Chapter 17
Seventeen
Did girl just ask preacher out on a date?
Jack
Dixie’s text is pretty obvious. Right? It’s a date.
The dinner-and-a-movie kind of date, not the fruit.
Is she hoping that this is a date? Am I?
It’s only been a handful of days (twenty if you’re counting) since Dixie and I met, the night we dueled on the karaoke stage and she went home with me.
Other than our kissing, she hasn’t hinted that she wanted more than friendship.
But kissing’s a big clue, right? It’s just that, since she’s my houseguest with nowhere else to go, asking her out is inappropriate.
I’m afraid she’ll feel uncomfortable or as if she can’t say no.
Please choose us, Dixie. It’s okay to like me.
Not that Dixie gives two shits about saying no.
She uses the word all the time. But still.
Still.
Are our kisses a hint? A flat-out admission?
She’s killing me. After I kissed her and walked away, I’ve kept myself busy doing preacherly things.
This means I check on the roof (still full of holes).
Touch bases with Deacon about the van parts (still in Mexico).
Write a sermon and draft the church budget for the coming year.
Try, and fail, to find cash for the roof.
You’d think Dixie would be glad to have me out of her hair, but she’s crankier than Georgia Peach.
I’ve also been pulled aside multiple times by people who feel called to express their concern for me.
Do I believe cohabitating with Dixie is a good idea?
Can she stay somewhere else? Am I aware that people are talking? What about that SONG?
The answers to these questions are no, no, yes, and my best blank face.
And yeah, I’m uncomfortable with the attention we’re drawing, but that feeling fades real fast. Then I look at her and she snarks at me.
Smiles or sings or just kind of breathes in my general vicinity.
And I know I like that way more than people’s good opinions.
I think she likes me. She’s just allergic to having emotions.
So while I’m waiting for her to come around to having me around, I put in a lot of hours in my office.
It’s made me super productive. The budget’s done, for example, so I’ve got plenty of time to watch the steady drip from the ceiling into the bucket on the corner of the desk.
Thanks to all the rain we’ve been having, it’s more than half full.
You could even say that my cup overfloweth.
I give YouTube a shot, in case roofing can be picked up from online videos, and watch a promising video of a twenty-something couple who bought a Victorian villa in Wales.
They don’t have a ton of cash, so presumably they’re DIY fixing the holes in the villa’s roof.
Based on their drone shots, that roof is missing a significant number of shingles.
I also half-heartedly google Episcopalian ministers in Wales.
Turns out there aren’t any job openings for me in Wales, but my roofing-related concerns must go out to the universe like a bat signal because my phone buzzes with a call from Ted, my wanna-be roofer.
“Look,” he says when I answer, “I’m gonna level with you. I’ve got three other jobs lined up. My crew has a window to work on your roof, but if I don’t have a yes from you by the end of next week, I’ve got to move on.”
I pinch my forehead. This works for people in books but does nothing to alleviate my stress headache. “I understand. Believe me, I’m trying. We’re still short on the fundraising, and—”
Ted sighs. Loudly. He’s a bit of a drama queen. “I get it. I do. But I can’t float this job on a handshake and a prayer. Materials have gone up, and I’ve people to pay. You want the roof done, I need a deposit and a start date. No hard feelings if it’s a no—just tell me.”
“It’s not a no. It’s a not yet. I’m working on it. We’ve got a talent show coming up—”
He doesn’t even try to hold back his snort. It’s insulting. “Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“You really think a talent show’s gonna make you forty grand in cash?”
The grand prize is fifty, but I know better than to tell him that. The price of my new roof will shoot up 10K. “I think it’s our best shot.”
“Jack.” More sighing. It’s gustier than the Atlantic in a hurricane. “I want you to get your miracle. I’m praying on it hard. But you’ve got until Friday of next week. After that, I’m booking those other jobs and we’re busy for the next six months.”
I send up a quick prayer of my own and thank Ted for his patience. “I appreciate it.”
“Alright,” he says, then bellows something about that is NOT a ladder and OSHA’s gonna kill me and then I’ll be resurrected on the last day and I’ll kill you.
I forbear from pointing out that traditional Christian dogma does not suggest that resurrected people get to indulge their murderous impulses on the still living. “Sorry. What were we saying?”
“That I’ll commit by next Friday.” I thank him again and hang up. I have a maybe-date with Dixie to prepare for.
* * *
Dixie’s sprawled on her back on the porch, one knee bent across the other, wearing worn-out blue jeans and a soft flannel shirt that looks suspiciously like one of mine.
The heel of her cowboy boot taps to a melody only she can hear and I’m sure it’s a lively one.
Her hair’s come loose from whatever she did to it earlier, falling around her face like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I’d like to join her. Let’s lie here and you can tell me about your day!
I’m not sure she knows it’s six o’clock.
“Ready?” I ask. Only when she startles do I realize she has earbuds in.
“Jesus, Jack.” She gives me an upside-down glare. “Don’t scare a girl.”
I know better than to tell her she can do whatever she wants with me, so I tell her instead that we need to get going and then wait as she swaps out the flannel for a jacket.
As soon as we’re in the truck, she puts the radio on with a not-so-sotto-voce comment (A radio, Jack?
Are we reliving the 1950s?) and then sings along for the entire thirty-minute ride to the county fairground.
I know she’s not a fan of talking and that she prefers to save her words for songs.
Going by the town’s reaction, she’s done that a little too much already, but I can’t help wishing that we could turn the music off and talk to one another.
I know it will be okay if she just lets me have a chance.
Still, the February Frost Fair’s promising.
The air smells like fried dough and hay bales, wood smoke drifting from the barrel fires scattered among the red barns and twinkling pavilions.
Despite the February chill, every single person we met is aggressively enthusiastic about the competitor choir’s upcoming performance—Pine Grove Baptist has been practicing since Thanksgiving and this is their big dress rehearsal before the regional competition.
I feel Dixie’s tension, and it’s so hard not to tell her that I don’t really care if we win or lose. What I want is to spend time with her.
We’ve got time before the performance, so we walk around the fairgrounds. Couples stroll hand in hand past booths selling hot cider and mittens, while kids run around with bags of kettle corn. String lights hang overhead, and someone’s tuning a fiddle near the craft barn.
We don’t exactly blend in. There’s plenty of side-eye from the locals. Word’s gotten around that the preacher from Wickham Hollow brought his “city girl,” and in a place where everyone’s business is, well, everyone’s business, we stick out like Christmas ornaments in July.
I should have got us matching T-shirts: NOT A DATE. Or maybe: THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE. Even with a foot of space between us, people keep looking. I’ve never minded before, but I live in a fishbowl. Is this okay, Dixie?
She notices because she wrinkles her nose, which is, all things considered, a pretty mild response from her. “This is a whole other level of stardom, Preacher.”
It’s something alright. “There’s no such thing as a stranger in a small town.”
She laughs. “Or secrets, if you believe Netflix.”
Her smile makes me feel better. She doesn’t totally hate this.
I can deal with the staring, but she deserves a great night.
She’s just visiting (and down on her luck).
She doesn’t need their intrusive interest in her life.
No staring. Yeah, I’m doing a little of that myself. Looking at her. Stealing glances.
She looks good. Really good. Bright in a way that makes everything else fade out a little.
Her jeans fit her just right, and that brown duster coat she’s wearing swishes when she walks.
The coat ends in a waterfall of ruffles and she’s wearing a dark brown cowboy hat and leather boots, none of which have seen a day of ranch work.
It’s like she stepped out of a country music video.
She’s glamorous in a way I will never, ever be.
“So, what’s the plan?” She buries her nose in her scarf like we’re heading into a blizzard. Must be cold, though it feels fine to me. “When do we get our espionage on?”
I point to a nearby poster. “Show starts in ten minutes. We can grab seats or stand.”
When she glances at the fried dough stand, though, I slow down and get in line. The pink-and-white sign’s promising SUPERSIZED something, and the smell of hot oil is hard to resist.
Dixie raises an eyebrow at our detour but doesn’t complain. I wonder if she’d take the same approach to other things. Like kissing.
I think about that more than I should while I hand over cash for a greasy paper plate of fried dough. It’s already covered in powdered sugar, but Dixie’s a more kind of person and heads straight for the condiment table. She dumps on more sugar until the thing’s buried in white powder.
She laughs when it gets all over her hands and brushes it off like it’s nothing. Doesn’t bother her to get messy.
“Bite?” She holds the plate up, daring me.