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“And don’t you worry about your bull-headed grandfather,” said Pansy, getting to her feet. “He’s an old coot who loves you and will come around in time.”
Then she turned, as if just remembering something. “By the way, I’d like to book a sitting. For those,” she waved her hand, “racy pictures of yours. I won’t always look this good, you know.”
*
The next few weeks passed in a blur, though Carrie couldn’t exactly say why. No one had come forward to claim the stray dog, whom Ethan had taken to calling Dixie. Though Carrie visited often – puppies were irresistible, after all – the conversations had stayed strictly focused on the dogs and the upcoming cherry festival.
While Ethan had embraced the idea of them going to the dance together, he was less enamored of her other idea.
“An agility demonstration?” he’d said. “No way.”
But she had more ammunition today.
“See this?” she said, handing him a copy of the local paper. “Mayor Calloway is ‘dedicated to protecting the children of Cherry Lake from irresponsible dog owners.’ No names mentioned, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It’s not fair, Ethan. You’ve got to do something about it.”
“An agility demonstration is a lot of work, Carrie.”
“And you’re dance card is already full? Come on, Ethan. Neither one of us is busy. It could be fun.”
“Or, it could be a disaster. Plus, I don’t want to leave Gun at home alone.”
“Bring him along.”
“And have him sit on the sidelines while the others play? No. That’s cruel.”
And it wasn’t just the demonstration he was resisting. It was her. No matter how she teased and flirted, he refused to engage.
In fact, he’d asked her to distance herself from him.
She couldn’t afford a friend like him, he’d told her.
Friends. Is that what they were?
She didn’t know anymore. But there’d been no more kisses, so that was a clue.
Frustrating, annoying man.
Her appointment book continued to shine white and wide open, but she doubted it had anything to do with their friendship.
She couldn’t find it in herself to panic, though. She had the festival retainer. She’d gotten the three hundred back from Kyle. And the shoot with Trish had been fantastic. Maybe, she thought, if all else failed, she’d start up Forever Yours Intimate again.
“I don’t even know why you’re questioning it,” said Jess, one rare evening when they were both in. “Of course you should start doing it again. I don’t know why you ever stopped.”
They were watching America’s Got Talent and had come to the agreement that on that particular night America did not, in fact, have talent.
“You’re an artist,” she continued. “You’re pretty amazing, actually. I want you to take pictures of me.”
Jess’s employment with Damon Brand at the automotive shop had progressed, Carrie suspected, to sleeping with him. Since Damon’s real passion was sculpting, Jess now considered herself something of an expert on artists, as a result.
“Forget it,” said Carrie. She held out her hand and blew on her nails. A girls’ night in was kind of fun. They were sharing a bottle of polish called Secrets and Lies, and a bottle of wine called Dirty Laundry. The conversation seemed destined to head down a certain path.
“Still the good girl, huh?” Jess yawned.
“I knew when I started that there’d be hell to pay if they ever found out. I just thought I could keep it from them.”
Grandfather had kept his distance but he’d offered no further rebuke. Her parents, Mom especially, remained horrified. As was Auntie Jane. Uncle Robert always looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack and Uncle Hal, who knew what he thought?
Carrie didn’t want to know. They acted like she’d single-handedly blotted the Jackson copy-book for all to see.
Except the blot was actually a Rorschach test, revealing that the Jackson minds contained no more or less than what every other mind on God’s green earth contained.
“It’s ridiculous,” declared Jess. “You’d think we all sprang from pods, the way they’re so sex-phobic.”
