At Any Price. Margaret Allison
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Katie said. But she didn’t see this new Jack Reilly comfortable in a simple country inn. She was certain he would prefer accommodations that offered room service. “But there’s a nice Hyatt in Albany.”
“The inn will be fine. I’ll ask Greg to drive some clothes over.”
“Who’s Greg and what clothes?”
“Greg’s my pilot. He does a bunch of things besides just flying planes.”
“You mean he’s a valet, too?” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.
Once again, she saw the grin creep up his lips. “If needed. I keep an extra set of clothes on the plane, just in case.”
“Of course,” she said. After all, who didn’t?
When she stood up, Jack surprised her and said, “Do you have plans this evening?”
“I, uh, no,” she stammered.
“Good. I’d like to take you out to a nice dinner. Pick any place you want. We can catch up.”
“Sure,” she said. She had just the place in mind.
Joe’s Diner was located on the corner of Main and Howe Streets, almost directly across the street from the paper. It had been in existence ever since Joe Pecorillo first arrived in Albany from Italy in the late 1920s. Since then, it had stayed in the family, passing from Joe Sr., to Joe Jr., to Joe the third. Joe the third, otherwise known as Joey, was about sixty years old and had managed it since Katie was a kid. She, Jack and Matt had spent many hours at Joe’s sharing milkshakes and burgers. Jack even worked there his senior year before college.
If Jack was surprised by her choice, he didn’t show it. In fact, she thought he seemed relieved, almost happy that she had not chosen a more romantic and quiet place.
After Jack had shaken hands with Joe they settled into a worn, yet cozy booth by the window. Jack looked around and said, “It’s kind of quiet for Thursday night, isn’t it?”
Besides them, only three other tables were taken. “Not really,” she said. “I told you, things have changed. I’m sure you noticed the out-of-business signs. A lot of people have left town. It’s hard to find work around here. Unless something is done, Newport Falls is going to turn into a ghost town.”
“But Lois Lane is going to save it. Or do you see yourself as Brenda Starr?”
“Neither,” she said coldly. “This is my hometown. I love it here. I love the fact that when I’m sick, I can count on Mrs. Crutchfield to make me chicken soup. I can count on Ms. Faunally to bring me her homemade strawberry jelly in the spring. I can count on the Wellers to entertain the entire town at Halloween. I can count on Mr. Pete to know I’m entertaining if I buy an extra package of steaks at his grocery store. I can count on the wild azaleas to bloom like crazy every summer. I know some people don’t like small towns, but—”
“You do. I got it, Devonworth. But not everyone has such fond memories of this place.”
She stopped. Jack’s father had died the year after he left for college. They had buried him in the town cemetery, not too far from where her parents were buried. “I know,” she said. “But your memories aren’t all bad, are they?”
“No. Thanks to you…and Matt,” he said, adding Matt’s name almost as an afterthought.
“Lots of other people cared about you, too,” Katie said. “Lots of other people still do. Mr. Pete was just asking me about you the other day.”
“How’s his business?” Jack asked. He had worked for Mr. Pete for years, bagging groceries and helping out around the store.
“Like everything else, not great.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack said. Then without skipping a beat he said, “Should we order?”
Katie ate her meal in silence, inwardly steaming about the cold, callous way Jack had handled the news of Mr. Pete’s business. How could he be so offhand about a man who had been nothing but kind to him? After they finished eating, she said, “Do you plan on seeing anyone else while you’re here?”
He stood up and took her coat off the hook, held it open for her. “No.”
“No?” she repeated as she slipped into her coat. “I’m sure Mrs. Bayons would like to see you.”
“I don’t have time,” he said.
“Maybe tomorrow—”
“No. I have something to take care of in the morning. After which I’m going directly to your office. I have to be back in the city tomorrow night.”
“Oh, right.” For his date with Carol.
“I doubt I have anything to say to anyone here, anyway.”
His aim had been direct and sharp. She stopped walking and looked at him, hurt. She got the message. Jack had broken all connection to Newport Falls.
But Jack appeared oblivious to her pain. He said goodbye to Joe and held the door open for her. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
But she didn’t have a car. This morning, despite the fact that it was January and freezing cold, she had ridden her bike. She told Jack.
He looked at her, surprised. “You rode your bike in this weather?”
“Why not? The roads are clear. Besides, I wanted exercise.”
“You’re not still living at your parents’ place, are you?”
Her parents’ farm was about five miles outside of town. More than a hundred acres, it included an old and rather worn Victorian house and a pond where they had fished and swum in the summers, ice-skated in the winters. “I’ve moved back there, yes.”
“It’s too far and too cold to ride all the way back. I’ll drive you. I rented a car at the airport.”
But she didn’t think she could stand one more minute talking to him or not talking to him, as the case might be. What had happened to her friend? To the warm, caring, funny guy whom she had loved with all of her heart?
Outside the newspaper, she stopped at the bike rack on the sidewalk. There was no lock on her bike, none was needed in Newport Falls. “Thanks for dinner,” she said. She felt a raindrop, then another. No matter, she was used to riding in all types of weather.
Jack grabbed her hand and stopped her. He hesitated a moment and then said, “You can’t save the world, Devonworth.”
“I don’t want to save the world, Reilly. Just Newport Falls.”
He held tight, pulling her back toward him. “I can’t let you go like this.”
“Why not?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“Because,” he said, dropping her hand and motioning toward the sky, “it’s raining.”
She pulled her sneakers out of her backpack. “You used to ride your bike in the rain all the time,” she replied as she switched shoes right there on the sidewalk. “Or did you forget about that, too?” When she was finished, she shoved her pumps into her bag and hopped on her bike as gracefully as she could. “See you tomorrow.”
She pedaled through the dark streets. She knew each and every home by heart. They were inhabited by friends, by people she had known her entire life. As she drove by the yellow bungalow on the corner, she knew that the blue light flickering on the first floor meant Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were sitting in their matching La-Z-Boys, watching Jeopardy on the living-room TV. She pedaled past old Mrs. Honeywell’s house. She knew the dim light in the second-floor window meant Mrs. Honeywell was tucked into bed, petting her white poodle, Betsy, and reading one of the bloody mysteries she was so fond of. She passed by the little red house on the corner. The house was dark because its owners, Jan and Tony Bintlif, and their