by Erin Wright
It took a minute for Penny to realize that Troy wasn’t answering her question. She looked up at him to find that he had a slightly…constipated look on his face. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and instantly regretted the movement. Shaking her head while wonderfully warm from wine wasn’t her best idea ever.
Troy still wasn’t saying anything. She put her hand on his arm. “Troy?” she said softly. “You okay? You look upset.” She looked behind her to see if he’d just spotted something truly terrible, but all she could see were the crowds of people, wandering around as they laughed and chatted.
“I’m fine,” he said abruptly, pulling her attention back towards him.
“Okkaayyyy…” she said slowly, not believing him one little bit but deciding to leave it alone. If he wanted to pretend he was fine, then she could pretend he was fine, too. Two could totally play that game. “So,” she said, wanting to get back to the topic at hand, “do you know this guy’s—”
“Want more wine?” he interrupted, holding up his glass. His almost empty glass. His hardly-worth-mentioning-let-alone-interrupting-her-about-it glass.
She looked from his glass to him, trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. It was hard to muddle through to any sort of conclusion since her brain was pleasantly mushy and happy and flitting from topic to topic like a hummingbird on steroids, but she tried to make it focus. Something was going on here, and she wasn’t about to let it go until she figured it out.
Dammit. Because her brain was mushy and happy, she wasn’t coming up with any smooth or sneaky ways of getting the info she wanted, so straight out with it, it was.
“So, do you hate the guy?” she asked bluntly, holding her glass out so he could dribble the remaining drops of his wine into it.
“Who?” he asked gruffly, turning away to find a return tray to put his empty wine glass onto.
“Troy Horvath!” Penny snapped, and he turned back to her, shoulders tensed as he glared at her. “What has gotten into you?” she demanded.
“I’m fine,” he repeated flatly. His face was flat, his eyes were flat, his emotions were flat. He had shut her out, as cold and hard as a slab of marble.
“Yeah, and I’m the king of Poland,” she shot back. “Why do you refuse to say this guy’s name? Do you turn into a pumpkin if you say it? Are you stuck in some sort of bizarre version of a Rumpelstiltskin spell?”
“Aust-st-stin Bishop, okay? And why do you care so much?” he countered. His face was flushed a little. Or at least she thought his face was flushed a little. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. Maybe she was reading him all wrong. Maybe she was making a big deal over nothing.
And maybe she really was the king of Poland.
“Austin Bishop?” she repeated, ignoring his question. If he could ignore questions, then so could she. He nodded, scowling. “Thank you. I was just curious. Nothing more.” She threw back the little bit of wine he’d just poured for her, handed the empty glass to Troy for him to put onto the discard tray, and then snapped a few pictures of the larger Ivy McClain paintings. It was a good excuse not to look at Troy for a minute while she tried to figure out what on earth his problem was, plus, there was the inconvenient fact that she really should at least pretend to do her job. She hoped idly as she turned the camera this way and that, trying to find a good angle that flattered the paintings, that the newspaper would be printed in full color when this article ran. Seeing these paintings in black and white simply wouldn’t do them justice.
After taking enough pics that she could be sure at least one or two would be passable, she slipped a copy of the informational sheet into her purse, knowing it would come in handy when it came time to write the article.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t managed to make her brain come up with anything useful during the little interlude, which wasn’t too surprising, considering the amount of alcohol she had buzzing through her veins, and Troy’s unfigureoutable behavior.
Unfigureoutable…is that a word? It should totally be a word.
I think I’ve had too much to drink.
Sadly enough, though, now that she didn’t have a camera to hide behind, she had a decision to make – did she push him until he told her what his major hangup was about saying Austin Bishop’s name, or did she let it go?
Did she ruin the only date she’d been on in the past year just to satisfy her curiosity, or did she ignore the elephant in the room?
He held out his arm to her, forcing the situation. “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking past her and into the crowds, refusing to meet her eye. “You want to look at other paintings?”
That was it? Just “Sorry, now let’s pretend this never happened?”
She hesitated for a few endless moments before finally slipping her arm through his. She really should push him harder and figure out what his major malfunction was, and – more specifically, why he hated the name Austin Bishop so much – but…reality time: Her hormones were winning out.
She would never admit it out loud, of course, but it was hard to stay pissed at a guy as Brawny-Man handsome as Troy. If he ever asked her to do some truly heinous crime, like put the toilet paper roll on backwards, she was going to be hard-pressed to tell him no. She could only hope he wasn’t some sort of criminal mastermind, because damn, would she be in a whole load of trouble.
With a silent sigh of surrender, she wandered arm in arm with him through the crowds. Some of the paintings were terrific, some were horrific, and some were…
“Did you get all the pics you need?” Troy asked as they stopped in front of an art display that seemed to mostly consist of metal spoons bent every which way and then nailed to a board.
…and some didn’t even appear to be art.
Penny was a little surprised, honestly – it didn’t seem like something she’d find in Long Valley but instead would be labeled “true art” by some pothead hippie in New York who’d wax poetic about how the bent spoons visually represented the way that consumerism was changing the world, or some such nonsense.
Just because she wanted to move to a large city didn’t mean that she didn’t recognize the pretentious bullshit that came with the territory.
Troy’s question made her think that she wasn’t alone in her less-than-overwhelming impression of this display, and a quick glance up at him confirmed that theory. She grinned a little to herself. Not exactly shocking that an Idaho farm boy wasn’t finding a deeper meaning in a bunch of bent metal screwed to a board. And actually, it was a nice change of pace – some of the guys she’d dated in college would’ve tried to pretend that they understood the existential crisis of the artist who made this piece, instead of admitting that it looked like just a pile of junk to them.
“Yeah, I’ve got everything I need,” she told him, patting her purse. “I picked up the info cards from some of the artists; I can call them and do some phone interviews, and have an article ready to submit by Wednesday at noon. Just another week in the life of a small-town reporter.”
“Hey, at least you’re not reporting on quilt raffles this week,” he pointed out dryly, and she bust up laughing. Damn, Troy wasn’t just handsome, he was also quick-witted. Where had these Sawyer boys been all her life? Her alcohol-soaked, squirrel-ridden brain instantly sent her back to her teenage years. When she’d been in high school at Franklin, it had been so uncool to date someone from Sawyer. Everyone knew it was where the hicks lived – the rednecks who had watermelon-seed spitting contests for entertainment, played the banjo with their toes, and were destined to be missing half their teeth by age 40.
Almost as if he could tell what she was thinking, he grinned down at her just then, showing off his pearly whites, all of which were still plainly intact. Her alcohol-induced ADHD brain, incapable of focusing for more than a few moments on any one idea, supplied the thought that she should ask him if he knew how far he could spit a watermelon seed, while also sending her heart into overdrive.
After all, he had a really, really nice set of pea
rly whites on him.
As her heart did its best to beat its way out of her chest, she silently told it to calm the hell down. No matter how surprising it was to find a Sawyer guy, of all things, to be sexy and handsome and enticing as sin, Troy was just a fun distraction until she could get out of this joint – nothing more than that.
And that wasn’t something she could ever let herself forget.
Chapter 5
Troy
Making Penny laugh…Troy wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt as amazing as he did in that moment.
Bring it on – he could climb mountains or fly helicopters or beat the bad guy in hand-to-hand combat. He could do anything at all, because he could make Penny Roth laugh.
But what he couldn’t do was stomach one more minute of looking at beat-up, twisted spoons. Was this one of those nutty big city trends that had somehow made its way to Franklin, Idaho? He would’ve never guessed it’d happen, except…here it was, so maybe his fellow Long Valleyians had gone and taken leave of their senses.
“Wanna get a bite to eat?” he asked her. Score points for being a twofer – this would allow them to get out of the twisted metal art section, plus his stomach was busily begging for a half a cow with a mountain of mashed potatoes on the side. He could only hope Penny wasn’t one of those women who refused to eat in front of men lest they appear to be gluttonous and/or, God forbid, a real human being. He’d tried to be satisfied with the little cracker thingies with an even tinier pile of shredded veggies on top that they’d found as they’d wandered around, but the way he figured it, it hadn’t been enough food to fill up a mouse, let alone him.
“I’m starving!” she said with a grateful smile. “I’d love to grab something to eat. Oh, have you tried the new Mexican restaurant in town? Their chips and salsa are just awesome.”
“Haven’t been there yet,” he said, already starting for his truck, Penny in tow, happily leaving the twisted spoons display behind. “Heard it was good, though.”
Once again, Penny was coming up with a terrific suggestion after he’d suggested something without having a firm idea in mind. Being around someone who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to go after it…he could get used to this.
Other than that small hiccup where she’d insisted that he make a total ass out of himself, it’d been an awesome date so far. With any luck, she’d leave that topic alone and they could pretend it never happened and they could go on many more dates just like this one.
She was chattering up a storm about the new restaurant and how nice it was to have some place new to go to in town, and he nodded as he listened intently. He loved hearing her thoughts on the world; he especially loved the part where she didn’t expect him to talk much. He was content to listen to her all day long. Hell, who wouldn’t be content to listen to a gorgeous, intelligent, hilarious woman give her thoughts on the state of affairs in the world, the weather, and what should and shouldn’t be considered to be art?
Being around her bubbly, happy, outgoing personality was pretty much a perfect fit for him. His aunt was always harping on him to talk more but he was a hell of a lot more satisfied with the idea of someone else filling in that gap so he could do what he did best – sit back, listen, and observe.
Observing Penny Roth was certainly easy on the eyes, no doubt about that.
Her ruby red lips stretched into a huge, genuine smile. Her skinny jeans, cupping her curvy ass. Her curled, bright blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
Yup, observing her was probably the best idea he’d ever come up with.
At the restaurant, the waiter seated them, took their drink order, and promised to be right back with menus and the chips and salsa. As he headed off, Penny was looking at Troy expectantly, and he realized that he needed to come up with some questions to ask her so he could keep doing what he was quickly learning to love: Simply listening to her.
He scrambled around for a moment, until he hit upon it. “You hate living here, so why do you? Why not move?”
Another score for the twofer – not only did he want to listen to Penny talk, but there was also the true curiosity factor at play. Maybe if he knew what the answer was to this question, he could try to mitigate it or find a workaround or something.
She nibbled her full bottom lip thoughtfully which promptly sent his thoughts in a decidedly non-platonic direction, but before she could say anything, the waiter reappeared with the chips, salsa, menus, and drinks, bringing their conversation to a standstill. They perused the menus while munching happily on the appetizer. Penny was right; the chips were warm, lightly salted, and nicely crunchy, while the salsa was chunky with a bit of heat to it without setting his mouth on fire.
If the rest of the food was this good, he might’ve just found a new favorite in Franklin.
Finally, she shut her menu and set it off to the side. “My mom,” she said simply, and it took him a moment to figure out what she was referring to. Oh, her mom is why she’s still living here. “I had just received my bachelor’s degree and had started looking for jobs to apply to when my mom called to tell me…” She sucked in a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. “She had breast cancer. She’d already hit stage four before she’d gone into the doctor’s to get it checked out, because she’s stubborn as a mule and kept ignoring all of the symptoms.” The corners of her mouth quirked up at that one, but Troy was pretty sure it wasn’t an indication of happiness. “I came straight home that night. The doc in charge told me bluntly that the chances weren’t great that she’d last the year. Then—”
“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, yanking their gazes away from each other and towards him. Troy wanted to snap at the man to leave them alone, but the spell was already broken. Reluctantly, he ordered, anxious to get back to Penny’s story. The man scribbled their order down and walked away with the menus tucked underneath his arm, clearly not realizing what he’d just interrupted. Troy made a mental note to not be as generous on the tip as he normally was as he looked back at Penny.
“And then?” he prompted her.
“Mom insisted that she’d be fine by herself, and I was free to go back to Washington or California or wherever was hiring. She’s…independent. Stubborn. Hates to be a burden. I think if my mother’s hair was on fire, she’d insist on putting it out herself. Accepting help is not her strong point.” Penny popped a chip covered with salsa into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Was that guilt that was flashing across her face? “I believed her, and drove back to California. I think a part of me wanted to believe her, because it made my life easier if I did.”
Yup, definitely guilt.
“I had my apartment and friends there – it made sense to me to try to get a job in the area before looking elsewhere. I was in the third – and last – round of interviews at this graphics firm that I’d been drooling over working at ever since I started in the graphics program in college, when one of Mom’s friends called me. She made me swear on a stack of Bibles I wouldn’t tell Mom where I got the info, and then told me that my mom was in serious trouble. She’d lost all of her hair, she was weak, she was throwing up a lot from the treatments, she wasn’t taking care of herself at all, and from what this friend could tell, she had one foot in the grave. She told me I better come home or we were going to find my mom one morning, dead from malnutrition.”
The server showed up just then, continuing his horrendous streak of bad timing, to deliver two steaming plates of enchiladas. Troy wasn’t sure if he should thank the man for saving him from starvation, or strangle him for repeatedly interrupting them at the worst possible moment. After waving off his questions if there was anything else he could get for them – just leave us the hell alone! – Troy turned back to Penny. “And then?” he prompted her again, as he cut into his fragrant enchilada.
His stomach had started rumbling with hunger pains by this point, but he found himself almost as interested in Penny’s story as he was in his food.
And con
sidering how hungry he was, that was really saying something.
“So I packed up everything and moved back home,” Penny said simply. “I didn’t ask; I didn’t tell her I was coming. I knew that if I did, she’d figure out some way of keeping it from happening. So I just showed up on her front doorstep one night and said, ‘I’m here to take care of you, and you don’t get to say no.’ She was pissed at first – telling my mother anything, rather than asking, is a great way to get your head bitten off. But, as I told her, if she wasn’t so damn stubborn, I wouldn’t have to be so damn pushy. So really, this was all her fault. Also not something that she appreciated.” Penny laughed ruefully, but Troy could see the pain in her eyes. He wondered how big this blow-up had really been between them. Without knowing anything about her mom, Troy didn’t know if Mrs. Roth was a physically violent person, an emotionally abusive person, or just someone who didn’t like being backed into a corner.
One thing he did know – he admired the hell out of Penny for refusing to be cowed by her mom’s insistence that everything was fine.
Penny pushed her enchilada around her plate for a minute, took a small bite, then pushed it around some more. Either she wasn’t actually starving like she’d claimed she was, or this story was upsetting the hell out of her. He felt a little pang of guilt for continuing to pepper her with questions when it was obviously not an easy topic to discuss, but on the other hand, she still hadn’t gotten to the part where she explained why she was continuing to live in Long Valley. The way she was framing this made it sound like it’d all happened years ago. What was still holding her here?
“The next four years were a blur of doctor appointments, cooking nutritious meals for my mom, begging my mom to eat, holding her shoulders as she retched into the toilet…I feel guilty saying this, but there were times, in the dead of the night when I was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week but I had to get up and help my mother to the bathroom, that I wished that I’d never answered that phone call from my mother’s friend. That’s awful to say, isn’t it? That’s awful to feel. I just…it was draining. All of it. Constantly taking care of someone else for years on end, when that person isn’t always the best at accepting that help…and then there were my friends.”
