John Riley's Girl. Inglath Cooper
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I’d never be that stupid, he would have said.
He would have been wrong.
“Have a good weekend, Macy,” he said, plopping the glass on the counter, then stomping down the hall and out the back door, glad of the trail of red dirt he’d left behind.
RACINE DELANEY was looking for a special dress. A wow-’em dress. A dress that said, “Bet you didn’t know I could look like this.”
She just hoped there was one in Joanne’s Fine Things—Summerville’s only specialty boutique—that she could afford.
She pulled a sleeveless periwinkle-blue filmy thing from the rack and held it up for a better look, a hand at shoulder and hem. Not bad. Not stunning, either. But then with a chest as flat as hers, and a face that was no longer wrinkle-free, who was ever going to call her stunning, anyway?
It was exactly the kind of dress she’d hoped to find, not too sexy, but alluring in a simple way.
What the heck did she know about such things? A girl who’d lived most of her adult life in a mobile home with her very own conditioned response to tremble as soon as her husband’s car pulled into the driveway. No more, though. That was over. The end. And she was determined to find some happiness for herself. Maybe she’d meet someone this weekend. Someone nice. Someone interested in living life like it was a picnic instead of a war zone.
A diesel truck rumbled down the street outside the shop. She glanced out the window and recognized Cleeve Harper’s silver Ford pickup, the twang of some top-forty country tune loud enough to damage ear drums. She wondered what he was trying to drown out.
“Hello, Racine. Could I help you with something?”
Racine looked away from the window. Joanne Norman hovered nearby. Her voice dripped honey, which seemed appropriate since her short, round frame resembled that of a bumblebee in the black-and-yellow-striped skirt and sweater she wore. Racine had never felt comfortable in this store, aware that Joanne’s eyes always seemed to question whether or not she could really pay for whatever it was she’d picked out.
“I, ah, thought I might try this on.”
“It’s lovely,” Joanne said. “Although not the most practical buy in the shop at that price.”
“I’m not really looking for practical,” Racine said, even as she heard the curiosity in the other woman’s voice. No doubt Joanne was wondering what a woman who worked in the post office sorting mail would be doing with a dress like that.
Joanne pulled a pink cotton skirt and blouse off the rack in front of her. Sweet. Sunday-schoolish. “This is really cute.”
It was cute. Much more like something she might have ordinarily picked out. She wavered a moment, sending a doubtful glance over the periwinkle blue. Maybe she was being silly to think she could pull off a dress like that. But she didn’t want cute today.
“I’ll think about it, Joanne,” she said, taking the pink outfit and draping it across the chair beside her.
“You do that. And let me know if I can help with anything else,” she said, heading for the register where a short, white-haired lady was waiting to pay for a scarf.
She glanced toward the window again. Cleeve had stopped at the gas station across the street. He was talking to Leroy Jones, who’d been running the gas station as far back as her memory went. Cleeve’s back was to her, and she noticed he had nice wide shoulders. He had changed little, if any, since their high-school days. On the outside, anyway. Why was it that guys like Cleeve always ended up with women like Macy?
But then if anybody understood putting up with the faults of a spouse, Racine did. There was always tomorrow, and it was sometimes easier to convince yourself it would get better by then than it was to walk away.
A long time ago, Racine had been more than a little smitten with Cleeve and had almost gotten up the nerve to flirt with him the summer before their senior year at a picnic out at Carson Lake. But she’d lost her courage, and looking back on it now, she knew he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. Guys like Cleeve had been way out of her league then. And were now.
She sent a glance back out the window where he was still talking with Leroy and then held the dress up to the mirror again. Was she really asking for anything so extraordinary? Just a good man who maybe saw something a little bit special in her? She’d once had some pretty lofty dreams. But her wants in life had gotten a lot simpler. And if she’d learned one thing in all those years since they’d left high school, it was that there was no point in wasting time wanting things you could never have.
THE SIGN WAS the same. Rolling Hills Farm. The Rileys. Since 1918. Hand-carved on dark cherry wood and mounted on one of two matching brick columns that marked the entrance to one of the prettiest pieces of land Olivia had ever seen. It hadn’t changed. The name fit the farm. Two hundred acres or so of virtually flat pastures surrounded by a background of rolling hillsides that amounted to a sum total of a little over a thousand acres, if she remembered correctly.
She had arrived in Summerville late that afternoon after the four-hour drive from D.C., then checked into Lavender House, the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying for the weekend. Michael was driving down Saturday morning. She’d tried to talk him out of it since he had a couple of work commitments that prevented him from coming before then.
“You cannot go to a fifteen-year reunion without a date!” he had insisted. “Not done. Unacceptable.”
She’d given in, finally. Now, she wished he’d come with her today. The message from Lori waiting at the front desk had nearly made her repack her car and head back up the interstate.
Of all places, why did the thing have to be moved to John’s farm? Of all places!
She’d tried calling Lori several times, only to get her answering machine. Not surprising. As the main organizer of the reunion, she’d no doubt left hours before.
Olivia had succumbed to a long shower and set about calming the flock of internal butterflies making her nearly lightheaded. There was a single question reverberating in her head: How could she possibly go out to Rolling Hills?
His wife would be there. And children. What about children?
Of course, he would have children. Maybe even teenagers.
Heavens, they were old enough for that.
The possibility peeled back a few layers of indifference beneath which lay a reserve of pain left untapped for years on end. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of it. But somehow, here, with the imminent possibility of seeing them—at his home—the prospect cut deep.
But then she’d come here looking for closure, hadn’t she? Here was her chance. Had she really thought anything about it would be easy?
She was certain John hadn’t given her a second’s extra thought, but had gone on with his life, living it the way people do.
On that note, she had gotten dressed and left the bed-and-breakfast before she could change her mind, pointing her car down roads she remembered as if she’d driven them yesterday. Rationalizing the entire way that John probably hadn’t even aged well, had gained forty pounds, or lost hair. In all reality, she wouldn’t even recognize him.
Outside of storybooks, wasn’t that the way real life usually worked?
Olivia parked her car near the farm’s entrance sign, got out, quickly hit the remote security alarm out of habit, and set off up the asphalt road. No backing out now. She had never imagined walking up this driveway again. The years rolled back now like the curtain at a Saturday afternoon matinee, and she saw herself getting off a Greyhound bus on a cold January afternoon, her too-thin wool coat inadequate protection against the wind cutting into her skin. She’d walked the four miles from the bus station out to Rolling Hills, her heart sticking in her throat every time she heard a car coming, terrified one of them might be her father.
The impetus propelling her down that long road to