Catching His Eye. Jo Leigh
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presented his tomato on his open palm. “Here she is. Best tomato in the place.”
Mrs. Weeks smiled as she took the vegetable in her hands. She smelled it and smiled. “Like father like son.”
I hope not. The uncharitable thought caught him off guard. What a thing to think. His father had been a fine man. Honest and thorough and kind, even though he was tough. He’d worked his whole life so that the family would have a decent house and cars, and so that Scott could go to college.
“You tell Mary I’ll come by on Tuesday.”
“I will, Mrs. Weeks.”
She headed toward the checkout counter. He wondered if her daughter came to visit. Probably. Probably called all the time. Franny Weeks was eleven years older than him, and she used to be his baby-sitter. She’d been a piece of work. Always had her nose in a book. Hated sports, even watching them.
He headed toward the bread aisle to see what he had to bring from the back. For nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, there were quite a few people in the small store. Neighbors, each one.
He noticed Jack Gates, who had retired after a lifetime of working at the hardware store. Scott remembered when Jack had helped him build a doghouse for Knute, Scott’s old mutt. Knute had passed on fifteen years ago, but the doghouse, still in the backyard, looked weathered but sturdy. Just like Jack himself.
Aura Lee Merchant studied the salad dressing, her body shaking with Parkinson’s disease. She’d been a teacher at Sheridan Elementary, although he hadn’t been in her class.
Ted Cooper, Mrs. Freed, Karen Crane. They’d all been coming here for years. No superstores for them. They liked the personal service, but more, they liked the continuity. At least that was his theory.
But whatever the reason they liked the store, they would stop coming if things didn’t improve. The rolls were almost all gone. Half the name brand breads were gone, too. He’d better call the distributors and find out what was going on.
A young man, surprising in this store of older customers, approached him tentatively. “Mr. Dillon?”
“Yep.”
The boy cleared his throat. Wiped his hands on his jeans. He looked to Scott to be about thirteen. His Cowboys T-shirt had seen better days, but it was clean. “I’m Jeff Grogin.”
“How you doing?”
Jeff thrust out his hand. Scott shook it, wondering if this was his next stock boy.
“Is it true that during the state championships you threw for 549 yards?”
A fan. Too young to have seen Scott play. But in a town this size, his football career was as well-known as the Pledge of Allegiance. “Yep. It’s true.”
The boy blinked a couple of times. “I play some football, too.”
“Do you?”
“For the Tigers. I’m the varsity quarterback.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
Sir. Suddenly Scott felt like he was a hundred. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to, um maybe have a Coke or something?”
Scott raised his eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Bobby’s face flushed scarlet. “No! I mean, no, sir. I just thought—”
Scott waved away the boy’s explanation and smiled to show he’d been kidding. “I know what you mean. Sure, sure. We can do that. Just not today.”
“Anytime, sir.”
“But we can’t go if you keep calling me sir. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. I mean—”
“Scott. Scott is the name you’re looking for.”
The boy, who Scott still couldn’t believe was old enough to play football, grinned like he’d just won a new car. “Great. Maybe tomorrow? Or Tuesday. Tuesday would be just fine.”
“You seem to have some free time on your hands.”
“I do. A little, I mean. With school and practice and homework—”
“How’d you like to talk about football three, four times a week?”
Bobby’s eyes widened until they were almost as large as Mrs. Weeks’. “Oh, man! Are you serious?”
Scott nodded. “I need a stock boy. Part-time.”
“A job?”
“A job.”
“Wow. I’d have to make sure the hours wouldn’t interfere with practice. Coach says—”
“I know what Coach says. What do you say tomorrow you give me your schedule, and we’ll work around it. When we have our soda, that is.”
Bobby nodded vigorously. “Sure thing, Scott.” He said the name as if it were underlined.
It was Scott’s turn to thrust out his hand. The boy took it eagerly and, after a rousing shake, he let go and headed out of the bread aisle.
Scott wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this little conversation. He was glad to have the help at the store, but he wasn’t very comfortable with all that sir stuff. And he didn’t want to talk about football. Not much, anyway.
He didn’t want to be one of those guys who sat in bars and talked about the glory days. Not at twenty-six.
He looked at his watch. Another hour until he could get out of here. Meet with Emily. That would be good. Of all the people he knew in Sheridan, Emily and Coach were the two he respected most. Coach, because he was the best strategist in high school football. And Emily? Emily because, well she was Emily.
As he walked to the stockroom, he wondered if she was married. Probably. Smart men snatched up women like her.
EMILY SAW THE CHIP in her nail polish just as Scott walked up to the table. She smiled as if her manicure was perfect. He slid into the booth with a sigh.
“Hey, Em,” he said so casually anyone would think they met like this every week. In fact, she’d figured out exactly when they’d last sat down to talk. Senior year, graduation. Just before the ceremony was about to begin, Scott had walked right up to her, taken her hand, and led her to a bench on the quad. Her heart had pounded so furiously she was sure he could hear it.
But his stealing her away wasn’t quite as romantic as her imagination presumed. He thanked her for all the times she’d listened to him go on about school and Cathy and football. He thanked her, in his shy, stumbling way, for helping him with English. And then he said goodbye, even though it wasn’t even summer yet. He’d said goodbye like he wasn’t ever coming back.
Who would have guessed that nine years later they’d be sitting in the last empty booth at Zeke’s Place? That the afternoon sun would stream through the holes in the plastic window shades in such a way. That he’d look at her with the same friendly eyes. As she thought it, she realized with a start that his eyes weren’t the same at all. They were older, although not by much, but that wasn’t the thing. Her memory of that day in the quad was vibrant inside her, and the most vivid of the memories was the look of excitement in Scott’s eyes. A look that held every promise, a look a man might have just before a great voyage. Now, his eyes seemed dull, defeated. She hoped it wasn’t so. “You look tired.”
“I am.” He signaled the waiter, who came right to the table. “I’ll have a Corona.” He looked at Emily.
“Iced tea, please.”
The waiter nodded and left to get their drinks. Then it was just her, Scott and the butterflies in her stomach. Tired or not, he still did it for her. Did it in a major way. A small