Chapter 9 #2
And indeed, my job feels a little safer than it did just an hour ago. Tiffany really is just a fill-in. Who happens to look prettier than me right now, which apparently counts for a lot. But my hair will get longer and life will get back to normal then .
“You sound ... better,” he says. “Happier than when we last talked. Even before I told you about Tiffany.”
“Hold up there now, speedy. ‘Happier’ might be taking things too far. But ... I guess I am. Better. At least a little. I don’t know why.” Then I venture cautiously, “Um, by the way, how’s the diet?”
He laughs and says, “I’m starting tomorrow.”
When the rain finally ends nearly a week after it started, the sun comes out, white fluffy clouds recommence floating across a blue sky, and it feels a little like Lost Valley has just emerged from a dark cave back out into the light. People come outside.
I see Jo playing with a happy-looking Socks in the distance across the lake, and I spot Conrad heading out into the vines in rubber rain boots, which I suspect in this case are mud boots.
Grace is sitting on her front porch when I take her the mail, so I compliment the brown beans, and she again offers to make me some for dinner at her place.
I even see one of the neighbors from farther up the lane, a young mom out pulling a toddler in a wagon, and we introduce ourselves.
Me, I’m inspecting the petunias and just generally soaking up the sun.
Well, under my sun hat, that is. Safety first for us radiation patients.
But it’s still nice to be outside. I even find an old broom in the garage, now that it’s unlocked, and sweep the front porch to remove twigs and debris left behind by the wind.
The weeds in the flower bed have gotten bigger, and while this is no showplace, they don’t help.
Shouldn’t the cowboy next door be taking care of stuff like that along with the rest of the upkeep?
“Haven’t seen you out and about much lately.”
Think of the devil. For once, however, I don’t flinch at the sound of Matthew Cordray’s voice.
I just look up to find him crossing the yard toward me, his trusty Yorkie trotting along at his heels.
Today he’s in shorts and a maroon Eastern Kentucky University tee.
He needs to shave. And he’s got the dumb hat on, too, but I try not to hold that against him.
“It’s been raining. And I’ve been busy,” I tell him, halting my broom.
“With lost-and-found things?”
“No, just lost ones,” I say, feeling clever.
“Nah, somebody found ’em—now you’re findin’ ’em, too.”
This leads me to confess, “You’re right. I’ve had the same thought myself.”
“Anything interesting?”
As recently as a week ago, I would probably be glib and sarcastic, critical toward people who can’t manage to hold on to their photo albums and family Bibles—but I again let go of my tendency to act above-it-all with him, answering, “Yes, actually. It’s turned out to be a .
.. rather amazing collection of what matters to people. ”
He slants me a soft smile that reaches his eyes, which I would be able to see better if he’d lose the stupid hat. “Mabel would be pleased.”
I find myself laughing good-naturedly as it hits me for the first time: “I like how you shove all the responsibility of caring about this junk onto me, guilting me into it, when you could just as easily be the one to go through it all.”
He shrugs. “I have a job, responsibilities, a town to protect, a dog to parent.”
I give a playfully dismissive shake of my head, even if I think he’s kind of funny, and whereas I once wondered if he was laughing at me or with me, I now realize he’s okay with laughing at himself, too.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive your dog of quality time with you,” I tell him, “so I’ll just be over here in the lost-and-found salt mines, working away to make Mabel happy.”
Now he laughs, too—before saying, “I wouldn’t mind seein’ some of it. I mean, anything you think is worth showin’ me.”
I roll my eyes, but only teasingly. “So what you’re telling me is I can keep doing the grunt work, and you can reap the rewards of seeing the good stuff.”
“Somethin’ like that,” he admits.
“So how did Junior and the post office gang react to the news that the lost and found had been found?”
He holds up one finger. “Wait right here and I’ll show ya.”
I resume my sweeping as he and his dog return to the farmhouse. A minute later he comes back with what appears to be a newspaper and steps up onto the porch, handing it to me.
I glance down to see a header for the Lost and Found Chronicle . “You still read newspapers here?” I ask. I know they’re still around, but I can’t remember the last time I actually saw one.
“How else would we get the local news?” he replies in all seriousness.
“Oh yeah, I keep forgetting. It’s still the Dark Ages in this town.”
He reaches over to point at the top headline: Postmaster Barnett Vindicated in Disappearance of Lost Items . I skim the article, which gives a history and timeline of the lost-and-found collection, including the accusation after it went missing. My eyes quickly reach the last paragraph.
The missing items have been found on the premises of the late Mabel Callahan, though no explanation has been forthcoming as to how they got there.
Mr. Barnett says he plans to let bygones be bygones and proceed with his plans for an office now that this unfortunate incident has been settled and his name cleared.
“I bear no ill will to my accusers,” Barnett said on Thursday.
“That last part’s a lie,” Matt informs me with one arched brow.
Meeting his gaze, I remark, “I haven’t seen you out and about, either.” Ugh, why did I do that? It implies I was paying attention, maybe even looking, when I wasn’t.
“One of my deputies was on vacation for a few days. Had me pullin’ doubles.”
“Wow, that must be hard, eating twice the doughnuts.” Okay, apparently my sarcasm was only taking a short break.
He replies with, “Hey now—that’s uncalled for. We don’t eat doughnuts on the job in my department. Because we’d have to drive all the way to Hazard to get one.”
There he goes, laughing at himself again. It strikes me maybe I should try to do that myself more often. Though I’m not sure I even know how. I find myself asking him, “What do cops snack on here then?”
“You can get a pretty decent soft serve at the Last Chance Café. They’ll even dip it in chocolate if ya ask nice.”
“I probably won’t get that lucky,” I tell him. “I don’t think the waitress there likes me.”
“Joy Lynn?” he asks with a small grin. “Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t like much of anybody.”
“Then how do you get your cone dipped in chocolate?”
He shrugs. “Me she likes.” Then he winks and walks away, Goldie the Yorkie following.
And my head’s kind of swirling. I’m still holding his newspaper.
And did I just use a dipped cone as an unintentional metaphor for his penis?
Did he hear it that way, too? Please God, no.
And is he telling me he has a thing with Joy Lynn?
And why do I care? I mean, I don’t. In fact, I should be glad if that’s true because it indicates I’ve been misreading all his grins and winks and he’s not flirting with me at all. Which is what I want, right?
Absolutely right. Because I have no hair and I feel ugly and any sort of flirtation still seems to me like it’s just awkward and perhaps accompanied by pity. Plus he wears that stupid hat. Even with shorts, for heaven’s sake. What kind of cowboy wears shorts?