by Toni Blake
She had no idea what to say to that—she was too stunned. Until something hit her, something that would perhaps make him see that her whole life wasn’t about keeping people away. “I don’t know if you know this,” she said, “but I’m an artist. I make pottery and stained glass.”
“I might’ve heard that somewhere,” he said.
“I sell my work at the Sunset Celebration. If you wanted to come over some night. It’s a nice way to pass an evening. And there are people there you already know, like . . . me.”
And, all things considered, it surprised the hell out of her when he said, “Thanks for the invitation, but . . . probably not my thing.”
“Oh.” Great. Embarrassment. Not what she’d been looking for here—not at all. She’d been trying to be nice, trying to show him she wasn’t a total shut-in and that he shouldn’t be, either. So much for that.
“Have a nice day, Mary,” he said.
“You, too,” she answered quickly, and then she drove away. Though this shored up for her that she was right to be wary of him. It reminded her that her reasons for stopping last night were good ones. When all was said and done, she still had no idea who he really was inside, what he was about, or what he really wanted—other than maybe sex. Being kissed by him might have been the most exciting thing to happen to her in a very long time—but not exciting enough to make her lose her head. She’d already spent too much time getting it screwed on straight in the first place.
FLETCHER stood atop his tightrope on Coral Cove Beach, taking careful steps across. It was second nature to him now—funny how you could get so good at something that once seemed so impossible. Concentration, balance—they were still required, but those were the parts that came effortlessly now.
It was never lost on him that the tightrope provided a unique vantage point. A golden orange sunset tinged with thin slashes of vibrant purple burned on the horizon in the distance, and he counted it as a perk of the job that he’d gotten to take in hundreds of sunsets, night after night, and that such beauty never got old.
And below him stood the patrons, the people who kept him up here, walking, juggling, smiling, joking—the people who made this life possible for him. And now that he’d built a real home for himself in Coral Cove, the crowd—albeit a slightly thinning one this time of year—held the added gift of often being dotted with friends, people he’d come to know.
It was habit, though, to also look for Kim—as second nature to him now, sadly, as the rest of it. No, not sadly; sadness got you nowhere in life. And as he scanned the gathering below, their faces all turned upward like flowers toward the sun, he remembered to do it with joy. Because one day she’d be there, too. Smiling up at him. Making everything in his world right again.
He envisioned her in the crowd now; he felt the vision in his soul so deep that it sent a pure joy bursting forth in him—it was that real. And as he let a smile unfurl upon his face, he moved on with the next part of the show, saying to the crowd at large, “Could someone be so kind as to toss those three pins to me please,” pointing to where he knew his juggling pins lay without even looking.
He did look, however, when a young woman stepped forward, gathering the pins, then peering up to toss him the first—and he found himself gazing down into the dark, arresting eyes of Bethany Willis, Christy’s friend from Cincinnati.
The smile he wore instantly widened on her as their eyes met, and he kept his gaze on hers as he softly said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she returned just as warmly, pitching the pins up into his waiting hands.
He found it strangely unpleasant to draw his focus away from her and onto the act of juggling. She was easy to look at. Although not in a way everyone might see. She wasn’t classically pretty and didn’t try to be. She was her own animal; she embraced her differences and understood her strengths and played to them. He knew all that instinctively.
And his heart welled with an unexpected pride as he continued the show. Because he knew it was impressive to someone who’d never seen it before, and it felt good to know he was impressing her.
He mostly didn’t look directly at her again—because after he juggled the pins he moved on to juggling lit torches and, second nature or not, he had to pay attention to what he was doing. Yet he still stayed aware of her—he almost felt her presence, some invisible energy emanating from her direction in the crowd. And he thought he probably performed better because of it.
Toward the end of the act, he asked again for someone in the crowd to pass him an item from the sand, this time an old top hat. And once more Bethany was quick to step forth, stoop down to retrieve the hat, and toss it up. They exchanged another smile he felt in his solar plexus.
Though necessity required him to turn his attention back to the entire crowd once more, putting on a little showmanship. Placing the hat on his shoulder, he rolled it artfully end over end into his hand, then twirled it on his fingertip a moment before ceremoniously placing it on his head. “And this, kind spectators,” he announced, “concludes my little balancing act for your amusement.”
And even as the crowd began to applaud, he quickly whipped he hat back off and, speaking more loudly added, “This hat is not only for wearing, but for sharing! I’ll be passing it amongst you now, and if you enjoyed my show, I’ll appreciate any kind thanks you care to drop in.” Then he winked. “Make my living doing this, folks, so thanks for helping me keep a roof over my head and a tightrope under my feet.”
And then he did a well-practiced forward flip off the rope to land upright in the sand, as he did each and every night—one last little feat of daring for the vacationers. After which he spied dads reaching for their wallets or the occasional mom digging in a purse and passing a bill to a small child to bring his way. He mingled among them, accepting their tips graciously and gratefully, thanking them each, chatting and patting awed little boys on their heads.
And then, at last came Bethany and Christy—and Bethany’s beguiling eyes as she prepared to drop a ten-dollar bill in his hat. Only he grabbed her wrist and said, “As I always tell my friends, your money’s no good here.”
A pretty laugh trilled from her throat. “That’s no way to make a living at this, you know.”
He smiled at her. “But for my friends—and that extends to their friends—coming to my shows is uplifting enough to me.” Then he glanced toward Christy, who had already faded out of the conversation to talk to John and Nancy Romo, who appeared to be out for an evening stroll. “After all, if I accepted Christy and Jack’s tips every time they were kind enough to come to a show, they’d be going to a Justice of the Peace instead of having a nice wedding.”
Yet Bethany insisted. “Well, this is the first of your shows I’ve seen, so just let me be another tourist for tonight.” She winked at him. And his chest went a little warm. “Besides, from one artist to another, I know how important it is to have your work supported. Who knows,” she added on a shrug, “perhaps you’ll buy a painting from me someday. Or even a painting by someone else—doesn’t matter, because it all pays forward.”
He still held her thin, delicate wrist—but now he let it go with a simple, “Thank you.” And a small bow. “From one artist to another.” Because he understood what she was saying—artists of all kinds supported each other, knowing that it could be a challenging career path.
“That hat is fantastic, by the way.” She pointed at the old top hat, now filled with a mix of green bills and coins.
She was the first person in a decade to ever really notice or compliment the hat, and the mere gesture reached down inside him and grabbed hold of his soul. She was a kindred spirit. “I bought it from a retired ringmaster who sold and traded circus antiquities at an odd little shop in upstate New York.”
Her big eyes, boldly outlined, widened further. “That sounds incredible! I want to go there!”
“If it even still exists—the hat’s been with me for over ten years. But it was a wonderful and wacky place.”
They traded another smile, this one easier, one of mutual understanding. Not everyone in the world would get how magical a circus antique store is, but they both did.
“Your show was amazing,” she told him. “And what a unique art form!”
“I’ve been called unique a time or two,” he admitted on a light laugh.
Which she returned. “We have that in common then.” After which she added, “I’d love to get to know you better. We should hang out some while I’m here.” And reached out to gently touch his arm.
His eyes dropped there, to the touch. Tamra had occasion to touch him every now and then, in a friendly way. As did Christy, and even Polly. But this felt . . . different. Where he felt it was different. His gut. His groin.
“I’d . . . like that,” he said.
And when he lifted his gaze back to hers, something there looked . . . electric. Magical. Invigorating. “Good. See you soon,” she concluded, then squeezed his arm lightly before letting go and walking away.
He stood there for a minute, rooted in place like a palm tree in the sandy earth. Then he got hold of himself—because he didn’t want anyone to see him looking dumbstruck by the interaction. So he took a deep breath and allowed himself one last glance at her walking away, hips swaying, her long legs dropping from a flirty, flouncy short dress and ending in cowboy boots of all things. And then he forced himself to turn away, toward the business of packing up his props and taking down his tightrope.
What the hell had just happened here?
A vibrant woman had flirted with him. And he’d experienced a connection with her. And she’d suggested sharing more of that connection. And he wanted to see her again.
And she wasn’t Kim.
Not much caught Fletcher off guard. Even less usually scared him. But this did both of those things.
TWO days after Tamra bailed on him at the jobsite, Jeremy finished planting all the shrubbery and grasses. The digging had been backbreaking work—he returned to the Happy Crab dirty, sweaty, and tired. And with a cat attempting to trip him up at every step.
As soon as he slammed the door of his truck, the gray cat was at his feet. “Hey buddy,” he’d said. “Let me get cleaned up and then I’ll go get us some dinner.”
“Meow,” the cat replied, as if he understood.
Jeremy just rolled his eyes—maybe at the cat, maybe at himself; he wasn’t sure. Somehow he’d become responsible for this cat’s supper every night?
Pulling a crab-shaped keychain from his pocket, he shoved the key in the door of his room and pushed it open—to look down and see an envelope near the toe of his workboot that someone had shoved beneath. It was pale yellow.
Huh. What the hell could this be?
As he bent down to pick it up, Captain went trotting past him right into the room.
He’d worry about his trespasser in a minute, but for now was busy checking out the envelope, where he saw his name written in a nice script. He still had no idea what this was, but seeing something addressed to him so officially made him feel . . . human, maybe. And it made him open it more gently than he probably would have any other piece of mail. He guessed he didn’t want to tear up being human.
With dirty fingers, he drew out a matching yellow card that said:
You are invited to a wedding party and shower for
Christy Knight
and
Jack DuVall
“He was never as puzzled in his life.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Chapter 10
THE DATE on the invitation was this coming Saturday night. And the card indicated that the party was being thrown by Tamra, Cami, and Bethany—the girl he’d met with Christy last week.
He just stared at it. Good thing it had had his name on it or he’d think it had been shoved under the wrong door.
As he stripped off his clothes and got in the shower, he wondered what on earth had prompted the invitation. Mainly he was curious if Tamra had been involved in this decision.
She was such a wild card. One minute kissing him, the next telling him all the reasons she didn’t want to be kissing him. One day telling him off and the next inviting him to come see her art. He shook his head as he ran a bar of little motel soap over his arms, torso.
He didn’t know if he’d go. Just like the Sunset Celebration, it probably wasn’t his thing. Once upon a time, back in Destiny when he was younger, sure. But he wasn’t that same guy. And there was the whole crowd thing—he would never like crowds. He remained glad he’d come here, glad he’d started slowly inching forward into having some kind of life—but damn, keeping to himself up at Whisper Falls sure had been easier.
Upon exiting the shower, he was surprised to nearly trip over a cat, naked. “Damn, I forgot you were here.” He shook his wet head, then moved past the cat and dressed in a clean pair of faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt.
Stepping up to the sink outside the bathroom, he looked into the wide mirror above it. Truth was, it had been easy to let his hair grow and not give a damn when all he did was sit around at Lucky’s, but now that he was working, it was irritating and hot. Today, he’d gone so far as to pull it back in a rubber band. At the moment, it hung in twists and waves around his head and shoulders like tentacles. He considered trying to comb it, but the sad-bordering-on-ridiculous fact was that he didn’t have a comb.
So he just ran his fingers through his sandy-colored beard, then grabbed up his wallet and room key and headed for the door. “Come on, Captain, out we go,” he said. He made his usual short walk across the parking lot to the Hungry Fisherman, the cat still faithfully on his heels, and managed to get inside without Captain following.
He passed by a life-size statue of a fisherman that looked suspiciously like Abner, and which he’d learned in passing that Polly had actually carved herself many years ago. She was a simple woman in most ways—but a woman who would carve the man she loved from a giant block of wood, especially a man like Abner . . . well, that was pretty special. Weird maybe, but special.
It caught him a little off guard to see that what had become his usual booth was filled with women—in particular, Tamra, Cami, and Christy. They all looked up and waved as Christy called, “Hey, Jeremy!”
“Hey,” he said, trying for a smile. But he was tired. He found himself wanting to make eye contact with Tamra but at the very same time wanting to avoid her since he never knew what to expect from her.
So he leaned toward the avoiding by making a beeline toward the opposite side of the restaurant beyond the seafood buffet. The only table in that area occupied was the one where Abner frequently sat. Tonight he wore a bright yellow hard hat with a red golf shirt and khaki pants. He didn’t look up, so Jeremy left him alone and slid into a nearby booth. Most nights he ate out behind the Crab, but wind had started kicking up a couple of hours ago, so eating inside sounded better tonight. He’d feed the cat after he left.
Polly brought over his usual soft drink and told him to help himself to the buffet with a wink that he figured had something to do with Captain. And as Jeremy dug into a big plate of food, he occasionally heard the girls on the other side of the restaurant laughing. Though . . . never Tamra, he realized. Even with her girlfriends, she never laughs. She should laugh more.
Then he shook his head. Who the hell am I to give advice?
He’d just finished his plate and was ready to go back for a light helping of seconds—including something for a certain one-eyed cat—when Abner and his hard hat slid into the orange vinyl seat across from him.
Abner greeted him by throwing a familiar-looking yellow envelope down on the table between them, clearly grouchy as hell. “You going to this damn wedding shower?”
Jeremy wiped his napkin across his mouth before answering. “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t really want to, so probably not.”
“I don’t want to, either,” Abner groused, “but I have to.”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. Abner
didn’t strike him as a man who did much against his will.
“We’re providin’ the food,” Abner explained. “Plus Polly says it’s only decent. Suppose she’s right. But I don’t like parties.”
“Me neither,” Jeremy agreed.
They sat in silence a moment and Jeremy took a sip of his soda.
He’d sort of thought they were done talking, so it surprised him when Abner spoke back up, motioning vaguely across the room. “Why aren’t you sittin’ with them gals?”
Jeremy thought the bigger question was why Abner would assume he would sit with “them gals.” But he just said, “Uh . . . guess I prefer keeping to myself.”
Across from him, Abner gave a solemn nod. “Me, too. Maybe that’s why I like you.” They sat in silence another moment until Abner mused aloud, “Not always good, though, keepin’ to yourself. Maybe you oughta go. To the party.”
Jeremy wasn’t sure if it was actual advice or if Abner just wanted his company there. Safety in numbers and all that. All the quiet outcasts sitting at the same table looking miserable together rather than separately.
Finally he replied. “It’s nice to be invited, but . . . not sure I fit in around here very well. At least not yet.”
Abner gave another small nod. “Me neither.”
“How long have you been in Coral Cove?” Jeremy asked.
“Since 1972.”
Now it was Jeremy who nodded. That was a hell of a long time not to fit in.
“If you want to fit in,” Abner said, “you need to show ’em you’re not so different from them.”
Again, it was difficult to summon an answer because A) Jeremy hadn’t indicated that he cared about fitting in, and he wasn’t sure he did, and B) Abner didn’t exactly seem like the guy to be doling out guidance on the subject. The good thing about talking with Abner, though, was that you didn’t have to answer if you didn’t feel like it and it still felt totally comfortable. So Jeremy just gave the man another nod and left it at that.
