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Caleb
Jace’sadviceseemedlike a solid plan there in the auto shop, but four days later and I’m seriously doubting it was the right idea.
Friday night. The Kenny farm. And a promise to keep.
A promise that did not involve this…
“What is that?” I ask, staring at something dangling from Jace’s hand.
“What does it look like? It’s a tie.”
“I don’t do ties.”
I had donned my best pair of jeans—only a few years old—and a clean shirt for the event. And I’d cleaned my boots. A tie is a step too far.
“Oh, just put it on. Look, it’s muted black. It’s not like it’s going to cause a riot from the fashion police.”
He’s right, of course. The tie is a dull charcoal and hardly designed to stand out. I snatch it just to shut him up. The feel of it around my neck only irks my temper worse.
“I feel like I’m at the Prom.”
“Aw adorable.” Jace rolls his eyes. I notice that he isn’t wearing anything so formal. Black jeans and a round-neck sweater make a tie impractical for his attire. “Just shut up and sort your collar out. You want to impress this girl, don’t you?”
No. That is precisely the opposite of what I want. In fact, anything that can turn Lizzie off me but still keep my home a restful place to live in is good enough for me.
Not that Jace will hear it. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his head that Lizzie and I are heroes in some romantic movie and he’s the comedic best friend setting us up on our path toward destiny… or some such bullshit.
“Come on,” he waves a hand towards the open door of the Kenny barn. Lights and music stream out over the hardened ground where several dozen pickups and old sedans are parked. “It’s gonna be relatively painless, I promise.”
I hold my tongue and follow him inside. But there’s no way I believe him. And as soon as we enter, I’m proven right. A constant stream of newcomers has drawn a crowd of greeters and callers around the door. They muscle amongst one another, desperate to say hi and hello to the same people they see every day out on Main Street. They holler compliments over each other’s dresses, tease the older men who have broken out their one suit from the back of the closet. Some are bidding goodbye to those with younger children as the event moves into the more adult portion of the evening.
And, over all of it, music pours.
A live band in the corner of the cavernous barn is offering the latest radio hits, turned country. It’s noisy, colorful and I can smell a dozen different perfumes and aftershaves all mingling together into a cloud of choking sociability.
Jace, of course, is in his element. He swims the waters of our neighbors with all the speed and skill of a swordfish. He smiles, jokes, teases, and greets with such devout and genuine expressions for every individual that it’s easy to see why he’s so loved by all the residents of East River.
The very idea of trying to keep up with such changing chatter and pandering has my head spinning. People are really not my thing.
Instead, I move through the crowd, hands in pockets and shoulders turned in to avoid knocking the fancy hat off old Mrs. Porter’s head. My size is an advantage, as I can carve a path through the crowd after Jace without difficulty. But it also turns me into a spectacle. A focal point upon which others stare. And I’m thankful when we reach the table with punch and nibbles.
“You could at least try a smile, Walker. It’s supposed to be a party.” Jace tells me, picking at a few chips before sniffing at the punch. The wrinkling of his nose tells me just how seriously it’s been spiked.
It really is like the Prom.
Only, back then, it had been Jace doing the spiking.
I pour myself a cola.
If a party is its intention, the harvest barn dance is measuring up spectacularly. The entire place is decked out in festive, seasonal bouquets, wreaths of golden leaves and red berries, and yards upon yards of paper flowers made by the local schools. They’ve been strung around the rafters overhead, draping down towards the open dance space in the center of the hall. Twinkling lights are woven in between. The overall effect is something halfway between an autumnal fairy enclave and a cheesy wedding reception.
And the attendees have dressed to match.
The men are all brushed and donned in jackets likely older than they are. The women are wearing party dresses in floral patterns and bright colors. Several sport blossoms in their hair. A small collection of heeled shoes already clutter up one corner; the current victim pool of too much dancing.
“Hey, Caleb…”
Lacey suddenly appears at my elbow, wine glass in hand and eyes lined in kohl.
