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I returned to the house the next day. I was busy working inside to replace some rotted flooring when I walked out to find Allison’s car in the driveway. I looked about but saw no sign of her. I decided to continue working and headed back in. She’d find me when she was ready. Instead, I found her on a subsequent trip to my truck. She was coming out of Rain’s house. Curious, I lingered by the toolbox in the bed of the truck until she approached me.
“Hey, Jon,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.
“Allison. Did I see you coming from Rain’s house?”
“Oh, right,” she said, glancing back toward the porch. “I felt bad about the way I acted the other day. I wanted to apologize. I mean, the poor girl just lost her grandmother and all. I just stopped by with some of Aunt Jenny’s fudge and invited her to a barbecue over at the Holts’ house later.”
“Well, that was nice of you. Listen, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Sure. Sure. Hey, come to the party if you feel up to it. It’s tonight at six. You know where they live, right?”
“I do. Thanks.”
She nodded and turned to leave. I watched her for a moment then walked back to the house to finish my work there. It was nearly six already when I finished, but I decided to stop by and see what was happening at the Holts’. Taking what my father would call a “sink bath” to freshen up, I stripped off the cotton work shirt I was wearing and went in just my T-shirt. There were tons of people there and I quickly caught on to why Allison had invited Rain.
“Would you look at her? She’s introduced Rain to every single guy in Muskrat Creek, from those she already knew from school to some of the strangers that have moved into town this year,” a woman’s voice hissed beside me.
I looked over to see another familiar face, Becky Bolin. The kids had all called her Becky Bowlegs growing up, a choice that many of the guys in the town regretted after she grew into a stunner and shunned them all. Maybe it was my imagination, even my being hopeful, but Rain looked miserable.
“Jonas, how are you? Did the doctor get that rash of yours cleared up OK?” I asked as I stepped into the conversation between the two women and the latest prospect, a local dairy farmer with a shock of red hair and freckles to match. It was a cold thing to do to a guy who probably had enough trouble getting dates, but what can I say? I was petty like that sometimes.
“It was j-just a fungus,” he stammered, quickly excusing himself as his face turned bright red.
“Jon Rayburn! Why did you do that?” Allison chastised.
“I was just asking about his well-being, showing my concern.”
The truth was that I already felt ashamed of myself, but I didn’t seem to have control over my full faculties to make the right life choices. It wasn’t the first time this had been a problem for me.
“It was rude.”
“Was it ruder than dragging poor Rain from bachelor to bachelor in hopes you can hook her up with one of them so you don’t have to worry about her?”
Allison couldn’t have looked more stricken if I had slapped her, and I instantly regretted that too, but it didn’t seem to stop me from acting like a juvenile. I decided to get out while I still could and turned to excuse myself to Rain but realized she had seized the moment to extract herself from the equation already. I couldn’t blame her. Good job. I’d managed to offend three people at once. Without another word, I just turned and left, fighting the small voice that told me to go home instead of going to Rain’s house to apologize—a fight I lost.
“What is it, Jon?” she asked through the screen door.
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“That scene at the Holts’ barbecue.”
“Fine. You’ve apologized. Go home.”
“Rain, I don’t want to go home. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”
She looked at me for a moment, her face partly covered by the mesh screen. Finally, she pushed it open and invited me in. She seemed a bit out of sorts at first, as she looked around the living room, but finally decided we should talk on the back porch. I suspected it was to stay out of sight of any passersby, especially Allison, but that was OK.
“Wine?”
“It’s not Strawberry Hill, is it?” I teased, bringing a smile to her face.
“I haven’t drunk that in years. It was all the rage in high school.”
“I suspect it was more about the three-dollar-a-bottle price than any real taste in wine,” I laughed.
“No doubt,” she replied, pouring me a glass of Merlot from an already-open bottle and topping off the glass she had apparently been drinking alone.
