Chapter 8 #2
Ethan was lost. He hadn’t even been able to keep track of the man’s previous comment, let alone figure out what he was trying to say now. Julia’s smile was back, though it appeared slightly more frazzled than before.
“We are doing just fine. This will be a nice little bonus.” The odd statement was made as though she were reciting a mantra as opposed to stating a fact.
Obviously something had transpired between the two of them, but from how travel-weary he was, he couldn’t have said what it was if he’d been paid a million dollars.
Norman nodded and regarded Ethan again. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir.”
Ethan took a moment to really look at him.
He was tall—very tall, having a good few inches on Ethan, who was no slouch—and lanky, with knotted wrist bones and protruding elbows.
He walked with a bit of a hunch that wasn’t just related to the way he leaned over the shovel handle but instead seemed part of his physiology.
He had to be in his seventies, give or take, with a low gray ponytail poking out from under his floppy hat.
Otherwise, he wore the typical uniform of a lawn-care worker—waterproof hiking boots, cargo pants, and a baggy gray T-shirt that may or may not have been white once upon a time.
“Nice to meet you, too, Norman.” Ethan had half a mind to call him Neil or even Nathan as payback, but even he had to admit the petty impulse was unusual for him.
Where was this coming from? The old man had done absolutely nothing except show up at his own place of work, seemingly on task, and have the audacity to speak a little bit slower than what Ethan considered to be entirely efficient.
“You do good work around here,” he added, hoping to soften the blow of his thoughts, which, luckily, the man had not been privy to. “And please, call me Ethan.” There. Conscience assuaged.
Norman tipped his hat toward Ethan, giving him a jaunty gap-toothed smile.
“Oh, Norman,” Julia spoke up, her voice taking on a more businesslike tone. “Would you mind cutting the grass in the back around the garden before our guests arrive tomorrow? I’d like to get ahead of it before it gets too long.”
“No problem, Julie. I’ll get right to it.” With another tip of his hat and a swing of the shovel over his shoulder, Norman rounded the corner of the porch once more and headed toward the back.
Ethan turned to Julia before she could speak. “Julie?”
She shrugged, looking mildly chagrined. “I think maybe he misheard me the first time we spoke or something, or maybe he feels like the names are interchangeable—I don’t know. But whatever it is, he calls me Julie and it’s stuck now.”
“Oh,” Ethan said playfully, “but I call you Jules once like your dad did—”
She shot him a look, no reflection of his playfulness in her countenance. He snapped his mouth shut quickly, leaving the sentence hanging.
“What do you want to do while we wait for dinner to be ready?” she asked brusquely, changing the subject. “I can take you into town…?” The suggestion came with a tone that implied she would rather do anything but.
Truth be told, he felt the same way. He was travel-weary and hungry, and the thought of a walk into town did little for his enthusiasm.
The alternative, however, would be to sit in his old family cottage, which had been renovated into a bed-and-breakfast, forced to confront facts with his former childhood friend who hated him.
At least the walk would give them an excuse to talk about something else—the weather, the view, the state of the world—instead of everything hanging between them.
“Ah, good old Highbury Hollow,” he drawled, trying to make light of the situation, slowly leaning into the idea of making the trip into town.
Although her body language gave nothing away, he could tell that it bothered her, the way he evoked familiar names and places.
A reminder that he, too, had known them well once.
“Let’s go quickly,” he said, changing the tone of the conversation to avoid antagonizing her further, “so I can scope out the scene, see if anything has changed. Then let’s eat.
I’m starving.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled and she regarded him with a half-amused expression, any stiffness momentarily gone from her demeanor.
“If you want, I can grab some bread and cheese—” she began to offer, but he waved her off.
“No, no, I don’t need to succumb to a Victorian-orphan diet to tide me over.
I’ll be fine for now. Let’s just head over there and then come back for a good hearty dinner.
I’d like to see how the town looks these days before those two arrive tomorrow anyway.
There should be a couple nice spots for pictures. ”
She shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, aside from a few upgrades, it’s pretty similar to how it used to be.”
Was that an olive branch? An attempt to meet him where he was, an actual acknowledgment that the location held history for both of them?
“All good. Plus, anything can be photoshopped,” he replied, falling into step with her again.
It was easy enough to match her stride, despite her height and decidedly shorter legs, because she’d always had such a long gait—as though she were trying to make up for her more diminutive stature by eating up as much ground as possible when she walked—bold and self-assured, loose-limbed and purposeful.
Of course, he could overtake her easily and move ahead if he chose to do so, but he never really had to.
Keeping up with her wasn’t a struggle—it just felt right.