Down on Love Page 21
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s too fancy for this.”
“It’s perfect. What do you think we’re going to do, mud wrestle?”
“Isn’t that at two o’clock?”
“Ooh, thanks for reminding me—that’s the time of the baby races. Little Amelia’s gonna skunk those other rugrats in the crawling division.”
“Hey! Pie lady! Some help, here?”
George turned around to find that, despite her complaints, Sera had unpacked all the pies from the rolling coolers they’d tugged along to the table and was making sure the label on each box, with the type of pie and the price, was facing out. She had already taken care of everything, but just so she didn’t complain too much, George went through the motions of straightening the stacks and peeking in a box or two to see how the pies had held up on the journey to the Fourth of July festival.
If you lived within thirty miles of Marsden, Main Street was your destination on Independence Day. Part street party, part art exhibition, part food-a-palooza, part carnival, the festival spanned several days and a number of venues, from the arts center (concerts) to the creek (fishing derby) to the restaurants (special meals) and shops (special sales) on Main Street. But on the Fourth itself, all activity centered on the town hall lawn and its surrounding open spaces at the far end of Main, activities and booths spilling out onto the sidewalks until the art vendors and food carts and balloon kiosks collided with the shops’ sale racks, all of it wrapped in a million yards of red, white, and blue bunting, as though a flag factory had exploded over the town.
“Don’t you have a pottery booth to tend to?” George reminded Sera.
“Doreen’s got the spot next to me. She’s keeping an eye on things.”
“Doreen, the lady who paints hunting scenes on old saw blades?”
“That’s the one.”
“Still at it, huh? Impressive. I admire her perseverance. And her realistic depiction of a buck bleeding out.”
“Don’t mock. Sometimes it seems like there’s more of a market for her stuff than mine.”
“Why don’t you go check out her sales?”
“I don’t like that you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“Don’t care. Go. But leave the kid.”
“Not a chance. She’s my draw. People come into the booth to see her, then they’re more likely to buy a vase or a set of salt and pepper shakers.”
“That’s purchase-by-guilt,” Jaz accused her wife.
“Like I care why they buy stuff, as long as they buy it.”
Sera appropriated the stroller from Jaz and headed across the lawn to the white tents, lined up row upon row, to tend her booth.
“Not hurrying after my sister, I see,” George said, setting up the camp chair and offering it to Jaz.
“It’s nice to finally be able to get out of the house . . . and get some distance between us.”
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, sure. We’ve just been cooped up together too long. Nothing a little breathing room won’t fix. And it’s really nice to be out in public again.” She shook her head at George when she offered her the camp chair. “But if I sat in that thing, I’d undo a month’s worth of recuperating in about five minutes. You take it.”
George settled herself in the canvas bucket and waited for buyers to come by. Jaz stretched out on the grass next to the table. It was still early, and the crowds were sparse, but they’d pick up after the midmorning parade, she knew. Half the town was in the parade, and the other half always turned out to watch it, but after that the lawns were so crowded you could barely move.
She watched the couple with the dancing poodles fluff their dogs’ fur and adjust their spangly tutus before taking their place in the parade lineup behind the interpretive dance group. In the distance, the bouncy castle inflated slowly as the air compressor roared. A worker climbed a ladder to grab a loose rope and tie down the corner of the banner over the town steps announcing the talent show. It was at times like these, George thought, she really didn’t mind living in Marsden. She even liked it. There was something to be said about the tradition, the sense of community, the . . .
“Hey, Jaz?”
“Mm?”
Jaz was lying on her back, her legs crossed at the ankle and her palms flat on her stomach, eyes closed.
“What do those folks represent?”
She opened one eye and turned her head toward her sister-in-law. “What folks?”
“Over there. There are some people in green T-shirts. And some blue ones. Do we have a couple of new softball teams I don’t know about?”
“Are they marching in the parade?”
“Can’t tell.”
Then one of them—potbellied Nate Carroll, who’d roped her into the pie thing—turned toward her and pointed at his blue T-shirt.
“What the hell is Nate trying to say?”
Jaz propped herself up on her elbows. “I have no idea.”
“Is that Ray?”
“The copy shop guy?”
“Yeah. He’s got a green T-shirt on, and he’s giving me a weird look.”
“You must be imagining things.”
George paused. “You’re right. Why would they be—”
“Hey, you two!” It was Nora, the diner owner, obviously excited to be out of her restaurant on one of her only days off the entire year. “Team George! All the way!”
George squinted. “She’s got that on her shirt!”
“What in the world is ‘Team George’?”
“I have no friggin’ idea. I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks now.” She scanned the crowd; while not everyone was wearing the shirts, enough Marsden residents were sporting them to make George uncomfortable. She had a feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Then she spotted Darryl in a green shirt. “Big D!” she shouted. He glanced toward her, then quickly looked away. George was stunned. “Did Darryl just blow me off?”
“Does he think Sera’s around somewhere?”
“Will you please tell me what happened between the two of them?”
Jaz fidgeted. “Better ask one of them, I think.”
“Okay, fine. Now I have two reasons to talk to him. Darryl!” she shouted again. “I know you can hear me!” He finally looked over and pointed at himself, acting surprised. “Yes, you, you big doofus! Get over here!”
Finally Darryl ambled over, and when he got closer to the bake sale table, he pulled up the front of the green shirt to reveal an equally large blue one underneath. “Look—Team George. I swear.”
George gave him the stink-eye. “What’s on the green one?”
“Nothing,” he insisted, still holding the bottom of the green shirt up near his neck.
“Let’s see it, D.”
“But—”
“You can’t walk around all day like that; your arm’ll cramp up. Now let’s see.”
Darryl sighed and tugged down the hem of the green shirt, not meeting her eyes. It said “Team Celia.”
Completely bewildered, she demanded, “The fuck, Darryl?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, baby. Really, it doesn’t. I like you both. Don’t make me choose.”
“Choose what? What in the hell is going on? Will somebody please tell me?”
“Take ’em off, D,” came a quiet voice.
George knew it was Casey without even looking over in that direction.
“But I’m bipartisan!” Darryl insisted.
“Both of them. Now, please.”
“Oh, man, I’m proud of my body—all of it—but these people aren’t prepared for the wonder that is Big D’s belly.”
“Then turn one inside out, or buy a Marsden Fourth souvenir shirt. Or go home and change. Just make those go away.”
“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” George insisted, looking from one man to the other and back again.
“Go ahead, D,” Casey challenged his friend. “You’re the one wearing the shirts. Explain them.”
Darryl glanced around shiftily, looking anywhere but at George and Casey. “Nobody means anything by it, you know. Not really.”
“Still not making it any clearer, D.”
Jaz spoke up softly. “I know.”
All eyes turned to her. “You do?” George asked.
She nodded. “Team George. Team Celia. What’s the common denominator?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
Jaz’s gaze flicked over to Casey, who reddened and looked away.
George was still confused. “What do you—oh.” She clamped her lips tight, as though trying to prevent herself from saying the very next thing on her mind, which wouldn’t be kind. Not at all. She took a breath and edited herself. “So . . . this is some sort of competition?”
“No, honey, no,” Darryl insisted. “Just, you know, personal preferences. An expression of opinion.”
“Of who they think Casey should be with?”
George felt sick. Now she knew why everybody always watched her wherever she went. It wasn’t just the fact that she hadn’t been back in years. It wasn’t just the blog. It was because of Casey. And the Marsden residents’ belief they had the right to weigh in on abso-fucking-lutely everything going on around them, no matter how private it should be.
George pushed herself out of the camp chair and looked around a bit wildly, as though trying to find somewhere to escape. But everywhere she looked, all she saw were blue shirts and green shirts—on people she knew and liked. On teenagers she didn’t know. On babies, for Chrissakes! And she wasn’t sure what horrified her more—that there were so many in her favor or so many in Celia’s favor. No, it was because they thought it was fine to wear the shirts at all.
Finally she felt her legs carrying her up the stone steps to the big wooden doors of the town hall. Someone—mercifully, not wearing one of the shirts—stepped in front of her. “Sorry, George. Town hall’s closed today. No admittance unless you’re one of the organizers.”
She forced herself to focus on the old man in front of her. It was one of the fossils from the hardware store. “Let me by, Henry, or I swear to God, I’ll—”
“I’m not supposed to let anybody in, just in case of vandalism.”
“Who in the hell is going to vandalize the town hall on the Fourth of July? With all these people around?”
“You never know.”
“And I’m a prime candidate?”
“Well, no, but I’ve got my orders. No exceptions.”
“You’re going to tell me I can’t go inside for five minutes, when . . . when I did my patriotic duty and made all those pies for the Ladies Auxiliary?”
“Pies?”
Under any other circumstances, George would have laughed at the sudden eager look on Henry’s face. As it was, she could barely keep her voice even as she said, “Go tell Jaz I said you could have one for free.”
“Really?”
“There are a couple rhubarb, Henry. If I recall, you love rhubarb.”
The old man carefully but quickly navigated down the steep steps, keeping his balance by sticking out his elbows perpendicular from his body, looking for all the world like a plucked chicken. As soon as he left his post unguarded, George heaved open one of the doors and ducked into the cool depths of the dim building. She leaned against one of the familiar high-gloss, mint-colored plaster walls and worked hard to sort out her feelings. She desperately hoped she wasn’t going to cry, but she couldn’t guarantee she wasn’t going to, out of pure anger and frustration. She closed her eyes and tipped her face up, resting the crown of her head against the wall.
This. This was what she had escaped when she’d left Marsden. This was the sort of thing she couldn’t stand. Everybody in your business. She hated it. She’d put it out of her mind, let it get buried under a heaping helping of nostalgia for her hometown, but it was all coming back to her. And as long as she was in town, she was fair game for gossip and meddling, just like everybody else. This was the downside of small-town living: For every time people greeted you by name, asked after your family, or brought you a casserole, there was a time when those same people acted as though they had every right to mess with your personal life. Or treat you like the punch line of a town-wide joke.
There was a creak as the door opened again, and from behind her closed eyelids, George saw the daylight stream in, then disappear again as the door closed with an echoing thud.
Her eyes still shut, she muttered, “Aw, Henry. Just give me a minute, okay? I swear I’m not going to break any windows.”
“Goose.”
Oh shit, that was all she needed. She turned away from the voice. “Leave me alone, Casey.”
He simply said, “No.”
“Come on,” she groaned, her voice bouncing off the linoleum floors, up to the high ceilings with their art deco pendent lights, and back again. “Give me a break.”
Casey came nearer, and she opened her eyes. He was right in front of her. Before she could muster up enough energy to move away, he grasped her upper arms. For a split second, she thought—and almost hoped—he was going to pull her closer. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. She’d told him she wasn’t interested, and this “really good guy,” as Sera had called him, was the type who would honor her request. Damn him anyway.
“I just want to be left alone.”
“To sulk?”
“Don’t judge me. The rest of the town’s got that covered,” she muttered.
“Wow. That is one magnificent funk. I’m impressed.”
“You should be.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I wasn’t.”
“So. Is it really worth it?” Casey jogged her arms as if to jolly her out of her mood, which only irritated her more.
“This is all your fault,” she muttered.
“How is it my fault?”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but she was crabby enough not to care—and not to take it back. “Gee, I don’t know, Mr. Common Denominator. How do you think? But I’ll have you know I’m not even remotely interested in Jell-O wrestling Celia for you.”
“Jell-O wrestling? I think I missed that part.”
“Stop sounding so intrigued.”
“Sorry. Those are kind of automatic triggers for men. Women, Jell-O wrestling—”
George cut him off. She wasn’t about to have a lighthearted conversation with him today. “Mind telling me how it got to this point? How . . . how Celia and I have been pitted against each other over you?”
“‘Pitted against each other?’ That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Sounds about right to me.”
“I don’t think it’s an issue.”
“Damn right it’s not.”
“Because I’m not romantically interested in Celia.”
“Exactly.”
She waited for him to say “Or you.” It didn’t come. He looked at her steadily, as though waiting for her to ask him about the omission. Damned if she would, though.
“I’ll go out there and make everybody get rid of those shirts,” Casey offered.
George shook her head and fought back a smile. She wanted to be furious with him, but then he had to go and be all chivalrous. “You can’t. Don’t want anybody violating decency laws.”
“Hey, it’s legal for women to go topless in New York.”
“I’m talking about Darryl’s manboobs. We don’t want to cause emotional scarring in children. Adults too, come to think of it.”
“Oh, that.” Casey stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and studied her for a moment. “How about I offer you a sincere, heartfelt, formal apology for all the boneheads in this town?”
“One for each? That’ll take a while.”
“I’d do it.”
“I know.”
Silence for a moment. Then, “I don’t want to be friends with you, Goose.”
She probably should have acted surprised, but she didn’t bother. “I know that too.”
“So . . .”
“Back to being mere acquaintances, then?”
Casey took another step closer, his forehead nearly touching hers as he gazed down the length of her body. “That wasn’t the direction I was thinking we should go in.”
“I told you,” she choked out, her throat suddenly tight, her breathing shallow. “I don’t want to.”
Then he was touching her again, hands caressing her back as he kissed her just under her jawline. Softly. “I don’t believe you.”
“You should.”
“Okay, then.” He dotted her neck with a couple more kisses. “I’ll leave you alone. In a minute.”
“Casey.”
“Mm?”
“You should be with Celia.”
That stopped him. He drew his head back and gave her a puzzled look. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m completely serious.”
“Then say it without your arms around my neck,” he whispered.
She’d barely noticed they’d strayed there. She pulled them back and pressed her hands between her rear end and the wall to make sure they didn’t go rogue again. “You should be with Celia,” she repeated, trying to make her voice sound stronger than she felt.
“Goose. Why are you saying stuff like that? I told you, I’m not—”
“—interested in her. I know that’s what you said. But she’s better for you.”
Casey actually laughed, and it sounded hollow in the echoing building. “Are you telling me to take my medicine?”
“She’s not medicine, and you know it. She’s pretty, and kind, and smart, and sweet, and . . . you two look good together . . . you were good together before . . . and she’s nice and normal. Unlike the person standing in front of you.”
“You’re hardly a candidate for the loony bin.”
“Maybe I am. How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Okay, I’m not swinging-from-the-lamppost insane. But I’m not in any condition to get involved with . . . any guy. Not even you.”
“Aw, Goose, sure you are.”
“Stop telling me how I am!” she cried. “Stop trying to fit the square-peg me-now into the round-hole me-back-then! I’m not eighteen anymore, Casey. I’m a completely different person. And you don’t know that person.”
“I realize you’re not the same,” he said quietly, and she knew he was trying to calm her down with just his voice. Despite how close he was to her, his words were so soft they were almost lost under the invading noise of someone on a microphone, making an announcement, just outside the doors. “And I wouldn’t want you to be. I’m not stuck in the past—unlike a lot of the folks out there. I’m talking about the present. I know you better than you think.”