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I pointed the way to Alamo Drive and wondered if he was amused by the quirky names of things—the Halfway Baptist Church, Adam’s Ribs B-B-Q and the Celestial Café, the filling station with its hand-lettered sign, “We sell gas to anyone in a glass container.” Until I went away to college, this had been my whole world. It was imminently, almost oppressively safe, as small and tightly knit as a Catholic school uniform.
Back then, the sight of a Harley roaring across the courthouse square brought on glares of righteous disapproval. People in those parts still talked about hippies and beatniks as though the countercultures were still a threat. Maybelle King came out to stand under the awning of Eve’s Garden Shoppe, planting her hands on her hips in consternation. I laughed aloud. No one knew it was me on the back of the bike, but I wouldn’t have cared if they did.
Buddy Plawski’s house came up far too quickly, in the neighborhood where I grew up. When I got off the Harley, I still felt the buzz of the motor deep in my bones. Alamo Drive hadn’t changed in decades, and for all I know, it’s still the same: a quiet lane shaded by live oaks and lined with genteel Victorian-style houses and white picket fences.
After Steve parked the bike and took off his helmet, he looked around with a puzzled expression.
“Not what you expected?” I asked, handing over my helmet.
“It’s fine. I can’t imagine growing up here.”
“Where did you grow up?”
He had such a fine, gentle smile. “Honey, you don’t want to know.”
“What, is it a secret?”
“Nope. Just depressing.”
“I’m a very cheerful person. Bet I can handle it.”
He also had a long, slow way of eyeing me that made my spine tingle, I swear it did. “I bet you can, too.”
But he didn’t say anymore. Instead he said, “Let’s talk about you, Grace.” And with almost embarrassing eagerness, I told him the sum total of who I was—born and raised in Edenville, the only child of parents who expected much of me, the only grandchild of a widow who expected nothing but love and honesty from me. Twenty years old, a business major at Trinity.
In turn, he told me virtually nothing. This was surprising to me. Most men would be quick to whip out their most impressive credentials and most women, myself included, would be quick to be impressed.
However, at that moment, I had nothing from him, nothing but that brand-new incessant tingling inside telling me to step through the door he held open.
“Thanks for the help,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” I racked my brain, trying to figure out a reason to linger.
“Didn’t you say you lived near Bud?”
“Right down the street.” I pointed out my house.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
The girls and I planned to see the brand-new movie Back to the Future at the Lone Star Drive-In and stuff ourselves with popcorn and syrupy Dr Pepper.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Let’s go out,” he said.
“I thought you were here to see Buddy.”
That unforgettable grin flashed. “Not anymore.”
Chapter Seven
As I got ready for our first date, my parents bombarded me with questions. They were convinced that I had ruined any chance I had at a decent future by dumping Travis Hunt, and they were determined to dislike anyone else I might bring home. I had no answers to the questions they fired at me, so I dodged them, saying simply that tonight’s date was someone I’d met recently and that they’d meet him when he came to pick me up.
I worked for a good two hours getting ready. Shampoo, hot rollers, makeup, the works. After much internal debate, I settled on jeans, cowboy boots and a pink T-shirt from a Willie Nelson concert up in Luckenbach. I wanted to look casual, as though going on a date on the spur of the moment was nothing new to me.
Steve looked wonderful when he showed up, freshly showered, wearing clean jeans and a cowboy shirt and boots. In fact, he looked so good I almost wished I’d dressed a little better myself. Like in a white organdy gown with a twelve-foot train, I thought fancifully.
I was slightly disappointed to see he’d borrowed the Plawski’s Plymouth instead of bringing the Harley.
