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Authors: Judith Arnold
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had answered, “I’m sleepin’.” He’d launched into a monologue about having seen a UFO the night before and Jack Willetz’s house was the closest, and he’d had to find cover, and by the way, where did Jack keep his blankets, because it was as cold as a witch’s tit in the living room and he hadn’t been able to find a blanket anywhere. Besides which, what the hell was Jed doing there, anyway?
Jed supposed every small town had its version of Toad Regan, a skinny, underemployed fellow in baggy, stale-smelling clothes, who alternated between two states: drunk and hungover. Toad was generally harmless, and because front doors were left unlocked, he never went wanting for a place to sleep if UFOs were in the vicinity and he was too crocked to find his way home. New York City was crawling with guys like Toad, but unfortunately people kept their front doors locked in the city, so all its Toads wound up sleeping on sidewalks and park benches.
Jed had managed to pay for his purchases at the Superette without too much more needling over his having gotten up close and personal with Erica Leitner. He’d driven home, reminding himself that one of the particular joys of Rockwell was that everyone felt entitled to comment and conjecture on everyone else’s affairs—even when those affairs didn’t exist.
Yet, for some reason, Pop Hackett’s words resonated inside him: You’d be the first. Not that others haven’t tried with her . Who’d tried? Why hadn’t they succeeded? What was her story?
Jed shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He didn’t have time for her, even if her lips were the color of a cherry sourball and her hands were strong—especially when she was aiming a carving knife at him—and her hair was as thick and lush as the tresses in a Renaissance painting of Eve or Venus or any of those other mythical women who were always depicted in artwork as naked and sexy and worthy of worship. Erica was thinner than the fine-art Eves and Venuses he’d seen, but not skinny. Hard to tell with the baggy sweatshirt she’d had on last night, but he was reasonably sure she had some nice curves going on under her clothes. And beautiful eyes, dark and soulful, full of worry even when she was trying to smile.
He didn’t have time for her.
Still, there he was, sitting on his grandfather’s porch swing, gazing out at Old North Road and wondering when she’d be rolling home from her job at the primary school. According to Meryl Hummer’s article in the Gazette , Erica taught third grade. Jed didn’t remember his own third grade teacher, but he’d probably hated the woman. He’d hated pretty much all his teachers.
He heard the spit of tires on gravel and straightened up. A Subaru wagon braked by her roadside mailbox. Erica reached through the car window to retrieve her mail, then proceeded up the driveway.
He crunched his teeth into the remains of his candy and watched as she pulled to a halt and climbed out of her car. Her curves were better displayed by the outfit she had on today—tailored navy-blue slacks anda soft, silky-looking beige blouse. Her hair was clipped back from her face, emphasizing her cheekbones.
She crossed her backyard, pausing briefly to study her half-planted garden, then pursed her lips and scaled the steps to the back porch. She carried a bulging leather tote, the kind very busy women in New York seemed to favor. Maybe they liked those leather totes in Boston, too. Wasn’t that where Harriet Ettman said Erica was from?
God, he really didn’t have time for this.
“Hey,” he called over to her.
She glanced in the direction of his voice, then squinted, then frowned. His grandfather’s front porch and her back porch were maybe two hundred feet apart, and nearly on the same latitude, since her house was much closer to the road than his grandfather’s.
His house. He owned this place now. He ought to start thinking of it as his so he could figure out what to do with it. And what to
Jed supposed every small town had its version of Toad Regan, a skinny, underemployed fellow in baggy, stale-smelling clothes, who alternated between two states: drunk and hungover. Toad was generally harmless, and because front doors were left unlocked, he never went wanting for a place to sleep if UFOs were in the vicinity and he was too crocked to find his way home. New York City was crawling with guys like Toad, but unfortunately people kept their front doors locked in the city, so all its Toads wound up sleeping on sidewalks and park benches.
Jed had managed to pay for his purchases at the Superette without too much more needling over his having gotten up close and personal with Erica Leitner. He’d driven home, reminding himself that one of the particular joys of Rockwell was that everyone felt entitled to comment and conjecture on everyone else’s affairs—even when those affairs didn’t exist.
Yet, for some reason, Pop Hackett’s words resonated inside him: You’d be the first. Not that others haven’t tried with her . Who’d tried? Why hadn’t they succeeded? What was her story?
Jed shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He didn’t have time for her, even if her lips were the color of a cherry sourball and her hands were strong—especially when she was aiming a carving knife at him—and her hair was as thick and lush as the tresses in a Renaissance painting of Eve or Venus or any of those other mythical women who were always depicted in artwork as naked and sexy and worthy of worship. Erica was thinner than the fine-art Eves and Venuses he’d seen, but not skinny. Hard to tell with the baggy sweatshirt she’d had on last night, but he was reasonably sure she had some nice curves going on under her clothes. And beautiful eyes, dark and soulful, full of worry even when she was trying to smile.
He didn’t have time for her.
Still, there he was, sitting on his grandfather’s porch swing, gazing out at Old North Road and wondering when she’d be rolling home from her job at the primary school. According to Meryl Hummer’s article in the Gazette , Erica taught third grade. Jed didn’t remember his own third grade teacher, but he’d probably hated the woman. He’d hated pretty much all his teachers.
He heard the spit of tires on gravel and straightened up. A Subaru wagon braked by her roadside mailbox. Erica reached through the car window to retrieve her mail, then proceeded up the driveway.
He crunched his teeth into the remains of his candy and watched as she pulled to a halt and climbed out of her car. Her curves were better displayed by the outfit she had on today—tailored navy-blue slacks anda soft, silky-looking beige blouse. Her hair was clipped back from her face, emphasizing her cheekbones.
She crossed her backyard, pausing briefly to study her half-planted garden, then pursed her lips and scaled the steps to the back porch. She carried a bulging leather tote, the kind very busy women in New York seemed to favor. Maybe they liked those leather totes in Boston, too. Wasn’t that where Harriet Ettman said Erica was from?
God, he really didn’t have time for this.
“Hey,” he called over to her.
She glanced in the direction of his voice, then squinted, then frowned. His grandfather’s front porch and her back porch were maybe two hundred feet apart, and nearly on the same latitude, since her house was much closer to the road than his grandfather’s.
His house. He owned this place now. He ought to start thinking of it as his so he could figure out what to do with it. And what to
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