Greg’s dark brows shot up. Leave it to May to pull off an introduction like that. Unfortunately, she wasn’t done.
“Don’t be shy, dear.” She tugged on Carrie’s arm. “You two are going to hit it off, I just know it.”
Carrie wanted to crawl in a hole, but it was too late. She let May drag her forward.
Greg didn’t budge. Not an inch. Even the dead birds in his hand refused to sway. The closer Carrie got, the more she realized his steady gaze was actually a steady glare. His frigid response stunned her momentarily, but she shook it off and stuck out an oniony hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Greg. I’m Carrie.”
His gaze flickered from her flushed face to her hand, and back again. That was it. Her hand remained untouched, his eyes maintained their icy glare, and the room dropped a few degrees.
Stunned, Carrie couldn’t move.
Thankfully, CJ didn’t see the same importance of the meeting as his wife. “What do you say we get these birds cleaned and cooking over the fire, Greg?”
Carrie didn’t watch the men head back outside, nor did she look into May’s expectant eyes. Instead, she turned to Mariah. “I better go check on my sister. It was nice talking to you, Mariah.”
“You’re leaving?” May cried. “Now? But I’m sure Greg would love a cute little thing like you to show him how to clean the birds.”
There was no way Greg was far enough away to miss that one.
“See you in a bit,” Carrie said. She yanked off her apron and left before May could make any more attempts to throw her in Greg’s path.
* * * * *
Amber dropped the potato on the counter the second Carrie walked in. If Amber got her way, she wouldn’t scrub another stupid potato for the rest of her life.
“Finally,” Amber said. “Thanks a lot. I can’t feel my fingers. It’s your turn.”
Carrie left on her ugly brown coat as she came in the kitchen and picked up scrubbing where Amber left off. Amber blew hot air on her pink, pruned fingers. Another reason to hate scrubbing potatoes. But one thought about their new visitor, and a smile broke through.
“So…” Amber said, “what did you think of Greg?”
Carrie barely looked up. “Why don’t you tell me what you thought? I’m sure it will be more exciting. No doubt you and your friends have already planned our upcoming marriage.”
“No way! We want him to ourselves. I mean, did you see his biceps? And what about that face?” Amber sighed. “I haven’t seen a guy shave in forever—although if the guys in our clan had a face like that, maybe they would. I love the short hair thing, too. I didn’t even think I liked guys with short hair. Greg makes all the other guys look like cavemen.” Amber thought about the whole Greg package and her smile grew. “Yeah, there’s no way we’re sharing him with you. Sorry.”
Carrie rolled her eyes like she usually did when Amber talked about guys. “I guess the younger kids aren’t the only ones excited to see new faces. What does Braden think of you making eyes at May’s grandson?”
Amber’s mouth dropped. “You don’t think Braden saw me, do you?” She’d been so careful to check out Greg when Braden was distracted.
Carrie grabbed another potato and plunged it in the freezing bucket. “Does this mean you’re ready to admit you and Braden are dating?”
“I hardly call cleaning up the field dating, but sure, if your imagination wants to go there.”
“Braden’s a little old for you, don’t you think?”
Amber picked at her nails. “He’s only eighteen. I’m almost seventeen.”
Carrie shot her a look. “He turns nineteen in August. You won’t be seventeen until October. He’s too old.”
Leave it to Carrie to spoil her mood. “It’s not like anything’s going on between us anyway. Besides, we were talking about Greg.”
“Well, if Braden’s too old for you, then Greg’s definitely out of the running.”
“Carrie!” Amber said, stomping her foot. “You haven’t told me what you think of Greg yet.”
She scrubbed another potato. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really given a chance to talk to him.”
“Who said anything about talking? I’m talking about looking.”
Carrie laughed. “So that’s what this is about? You’re shameless, Amber.”
“Greg’s a million times better looking than Oliver. You don’t have to be shameless to know that.”
Carrie whirled around. “What does Oliver have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Carrie was clueless.
Amber swatted Carrie before she could grab the next potato. “That’s too many. We’re almost out. I’d rather not starve this spring, if you don’t mind.”
Frowning, Carrie examined the stack. Amber couldn’t tell if she was frowning because of the lack of potatoes or because of Oliver. Or maybe Greg. Then again, she might have been frowning for herself since she wasn’t looking too hot today.
Amber tried to picture her sister through Greg’s eyes. She had some potential. Depending on the light, her hair was the color of honey and waved down past her shoulders—when it was clean. Right now, it looked dull and limp. And her yellow work shirt clashed with her fair skin. Carrie had seen better days, and that just wouldn’t do. Not with a hot, new guy around.
Carrie looked up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” Not that Carrie had many choices—none of them did—but Amber wouldn’t be caught dead in that dingy, yellow shirt, and that was her. Sadly, Carrie only had two shirts right now, which meant she had to choose between kind of ugly and really ugly.
“You know you have to wear mom’s blouse, right?”
“And add fuel to the fire?” Carrie said. “No thanks. If I show up to dinner in that blouse, everyone will think I’m trying to impress Greg.”
“Which you are. First impressions are everything.”
“It’s too late for that,” Carrie muttered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Carrie leaned against the counter. “What makes you think Greg cares about what I wear?”
Amber smiled. Her sister was cute. Totally clueless, but cute. “He’s a guy. Believe me, he’ll care. But if it makes you feel better, I’m wearing my pink shirt, and Lindsey’s wearing her sweater. And if you want,” Amber added because she was feeling generous, “I’ll even do your hair.”
five
GREG WATCHED THE PEOPLE file back into his grandparents’ home, calculating. This clan was unlike any he’d seen. One guy chopped wood, one kept the houses in working order, another few hunted full-time, while another traded on the black market for supplies. With goats for milk and homeschool for the kids, he felt like he had stepped five years back in time—or rather two hundred years since they still didn’t have modern technology. Not that he was complaining. He’d used a real toilet with flushing water. His grandma’s only condition was that he fill up the tank with well water afterward, a small price to pay after five years of digging outhouses. Logan Pond was a thriving society, and his business-minded brain churned with the possibilities.
The aromas from the kitchen brought him back to the room: warm rolls, carrots bathed in butter, and a venison roast he envisioned dripping with juices. Each new scent taunted him. It had been eight months since he’d eaten a decent meal, and it drove his deprived stomach crazy with anticipation.
He watched his mom help with the last of the preparations, wondering if she thought it was as strange as he did to be at his grandparents’ without Kendra. Probably not. She looked happy. Skinny, but happy. It would be good for her to eat real food, too.
Stomach growling, he twisted around in his chair to figure out what was taking so long. Half the clan stood around chatting, in no hurry whatsoever. The last of the stragglers came in the front door. His eyes stopped on one.
“Hello, Carrie,” his grandpa said. “Don’t you look nice. You can set your things
on the table.”
Carrie looked up and spotted Greg at that same kitchen table. He narrowed his eyes in warning. He’d been in Shelton all of six hours, and his grandma had already planned out the rest of his pitiful life for him, future wife and all. Carrie would not be sitting at their table tonight. Or ever.
She turned back. “Actually, CJ, I think I’ll sit by Amber and Zach tonight.”
Greg’s grandpa patted her hand. “May insists, and you know better than to fight her. Here, I’ll take the potatoes.”
Greg folded his arms, daring Carrie to take up his offer. Wisely, she made a wide circle around the table where he sat and joined the others in the kitchen finishing the preparations.
Even more annoyed, he sat back. Every minute he had to inhale those delectable scents felt like a year. Seriously, how hard was it to put a roast on a plate? Finally, with a rap of a wooden spoon, his grandma announced it was time to eat. Greg jumped up, plate in hand, but his grandpa grabbed his arm.
“We feed the children first,” his grandpa said.
“You can’t be serious.” Greg didn’t mean to let the thought slip out of his mouth, but that same mouth was on the verge of starting a violent revolution if it wasn’t pacified soon. Dejected, he sat back and counted the small heads in the house. Sixteen kids in this clan. Sixteen! With the way pimply teenage boys ate, it might as well be thirty.
Adding to his dislike of her, Carrie followed behind a few kids and piled more on their plates than they could ever eat. He couldn’t decide what bothered him most about her: her thin figure—though there weren’t many women with curves anymore—or the smile that was too large for her face. She looked nothing like Kendra, he didn’t care what his mom said. Carrie plopped a huge glob of potatoes on a toddler’s plate, deepening his opinion of her. No toddler in the world could eat that much.
“You’ll get used to how we do things up here,” his grandpa said. “Just give it time.”
“Yes, sir,” Greg muttered, while thinking, Yeah, right.
He still wasn’t used to his grandpa with a beard either. And not just any beard. All the hair his grandpa had lost on top had multiplied on his face, creating a bushy white beard that could pass for Santa’s if Santa was as skinny as a twig. His grandpa had dropped fifty pounds at least but still wore the same clothes. A cream, button-down shirt hung loosely on his hunched frame, and his tan Dockers were five sizes too big, cinched tight at the waist with a frayed belt that could snap any moment.
Even scarier, Greg’s grandma had grown out her white hair. It hung long but was too thin to be elegant. She wore thick round glasses which sat halfway down her nose. Both grandparents were missing teeth, which solidified Greg’s opinion that while the Collapse hadn’t been kind to anybody, it was especially cruel to the aged.
Speaking of which…
His mom pulled out the chair next to him. She still wore a smile even though she looked exhausted and had to have been as famished as he was. Maybe she hadn’t seen how many kids were in this clan.
Gritting his teeth, Greg tried to calm his irritation. It was the exhaustion talking. The fear of the future. The starvation and hope of a better life he wished to quell in case it was unwarranted. Things here couldn’t be as good as they looked.
He focused on the men again. All were lean and trim which was a good sign. He had no tolerance for freeloaders. A few looked on the younger side, but even then, they were in their early thirties. Fine by Greg. In spite of what his mom thought, he didn’t need any friends. And in spite of what his grandma thought, he didn’t need—or want—a girl. All he wanted was some food!
Finally, his grandma called out, “Alright. The children are done. The adults can—”
Greg was to the food before she finished. He piled his plate high with buttered carrots, herbed potatoes, and several slices of venison and pheasant. His plate wasn’t big enough, but he was more than willing to go back for seconds or thirds.
Or fourths.
Being the first to the food meant he was the first back to the table. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.
“Hi, Greg,” Carrie said.
She looked different up close. Better. Five years ago, he would have considered her plain with her light coloring and freckles. Now she looked typical. No makeup. No frills. Except her blue blouse which didn’t belong in the harsh clan environment. They made her blue eyes stand out, her only decent feature. Nobody else dressed up for dinner. Or did their hair.
Could she be any more obvious?
Ignoring her, he started on the mashed potatoes, practically shoving them in. As the buttery taste hit his tongue, a groan escaped him. He couldn’t help it. They were amazing. Hunching over his plate, he moved to the carrots with the same result.
“Looks like you were hungry,” Carrie said.
Man, she’s bright.
Refusing to respond to such a stupid comment, he focused on shrinking the pile in front of him. Carrie finally took the hint and left. Hopefully for good.
The others returned to the table slowly, first his mom, followed by his grandparents. All had plates half as full as his. His mom shot him a dark look which he ignored as he continued to clean his plate of every last scrap of food.
Halfway through the venison, his grandma looked up.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady? I thought you were going to sit by my Gregory. CJ, didn’t you tell Carrie to sit by Gregory?” His grandma motioned to the chair next to him. “Sit right there, Carrie.”
Greg shot to his feet. Time for seconds.
When he reached the counter, he let out a growl. The venison was gone. Carrots, too. Thankfully there were plenty of potatoes. He stacked his plate with several scoops in spite of the glare a frizzy-haired lady gave him.
By the time he sat again, Carrie was in the chair next to his, in Kendra’s old chair, talking animatedly to his grandpa. Greg scooted closer to his mom and busied himself with the next round of food. His stomach started to protest, having been empty far too long. He didn’t care. The way he figured, vomiting would only make room for more.
“What do you think, Greg?” his grandpa asked. “Carrie’s predicting an early spring.”
“Not likely,” Greg said. “It’s freezin’ out there, and it’s a week into March.”
Carrie, who hadn’t touched her food, smiled her large smile at him. “I’ve been tracking the weather for the last few years, and so far this year’s temperatures are ahead of the others.”
“Maybe you shoulda spent the last month in knee-deep snow,” he said. “Then see if you figure it’s gonna be an early spring.”
“Carrie keeps a weather journal,” his grandma said, quick to jump on the Carrie bandwagon. “She’s never missed a day in the last five years. Not one. We don’t even have a thermometer, but she tracks the temperature based on how it feels on her skin.”
Greg turned. “Your skin, huh? That sounds scientific.”
Carrie’s chin dropped, hiding behind her thick hair. “Not very, but I have my own scale for how it feels. Ten is blistering hot, one is freezing, and seven is perfect. Today is a four, which is pleasantly cool.”
“Since when is seven half of ten? And you think today is pleasantly cool?” The chick got more annoying by the second. “You obviously haven’t been outside ‘cause if you had, you’d know there’s nothin’ pleasant about—”
His mom elbowed him.
Hard.
“I hope you’re right, Carrie,” she said, smiling amidst her violence. “I’m more than ready for spring. Greg and I headed west to avoid winter as long as we could, but once we started north, I tired of the cold real fast. We spent weeks on end waitin’ for the weather to let up, all the while Greg hollering on about how I made him leave the South.”
With Carrie on one side of Greg and his mom on the other, Carrie had to lean forward to see around him. “I can’t imagine what that was like, Mariah.”
Greg had the sudden urge to scoot closer to his food—block
ing her view.
That time his mom kicked him full-on. He winced, but it worked. Carrie turned her attention back across the table where it belonged.
“Anyway, CJ,” she said, “if we plant our early crops next week, we might be able to get in an extra round of peas before summer. Plus we’re low on onions. I’m anxious to get those started, too.”
“Next week?” Greg said. “I wouldn’t start crops next week if I was in North Carolina. Heck, I wouldn’t start crops if I lived in Mexico. You shouldn’t be plantin’ for at least five weeks, more like six or seven.”
“Greg’s right,” his grandpa said. “We could still have snow for several weeks yet.”
“No,” Carrie said. “This year is warmer. It’s ahead of the curve.”
Greg’s grandpa gave her a patronizing smile. “I’m sure it is. We still better plant mid to late April.”
At least the old man still had some sense left in him. Greg was even happier to see that, once defeated, Carrie shut up and picked at her meager amount of food. That left him to enjoy his dinner in peace.
His mom took over the conversation, reliving their trek north, only this time she spared the cutesy lies and told it straight. Propaganda in the municipalities, police brutality, and the emergency laws which showed no sign of repeal.
“The day before we left,” she said, “I watched a group of kids get clubbed down for starting a non-loyalist demonstration. They were just messin’ around—they were just kids for cryin’ out loud!—but the patrolmen didn’t even give them a chance.” Her voice dropped. “Like the boy outside the barn, right?”
Greg’s pile of potatoes was shrinking, his stomach doing the opposite. He took a swig of water. The well water up north tasted metallic but not intolerable. Still, his stomach churned. There was no way he was letting the food come up. He picked up his fork to shove it down with more.
“Right, Greg?” his mom said.
He looked up and saw her waiting for his response. He thought about the boy at the barn—now dead—and had none.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 4
