Chapter 9
Ben hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. He’d tossed and turned and eventually gotten up and powered on his laptop,
trying to find something interesting to watch. But the whole time he just kept thinking about her standing there, in front
of him, in that damn nightgown, so close he could have reached out and touched her.
He hadn’t. He’d never touched her. He’d wanted to so many times before, but he never, ever acted on it. He couldn’t imagine
how she would have reacted—his outgoing, popular neighbor in high school, and him, the scrawny, insecure boy with whom she’d
been forced into friendship by her grandmother. Ten minutes in Clay Creek, and that was all it took for all those memories
to come flooding back.
He hadn’t really gained any confidence at all in himself until the summer before his sophomore year in college. And although
he knew it didn’t happen overnight, it felt like he just woke up one day good-looking. Where he’d been tall and lanky before,
he was broad and toned now. His jawline was defined. When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. Women stared
at him in his classes and at the coffee shop where he worked on the weekends. He got phone numbers when he went to bars, and
he even rushed a frat.
His first few years in college had been nothing short of amazing. He’d learned about more than just economics. Now, most of the time, he felt confident in who he was, and it wasn’t just because he’d finally grown into himself. It was because somewhere along the way, Ben figured out who he was. And who he was now was just about as far away from who he’d been in Clay Creek as a person could get. Maybe that’s why he and Mylie lost touch. Maybe it was his fault. He’d become someone else.
Ben looked around his grandfather’s house and tried not to groan. He was on his own in deciding what sold with the house and
what didn’t. He didn’t think his mother understood how hard it would be for him to be back in this house, alone, after all
these years. He missed her. He missed his grandfather. Since his mother’s death, he’d put his studies into overdrive, so he
didn’t have to think about or feel anything. Now he was here with virtually nothing to do but pick at the remains of his former
life and wait for the house to sell.
There wasn’t much, if any, work that needed to be done. The house was kept in shape by a management company. When repairs
were necessary, they sent a bill, and his grandfather had provided for years’ worth of upkeep in his will. They’d even updated
the interior a few times before the summer rush of tourists, to rent the place out. Overall, it was a lovely house, and anyone
would be lucky to live there. When he’d spoken to the Realtor earlier that morning, he’d been informed that he should be as
ready as he could be for potential buyers. The only upside to that news was if the house sold quickly, he’d be on his way
home to Chicago in no time at all.
Ben was just about to make a trip to the grocery store to fill the old refrigerator when the doorbell rang. Through the living
room window, he could see a woman he vaguely remembered standing on the front porch, a Pyrex dish in her hands.
He opened the door and smiled at the woman, trying to place her. “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, Benjamin, you silly thing!” the woman said. She handed him the dish. “It’s me! Mrs. Ship! Your Sunday school teacher!”
Ben squinted. His mother had taken him to the Presbyterian church a few times the year they’d moved to Clay Creek. It was
the only time in his life he’d ever been to church, and that was only at his grandfather’s insistence, much like the failed
Boy Scout attempt the following summer.
“Yes,” Ben said finally. “I do remember you. How are you, Mrs. Ship?”
He didn’t actually remember her, but he had a hazy memory of someone who looked at least a little like the woman standing
in front of him.
“Oh, I’m just fine,” she said, grinning at him. “When I heard you were back in town, well, I had to come and see for myself.
And I figured a young man like you wouldn’t have a stitch of food in the house, so I baked my famous green bean casserole.
Just heat it up for about twenty minutes in the oven at three seventy-five, and ta-da!”
Mrs. Ship stared at Ben expectantly.
“Thank you!” Ben replied, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “I, uh, love green bean casserole.”
“I was so sorry to hear of your mama’s passing,” Mrs. Ship said. “We... all of us over at Bethel Presbyterian were.”
“Thank you,” Ben replied. “I appreciate that.”
“Now, tell me,” Mrs. Ship continued. “Are you married? Do you have yourself a family back in Chicago?”
Ben looked down at the dish in his hands and then up at Mrs. Ship. “No,” he said slowly, confused.
“So, you’re single?”
“I am.”
Mrs. Ship’s grin broadened. “Do you remember my daughter, Lucy? She was just a few years younger than you in school—real sweet girl. Played the trombone in the band?”
Ben didn’t remember. He hadn’t been in the band. “I’m sorry,” Ben replied. “I don’t think I do.”
Mrs. Ship’s face fell.
“But I’m not very good with names,” Ben said hastily. “So, that’s probably why.”
“Lucky for you I have her picture right here!” Mrs. Ship said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and scrolling for so long
that Ben thought maybe she’d forgotten he was standing there.
“Here we are,” she said finally. “Look at her. Isn’t she just gorgeous? Surely you remember her.”
Ben looked at the picture. He didn’t remember her, and he was becoming increasingly confused about why this woman he barely
knew was standing on his porch at one o’clock in the afternoon asking if he remembered her daughter. Maybe the fastest way
to get her to leave was to just pretend like he knew her.
“Oh, yes, Lucy ,” Ben said. “Of course I remember her.”
Mrs. Ship beamed. “I knew it!”
Ben continued to smile, but his hands were getting tired of holding the dish. “Well,” he said. “Thank you again for this.
I appreciate you thinking of me.”
Sensing her time was running short, Mrs. Ship grabbed Ben’s forearm admiringly. “Honey, a good-looking man like you shouldn’t
be without a woman to cook for him. My Lucy is single, too, and she’s just the best cook in town, aside from me, of course.
Would you like her number?”
“I, uh...”
“Listen,” Mrs. Ship said, touching his arm. “I could just send her over with lunch one afternoon. Are you going to be at the
town clinic?”
“Clinic?”
“Well, I heard the clinic downtown was looking for another doctor,” Mrs. Ship said. “Of course, we could always use another
practice in town.”
Now it made sense. Mrs. Ship thought he was a medical doctor. The rumor mill in town had missed one crucial piece of information.
Everyone heard doctor and just assumed he was coming back to town to take up where his grandfather left off all those years ago. Mrs. Ship was hoping
to marry her daughter off to a successful doctor, when the reality was that he would be lucky to make his student loan payment
when and if he ever secured a job teaching.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Ben began. Before he could finish, two cars pulled up, one right after the other.
Two more vaguely familiar women stepped out, one of them carrying a picnic basket and the other a Pyrex dish just like Mrs.
Ship’s.
Mrs. Ship turned around to glare at them, but her tone was dripping with honey. “Hello, ladies,” she said. “Benjamin and I
were just discussing my Lucy.”
“Oh, Lucy’s just the sweetest,” one of the women replied. “And that little boy of hers, just a lamb, don’t you think so, Candy?”
The second woman, who was apparently Candy, nodded. “Yes, just a lamb. You know, I’ve been begging Lilly to give me grand-babies
for years, but she’s just not ready.” She leaned in closer to Ben and whispered loud enough for all four of them to hear,
“She wants to wait for marriage, you know. She’s a traditional girl.”
Beside him, Mrs. Ship made a wheezing sound through her nostrils. “It’s too bad that boy from Rockbridge left her at the altar.
They would have made you lovely grandchildren.”
The three women stared at each other in what could only be described as the politest standoff in Arkansas history. Ben wished he could back away and into the house. He knew better. Pyrex dishes were used for only two things—funerals and bribery.
And standing there watching the three of them argue silently, he wasn’t sure if he was about to witness a crime or get set
up on a date.
Possibly both.
And if the women standing in front of him were any indication, he was in for a very, very long afternoon.