storefronts they were passing. The antique store, the mineral shop, the hardware store. All of them were decorated as they had been every Halloween for as long as he could remember, with ghosts and pumpkins, witches flying on brooms across big, round harvest moons like the one shining right now, all applied with poster paint by clearly young and inexperienced hands.
“It’s so . . . small-town. It’s nice,” she continued, smiling at a crudely drawn Superman flying over a skyscraper on Owl Drug’s front window. A skyscraper painted after watching some movie, because the tallest building in town was about three stories.
“Yep,” he said. “Every year.”
“Did you do this, then, when you were a kid?”
“Oh, yeah. My brother and me. That is, until the time I painted a mermaid. Got her a little too . . . bodacious. But hey, that could have been a costume, right? Maybe she was getting dressed. I got carried away by my artistic vision, you might say.”
She laughed. “I’ll bet.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Worst part was, it was on the window of Paradise Flowers and Gifts. About the worst possible place. Mrs. Hodgins didn’t just make me wash it off and start over, she told my mom and dad. That was the end of my career in public art.”
“The innocence of childhood lost,” she said, huddled in his jacket, looking up at him, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“Yeah, well, farm kids. You never have all that much innocence to start with. But could be I had less than most.”
“How old were you? Thirteen?”
He grinned. “Very nearly ten.”
“And shaving.”
“Nah. That one took all the way until the ninth grade. I was an early bloomer.”
“Ha. I’ll bet. I was a late one. Not sure it’s happened yet.”
He was the one laughing at that. “Oh, it’s happened. Trust me.”
She smiled, and they crossed Main, headed up the Maple Street hill toward the high school. She was shivering, he could see, even in his jacket. It wasn’t that cold, but then, she was from California. When he’d lived in California, he’d kept wishing it would snow, or at least get chilly from time to time. Clearly, though, opinions differed.
“So,” he said, “on that note, my irresistible manliness and all, want to . . .” He had to stop and rack his brain. “Go to breakfast with me, say, Sunday? I’d do better by you if I could, but unfortunately, as you’ve probably noticed by now, the Breakfast Spot is the best restaurant in town. No candlelight at Pizza Hut.”
“Don’t you have to go to church?” she asked, teasing again.
“Does the Catholic show that much? Not every Sunday. I’m saving that for later. Doing my sinning while I’ve got the chance.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Well, for me, anyway. I feel a sin or two coming on right now, in fact. Could have something to do with dancing with you.”
“Thanks,” she said after a moment. “For the invitation, I mean. But I’ve got a lot to do on Sunday. Tests to grade, lessons to plan.” She seemed to catch herself up short. He waited, but that was it.
So busy she couldn’t have breakfast? “Uh-huh,” he said. “You know, it’ll be broad daylight. Other people all around.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just . . . I can’t.”
“Well, how about this? You want another dance lesson, you can show up next Friday night with Rochelle, and I’ll give it to you. No strings, no moves. Not unless you want them. I’ll even shake your hand at the door, or whatever it is guys like that do.”
“Guys like what?”
He smiled. “Scared guys.”
“Maybe,” she said. There was no doubt about it, that door was slamming shut, and damned if he could see why.
They’d turned onto Jackson, and she stopped in front of a sagging little house, its yard a bit overgrown and unkempt.
“This is me,” she told him, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to him. “Thanks for walking me home. And for your jacket. And the lesson. I had a
“It’s so . . . small-town. It’s nice,” she continued, smiling at a crudely drawn Superman flying over a skyscraper on Owl Drug’s front window. A skyscraper painted after watching some movie, because the tallest building in town was about three stories.
“Yep,” he said. “Every year.”
“Did you do this, then, when you were a kid?”
“Oh, yeah. My brother and me. That is, until the time I painted a mermaid. Got her a little too . . . bodacious. But hey, that could have been a costume, right? Maybe she was getting dressed. I got carried away by my artistic vision, you might say.”
She laughed. “I’ll bet.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Worst part was, it was on the window of Paradise Flowers and Gifts. About the worst possible place. Mrs. Hodgins didn’t just make me wash it off and start over, she told my mom and dad. That was the end of my career in public art.”
“The innocence of childhood lost,” she said, huddled in his jacket, looking up at him, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“Yeah, well, farm kids. You never have all that much innocence to start with. But could be I had less than most.”
“How old were you? Thirteen?”
He grinned. “Very nearly ten.”
“And shaving.”
“Nah. That one took all the way until the ninth grade. I was an early bloomer.”
“Ha. I’ll bet. I was a late one. Not sure it’s happened yet.”
He was the one laughing at that. “Oh, it’s happened. Trust me.”
She smiled, and they crossed Main, headed up the Maple Street hill toward the high school. She was shivering, he could see, even in his jacket. It wasn’t that cold, but then, she was from California. When he’d lived in California, he’d kept wishing it would snow, or at least get chilly from time to time. Clearly, though, opinions differed.
“So,” he said, “on that note, my irresistible manliness and all, want to . . .” He had to stop and rack his brain. “Go to breakfast with me, say, Sunday? I’d do better by you if I could, but unfortunately, as you’ve probably noticed by now, the Breakfast Spot is the best restaurant in town. No candlelight at Pizza Hut.”
“Don’t you have to go to church?” she asked, teasing again.
“Does the Catholic show that much? Not every Sunday. I’m saving that for later. Doing my sinning while I’ve got the chance.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Well, for me, anyway. I feel a sin or two coming on right now, in fact. Could have something to do with dancing with you.”
“Thanks,” she said after a moment. “For the invitation, I mean. But I’ve got a lot to do on Sunday. Tests to grade, lessons to plan.” She seemed to catch herself up short. He waited, but that was it.
So busy she couldn’t have breakfast? “Uh-huh,” he said. “You know, it’ll be broad daylight. Other people all around.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just . . . I can’t.”
“Well, how about this? You want another dance lesson, you can show up next Friday night with Rochelle, and I’ll give it to you. No strings, no moves. Not unless you want them. I’ll even shake your hand at the door, or whatever it is guys like that do.”
“Guys like what?”
He smiled. “Scared guys.”
“Maybe,” she said. There was no doubt about it, that door was slamming shut, and damned if he could see why.
They’d turned onto Jackson, and she stopped in front of a sagging little house, its yard a bit overgrown and unkempt.
“This is me,” she told him, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to him. “Thanks for walking me home. And for your jacket. And the lesson. I had a
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