Olivia
I lean my bike up against the side of the church, grab my sandwich from the basket in front and glide my free hand over the cracked leather seat. August hasn’t just repaired my chain and pumped up my tires, but he’s cleaned the thing until its pale blue frame sparkles. He hasn’t fixed the breaks, a fact I realized as I went screaming down Oak Street, but I’m grateful to him all the same. I’ll have to find a way to repay him that doesn’t involve cooking him supper or helping him any, but for now, I have my very first town meeting to get to, and I’m late. We don’t have a lot of those in Fairhope, but Mayor Winkler asked me to come as I was leaving the market yesterday, so I accepted.
I expected that most of the town would be there, but what I don’t expect when I walk in is every pair of eyes in that room turning toward me. The entire town is here—including August, sitting in the very back row—and they are all looking at me. The church is hot as the eighth circle of hell, and I feel that surely my feet must be burning and horns have sprouted from my head with the way the good people of Magnolia Springs glare at me. I’m not exactly dressed up, as such, but I do have on a skirt, sensible heels, and a button-up blouse with a sash at the neck, tied in a loose bow. I am smart casual; I figured if this town meeting is held in a church, I should wear church clothes. According to the glances thrown my way, my church clothes do not have the Magnolia Springs tick of approval.
Wishing I could just melt into a puddle, I slip into the back pew—the same one that August is occupying—and I sit, wincing when my skirt that may have been just a little too tight when I put it on this morning threatens to saw my insides in half. I give my audience a tight smile and wonder how long I can go with my waistband cutting off all the circulation to my head.
Slowly, all eyes revert to the front of the church as Mayor Winkler takes to the podium. I open the tin foil on the sandwich I’d purchased from Stevie Rae Mae’s Bar-B-Que, whose sign read, “You don’t need no teef to eat my beef.” Yep, they spelled teeth with an f. Still, illiterate signage or not, the damn thing looked delicious, and after one bite I can see that you really don’t need teeth to eat this beef because it melts in my mouth like butter.
A moan escapes me, and all eyes swivel in my direction once more. Averting my gaze from Kathy Abernathy’s glare, I lower the sandwich into my lap and finish chewing the huge mouthful I bit off.
Mayor Winkler addresses the crowd. He doesn’t need a microphone, because the church isn’t that big to begin with—hence why everyone just heard me moan like a whore in it. “Thank you for being here, ladies and gentlemen of Magnolia Springs. Now I understand it’s Founders Day festival tomorrow, so I won’t keep you long because I know y’all got the Moon Pie-eating contest to prepare for. We’ll keep this short and sweet.”
“Take all the time you need, Mr. Mayor. I’m already set to take out that blue ribbon,” shouts a large man a few rows ahead of me. He’s wearing coveralls that barely contain his rotund belly.
“Dream on, Carpenter,” another man says from across the aisle, and while everyone is focusing on him, I use the opportunity to my advantage and duck my head, taking a huge bite out of my sandwich. Oh God. I don’t know why everyone in this town doesn’t just do away with the market and prepackaged foods and eat Stevie Rae Mae’s hoagies all day. They might seriously be enough to ignore the fact that the man is a rheumy-eyed eighty-year-old with very little teeth left inside his head. I may marry him anyway.
A beat later, while I’m scarfing down more of the sinful deliciousness, someone makes to sit beside me. I don’t even have time to look up. I just take another bite, slide across the seat and chew, chew, chew, my head thrown back in ecstasy, my eyes closed, and my tongue savoring each tiny morsel.
“Good sandwich, huh?”
“Oh, my God,” I moan in a hushed whisper. “It’s so good.”
The man beside me chuckles, and I open my eyes to find Jude du Pont grinning at me. I should be ashamed of my behavior, and there’s a part of me that definitely longs to sink down in the church pew and just melt into the floor, but I really don’t want to, because you can’t eat a sandwich if you’re a puddle of goo.
“You know,” he whispers conspiratorially, “this ain’t the first time someone’s said that about Stevie Rae’s beef.”
I turn my wide-eyed gaze on him. He’s grinning like a fool. “You’re sick.”
Jude’s smile grows even wider. “Maybe just a little.”
A quiet laugh escapes me and more glares are thrown my way, only now they’re directed at Jude too. For some reason, this turns the two of us into simpering fools. I do not know what has gotten into me—maybe it’s the stifling heat, or the fact that I haven’t had a whole lot to laugh about these past few days, but whatever it is, there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and Jude is just as bad. I feel more than see August’s eyes boring into me. I have this insane urge to just turn to him and ask what the hell his problem is, but I don’t. I keep my eyes directed firmly forward and make out as if I’m focused on the mayor. Which I really should be, but considering Jude is sitting close enough to feel the heat from off his thigh and he has me giggling like we’re back in grade school, I’m having a really hard time concentrating.
“Now I’d like to welcome Miss Anders to say a few words to y’all,” Mayor Winkler says.
Wait, what? Oh no, no, no, no.
I lean closer to Jude and whisper, “Did he?” I pause, because heads begin turning in my direction. “Did he just say Miss Anders?”
“Yep.”
“Is there another Miss Anders in town?”
“Nope. Just you.”
Oh, crap.
Mayor Winkler urges me forward with a wave of his palm in a come-hither motion. I cringe, setting down my sandwich. The second I stand, I realize proposing marriage to an eighty-year-old hoagie maker is no longer in my future because the fabric of my skirt rips all the way up to my barely-there panty line.
My eyes go wide, and I stare at the shocked faces around me. “Oh shit.”
A few startled gasps follow my profanity. A few murmurs follow it too, and I’m completely mortified. “Er, I … probably need to lay off the hoagies for a while.” I give an awkward laugh and attempt to cover my exposed leg with the fabric that’s flapping loose from my skirt. Jude stands and removes his jacket, handing it to me, and I accept it gratefully, wrapping it around my waist to hide my thigh from view. He gives me an apologetic smile and nods to indicate that I should go on. That man could charm birds out of trees.
“Hi, I’m Olivia. Olivia Anders,” I say stupidly with a wave of my free hand. “But I guess you all already knew that. Anyway, I run a successful program to aid ex-infantry men and women in getting their lives back on track.”
My eyes stray to August’s at the other end of the pew. I don’t mean to seek him out, and I can tell by the way his jaw is set that his teeth are grinding. “Um … to help them deal with integrating back into society. Paws for Cause has successfully paired over five thousand men and women with service dogs that do everything from provide comfort from anxiety, to fetching medication, helping distance their handler from members of the public if they feel threatened, or in some cases, saving them from committing …” I glance around the room at the stern, unenthused faces and choose a better turn of phrase. “From ending their lives.”
August clears his throat, and my gaze automatically locks on his. He stares at me as if he wishes I’d burn in hell. Staring at the befuddled and angry faces around me, I kinda wish for that too. But hey, maybe we’ll both get lucky. My face is scorching, so I’m ninety-nine percent positive I’m going to burst into flames any second now.
“Where are these dogs comin’ from?” the man in the coveralls bellows, drawing my attention away from August and back to the room.
I smile uneasily at him. “I’ll be sourcing them from other shelters, nearby and across the country. A huge part of what we do is rescuing dogs from death row, and soldiers from the same.”
With that, August shoots one long angry look at me and stands. He doesn’t lock gazes with a single soul as he makes his way out of the back of the church, but every pair of eyes tracks the movement and I can’t help but feel responsible, and also a little bit disappointed. If I can’t convince the one man in town who needs my program more than anyone else, how the hell am I going to convince this community to embrace Paws for Cause? “So, we’ll be opening in around a month, give or take, and—”
“What do you mean you rescue dogs from death row?” Coveralls says. “Haven’t we got enough to worry about without fearing for our safety with mangy mutts runnin’ around?”
“Oh, they’re not mangy. Quite the opposite. The dogs go through several rigorous health and psychological tests—”
“But still,” Kathy Abernathy stands and addresses the room. “You did mention they were dogs from death row, didn’t you? Maybe they were being put to sleep for a reason. How do we know they won’t just snap and attack someone?”
“They’re not dangerous. I don’t choose dogs that aren’t right for the program. As I said a moment ago, they go through a rigorous vetting before we decide a dog is suitable to become an Emotional Support Animal.”
Kathy smiles, and I have never wanted to flinch more, but she’s like a dog with a bone, and I won’t give her that satisfaction. “Then why not just train dogs bought from a reputable breeder?”
“Because breeders don’t save lives,” I snap. “In fact, they make the problem worse. Do you know how many dogs are euthanized every day in America?”
“No, but—”
“One-point-two-million dogs. Every day.” I let that information settle in for a moment. I know a misplaced temper tantrum here is not going to help my cause any, but I can’t help it. You don’t have to be an animal lover to see the unjustness of what people do to these dogs who only want to give them so much unconditional love.
“It’s a terrible shame, and if we could change it, I’m sure everyone in this room would,” Kathy says. “But I’m afraid I fail to see how your little program works, and more importantly, how it’s going to keep the general public of Magnolia Springs safe. How can you guarantee that they won’t snap?”
“I can’t. No one is ever sure if a dog will snap or not. They’re animals, not people.”
“Exactly. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that we be safe in our own town.”
“It’s no different from owning a damn Beagle. If a dog is trained properly and given all the care it needs, there’s no need for an animal to snap unless it’s provoked or feels threatened.”
“Apparently the same can be said for humans too,” Kathy says, simpering in that southern belle way of hers. Her friends all titter in agreement.
“Ladies, if I may?” Jude says, standing beside me. “I’ve already discussed Ms. Anders’s program at length with her, and I’m more than happy to look over the dogs and ensure every one of them has a clean bill of health and are no danger to our town.”
It takes me a beat to pick my jaw up off the floor. I smile awkwardly. He nods and gives the crowd a little wave.
“Hmm, figures Doctor du Pont would be involved,” says the woman in front of us to her pew neighbor. She doesn’t even try to whisper, and they both shake their heads while making a tisking sound. I frown and take a deep breath. I’ve lived in small southern towns all my life; I know better than anyone that southern hospitality sometimes only goes as far as your front door.
“Doctor?” I say under my breath.
Jude leans in and whispers, “Doctor du Pont. Town veterinarian and longtime hoagie lover. You didn’t let me get that far with our introduction the other day.”
“This town is just full of surprises,” I mutter and nod my thanks before turning to address the room. “The dogs are safe.”
“And what about us?” a big, burly man a couple of rows from the front says. “Are we safe from these ex-veterans who want to ‘distance’ themselves”—he puts air quotes around the word distance—“from us, and who might use their dogs to do it?”
“It isn’t about distancing themselves from others, sir,” I say. “In many cases our veterans return suffering from both physical and psychological wounds. An assistance dog can stand between you and their veteran if you get too close to ward away a PTSD episode.”
“A PTSD episode?” Coveralls says. “When I served, we didn’t have none of this PTSD bull—”
“Shh!” The woman in front of me stands with her finger pressed to her lips and a furious expression on her face. “This is the house of God.”
Coveralls tips his head in her direction. “We didn’t have none of that. You enlisted, you deployed, you killed the bad guys, and you came home.”
“Thank you for your service,” I say respectfully. “Hundreds, if not thousands of men and women have reported numerous cases of PTSD post-war. For some people that can be crippling. There’s no shame in them admitting they need help.”
Coveralls pffts me. He actually pffts me. I purse my lips and take a deep breath in through my nose to keep from losing it altogether.
“How many of you know August Cotton?” There are a bunch of murmurs and nods, but no one actively speaks up. “How many of you know what happened to him during his service?”
It’s as if one lonely cricket cries out. The church is eerily silent. “You know, I’ve been here a mere week, and already I can see how alone that man is. Have any of you even thought to ask if he was okay? Or if Dalton Brooks was alright, or needed someone to talk to? Did anyone ask Jason Lambert if he was just fine before he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger? No?” I say accusingly. I stare down the shamed faces of Magnolia Springs and decide not to go easy on them. Life is always easy for those who don’t serve, for those who choose to turn a blind eye. The real strength is in fighting, not just for yourself or for your country, but fighting against those who seek to repress us, even if those people are in our own back yard.
“I’m not a member of this town, but I can tell you every man and woman owes their life to all three of these men, and there are so many more. The Lamberts lost their son last spring. You could have prevented that. Each and every one of you sitting here in this church could have prevented that. Now I know that’s hard to hear in a place like this, but it’s the truth. Twenty-two American soldiers who fought for your right to have Founders Day festivals, and Fourth of July celebrations, and participate in your Moon Pie-eating contests, die every day by their own hand. Twenty-two of those men and women kill themselves, every day. Not every year, or every month, but every day they take their own lives because they can’t live with the aftermath of war. It’s my job to make sure the ones in this town don’t do that. It’s my job to pair them with not just a service dog, but a friend, another living being who’s all out of chances, and who just might make them stop and put down the gun.”
Silence follows my little tirade, and the faces all stare blankly at me, as if they weren’t expecting that. And I suppose they weren’t.
“Thank you for that enlightening information, Ms. Anders,” the mayor says, and my cheeks pink up, then I duck my head, hand Jude his jacket back, cinch my skirt together, and squeeze my way out of the pew.
“Excuse me,” I say, and then, holding my head high, I take several steps down the aisle before I remember my hoagie and go back for it. I don’t even care that everyone is getting a full frontal view of my thigh. I just walk as calmly and as steadily as I can out of the church until I push the doors wide and I’m hit by blinding sunlight. Once the doors close behind me, I exhale and deflate. I also balk at the figure sitting on the edge of the cement flowerbed.
“Hi.” I give a pathetic little wave.
“Wow,” August says. “I thought they really hated me, but they really, really hate you.”
“Yep.” I flash Broadway hands at him, which earns me a half smile that’s gone before I really have time to appreciate it. “I thought you’d be long gone.”
“I’m waiting on Bett.”
“She’s here?” Oh God, please don’t tell me I said all of that in front of a tiny human being.
“They round up all the kids and keep ’em busy in the Sunday School room while we have our town meetings. I don’t like to pull her away from the others. Besides daycare, she doesn’t get too much social interaction with other kids.”
“Ah,” I say.
“That one of Stevie Rae Mae’s?” He tilts his chin toward my sandwich.
“Yep.”
“Best brisket in the south,” August says.
I nod my head. “I’m thinking that’s not a false claim.”
“It ain’t. I been to every Podunk town in this great state. It’s the best.”
“Walking the railways, right?” I sit down on the concrete edge beside him, still far enough away so he won’t feel threatened. He nods. “Did you find what you were looking for out there?”
He laughs halfheartedly. “Kinda hard to find what you’re looking for if you don’t even know what it is.”
“I guess you’re right. That would be kind of difficult,” I agree. “I thought walkin’ the railways was illegal. How did you never get arrested?”
“I’m a Marine, darlin’. We’re like ninjas, only tougher,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. Was that a flutter of my heart when he called me darlin’? Yep. I think it was. “I got approached by Rail Authority a bunch of times, I was always gone before they could come back or send a car out after me.” He frowns and glances down at his shoes. “That true, what you said in there?”
“About the stats.” I cringe. “You heard that?”
“No. I mean about your hoagie.”
Did he just make a joke with me?
I nod with a wry smile. “Yeah, it’s true.”
“Then what you’re doin’ matters.”
I gape at him with wide eyes. “Does that mean you want to be a part of the program?”
“No,” he says, and my chest deflates. No. Not maybe one day, or not just yet, but no. Definite. Final. Never to budge, no.
“Okay, well, if you change your mind—”
“I don’t need your program.”
“There’s no weakness in asking for help, August.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need help; I need to be left alone.”
“Then that’s going to be disappointing for you, because you’re not alone. You have—”
My words are cut short by the church doors opening, and Doctor du Pont steps out. For a beat, his gaze roams over me unapologetically and then it lands on August. The two men eyeball each other for a long moment.
Jude is the first to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out here with someone.”
August makes a derisive choking sound in the back of his throat and gets to his feet. “Would it matter if you did?”
“Excuse me?” Jude says, and I glance warily back and forth between the two of them.
“Will you tell Bett I’m waiting in the car?” August says, without even looking at me.
My shoulders sag, because I’m sitting on the church steps in a skirt that’s ripped all the way up to my panties, holding a now soggy sandwich, and I just yelled at the occupants of this town, pretty much eradicating any possibility of them ever getting behind Paws for Cause. All I want to do is hightail it out of here on my bike, but I nod, even though his back is to me, and say, “Sure.”
Jude lets out a sigh and turns to me. “Some of us have tried talking to him, but August Cotton doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.”
I clear my throat and set my sandwich down, attempting to cover my exposed thigh as best I can. It’s a dismal substitute for fabric, but it’s all I got.
“You know you didn’t mention you were a vet.”
“Because you up and disappeared on me before we had a chance to have a real conversation.”
“Well, I didn’t want to mess with the Du Pont fan club. Word is, you’re the hottest bachelor in town.” I scan the parking lot for a white beat up old Chevy.
“And yet you can’t stop making googly eyes at August Cotton.”
I snap my gaze toward him. “I do not make googly eyes.”
“Sure about that?”
“I want to help him,” I explain emphatically, as if this should already be obvious.
“Right, you just keep telling yourself that.”
I sigh. We are not talking about my attraction to August Cotton because … I do not have an attraction to August Cotton. And I do not make googly eyes. Simple. The doc is way, way off. Still, he might be clueless about the signals women throw off toward the opposite sex, but he is sweet. He didn’t have to help me out in that viper den. “Thanks for vouching for me in there, but you don’t have to worry. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know what makes a good assistance dog, and what doesn’t. So, unless one of my dogs becomes sick, I don’t think I’ll be needing your help.”
He smiles, but it looks more as if he’s indulging a small child during a tantrum. “Well, if it will give these folks peace of mind, I think you should come see me once you have your candidates picked out.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary.”
“And I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
I let out a puff of air and give him a tight smile. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you then.”
“Yep, guess you will.” Jude winks and wanders down the church steps. I watch his retreating figure with a frown. Cocky bastard.
Moments later, adults and children start filing out of the church, and I sit there until Bettina comes wandering out, glancing around nervously for her brother. “Bett.” I wave. “Over here.”
“Wivvie,” she shouts, and several pairs of eyes swing my way. I pay them no mind as the rambunctious four-year-old hurtles toward me.
“Hey, baby doll.”
She giggles and barrels into my legs, squeezing me tight. “Where’s Auggie?”
“He’s waitin’ in the truck,” I smooth her hair over her shoulder with my free hand as she continues to hold onto me. “Come on, I’ll walk you over to him.”
“What happened to your dwess?”
“Let’s just say I had a little fight with a sandwich.” Her features twist into a puzzled expression and I’m certain she thinks I’m as crazy as her brother does. I take her hand and my sandwich that—soggy or not—I still have big plans for, and I lead her over to the beat up Chevy truck. She climbs on in, and August starts the engine. Bett scoots over to the middle and pats the seat. “Are you commin’?”
“No, I’m going to ride home, but thank you,” I say, shutting the door and giving them a wave as an impatient August peels out of the parking space. Bett waves as they drive away, but August doesn’t look back. I swear, every time I think I’m making headway with that man, I just end up right where I first started.
As I turn, my gaze meets Jude’s from across the lot, and while August may have been ignoring me as best he could, it seems the good doc is doing the exact opposite. There’s a frown on his face as he opens the door of his sleek black Aston Martin. I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but I know there is definitely bad blood between those two men. No doubt I’ll find out about it sooner or later. That’s the way it is in small towns. Everyone knows everything. Nothing is secret, and the word privacy doesn’t exist.
Jude climbs into his car, and I glance back at the good folks of Magnolia Springs. Almost every pair of eyes darts away awkwardly, as if they weren’t just staring at the show those Alabama boys just put on. I shake my head and cross the lot to my bike where I climb onto the seat, ignoring the sound of tearing fabric as my skirt decides one peep show isn’t enough for today. With my head held impossibly high, I ride toward home. Home. Home is where the heart is, but it seems I forgot the way a long time ago.