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I blinked, surprised at all four of us standing as though hypnotized.
“You do have to admit they were handsome. Right, Lanie?” This analysis came from my married mom who never missed the opportunity to admire a good-looking man—to my immense embarrassment.
I shook my head. “No. You need new glasses.”
Mom gave me a one-eyed squint. She knew my denial had strong undercurrents of being a lie. But hey, I never said I was giving up on finding the kind of love my parents shared—just never with a patronizing wealthy dude. Learned that lesson the hard way.
“Ladies. Those boxes are not packing themselves.”
“Why are you wearing one on your foot?” Mom asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” I peeled it off, and we took up our positions again. But they couldn’t stop talking about the gorgeous men.
They included Mom, except she talked out of earshot of the employees. “Don’t judge every man through the lens of your previous wound.”
Why did I tell my parents about my heartbreak? “Enough talking.” I held up the tape dispenser and wiggled it. “Or I’ll tape everyone’s mouth shut. Those guys are probably on their way to Montpelier. Small town Pleasant Valley can’t hold the interest of men like that.”
Dad sprinted into the warehouse and slid past my table as he attempted to stop. “You’ll never guess who that was!”
“Who are you talking about?” Without a doubt, I knew who he meant. It wasn’t like we were a bustling airport with many visitors.
“The arrogant grump,” Dad supplied.
“Dilbert!” Mom shook her finger at Dad. “That’s not nice.”
He shrugged. “That’s what Lanie called him. He was wound tight, all right, but very pleasant.”
Mom wagged her finger at me. “Lanie. You know better.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Well, okay.”
“Okay.”
Dad threw his hands in the air. “Will you two stop? I came in here to tell who that man was.”
“We want to know.” Both of the workers stood spellbound with hands clasped together under their chins.
Dad puffed up like a rooster on parade for the hens. “The jet owner is Emery, the eldest son of Joseph and Patty Swazay.”
This family connection solved the puzzling reason he arrived in Small Town, USA.
“Get out of here.” Mom punched her fist into her other palm. “I thought he looked familiar. He’s the spitting image of his dad.”
Mom was right. Mr. Swazay had become a steady client of ours. He owned a renowned horse ranch north of town, right at the base of the tallest hills in Doorwoody County. Joseph Swazay ordered plenty of horse stuff that we picked up. Rumor had it he also shipped horse semen to other Vermont horse farms.
I made Dad promise not to tell me if I happened to do those deliveries.
From my nighttime job working Stipple’s Bar and Restaurant, I knew most of the Swazay family. They dined once a week there. The siblings hung at the bar on Friday nights. However, I hadn’t met all six of them. Such a sweet, endearing family—unlike Emery, who was the polar opposite.
“EEK!” Dana pitched some packing peanuts in the air. “I thought he looked familiar. He’s all over the news and tabloids.”
“You’re right!” Silvey dropped a ceramic doll covered in bubble wrap on the table. Momma eerily mumbled from its chest. “His fiancé is a socialite charged with fraud. Hannah Soro.”
That explained the grouch attitude.
Sad, just plain sad.
