A New Hope
Page 8
Through dinner they talked about their families, some of their childhood experiences, what movies and books they liked. He told her he was a part-time teacher and she told him about her three best friends from high school and how they’d all left Portland for big careers. He made her laugh and he was mesmerized by her sweetness and charm. They had a cup of coffee but neither wanted dessert. Two hours had flown by. She told him that as apology dinners go, this was the best she’d ever had.
“So,” he said, “what is it you like so much about this little town? Why do you want to stay?”
“The people have been so lovely. And that flower shop—it’s perfect for me. I’m around people sometimes but I spend a lot of time alone, making up arrangements, cleaning up the cooler and back room. I need that time—time to think. But I shouldn’t have too much time or I get caught brooding.”
“And what does a pretty girl like you have to brood about?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Peyton didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“Come to think of it, she told me you’d had a bad year and made me promise I wouldn’t be a wolf.”
“Well, we have maybe a couple of things in common. I’m also divorced. Just over a year.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”
“You first,” she said.
“It’s not that interesting,” he said. “Everything Natalie and I talked about for the year leading up to our wedding, we agreed on. Immediately following the wedding, she was unhappy. She didn’t want to be married to a farmer, I got up too early, went to bed too early, had dirt under my nails, shit on my boots. She wanted me to go to med school or get a PhD and teach. She wanted fancy cocktail parties rather than big hoedowns at the farm. She was intimidated by the sheer size of my family. So we fought, and fought and fought. We’d married the wrong people. It was a damn shame, but there it is.” He shrugged. “See? Not interesting. Make yours at least interesting.”
She took a breath. She twirled the coffee cup around on the saucer. “Maybe I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I married the wrong person, too. I married a musician. A singer/songwriter with the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing was in Portland at a fair and he sang ‘I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.’ My bones melted and I fell right in love with him. I was young—twenty-one. He was older and had been trying to make a breakthrough in the music business for a long time. He traveled a lot but when he was in the Pacific Northwest, which he called home, we’d see each other. After a couple of years of that he suggested we live together, though he would continue to travel for every gig or business opportunity. He moved all his things into my little rented house. That went pretty well for a while. In fact, there were times it was a lot of fun—lots of musicians around, lots of music, a real party. We got married and he sang to me at our wedding. He also notified the newspapers and had a couple of photographers there. He was going to be the next Eric Clapton. I worked in a department store and he made a pittance on his gigs, barely enough to keep him in equipment and plane tickets. He did sell five songs to a big country star, they just never made the charts. That’s when I started to realize what a mistake I’d made—he made a hundred thousand dollars and bought all-new equipment. It was all about him. The big break that would set him up for life was always right around the corner. But of course marriage didn’t work. He didn’t want to be a husband. His music came first. He said, ‘I told you, Ginger—I have to concentrate on my music and I thought you were on board with that.’”
Matt gulped. Had he put the farm ahead of his wife? Would everything have been different if he’d given her ideas a try? “I’m sorry, Ginger.”
“Well, time to move on, right?” she said.
She was obviously trying to brighten up. He thought the pain of divorce must be much fresher for her. His phone vibrated and he looked. Lucy again. He’d call her later and explain he wasn’t in Portland and she’d have to find someone else for the night. He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Really, it’s okay...”
“Just my kid brother,” he lied. “I’ll call him back.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” she asked.
“If it was an emergency, I’d hear from Paco and Peyton and I’d answer for them because it would obviously be important. He probably has a work-related question. He’s working on a biochem degree. He’s researching.”
“Wow. You really do have an impressive family.”
He laughed. “So do you, Ginger.”
He walked her to her car. She told him again that it was the best apology dinner she’d ever had. “With my sister living here, we’ll see each other again. I can always apologize again.”
“You really don’t have to,” she said with a laugh. “Would you like a ride home?”
“No thanks. I like to walk, especially at night.”
“All right. Have a good visit then.” She put out her hand.
He pulled on that hand gently and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. Take care.” And he walked off into the night.
When he got back to Peyton’s house, it was kind of dark. They’d left the outside porch light on for him and when he went inside he found Dr. and Mrs. Grant were curled up together watching a movie. Peyton instantly put the movie on pause, flicked on the table lamp and sat up straight. “You’re back,” she said.
“I’m back.”
“Did you have a nice dinner?”
“I had a very nice dinner,” Matt said. “Have you ever tried the Cajun ahi at Cliff’s? Because it’s really good.”
“I meant with Ginger!”
“Did you realize that she’s Ginger Dysart of Dysart Trucking?”
“Who’s that?”
“The trucking company we use to take our crops to market. The company we rent our flatbeds from to take Christmas trees to market.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize.”
“You could’ve told me she was recovering from a divorce, just like me. I might’ve understood why you were acting so protective of her.”
“Well, it was a bit more than that. She told you about the baby?”
“So,” he said, “what is it you like so much about this little town? Why do you want to stay?”
“The people have been so lovely. And that flower shop—it’s perfect for me. I’m around people sometimes but I spend a lot of time alone, making up arrangements, cleaning up the cooler and back room. I need that time—time to think. But I shouldn’t have too much time or I get caught brooding.”
“And what does a pretty girl like you have to brood about?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Peyton didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“Come to think of it, she told me you’d had a bad year and made me promise I wouldn’t be a wolf.”
“Well, we have maybe a couple of things in common. I’m also divorced. Just over a year.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”
“You first,” she said.
“It’s not that interesting,” he said. “Everything Natalie and I talked about for the year leading up to our wedding, we agreed on. Immediately following the wedding, she was unhappy. She didn’t want to be married to a farmer, I got up too early, went to bed too early, had dirt under my nails, shit on my boots. She wanted me to go to med school or get a PhD and teach. She wanted fancy cocktail parties rather than big hoedowns at the farm. She was intimidated by the sheer size of my family. So we fought, and fought and fought. We’d married the wrong people. It was a damn shame, but there it is.” He shrugged. “See? Not interesting. Make yours at least interesting.”
She took a breath. She twirled the coffee cup around on the saucer. “Maybe I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I married the wrong person, too. I married a musician. A singer/songwriter with the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing was in Portland at a fair and he sang ‘I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.’ My bones melted and I fell right in love with him. I was young—twenty-one. He was older and had been trying to make a breakthrough in the music business for a long time. He traveled a lot but when he was in the Pacific Northwest, which he called home, we’d see each other. After a couple of years of that he suggested we live together, though he would continue to travel for every gig or business opportunity. He moved all his things into my little rented house. That went pretty well for a while. In fact, there were times it was a lot of fun—lots of musicians around, lots of music, a real party. We got married and he sang to me at our wedding. He also notified the newspapers and had a couple of photographers there. He was going to be the next Eric Clapton. I worked in a department store and he made a pittance on his gigs, barely enough to keep him in equipment and plane tickets. He did sell five songs to a big country star, they just never made the charts. That’s when I started to realize what a mistake I’d made—he made a hundred thousand dollars and bought all-new equipment. It was all about him. The big break that would set him up for life was always right around the corner. But of course marriage didn’t work. He didn’t want to be a husband. His music came first. He said, ‘I told you, Ginger—I have to concentrate on my music and I thought you were on board with that.’”
Matt gulped. Had he put the farm ahead of his wife? Would everything have been different if he’d given her ideas a try? “I’m sorry, Ginger.”
“Well, time to move on, right?” she said.
She was obviously trying to brighten up. He thought the pain of divorce must be much fresher for her. His phone vibrated and he looked. Lucy again. He’d call her later and explain he wasn’t in Portland and she’d have to find someone else for the night. He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Really, it’s okay...”
“Just my kid brother,” he lied. “I’ll call him back.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” she asked.
“If it was an emergency, I’d hear from Paco and Peyton and I’d answer for them because it would obviously be important. He probably has a work-related question. He’s working on a biochem degree. He’s researching.”
“Wow. You really do have an impressive family.”
He laughed. “So do you, Ginger.”
He walked her to her car. She told him again that it was the best apology dinner she’d ever had. “With my sister living here, we’ll see each other again. I can always apologize again.”
“You really don’t have to,” she said with a laugh. “Would you like a ride home?”
“No thanks. I like to walk, especially at night.”
“All right. Have a good visit then.” She put out her hand.
He pulled on that hand gently and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. Take care.” And he walked off into the night.
When he got back to Peyton’s house, it was kind of dark. They’d left the outside porch light on for him and when he went inside he found Dr. and Mrs. Grant were curled up together watching a movie. Peyton instantly put the movie on pause, flicked on the table lamp and sat up straight. “You’re back,” she said.
“I’m back.”
“Did you have a nice dinner?”
“I had a very nice dinner,” Matt said. “Have you ever tried the Cajun ahi at Cliff’s? Because it’s really good.”
“I meant with Ginger!”
“Did you realize that she’s Ginger Dysart of Dysart Trucking?”
“Who’s that?”
“The trucking company we use to take our crops to market. The company we rent our flatbeds from to take Christmas trees to market.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize.”
“You could’ve told me she was recovering from a divorce, just like me. I might’ve understood why you were acting so protective of her.”
“Well, it was a bit more than that. She told you about the baby?”
