Chapter 5 #3
Unfortunately, over the course of the next hour, Charles and Peter found themselves at odds over pretty much everything.
Peter mentioned once the war was over, he hoped Sparkledove would get electric streetlights, but Charles proclaimed gaslights would be more aesthetically appropriate.
Peter spoke about how families were struggling financially, as loved ones went off to war and manufacturers cut back on everything that wasn’t related to the war effort.
By contrast, Charles spoke about how the Sparkledove Historical Society needed to impose higher fines on homeowners who weren’t keeping up with preservation.
The two even argued about what kind of pie was best for dessert.
Charles said pumpkin, while Peter claimed apple.
Their disagreements got so heated at times that it made Goldie feel uncomfortable.
But Stephie intervened again and again, like a referee at a sporting event.
Despite this constant difference of opinion, however, Goldie did learn about a schedule of events that she was supposed to cover for her article.
This included the lighting of the community Christmas tree, a tour of historical homes—all meticulously decorated—and she was also expected to judge a gingerbread house competition at a community dance.
Other events were happening as well between Thanksgiving and December 24th, and Stephie repeated the town’s unofficial theme that Sparkledove was indeed “The perfect place for Christmas.”
But by 6:10 p.m., Goldie decided the perfect place for her was out of the house.
The dinner was first-class, but she’d had enough of being polite, pretending to be someone else, and listening to the bickering Banyans.
Peter asked if she’d like to walk off her dinner with him escorting her home, and since it was a pleasant evening, she agreed.
She gave her thanks to Charles and Stephie, then thanked Lupe, asking her to also thank Margarita in the kitchen.
After she and Peter slipped on their coats, they left the house and started to head back to her hotel.
The three-minute car ride was about a ten-minute walk.
“I’m sorry,” Peter began, once they were outside the wrought-iron gate, “that my father and I got so testy with one another. I guess you’ve figured out we’re rather like oil and water.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” she lied.
He smiled. “I’m also sorry about my mother’s not-so-subtle remark about you making a good reporter and working at my newspaper. Had you taken that bait, she would’ve had us engaged by the time we had pie.”
“Yeah, but that would’ve been a disaster because you like apple, your dad likes pumpkin, and I’m more of a cherry girl.”
“Anyway, thanks for being tolerant.”
“It’s okay. Families. We love ‘em, but we love to argue with ‘em even more.”
“Right,” he agreed. “At least, me and my father.”
They continued walking in silence for a few moments, then Goldie’s curiosity got the better of her.
“So, why was your mom trying to fix you up? You don’t look like you need any help in that department.”
“Thanks… she and my father married young, and she thinks I’m getting past my prime. It’s just the difference of generations.”
“Got it.”
“Plus, she hasn’t seen any eligible local young ladies she thinks are good enough for me.”
“Really?”
“I’m an only child, so I deserve nothing short of royalty,” he kidded. “Princess Elizabeth, at the very least.”
“You mean Queen Elizabeth?”
“Princess Elizabeth,” he corrected.
“Oh… right,” she remembered. “She wouldn’t be queen yet.”
“What about you?” he asked. “I heard what you said to my folks about traveling, but there’s got to be more to the story than that. Why hasn’t a looker like you been snatched up?”
“Actually, I was snatched for a long time… but he recently decided he didn’t want me anymore. Like, real recently.”
Peter looked her over. “Then he’s a fool.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured that, too,” she grinned.
As they turned onto River Street and continued walking, Goldie determined that not only was Peter good-looking, he had charm to spare.
She asked how he had gotten into the newspaper business, and he talked about his love of writing and how he hoped to pen a novel someday.
But in the meantime, he also liked that his writing informed a local community and helped people make better decisions about their lives.
Even if those decisions were about something small, like the potholes on Fox Cross Way.
She had to admit, she liked Peter Banyan.
He was, so far, one of the best things about her new, displaced life.
As they strolled by cross street after cross street down the main thoroughfare of town, she looked to her right and saw Sheriff Johnson, his friend Stu Frey, and several other people going into a small Catholic church carrying packages and bags of one kind or another.
She figured it was some sort of Thanksgiving service and decided, after Peter had dropped her off back at the hotel, she might keep her coat on, wait a couple of minutes in the lobby, then walk back to the church.
After all, it was early in the evening, and what else was there to do?