Chapter Five Jack
Chapter Five
Jack
I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to live in the house I’m going to renovate while it’s happening. It seemed like a no-brainer: I’m a bachelor. No kids. I can easily rough it in an old house for a few weeks during the summer amid some construction.
Except for one problem: I forgot that I’m high maintenance. As in, I like to be comfortable and surrounded by things that make that outcome possible. I’m not twenty anymore—and it shows. I didn’t feel like putting up a fight with Zoe to get half of our things in the breakup, so I just took the stuff she didn’t want anymore and had it shipped in a pod to the new house, where it will live in the front yard until construction is complete.
So for now, I’m only moving a few basics into my rotten, crusty house and keeping everything to my bedroom while they renovate the living room, bathroom, and kitchen. (The bathroom will still be usable while under construction—it just won’t be pretty.) Once they begin work on my room, I’ll move my stuff into the living room and sleep there for a while. Shouldn’t be difficult since literally all I have right now is a desk and a very temporary twin-sized bed that I ordered online with next-day shipping. My clothes will remain in a suitcase.
I might as well be camping for how much I’m roughing it.
Darrell—my contractor—is stopping by later today so I can sign the contract, and then construction is set to start next Monday. I’ll have a functioning kitchen and walls that are not rotting around me in no time.
But today, I’m at the local market shopping for groceries that can be prepared without a kitchen. So far I’ve got crunchy peanut butter and bread. I take my grocery haul to the front of the store and silently unload all of my items onto the countertop. When I finally look up, I’m startled to find two people staring at me. An older woman, maybe in her early seventies, is behind the counter wearing a black dress with her gray hair tied back in a severe bun with skin so translucent I can see her blue veins. She’s watching me with an indistinguishable expression. And the other is a white middle-aged man with cargo shorts, rosy red cheeks, polo shirt, tall socks, and sneakers standing on this side of the checkout counter, leaned back against it, and surveying me openly.
“Hello,” I say hesitantly, because I am incredibly good at reading people’s moods—you can’t have a narcissistic father without becoming an expert in the art—but these people are giving out mixed signals. Almost looking like they want to talk to me but are equally concerned I might be about to rob the place. Have they seen the crunchy peanut butter? How threatening can a person be with a jar of peanut butter?
“Hi there.” The man’s eyes bob all over me, and then a small sad frown puckers between his brows. “I’m Phil—owner of the hardware store across the street. And this here is Harriet. She owns this market.”
“Nice to meet you both.” I’m still not sure what the weird vibes are about, but if there’s anything I’m excellent at, it’s winning someone over.
I smile and extend my hand to Phil because he looks like the kind of guy who would appreciate a nice firm handshake. My suspicions are confirmed when our hands meet and his eyes light up. “I’m Jack. I just moved into town, and I teach at the elementary school.”
“Oh, we know all about you, Jackson Bennett. Thirty-two years old, grew up in Evansville but just purchased Old Pete’s house. You’ve taught in the second grade alongside our Emily for the last three years, you drive a fancy-schmancy Land Rover, and your dad is the mystery writer Fredrick Bennett,” says Phil with startling accuracy.
Harriet is quick to add, “Don’t forget recently jilted by your bride. It’s really too bad.”
I try not to chafe at the (almost) thorough accounting of my life. Especially having my dad’s name dropped so casually into conversation. I knew word traveled fast around this town, but damn. I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow also know I’m Ranger. And is it just me or did Harriet definitely smile when she said it’s really too bad ?
Normally, this is where I’d say something polite and flattering (read: distracting) and then I’d get out of here before they have a chance to ask me anything personal. I’ve always felt uncomfortable being known. It’s why writing under a pseudonym has worked so well for me. But part of my great awakening in Nebraska was realizing that I’ve kept myself hidden too much. It’s a harrowing feeling to look around and realize you don’t have a single friend to turn to in a hard time. That’s when I thought of Rome again.
I was happiest teaching here in this town and had envied the tight-knit community they all seemed to have. Originally I stayed living in Evansville when Bart asked me to come teach at the school because that was where I’d always been and it seemed easier to commute than pick up my life and move it. Also, if I’m being honest it was so I could look out for my mom—be nearby if she needed me.
Diana, my mom, didn’t come from a financially stable home, and so when she and my dad got married at a young age, she felt like he’d rescued her. She’s never been an adult without him, and I think that’s made her feel dependent on him. Which in turn lets him get away with talking down to her, expecting her to be there for his every need, and shutting her out when he doesn’t like something she’s said. Basically treating her like dirt.
I learned early on that I can’t fight with my dad or expect him to learn from his mistakes. He’s not a gracious person. I have, however, learned how to manage him. From time to time my mom, who is sweet to her core, calls or texts me to come defuse his mood. I liked to be nearby when situations like that would arise.
And then I met Zoe, who in no way wanted to move to this small a town, so the idea completely fell to the back burner until I found myself at a crossroads. But now that I’m here, I want to really be here. I want to make an effort to be part of the community. (I’ll still go when my mom needs me, though. I’m used to the hour commute at this point.)
The other reason I’m not rushing to leave this conversation, though, is because there’s one part in particular in Phil’s speech that snagged my curiosity even more than the rest.
“Thank you for your sympathy,” I tell Harriet with a playful smile, letting her know I picked up on her distinct lack of it. “Is Emily related to you all?” I look to them both.
“No,” Phil says simply, arms folded and looking disinclined to expound.
“Oh. It’s just…you said our Emily.”
Unmistakable affection enters his eyes. “Emily was born and raised in this town. Her and each of her siblings. To those of us who have been here since their birth, those Walker kids are ours. Just not by blood.”
“Especially after their mama and daddy died when the kids were so little and Silvie raised them,” adds Harriet.
That’s…something I didn’t know. Her parents died when she was young? I’m assuming Silvie is Emily’s grandma, who died a few weeks before I left Rome. Or maybe not, since I only remember Emily taking one day off from work and then coming back like nothing ever happened. I assumed she wasn’t that close with her grandma, but then again, I know as much about Emily as she knows about me. A fact that’s oddly starting to bother me.
“And as such,” continues Phil, sucking in a deep breath and adjusting the belt around his waist before letting it out in a heavy sigh—and the belt once again disappears beneath his stomach, “I feel the need to inform you that our allegiance lies with Emily, no matter how polite you are.”
“I see.” Except I don’t. Not yet at least, but some sort of realization is definitely tingling on the edge of my awareness. “Well, loyalty is a wonderful character trait, and I could never fault you for that. Especially since you have great taste in socks.”
He beams just as expected. “No one ever comments on my socks except to say they’re dorky.”
I hike up the pant leg of my chocolate trousers to reveal yellow-and-white polka-dot crew socks. “I have an affinity for dorky socks.”
“Oh—I like those! I might need a pair.”
“I have a couple more just like these. Stop by my house sometime and I’ll let you steal a set.”
“Really? That would be—”
Harriet clears her throat and takes my peanut butter, scans it, and places it in a paper bag with the logo Harriet’s Market printed on the side. She glances meaningfully at Phil. “ Emily, ” she says with emphasis, “has always been faithfully loyal to us. And like Phil was trying to say, that loyalty isn’t going to be swayed by some big-city boy trying to infiltrate our sweet town like those gushy romance movies I see on TV.”
“Well—I wouldn’t call Evansville a big city by any means, but it does have a few large grocery stores.” And because I want to be part of this town, and want to establish some friendships, I pause and run a quick calculation of what would make Harriet happy to hear. “But none of them are as great as this place.”
Her eyes sparkle—I’ve struck gold. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. You have a much better selection. And so well organized. I had no trouble finding anything.” I’m not even lying—that’s the trick with getting people to like you. It’s not about making up shit, it’s having an eye to find the best parts of them to bring up. Paying attention to the small things. Yes, it is pretty exhausting, but in my experience worth it.
Harriet lights up. “It is the best market. I think the secret lies in all the little details like—”
Phil clears his throat. “ Emily has always known it was a good market too, bless her.”
At this point…I’m getting a kick out of hearing their praises of Emily. It’s clear that something specific has inspired this speech and I think I’m almost to the root of it.
“Yes, the dear girl. Even when she and I have butted heads in the past, she still came through for me and played Mary in my church’s Christmas play when Hannah-May got sick at the last minute.”
“That’s high praise. But really, there’s no need to worry about me trying to take her place in the Christmas play. I’m not really a churchgoer.”
Her eyes widen, and I think I’ve scandalized her, but instead, her eyes fly to Phil, and she looks oddly pleased. “Doesn’t go to church either!” She slaps the counter in an I’ll-be-damned sort of way.
He tsks. “I know, Harriet.”
I look around briefly, wondering if I’m being pranked somehow. I truly have zero idea what’s going on in this little market. “Do I have to go to church to live in the town?”
Phil laughs. “Goodness, no. The Walkers don’t go either.”
“We can thank Mabel’s rebellious influence for that one,” she tells Phil with a disapproving look in some sort of private conversation. She turns to me again and smiles, and then seems to remember something and drops to a more subdued look. “But you’re of course always welcome in our church. It’s the one up on the corner over the hill by the gas station with the logo of the hooker-looking lady in cowboy boots.”
“Those are some well-detailed directions.”
She nods. “First Church of the Nazarene Hills Beloved Assembly of Christ.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
“No one can decide on the denomination, and we didn’t want to leave anyone out. Which is why you’re absolutely welcome.” She pauses when Phil gives her a look. “But of course, you’ll have to sit in the back. Alone.”
This conversation has felt like the equivalent of swimming in the darkest part of the ocean and realizing I’m completely turned around with no surface in sight. Do they like me or do they hate me?
“I only recommend going to that church if you’re looking to be bored out of your damn mind,” says a scratchy voice from behind us. We all three startle. I look over my shoulder and find an older Black woman wearing a bright pink dress.
“Mabel…” says Harriet with a frightening glare. “What have I told you about cursing in my establishment?”
“That it’s strictly forbidden. Which honestly makes it a hell of a lot more fun to do, Harriet, so you have to quit bringing it up if you want me to stop,” she says, giving me a little wink. I like her.
“When’d you come in here? I never heard you,” asks Phil.
Mabel extends her foot between us. “New loafers. They’ve got those fancy memory foam insoles. Makes me stealthy as a cat so I can sneak up on Harriet and frustrate the shit out of her.” She grins. “Good for gathering gossip too.” She hitches her thumb in my direction. “It’s a shame about this one, huh?”
I open my mouth to ask what she means by that when Phil speaks up with a sad shake of his head. “Really is. I just know he’s over six foot too. Would’ve been perfect for her height.”
A new voice enters the mix. “Mabel, I swear to god, you have to quit spiking the tea at poker night,” says a dark-haired guy emerging from the aisle just behind us. Probably in his early thirties—he’s wearing jeans and a black short-sleeved tee. Flower tattoos wind all the way down his arm to a butterfly that’s inked on top of his hand. “I’m tired of waking up with a hangover.”
“I thought you were made of stronger stuff than that, William. Sweet tea just isn’t the same without a splash of Jack Daniel’s.”
“I’m pretty sure you mean Jack Daniel’s with a splash of sweet tea.”
Mabel waves dismissively. “Tomatoes potatoes.”
I’m in a conversational hurricane with no end in sight.
The guy turns to me and sticks out his hand. “Hi, I’m Will Griffin. Fellow Rome circus member.”
“Jack Bennett. Newest circus member, I guess?”
“Oh— you’re Jack,” he says, as our handshake finishes. “Sorry about the wedding.”
Was it printed in the damn paper or something?
But then he looks at the others and lifts his brows, joining their previous conversation like I’m not even standing here. “Pretty eyes and a good sense of fashion? It’s a damn shame.”
Okay, what the actual hell?
The group continues to size me up very openly, commenting on my features and personality (in a surprisingly complimentary way but almost like I’m…dead?). I tune out for a second, though, as I feel my phone buzz again and open it only to find a series of texts from my contractor who I’m supposed to meet with later today. (Note to self: There’s a bar of service right in front of the checkout counter.)
Darrell: Hi Jack. Sorry to do this so late in the game but the project I’m currently working on is running longer than anticipated.
Darrell: I’m not going to be able to take on your house next week after all.
I fire back a text.
Jack: That’s unfortunate. How much later are you anticipating the project running? It’s not ideal but I’m willing to wait and book you and your crew for when you’re finished with your current project.
Darrell: Well…actually…I can’t help you after this project either.
Huh. That’s concerning.
Jack: Do you mind if I ask why?
Darrell: Because I’m moving.
Darrell: To another country.
Darrell: Have a nice day. Sorry I can’t help.
I might have actually thought he was genuinely booked up until those last two texts. I clue back into the conversation around me right as I hear them speculating that I would have been a great resource for the local softball league too.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Okay, I’ll bite. Someone tell me what’s going on. Why are you all talking about me like I’m already one foot out the door when I just moved to town?”
Harriet’s lips press into a line. Phil’s gaze drops to his sneakers. Mabel elbows Will in the side. He grumbles a little but then looks at me. “We may or may not have been warned to give you the cold shoulder because there’s someone here who doesn’t want you sticking around…”
“ What? Who would do something so…” But then it all clicks into place, and I remember the little furrow between Emily’s eyebrows. All the comments about the town’s loyalty to her too.
Emily Walker, you sneaky, conniving…
My thoughts are interrupted when my gaze snags on the very woman in question as she’s passing in front of the market windows. I’m ready to meet her out there and let her have it, until I notice she’s wearing cutoff shorts that display her mile-long legs and a thin white tank top. Her golden hair is pulled back in a clip with her bangs wild around her face. She’s always so polished and professional at school but…this must be summertime Emily.
And before I realize it, I’ve been walking backward trying to keep sight of her until—
Bam.
I slam my back into a center display full of soup cans. It tumbles to the ground in a long slow slide of horrifically loud crashes. One after another in an onion soup avalanche.
Once the onslaught is complete and an awkward silence finally blankets the room, I look back at Phil, Harriet, Mabel, and Will. Their mouths are hanging open and I can practically see their feet itching to run and tell everyone they know about this.
Especially their ringleader: Emily.
“I’ll buy all of this right now if you swear not to tell anyone what just happened.”
Harriet nods.