Chapter 5 #2
“Emma. Carbury. Sunday. The breakfast table isn’t the place to talk about your brother’s bone-throwing,” Drew scolded, nearly making me choke on my first sip of coffee. Then he added pointedly, “Or really long-standing lack thereof.”
“Enough,” Webb said firmly. “Katey’s a great person, but there’s no chemistry there. Also, she strikes me as the marrying type, and I am never getting married again. Been there, done that.”
Hmm. Katey was pretty, if you were into sassy blondes. I wondered why there was no chemistry.
I wondered who he did find attractive.
And then I wondered why the hell I was wondering, ’cause it was sure as heck none of my business.
“Morning, Sundays.” Jack Wyatt, the owner of the diner, clapped Webb on the shoulder in greeting. His eyes sparkled with humor as he turned to me. “Luke.”
“Oh, God.” Webb rolled his eyes grumpily. “Just say it.”
“Say what?” Jack was a picture of innocence.
“Whatever the hell’s got you wearing that constipated goldfish expression. Go on.”
Jack spread his hands innocently. “It’s called a smile, Webb.
Can’t a man just be happy? It’s a bright, sunny morning.
My friends and neighbors are gathered under my diner’s roof.
Helena Fortnum and her friends are staging a topless knit-in down at town hall today because they feel the mayor’s not taking their concerns about the development seriously.
Topless octogenarian knitters, Webb. So much to be happy about. ”
Webb lifted an eyebrow. “You’re a strange, strange man.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Okay, I also might have just heard a rumor a little while ago that a pair of handsome gents—including my own best friend—were causing a ruckus on the common last night.” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet like a little kid.
“Jesus, you’re the worst gossip ever. Luke and I had a couple drinks and watched hockey. That’s all,” Webb scoffed.
“Together?” Drew looked between us delightedly. “So you two have buried the hatchet?”
“Better than that.” Jack wiggled his eyebrows. “I heard they were blowing each other’s bugles right on the town common.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Webb scoffed.
“Don’t be silly!” I said at the same time, inadvertently making our denials sound very… rehearsed.
Webb shot me a dark look, but the eye roll he directed at Jack was light and easy. “Luke and I happened to be at the Bugle at the same time. We… talked.”
“Resolved some misunderstandings,” I elaborated.
“Yeah. Had a drink or two, possibly three—”
I nodded. “And watched the game. The Habs lost.”
“In the end, we realized that there was no good reason for us not to be friends, so we… we declared our friendship. Didn’t we?” Webb gave me a significant look.
“Yes, indeed. That’s exactly how it happened. Precisely as I remember it,” I confirmed.
“Declared your friendship?” Jack repeated slowly. He cocked his head. “What, like, verbally? In the bar?”
“Er, no. More like…” I cleared my throat softly. “Musically. On the common.”
Webb huffed out a single breath of startled laughter, and his eyes regained a touch of the warmth they’d held the night before. “I only remember bits and pieces.”
“Same!” I grinned, relieved. “I was worried there was something worse, but if you don’t remember anything, then probably—”
I broke off as the diner door flew open and a group of chattering Hollowans—I guess we’re using this word now—crowded inside, led by none other than Mayor York himself.
“They’re over here, Ginny!” the mayor called excitedly, pointing at the back of the restaurant.
Pointing at… me.
“The fuck?” Webb seemed just as confused as I was and looked twice as scowly about it.
A thirty-something woman carrying an old-fashioned reporter microphone and a man with a video camera jostled through the crowd, and the mayor directed them to the area right in front of our table. He bumped a protesting Jack aside and took his spot.
“How’s this?” he asked the cameraman. “Do you have a good angle of the happy couple? What about me?” He ran a hand over his hair.
The cameraman gave him a thumbs-up.
“Looking great, Uncle Ernie!” the reporter assured him. She turned to Webb and me and whispered, “You two. Try to look a little more besotted, okay?”
Besotted? What?
But she’d already turned back and smiled broadly at the camera. “Good morning. This is Genevieve York-Muller reporting from the town of Little Pippin Hollow, with a heartwarming story of true love and the charming practice of handfasting—”
I looked to Drew and Marco. “Oh my gosh! Did you guys get handfasted? Congratulations!”
Marco shook his head resolutely. “Hell no. I’m not into kinky stuff.”
Webb poked the mayor in the back. “Mayor York, what’s this about?”
The mayor slapped his hand away.
“It’s fine, Uncle Ernie,” the reporter told the mayor.
“We’ll cut the interruptions in editing.
” She shook her hair back, fixed her smile in place once again, and continued in a hushed-excited voice, “Handfasting, which can be a form of commitment prior to marriage, much like a betrothal or an engagement—”
“Ohhhh, that kind of handfasting,” Marco said.
“—may have fallen out of practice in modern times throughout much of the world, but in this pristine hamlet, the tradition is alive and well, thanks to a law that was written nearly three hundred years ago and a very special brass bugle that dates back to the Revolutionary War!”
The reporter made a slicing motion across her throat. “M’kay. That’s where we’ll shift to the B-roll. Your turn, Uncle Ernie. Go ahead.”
“Right, yes.” The mayor cleared his throat and gestured to a woman in the crowd. “Dora? Honey, where’s my scroll?”
The mayor’s wife hurried over, bearing a two-foot-wide scroll on a velvet pillow.