Chapter 6 #3
Before Joan could answer, her sister piped up.
“Bonnie signed us up for the bowling league—that’s Mac’s sister.
We have a sisters’ team, just the four of us.
Joan’s a really good bowler, always has been.
” Candace clammed up after that, like she’d said too much, and quickly reached for her own glass before taking a hasty swig.
“Joan’s good at everything,” Brady said easily. “Well, except answering her texts and getting places on time.”
“That’s not true,” Mac argued, and honestly, it seemed like second nature with these two. “Joan is very punctual when she actually wants to go somewhere.”
Joan ignored this and proceeded to down a quarter of her beer.
A twinge of disappointment had me shifting uncomfortably on the wooden stool. Had her friends and family told her I was coming tonight? Was that why she didn’t want to be here?
“She’s also really bad at dealing with Eloise Carter,” Brady said helpfully, as if another of his sister’s weaknesses had just occurred to him.
“Yeah, but who can blame her?” Mac agreed. “Eloise is a hateful old bat.”
“Amen,” Mercer rumbled quietly.
“Oh, I know. Joan has terrible handwriting,” Brady remarked. “But I guess she makes up for that by being good at everything else.”
“Smart, athletic, hell of a farmer,” Mac chimed in.
“A beautiful singer, plays the piano like a dream, a good artist, an amazing cook,” Candace said, a small smile on her face as she listed off her sister’s attributes.
Eager to see Joan’s response to all this unsolicited positivity, I slid my eyes in her direction. She sat rigidly, her profile a painful outline as she stared into her glass, ears going suspiciously pink.
“Best fisherman I’ve ever met,” Brady offered. “Good with kids. Animals love her.”
Joan glanced my way so briefly I might have missed it, if I hadn’t already been watching her.
She cleared her throat, interrupting the others. “Alright, that’s enough listing my numerous virtues. We don’t have all night,” she said smoothly, no hint of the embarrassment I could see in the color climbing her cheeks.
“I want to play darts,” I announced, feeling a strangely protective urge to siphon away some of the uncomfortable attention on Joan. “Any takers?”
“I’m in,” Mac replied quickly.
Brady got to his feet. “Me too.”
The three of us made our way to the back of the bar. Brady introduced me to the men playing pool nearby. It seemed he knew nearly everyone inside Mattie B’s. Maybe that was a hazard of small-town life. Everyone knew everyone, and their business along with it.
Over the next hour, Brady and Mac taught me to play Cricket, with Mercer and Candace joining us in intervals. I spotted Joan at the bar chatting with Mattie.
I got invited to play pool and had a good time meeting other Kirby Falls residents. No one demanded selfies or autographs, but they asked about filming and my life in LA with a sense of wonder and curiosity that was refreshingly innocent, not attention hungry like I was used to.
It was nice. All of it. The laid-back atmosphere, the easy acceptance from people I didn’t know.
But whenever I caught sight of Joan chatting with various locals or sipping her drink next to Mercer or her sister, I wondered if my presence here chafed a little.
At a quarter to ten, I made my way over to the jukebox. I hadn’t seen one in years, and never one as old as this. I pressed the arrows to scan through the collection, the mechanical flip of the song lists a charming novelty in a time of playlists and internet radio.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” came a low voice from my side. I caught the hint of her scent—something subtle but fresh and verdant, like grass after it rained. “Pick the wrong song and all your new friends will turn on you.”
My mouth hitched up as I gave Joan my full attention. “Is that right?”
She nodded solemnly. “I once saw some out-of-towners—the Hixson cousins, I think—pick a song that made Mattie march right out from behind the bar and unplug the whole damn thing.”
“Wow.”
“I know. The Hixson cousins retreated in shame.”
“Did they paint a scarlet letter on their Patagonia fleece, too?”
Joan’s lips twitched before she could stop them. “Nah, but they only got served Coors Light for the rest of the night.”
I laughed, and Joan finally let herself smile.
Relief flooded me. I’d wondered if things would be weird between us since the NDA conversation this afternoon, and obviously, my presence here had been unwelcome. I didn’t want Joan to be uncomfortable around me, so I was happy she’d sought me out and was talking to me voluntarily.
I’d thought it might be different, seeing her like this, outside of the farm.
But as expected, she fit just as well here as she did in the fields.
Joan still looked like a farmer—worn jeans, a baby-blue flannel, work gloves forgotten and sticking out of her back pocket.
She wore her profession after hours as easily as a priest in his collar or a nurse in scrubs.
Joan looked so comfortable and casual that I envied her.
I’d stood in front of my closet tonight for an embarrassingly long time, trying to decide what to wear, what image to project.
I’d hoped to impress but not intimidate.
I wanted these people to like me, to know me.
For the first time in a long time, I was worried about what someone might think about Ian Wells instead of Dorian Masters.
So much of my life was planned and styled and arranged. In the end, I’d grabbed my favorite hoodie that I only wore at home and a pair of jeans that were comfortable and worn.
Earlier this afternoon, when Joan had asked who knew about my nephew, she’d brought up my friends back home.
I’d almost told her the truth, that I didn’t have close confidants back in LA.
There were acquaintances, sure. Peers and surface friendships, colleagues I grabbed drinks or dinner with on occasion.
But there wasn’t a single person I trusted with the knowledge that I was raising my nephew.
No one I felt safe enough to confide in.
Information was leveraged in Hollywood. The last close friend I’d had—a roommate from before I’d landed a single audition—sold his story to some shitty online magazine after my big break.
I’d seen other stories pop up over the years, from individuals in my hometown.
It helped confirm that distancing myself had been the right decision.
When I’d left Ohio behind, I’d put most of the people there in my rearview and never looked back.
So when Joan had asked about my friends, there hadn’t been a good answer—not one I’d wanted to own up to, anyway. What I did have was more loneliness than I cared to admit.
At times, I thought cutting back—taking on fewer roles—might benefit more than just Georgie. Eventually stepping out of the spotlight could make having relationships easier in the future. It was something I was considering more and more every day.
“Well, what would you suggest?” I finally said, indicating the list of songs from the brightly colored machine.
“That’s cheating,” she replied seriously, but her pretty blue eyes were amused. “You’ve got to sink or swim under your own weight.”
“No life preserver?”
A pause as she took a long sip of her beer—no pint glass this time. My eyes lingered on her full lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. As she tilted the beer higher, getting the last of it, the sleeve of her flannel slid down her forearm, revealing a friendship bracelet.
I’d seen beads like that before. There were hundreds of them currently scattered across the kitchen island back at the big house. But I didn’t take Joan for a jewelry wearer, even something as simple and innocent as a friendship bracelet.
Understanding hit me all at once, and I reached over to snag her wrist without thought.
“What are you—?” She cut off abruptly as I sifted through the plastic encircling her arm.
Apple Lady, plus a rainbow of colors that spelled out his affection.
Georgie had made a bracelet for Joan, and she was wearing it.
“He gave you this,” I said, and I could hear the wonder in my own voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “He just showed up with it.” The softness in her tone tugged at something in me. I could hear the gruff affection, the baffled amusement of a woman who seldom indulged in silliness or playfulness. But she had for my nephew.
Sophia had a couple of bracelets that she rotated out. Darren had one that he clipped to his keychain. Even Maggie Clark had been gifted a bracelet that read Baker Maggie. But Georgie hadn’t given one to me.
My laughter was a quiet, aching thing. Georgie had decided that Joan was the most amazing person he’d ever met.
And, seeing this side of her—the softness, the loyalty, the secret sweetness—that hid beneath a no-nonsense exterior, I thought, I probably agreed with him.
“It’s no big deal,” she claimed, as my fingers danced across the beads and her pale skin.
I met her gaze. “It is a big deal.”
My nephew had been through so much. His life wasn’t normal, and never would be.
I’d do whatever it took to make him happy.
My eyes lingered on the source of that happiness as she squirmed uncomfortably under my gaze.
I’d found that most people loved attention and praise, but really good people—the ones who deserved it—rarely liked to be acknowledged.
Suddenly, I realized I’d been rubbing my thumb back and forth over the soft skin of Joan’s inner wrist and froze my movements. Goose bumps rose over her flesh, and the awareness between us intensified to a dancing blaze.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Thank you for—”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Joan interrupted, her voice unexpectedly soft.
She shifted after a moment, drawing her arm back to her side, and ending the conversation. She made to gather her hair in a low ponytail and then released it, focusing instead on the jukebox.