Chapter 11 #2
“Of course. Summer’s our time. We grill out.
We get ice cream. We go to baseball games in Hazard.
We take day trips to Gatlinburg or Mammoth Cave—we usually go to Myrtle Beach for a week every July.
Just not this year.” He pauses, trying to look like it doesn’t matter.
“But she calls me every few days and promises she’s takin’ tons of pictures to show me come fall.
And she’s a great kid. Couldn’t ask for better. ”
“It’s nice that you’ve stayed close with her despite the obstacles.”
We go quiet for a moment then, eating, and I’m suddenly bitten with the awareness that despite that hat and his country drawl, Matt Cordray isn’t quite the bumpkin I originally thought.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”
I look up from taking the very last bite from my corn on the cob—which is truly amazing.
“Why are you here?” he asks. “At Mabel’s. For the whole summer.”
“You mean you don’t know? Kevin didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head.
And I bite my lip, suddenly sheepish. I think I forgot to feel that way with him for a while, but without warning, here it is, back again. “Well, I’d guess it’s obvious—I’m recovering from cancer.”
He casts me a thoughtful look. “I suppose maybe I thought that, just because you always wear hats. Are you ... okay? In remission?”
I swipe a napkin across my mouth as I nod. “Yes, I was lucky. Stage one breast cancer and it was caught early. I’m cancer-free.”
“That’s great,” he says. “Really great. Though ... I’m sure it was a tough thing to go through.”
“It was,” I answer simply, then drop my eyes.
I don’t care to talk about it. Not because of how hard it was, but because this is exactly what I don’t want—to be thought of as a cancer patient, to have that be the main thing someone thinks about when they see me.
Even though I know it’s hard not to—I’ve been guilty of that with others myself, until I was suddenly the one wearing the hats, suddenly the one looking gaunt.
The hard part is over—I just want it to feel truly over.
And the truth is, now I want to run away.
I want to pull the plug, announce that dinner’s over and we’ll look at lost things some other time.
I want to retreat into the house and be alone.
Because from the very moment I met this man, something about him I can’t pin down has made me .
.. not want his pity, not want any kindness that stems from that, not want him to think I’m attracted to him at this moment when I feel so unattractive myself.
And the further truth is that he’s never made me feel any of those things; it’s all been in my head, an irrational fear.
But right now, I feel like we’re getting too close to it, too close to pity, too close to how I look.
Yet, at the very same time, pride compels me to ... stay. See this through. Not embarrass myself any further with him by making some excuse to cut things short.
I just need to change the subject, get back to a dynamic I find more workable. Apparently I find it much more acceptable for him to open up and spill his guts to me than for me to return the favor.
So I push back my chair and say, “I’m going to clean up a little, take some stuff inside.”
He’s still eating, but is quick to ask, “Need help?”
“No—keep eating, no rush. Finish your burger.” I grab up my own plate and a couple of condiments, then head in before he can argue.
As I put dirty dishes in the sink, I think about what’s next.
I decide I could use a drink, so I pull out a chilled bottle of Lost Valley Summer Blush, a light, fruity blend I’ve been wanting to try.
I was saving it for some pleasant evening when I felt like watching the sunset with a little wine, but I don’t mind sharing, so I grab two stemmed glasses from Mabel’s cabinet.
Only ... wine with Matt. Is that a good idea?
I know I just ate, but I should make sure it doesn’t go to my head.
So I start rummaging around the kitchen, peeking in the food cabinets and the fridge—until I spy the break-and-bake cookies he bought as a “staple” before I arrived.
Chocolate chip cookies and white wine? No idea how that works as a pairing in the fancy wine world, but it’s good enough for me, and I’m betting the police chief won’t complain, either. I turn on the oven.
“You don’t seem to dislike me so much anymore.”
Matt Cordray and I are sitting in the white wooden rockers, watching the sinking sun paint purple neon streaks across the sky while we drink wine and eat cookies—indeed, he got right on board with my on-the-fly dessert—when he tosses that out with a knowing grin.
“I never disliked you,” I claim.
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Okay, I disliked things about you,” I confess. It would be silly to pretend I haven’t been pretty rude and dismissive to him until just recently.
He’s still casting me a sideways grin when he asks, “Where’d I go wrong, pray tell?”
I think it over. “You called me darlin’.”
“Well now, that’s just how I talk ... darlin’. May not be very PC, but if it makes ya feel any better, I call my daughter darlin’, too, and sometimes the dog—if she’s lookin’ especially cute.” He ends with his usual wink. Which I ignore, trying not to think he’s cute.
Best to continue with his offenses. “You also called me Jessie,” I say.
He looks more perplexed by that one. “No one ever has? I mean, that just seemed like a normal thing to me.”
“No,” I lie. I don’t know why I bother to lie about it, but I do.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “Those are my big sins?”
I realize they’re weak arguments, so I go on. “They’re enough to rub a person the wrong way. And then there’s that hat.” I gesture toward it with the cookie currently in my hand.
He appears surprised, mildly offended. “What’s wrong with it?”
I just blink. This should not be a question that needs asking. “It’s horrible,” I tell him. “It’s dirty. It’s tattered and worn. It ought to be in the garbage.”
“I’ve been wearin’ it since high school,” he announces.
“That explains a lot,” I say. “And kind of makes my point for me.”
“I won it at the county fair.”
“That also explains a lot. I’m not sure county fair prizes are known for their high quality.”
He shrugs in a way that almost makes me think he sees my logic before adding, “It’s kinda part of who I am.”
I don’t hesitate to suggest, “Well, maybe it should be part of who you were . Maybe it can ... hang on a coatrack or something where you can just remember it fondly. I can’t even see your eyes half the time when you’re wearing it. And you look much better without it.”
“Hmm.” He pushes out his lower lip as he takes this in, then turns to me with another classic Matt Cordray grin. “So you notice how I look, huh?”
Oh boy. I sigh. Head this off at the pass. “I’m simply saying I like to see the person I’m talking to, and when you wear that thing, I feel like I’m talking to a big, ugly hat. That’s all.”
He only laughs, takes a healthy sip of his wine, and says, “You’re one to talk there, darlin’. Jessie. Jessica.” It seems like he can’t remember exactly what he’s supposed to call me and hopes to figure it out by trying them all on for size.
But I’m much more stuck on the first part of what he said. “What do you mean, I’m one to talk?”
“You don’t need that hat, girl.”
Okay, the honest truth is that I totally forgot I’ve been wearing my sun hat this whole time.
Maybe I would’ve been less openly critical of his headwear if I’d remembered, and maybe I should be addressing what he’s really saying, which I’m pretty sure is about my lack of hair.
But be all that as it may, I simply reply, “I do, actually. I have to protect my head and chest from the sun right now.”
“Darlin’,” he says softly, pointedly, leaning a little closer, “it’s dark out.”
I blow out a breath. The sun is indeed gone for the day and has left behind a deep-purple dusk that seems to have snuck up quickly.
A bolder woman would perhaps just take off the hat.
It seems sillier to wear a big floppy sun hat in the dark than any other headwear I can think of.
I may as well be sporting a Mexican sombrero for all the sense it makes.
So the fact that I am in no way willing to remove my hat forces me to be more honest than I’d like.
I choose my words with care ... but also with utter honesty.
“I used to have a lot of hair,” I tell him.
“And I’m not yet comfortable with the way I look without it.
” My stomach plummets unexpectedly at the last part.
It was a big thing to admit to a man with whom I like to feel in control.
Maybe the wine has made my lips a bit looser than they would have been an hour ago.
“You should be,” he says without missing a beat. “You’re a beautiful woman. Trust me—you don’t need the hat.”
I take that in, feeling the words settle in my solar plexus. I suffer the same fast little barrage of questions that commonly come over a woman when she’s told she’s beautiful by a man she doesn’t know well. Is it real? Sincere? Or manipulation? Does he want something? Or is it both?
There’s one last question flitting about my mind, and I let this one leak out. “Are you flirting with me, Police Chief Cordray?”
A slight head tilt, a familiar hint of a grin. “What if I was?”
“Then I’d say you were barking up the wrong tree,” I inform him, my voice pleasant but firm.
He goes quiet for a few seconds before replying, “Well then, guess it’s lucky for me I wasn’t. I was just tellin’ it like it is since I figured you should know.”
I feel kind of put in my place. Though maybe he’s lying about the not flirting. Wine can make it so hard to tell. So can not knowing a person very well. I don’t quite know what to make of him in this moment.
So I stay quiet and instead absorb the heart of the message—him saying I should feel comfortable about my hair, that he doesn’t think I need the hat. It’s a nice thing to say. But ... wouldn’t anyone say that? To make me feel better about what I’ve lost?
I respond by doing what I did after dinner—deflecting. “More wine?” His glass is almost empty.
“Sure.” He points through the window. “Inside? On the counter?”
It’s hard not to like that he doesn’t expect me to go get it, even though it’s my house and I offered. “Yeah.” I smile softly.
He comes back a minute later carrying the bottle and refills both our glasses without asking. I don’t mind.
We don’t speak, and I hear crickets and tree frogs making the summer night loud with life. But I feel the need to fill the space with words, perhaps not any more comfortable with him, at night, alone, than I am with my lack of hair. “I was thinking about blackberries,” I tell him.
“It’s the season for ’em,” he replies easily.
“Mabel has a recipe for a blackberry cobbler I thought I might try, if I can find anyone selling them.”
“Might be some around. Let me look into it and get back to ya.”
“Thanks,” I say.
We stay quiet a moment longer before he asks, “Would you let me see you without your hat?”