,” Ronnie said, but his eyes didn’t leave our two visitors. “It’s the register.”

  “Darn thing never seems to work right. Oh, there we go.” Popping the cash drawer open, facing Drew and Finch, I said, “Hey, what can we get you?”

  Drew dragged his eyes to me while his brother kept his on Ronnie.

  “You,” he said deliberately, “can get me two large sweet teas and a dozen of those sugar cookies.” Cocking his head at Ronnie, he added, “We don’t want nothing to do with that.”

  I felt my blood rise. “Excuse me?”

  “Delilah, it’s fine,” Ronnie said through clenched teeth. “Just get their stuff so they’ll leave.”

  “Yeah, Delilah,” Finch said in his camouflage jacket and trucker cap. “We’ve been waiting a good ten minutes.”

  “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “Not now you’re here.” Drew slid a twenty into my hand. I didn’t recoil, but it was an effort. “Now, go on and get us our food.”

  “Alright.” I turned to my silent co-worker. “Ronnie, you bag while I get him his change.”

  “Well, see that’s not gonna work,” Drew said.

  “Why not?”

  “We ain’t comfortable with someone like him handling our food.”

  Finch put up a hand as I scowled. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. It’s not a racist thing. We don’t care that he’s colored.”

  I crossed my arms. “Then what is it?”

  “He’s a queer,” Finch said like that explained everything, baldly too, as if being a homophobe was any better than being a racist. “Everyone knows queers got diseases. You can’t blame us for being careful.”

  I hadn’t heard anything quite so revolting in my life. And the fact that Finch seemed serious made it that much worse.

  “So, you gonna serve us or what?” Drew said impatiently.

  “No.” I handed him back the bill. “I don’t think I am. You see, we have a policy here at Southern Charm Confections.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  Ronnie shook his head at me, but I was beyond caring. These two needed a wake-up call.

  “We don’t serve intolerant jackasses. You’ll just have to get your cookies elsewhere.”

  Drew wanted to hit me; I could tell. He even took a step forward, but Finch held him at bay.

  “You better watch out,” Drew said, the threat clear in his tone. “Lots of times little girls with big mouths get hurt.”

  “Drew, come on.” Finch pulled his brother across the shop and out the door. They peeled out of the parking lot in their camouflage four by four, tires screeching, leaving behind dust clouds.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Ronnie said.

  “Really?” I asked, cleaning the face of the register.

  “Really. Haven’t you ever noticed that big shooting rifle they’ve got sitting in their rear window? Those boys scare me, Delilah.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, Ronnie. I won’t let the scary rednecks get you.”

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  Ronnie walked away muttering under his breath, but I wasn’t sorry. What those boys said was wrong. I wouldn’t remain silent when faced with that kind of prejudice. Mom or Aunt B wouldn’t have stood for it either. Someone had to stick up for Ronnie. I’d never apologize for that.

  It was near closing when Wilder dropped by. Ronnie and I were the only two in the bakery. Everyone else had gone home. With a sideways glance, Ronnie made himself scarce, pretty much ran into the kitchen.

  Subtlety really wasn’t his thing.

  “Would you like something?” I asked. My stomach flipped as Wilder walked toward me. I couldn’t explain it, but something about him made me want to run. “We’re about to close, but I could make some coffee if you want.”

  Wilder shook his head. “No coffee.”

  “Okay. So...what do you want?”

  He’d reached me by then. His eyes had that look in them, the one I’d come to associate with Wilder, single-minded, purposeful. His gaze was locked with mine.

  “I’m here to see you,” he said.

  “Oh?” My voice was paper thin.

  He nodded, taking a step closer, bringing a hand to my cheek. Carefully, his touch slid to my jaw, glided down the side of my neck to my arm, coming finally to my old injury. It’d been healed for some time, but the way Wilder was behaving the cut could’ve been fresh.

  Brushing it featherlike with his thumb, he said, “I’m sorry this happened.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Wish I could’ve stopped it.”

  “That’s okay.” I nearly melted. “It was a long time ago.”

  He pulled back but only enough to meet my eyes. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Ever.”

  Naturally, my blush chose that moment to fire up again.

  “I don’t want to see you hurt either,” I said.

  The store phone started ringing, and I reached over to pick it up. I was about three seconds away from kissing the daylights out of Wilder. The call couldn’t have come at a better time.

  “Delilah?” It was Aunt B, and she sounded out of breath. “Stay away from the glass.”

  I frowned at her tone. “Aunt B, is everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatient, “but you need watch out for the glass. It’s just…I got this feeling. You’re still at the bakery?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Whatever you do, stay away from the windows.”

  “Okay, Aunt B,
I will,” I said as Wilder gave me a questioning look. “Calm down, I—”

  It was dark outside, but no more than usual. Through the glass of our storefront, I clearly saw a chalky figure standing outside, watching us. I only caught a glimpse before the person lifted their arm, but it was enough.

  When the first shot rang out, Wilder and I were on our way to the ground. By the second, we’d hit the floor and rolled behind the counter. The shooter didn’t fire again. The police came sooner than expected. They got there within minutes because a patrol car in the area heard the shots. Whoever made up that lie about gunshots sounding like firecrackers must’ve been on something. I’d never heard a gun fired before, but I knew this: Gunshots sounded like gunshots.

  When she arrived, Aunt B was a sight. She cross-examined me and Wilder, ten whole minutes, before finally accepting that we were fine then going to talk to the police. The bakery’s window would need to be replaced. It had two bullet holes right at chest level that couldn’t be fixed with Windex. Aunt B had to file an accident report.

  They questioned all of us.

  Ronnie and I told them about our run in with the Hicks brothers, the threat Drew had made, but what seemed to interest them most was my description of the shooter. I couldn’t see how it was helpful.

  “Average height,” I said. “Brown or light brown hair, I couldn’t really tell. I only saw them for a second.”

  Crapes wrote something down. “Could you make out the gender of the shooter?”

  “No, but they were thin.” I tried to remember. “Whatever they were wearing was white. The thing seemed too big for such a small person.”

  “You get a look at the gun?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The officer clicked his pen a few times. “S’alright,” he said. “We’ll get the make off those bullets in the wall.” He flipped to a new page then turned to Wilder. “You see anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I wasn’t looking in that direction,” Wilder said.

  “So, is that it?” I asked. “Are we done here, Officer?”

  Crapes’s pen was getting a workout, and he was looking at Wilder like he suspected him, as if the guy could be in two places at once and had shot at himself. “Yeah, we’re done. If you two remember anything else give the Department a call.”