Chapter Thirteen
A deep voice boomed over the loudspeakers set up throughout the school grounds, sounding out the L in “ladies” like an announcer at a wrestling match. “Lllllladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please!”
Winnie, having placed the last of her equipment in her car, slammed the hatch and prepared to open the driver’s side door. Marcy’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.
“You’re skipping out on the king and queen? That’s the whole reason we’re here.”
“Right, and the money had nothing to do with it.” Winnie smirked, then her heart expanded with sudden worry. “Where’s the cash box? I don’t remember seeing it in my trunk.” Her head whipped around, and she fingered her key fob for the unlock button.
“It’s in here, where I put it after you gave it to me.” Marcy swung her giant canvas bag over her hip and pushed it forward. “Man, you really are out of it to forget something that happened a few minutes ago.”
She wasn’t kidding. Winnie replayed Milly Wilkins’ appearance at the fair over and over in her head. The television personality strolled the grounds like a dignitary on tour, and though she hadn’t seen the woman with Cory, she doubted Milly came to St. Florence for anyone else. While this gave her no firm proof of Cory’s intent to move to New York and become a talk show host—the woman may very well have come unbidden—the evening of face painting and making nice with people left her exhausted. She’d catch up with Cory later and knew he’d understand. Let his family and the school have him for one night.
“I don’t know anybody at this school anymore, so why do I care who’s crowned for homecoming?” she asked, but made no move to get in her car. “All the teachers I liked are retired or dead, too. Nothing left of me here but the doodles I drew on my locker, and I bet they got painted over.”
Marcy shook her head. “No. There’s the yearbook art for your years. Plus, if you’d take that job of painting the wall mural like the alumni association’s been asking….”
Winnie snorted. She theorized the alumni folks hoped to lowball her for the commission, seeing as how she might be swayed to do it as a “favor” to the alma mater. The temptation to create an image of her flipping the bird to passersby burned strong. How’s that for school spirit?
The voice, which Winnie recognized as the Mr. Yates’s, announced another call to the main stage. Marcy tugged on her once more, wheedling for her to move. “One of my friends’ girls is in the running,” she explained, “and I promised I’d be there to help bulk up her cheering squad. Come on.”
“Fine.” It wouldn’t hurt to see Cory on stage, but Winnie held no love for pageants of any sort. She’d never had a chance in hell of being nominated for homecoming court in her day, never mind someone else’s, and any girl named to it while she attended Coolidge acted as if the honor mattered more than breathing. It was nothing more than a popularity contest favoring people who met a specific standard.
Cory…he pleased everybody. Hometown boy done good. Cover model looks, successful career, bright future. He worked for it, too, and Winnie liked that she’d be part of it. They’d have the book collaboration for as long as it stayed in print—they’d have to publish it first. As for their nights of kisses and everything else, she’d keep her seat belt on. Safety first. Protect her heart.
If she had to get off before the car took off for New York, so be it.
“If you’re pontificating world issues, you know you can walk while you’re at it.” Marcy beckoned her to follow. Winnie tapped the lock button on her fob once more for that reassuring beep and trudged up the parking lot toward the stage. The sky had dimmed enough to set off the sensors in the lights surrounding the field. The midway rides would remain functional for a few hours more; Winnie guessed the school wanted to get its money’s worth for the rentals. A long line of teenagers at the ticket booth indicated the planning committee made a good investment.
“You and Cory gonna ride the Ferris wheel?” Marcy asked. Her cousin walked backward with wide steps, making goofy faces to get a rise out of her. Winnie refused to take the bait but hinted a smile at Marcy’s antics. “Maybe if I slip the operator a ten he’ll park you on top to enjoy the view.”
“There’s another ‘on top’ joke there somewhere. Thanks for not sharing it.”
Marcy had opened her mouth to retort when a wince-inducing feedback shrieked from the archaic sound system used to broadcast the homecoming court announcements. “Damn,” Marcy cursed, frowning at Winnie. “They ever going to upgrade their equipment?”
Winnie shook her head hopefully to dislodge the ringing in her ears. “You want to lead that bake sale?”
Marcy glared her into silence, and Mr. Yates introduced Cory to wild applause and cheers. Winnie’s heart throbbed on seeing him approach the microphone stand. In his form-fitting jeans and long-sleeved Coolidge High shirt, he presented the epitome of school spirit. Slap his photo on the alumni newsletter and watch the donations pour in.
He waved down the applause and seemed to scan the crowd gathered at the lip of the low stage. Their eyes met, and one side of his lip quirked up as he winked. “Thanks, everybody. It’s nice to receive such a heartfelt welcome after being away for so long, and I know you all are just as proud of the ten young men and ladies standing behind me.” He gestured to the students—the girls in their colorful gowns and holding roses, the boys sharp in dark suits—lining the back of the stage. “We consider all of them winners tonight, though we can crown only one king and queen for homecoming.”
Cory held two envelopes and tapped them in his palm, looking pensive as though he considered his next words. Really, all he had to do was call out each name and declare the winning couple. Surely Mr. Yates hadn’t encouraged him to ad lib.
Then again, if Cory failed to prove himself glib, it might turn off Milly Wilkins. A talk show host needed to act confident in front of an audience. Three seconds silent before a microphone equaled an eternity.
“Like these amazing students, I want to know badly who will lead tomorrow’s parade. I hate suspenseful situations as much as you, I’m sure, but if you’ll indulge me a moment.” He pulled the microphone from the stand and walked stage left, close to where Winnie and Marcy stood.
Oh lord. A prayer formed in Winnie’s mind, but she realized she was too late. Cory intended to make a Hollywood-style plea for…something. Or else he and the homecoming court were about to break out in some kind of flash mob to a Taylor Swift song.
“As your parade marshal, I’ll have a nice ride at the front of the pack. I understand the Lost Girls MC will have my back”—a loud whooping—presumably from Satin and Blaze—interrupted briefly, “but don’t expect a drag race. I’m not allowed, apparently.” A polite chuckle rippled through the crowd. “I got my old Vipers jersey, some mini footballs to toss to the crowd, and a nice fellow driving the convertible. Everything…except what I want the most.”
The hand holding the mic dropped to his side. The other extended toward Winnie as though to pull her onstage. All eyes on her. Winnie felt pushed into a bubble.
No escaping this.
Marcy’s shoulder pressed against hers, and her cousin let out a pleased cackle. As corny as the setup sounded to her ears, Winnie couldn’t dismiss the warmth blooming inside her. She understood what Cory wanted to do, a grand gesture to assure her of his loyalty and affection. Years of watching public displays at farmers markets and town fairs, proposals at restaurants and wineries, tickled her romantic sensibilities yet her logical side did its best to let her down, warn her that it only happened to other people. She’d get a wink and maybe a date or two, but not the second to last chapter sweep off her feet.
Was this it?
She looked around her. It seemed as everybody waited on tenterhooks for her response. What’s more, she found no sneers of derision, no confusion. No expressions that read as what does he see in her? A few close to her muttered their wonder that she was taking so long.
“I’ll get you for this,” she whispered in his ear as Cory pulled her next to him.
“You’d better.” Then, into the mic, he said, “You all know Winnie Segal here. If not, you should. She and her cousin are responsible for all the makeup masks walking around the fair tonight, and she and I are going to put out our first children’s book pretty soon.” After a smattering of applause, he called for order. “Yeah, yeah. Hold that thought.”
His free arm snaked around Winnie’s waist, his fingers tight on her hip. She wriggled for comfort when he pinched her, and he loosened his grip. The scent of kettle corn and aftershave dizzied her while he talked. A few more seconds, and the combined smells might intoxicate her enough to get her to agree to anything.
“Keep bearing with me, guys. I’m almost done.” Cory nodded at the court of students behind them, and thankfully they didn’t appear annoyed by his stalling. “I just wanted Winnie to know, and everybody else, how I feel about her. How I’ve felt for some time but never had the balls to do anything about it.”
“Yeah, that’s eloquent,” Winnie snapped, and let out a laugh that others echoed.
Cory looked right into her eyes, and she obliged. Oh dear. I’m sunk. The sight melted her resolve, and the crowd disappeared, taking with it the fair, the feedback, the field, and St. Florence. Nothing but the two of them and the sky.
“Winnie, I love you. I came home with no particular plans, but seeing you after so many years helped me in the right direction,” he said. “I don’t want to be a TV star, or a sportscaster. I’m a small town boy in love with the small town girl, and I’d be happy if you’ll sit next to me in the marshal’s car tomorrow.”
A moment like this called for an awkward pause, the necessity to catch her breath and still her wildly beating heart. When somebody in the distance yelled out for her to “Say yes, damn it,” it broke the tension and giggling took over the silence. Winnie reached up to touch Cory’s cheek and draw him closer.
“Of course,” she said, and kissed him to cheers.