I sighed.
Yeesh
. I must have been bad off, if even Mags noticed. Of course, that realization only intensified my need to deny everything.
“
I don
’
t need to be fixed. I
’
m fine. I like my life. I
’
m not depressed.
I do
n
’
t even miss Peter all that much any more, and I do not need to Fly.”
Silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at me. A bird chirped in the distance. I heard a kid ring the bell on his bike a block down the street. The thing about silence is that if I
’
m not in
charge of it, I end up talking, typically not to my benefit.
“
Everything is fine. I enjoy my work. I have friends.”
I swallowed. “
I...I...I go out for pizza on Fridays with the rest of the English department. I
’
m thinking about getting a cat...
”
One toke
over the line. Vera
’
s eyes widened measurably. Bev shifted victoriously in her seat; the prosecution rests. Mags sighed, her face registering deep concern.
“
Portia,”
she said, leaning forward, her hands clasped together over her knees like a guidance couns
elor trying to get through to the most hopeless case in the graduating class. “
Sometimes a person might think she
’
s okay when really she
’
s not, and she needs a family who loves her to tell her what she needs.”
I stared at her, my face contorting. “
What the
hell are you talking about?”
Vera leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “
I think what she
’
s saying is that we love you, and if we think this Flyer might be good for you, then maybe you could just try it to see if it helps you some. What have you got
to lose, really?”
“
My dignity. My sense of self-respect. My autonomy over my own life.”
They stared at me.
Bev rocked back in her chair, impatient. “
You been up north too long, child.”
I sighed. “
I
’
m fine. I don
’
t need to be fixed.”
“
Yes. You
’
ve said that.
”
Bev stood up, the rocker creaking behind her. “
I, for one, am almost certain it won
’
t kill you to have a damn drink with this Flyer. And it occurs to me that between your mother, your aunt, and myself, we have a fair amount of life experience and just m
i
ght understand some things you don
’
t.”
She walked to the front door and opened it before turning back to me to give her final word. “
And you
’
re
not
getting a cat.”
Chapter Two
“
Portia Fallon!”
I stepped one strappy-shoed foot on the back lawn and fell right into the waiting arms of Marge Whitfield. The stiletto heels sank into the soft ground, and I wondered how Mags could stand the damn things. I
’
d argued against wearing them, but after a day
o
f coercive primping, the only battles I
’
d won were against sparkly eye shadow and contact lenses that would have made my understated hazel eyes a neck-throttling shade of green.
“
It is so good to have you back home,”
Marge said, linking her arm enthusiasti
cally through mine. “
I hear you
’
ll be running the Page now? I
’
m so glad. We
’
ll have to get you and Freddie together for lunch sometime.”
Ah. Marge
’
s son, Freddie. Lost a leg drinking and driving in the tenth grade. The last report I
’
d gotten about Freddie
was that he hurt the good leg trying to kick a Three Musketeers bar out of the vending machine at the Truly Laundro-Matic. I smiled diplomatically.
“
Well, I
’
m just out here for the summer, and you know how busy the summers are.”
I glanced around. The lawn
was filled with people I hadn
’
t seen in ages. My high school math teacher, Mr. Ryan. The Feeney twins, who ran the Gas
’
n Sip out on River Road. Pearl McGee, who had cut my hair every six weeks from birth to high school graduation. All smiling, all with a
little more gray or a little more belly, but otherwise contributing to the Brigadoon mystique. There was only one face I didn
’
t recognize, a tall man standing near the maple tree toward the back, flanked on either side by Mags and Vera. He was wearing a w
h
ite button-down shirt with tan pants and smiled benevolently as Mags held him conversational hostage.
Ian Beckett. Had to be.
I sipped the glass of wine Marge had shoved into my hands and listened to her updates. Mark Feeney had gotten married; Greg Feeney
had gotten divorced. Pearl McGee
’
s cousin died and left her a small fortune, but she still worked at the salon on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I let my eyes drift over to Ian Beckett. At that same moment, his eyes drifted toward me. We caught each other
’
s gaz
e
for a minute, and each of us smiled before looking away. Seventh grade redux.
“
And there
’
s a novelist
—”
I held up my hand and silenced Marge. “
I know. Trust me. I
’
ve heard about the novelist.”
Marge linked her arm in mine and leaned her head conspiratoria
lly.
“
You know, he
’
s very reclusive. Staying at the Babb farm, and people hardly see him except at the Piggly Wiggly, and then only on the rare occasion.”
I raised my glass to my lips. “
Well, you know writers.”
“
Not as well as you do, from what I hear.”
I
shot her a glance, and she backpedaled. “
Oh, I
’
m sorry, sweetheart. I wasn
’
t thinking. I just find it…
interesting...that of all the places our mysterious novelist might show up, he shows up here.”
I gave her a black look. “
Have you ever tried to argue wit
h the Mizzes?”
Marge laughed. “
I think you mig
ht have a point there, darlin
’
. Why don
’
t you come on over with me? I
’
ll introduce you.”
Mags and Vera had been tossing me anxious glances since I
’
d stepped out of the house. Bev watched from the liquor table,
about twenty feet away from where I stood, eying me as if to say,
Hurry up, darlin, we can
’
t hold him much longer.
I sighed. Time to bite the bullet.
“
That
’
s okay, Marge,”
I said, not wanting my inevitable humili
ation to be witnessed at close range by any more people than absolutely necessary. “
I
’
m just going to say a quick hello to appease the Mizzes.”
I stepped away and forced myself to hold my head up and smile as I took my tattered dignity and walked it right
over to its doom.
“
Portia,
darlin'
,”
Vera said, linking her arm through mine as though to anchor me to the spot. “
You just have to meet our new friend.”
“
Yes,”
Mags piped in. “
Ian, this is my daughter, Portia Fallon. She
’
s an English professor at Syracuse
University.”
“
Uh, actually, I
’
m assistant teaching while finishing up my Ph.D.,”
I corrected tightly.
“
Let me get you a fresh beer, Ian,”
Vera said, snatching his half-empty beer bottle before he could respond. She winked at me and retreated so fast I coul
d almost hear a whistle. I felt my face flush. These two were about as subtle as a train wreck, and Ian
’
s kind smile only fueled my embarrassment.
Mags squeezed my arm, pulling me a touch closer to Ian. “
Portia, this is Ian Beckett. He
’
s a novelist. From L
ondon.”
“
Hi, Ian,”
I said, extending my hand. He took it in his,
which was gloriously cool against the oppressive summer heat. His brown eyes locked on mine, and his smile had a flavor of camaraderie to it.
Don
’
t worry,
it said.
Were in this together.
“
Nic
e to meet you,”
he said. His voice was like coarse sandpaper, softened and complemented by the accent.
Hoo boy.
I released my grip on his hand and tilted my head, putting my back up against the plan I
’
d been mapping out all day while the Mizzes fluttered a
round me with mascara wands and curling irons. There was a brief moment of weakness, when I thought about actually buying into the Mizzes
’
theory on Flying, but I took a deep breath and stiffened my resolve. Soft brown eyes be damned. Sweet British accent,
get thee gone. If I
’
d learned anything during my time with the Mizzes, it was that following their advice was a bad idea.
“
Ian Beckett,”
I said thoughtfully. “
I
’
m afraid I haven
’
t heard the name. What kind of novels do you write?”
He paused before respond
ing. “
You don
’
t know?”
I shook my head. “
I
’
m sorry, no. But that doesn
’
t mean much. I
’
m a Lit geek. Most of the people I read are dead.”
I gave a choppy laugh at the tired joke. It was the socially inept laugh of an academic, and to my horror, it came out
accompanied by a small snort. Ian raised one eyebrow and I felt my face flare up. I could only hope that Mags
’
s generous application of rouge would disguise the real flush.
“
Oh, Portia, honey,”
Mags said, checking her watch with a flourish. “
I need to chec
k on the food, make sure we
’
re not running out of anything.”
She winked at Ian. “
You two should have plenty to talk about.”
She turned and headed away toward the food table, which was stocked to the hilt. I looked over at Bev, who widened her eyes in exasp
eration and gave me a subtle shoofly wave with her fingers.
Get on with it, girl.
I turned back to Ian.
“
So, you
’
re renting the Babb farm, I hear?”
“
Yes,”
he said. “
The seclusion makes it much easier for me to write.”
“
You
’
re writing a book this summer?”
“
That was the idea.”
Silence. Then Ian inhaled sharply and said, “
You really don
’
t know me, then?”
I shook my head. “
No. I
’
m sorry. Should I?”
“
No,”
he said. His smile relaxed. “
If death is your prerequisite for reading someone, I
’
m quite happy to be off th
at list.”
I laughed; a nice normal laugh. “
It
’
s not exactly a prerequisite. I mean, my ex-boyfriend was a novelist, and I read his stuff, and he
’
s very much alive.”
“
I
’
m glad to hear it.”
Our eyes locked. His smile snaked up on one side before the other an
d it drew my attention away from holding my balance in the damned heels. My ankle flipped inward and I stumbled to the side. Ian
’
s hand was on my elbow in an instant.