Page 8 of The Fast Lane
“Did you take a picture of me?” Mae called out. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said over my shoulder, almost at the door. “I’m just letting Chris know how much you bragged about that little lip love note of yours.”
“Ali! Do not encourage him!” She yelled right about the time I hit SEND.
THREE
Note to self:
If it looks like a jerk and acts like a jerk,
it’s probably Peter Stone.
I took the long way home, which involved walking two extra blocks and cutting through the town square. Most people would have opted for driving given the heat of the day, but I didn’t drive. I could drive but I hadn’t been behind the wheel since I was sixteen. The handful of times I’d attempted to get over my crippling fear, I’d had panic attacks.
So, I walked. Everything I needed, I could walk to around here, and for the things I couldn’t, I could usually con a friend or brother into taking me. Besides, walking meant I saw people, I chatted with them, I found out who was getting married or divorced, or having baby number three. I knew who was thinking about moving or whose business might be struggling.
Years ago, when the freeway was put in, all the traffic that used to come through town was diverted. Nowadays, our biggest rush of people came during our Founder’s Day Festival. On the weekends, the city dwellers would stop by to pick through the antique stores. Mostly, Two Harts was a sleepy town, looking a little ragged around the edges and in need of a makeover. But it was my home and I loved it. Every worn brick and cracked sidewalk.
We had a small but busy public library with a kickass librarian to run it. (Spoiler: It’s Mae, she’s the librarian.) Three stoplights now. A few antique stores, a couple of restaurants and a taco truck. And we had the Legacy Tree. All located within a forty-minute drive to Houston.
Small-Town Heart; Big-City Neighbors. That was the winner of last year’s slogan contest.
A dark-haired woman waved as she jogged past me pushing a double stroller—Deborah O’Brien, although I knew her as Debbie Cutter in high school. She was two years ahead of me back in school and now one marriage and two babies ahead of me in life.
Not that I was keeping track.
Don’t get me wrong. I liked my life fine. But the break-up with Alec had forced me to take a long look at myself and while I wasn’t a failure, I also wasn’t content. The problem was that I wasn’t sure what I was missing. Or maybe it’s that I was missing out on something?
All Mae’s talk at lunch of Theo hadn’t helped. He was just a friend. Nothing more. And, if my heart had other feelings on the subject, it could get over it. Except I’d been trying to get over Theo Goodnight for years and doing a terrible job at it. I’d have to try harder, I suppose.
He’s just a friend. He’s just a friend.
Note to self: get that tattooed on your forehead. Maybe it will sink in then.
With a sigh, I turned the corner at Pappy’s Market and came to an abrupt stop. Across the street sat a cheerful little yellow house with a white picket fence and a tidy yard.
The tiny, slightly stooped frame of Sarah Ellis, one of our oldest Two Harts residents, was yanking on the arm of the wooden bench that had been in her front yard for as long as I could remember. The bench was not cooperating.
I jogged across the street and leaned against the fence. “Mrs. Ellis, do you need some help?”
She slapped her hand on her chest and wrapped her fingers around the ever-present pearl necklace she wore. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she clutched her pearls. “Alicia, you scared me. I could use a bit of help, dear. If you don’t mind.”
“No problem.” I let myself in the yard and hurried over to her. “Where are we moving this to? Other side of the yard?”
Mrs. Ellis looked harmless, like everyone’s grandmother with her pale-blue polyester pants, matching floral shirt, and sensible white Velcro tennis shoes. (I bet they had great arch support.) But I’d once seen her smack Jackson Tillis, a grown man, over the head with her purse because he said something out of place. I’m not sure what she carried in that purse, but it was enough for him to wear a knot on his head for a week.
I had to give it to Mrs. Ellis; I liked her style.
“I got a notice I was breaking a city ordinance. I’m not allowed to have a bench in my front yard anymore.” She pointed to the collection of garden gnomes piled together on the driveway. “My gnomes, too.”
“No gnomes?”
“No gnomes.”
“But…” Mrs. Ellis’s garden gnomes were kind of a thing. Each holiday, she “dressed” them up for the season. Little Santa hats for Christmas, flags for the Fourth of July, peeking out of baskets for Easter. All the kids in town knew you had to walk by her house around any holiday to see what the gnomes were doing.
“I even special-ordered a whole set of reindeer gnomes for this Christmas.” She shook her head.