I kneel, squeezing him until he groans. “Not too many sweets!” I tell him, after at least ten kisses. “Don’t let Grandpa get you guys in trouble.”
Aiden makes a big show of crossing his fingers and putting them behind his back. “I won’t! Don’t you worry about a thing, Mom! Grandpa and I will have extra veggies and NO chocolate.”
I laugh, letting him go and head for the car. “Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. Be good, I love you!”
“Yoube good!” he says over his shoulder, running back for the house. “Love you more!”
Cora shoves me into the passenger seat and slams the door. “Okay, okay, okay—you love him, he loves you, and goodbyes have been said. Let’s go!”
I buckle up, laughing at Cora. “You are in a godawful hurry, aren’t you?”
She does a three-point turn and heads down my parents’ long driveway and then heads for downtown. “If I don’t drag you away, you’ll linger for an hour, talking to your mom and hovering over Aiden.” She smirks at me. “Plus, I want to make it José’s Cantina for happy hour.”
“Ohhh dear,” I sigh. “Two-dollar margaritas and three-dollar tacos.”
“Exactly—two-dollar margaritas,” she says. “But if I slip an extra buck or two in there, Freddy will make ’em top-shelf.”
“You mean, if you let him stare at your cleavage he’ll make them top-shelf.”
She shrugs. “And? He’s old enough to be our dad, but he’s a lonely, single old bartender and there’s no harm in letting him look, is there?”
I just laugh. “You’re ordering them, not me, so you do you, babe.”
We make it to happy hour at José’s, and I watch from our booth as Cora flirts shamelessly with Freddy—who is a fixture in our little town. She returns with two giant, overflowing, top-shelf margaritas, which I’m sure will also be mostly tequila: part of the reason Freddy is a fixture is that he’s notoriously liberal in the way he pours liquor, especially if you’re a female and willing to play along with his heavy-handed but harmless flirtation.
Cora, of course, draws the gazes of every male in the joint as she carries our drinks to our table—she’s wearing tight black skinny jeans that show off her toned legs and generous booty, paired with three-inch stilettos that work wonders for her already-wondrous backside. She’s got on a sequined silver sleeveless top with a plunging neckline, lots of glittery bangles on her wrists and ridiculous huge eighties hoop earrings. Classic Cora style: over the top, but it just somehow works for her.
She relishes the attention, glancing slyly this way and that as she flounces across the bar, scoping out the scene. When she finally sits down across from me, I take a sip of my margarita.
“Wow—I mean…wow.” I make a face—the drink is pretty much 95 percent tequila with a faint coloring of margarita mix. “You are so shameless, you know that?”
She preens. “Yep. I’ve got it down to an art.” She rolls her eyes at me. “You know as well as I do that Freddy is totally harmless. He just likes to have fun and flirt with pretty women.”
“I’m referring to your little prance across the bar, actually,” I say. “Could you be any more obvious?”
She just snorts, sipping her drink and sighing in bliss. “A real Freddy Special. Mmmm.” She waves me off. “They’re all old married coots. Not a single guy in the joint.”
“Because Lewis is, very literally, the only single guy in town,” I point out.
We live in Clayton, a tiny little hamlet in south central Pennsylvania, the kind of village you have to take rural highways to get to, a place where everyone knows everyone, and everyone’s business is the topic of conversation all day long. I was born and raised here, went to the elementary school Aiden goes to—Terry Mackey was my principal, and my mom was my third-grade teacher—and I graduated from the high school where I’m now a guidance counselor. I’ve been to the weddings of every male between the ages of eighteen and fifty in town, and the whole town was abuzz with gossip when my marriage was dissolving. Everyone knows Lewis Calhoun has had a crush on me since fourth grade, and that I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, as good-looking and funny as he may be…mostly because I know for a fact whatreallyhappened with him and Jenny Renfield in tenth grade. His little pot-selling operation is the most well-known secret in town. His uncle is a county sheriff deputy, but he looks the other way.
Cora sighs. “What is it with you and Lewis, for real? His pot business is harmless. He only sells to, like, eight or nine people, and they’re all people who should get medical but can’t or won’t. He doesn’t sell to kids, and he’s discreet. It’s not like he’s out behind the gym forcing crack on the freshmen.”
“I know.” I shrug. “I’m just not interested, and never have been.” I eye her. “What is it withyouand Lewis, for real?” I counter.
She echoes my shrug. “When was the last time you had a conversation with him? He’s a really good guy, once you get to know him.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say, and then frown at her. “Wait…when have you had conversations with Lewis Calhoun?”
Cora shrugs, a picture of studied innocence. “Oh, you know just…here and there.”
My frown deepens. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Is it suddenly illegal for me to have perfectly innocent conversations with people?”
“No,” I say. “But if you’ve been talking to Lewis, you’d think I’d know about it.”
She sighs, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. “I sat next to him at a township meeting a few weeks ago, if you must know.”
