“He was never as puzzled in his life.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
THE DATE on the invitation was this coming Saturday night. And the card indicated that the party was being thrown by Tamra, Cami, and Bethany—the girl he’d met with Christy last week.
He just stared at it. Good thing it had had his name on it or he’d think it had been shoved under the wrong door.
As he stripped off his clothes and got in the shower, he wondered what on earth had prompted the invitation. Mainly he was curious if Tamra had been involved in this decision.
She was such a wild card. One minute kissing him, the next telling him all the reasons she didn’t want to be kissing him. One day telling him off and the next inviting him to come see her art. He shook his head as he ran a bar of little motel soap over his arms, torso.
He didn’t know if he’d go. Just like the Sunset Celebration, it probably wasn’t his thing. Once upon a time, back in Destiny when he was younger, sure. But he wasn’t that same guy. And there was the whole crowd thing—he would never like crowds. He remained glad he’d come here, glad he’d started slowly inching forward into having some kind of life—but damn, keeping to himself up at Whisper Falls sure had been easier.
Upon exiting the shower, he was surprised to nearly trip over a cat, naked. “Damn, I forgot you were here.” He shook his wet head, then moved past the cat and dressed in a clean pair of faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt.
Stepping up to the sink outside the bathroom, he looked into the wide mirror above it. Truth was, it had been easy to let his hair grow and not give a damn when all he did was sit around at Lucky’s, but now that he was working, it was irritating and hot. Today, he’d gone so far as to pull it back in a rubber band. At the moment, it hung in twists and waves around his head and shoulders like tentacles. He considered trying to comb it, but the sad-bordering-on-ridiculous fact was that he didn’t have a comb.
So he just ran his fingers through his sandy-colored beard, then grabbed up his wallet and room key and headed for the door. “Come on, Captain, out we go,” he said. He made his usual short walk across the parking lot to the Hungry Fisherman, the cat still faithfully on his heels, and managed to get inside without Captain following.
He passed by a life-size statue of a fisherman that looked suspiciously like Abner, and which he’d learned in passing that Polly had actually carved herself many years ago. She was a simple woman in most ways—but a woman who would carve the man she loved from a giant block of wood, especially a man like Abner . . . well, that was pretty special. Weird maybe, but special.
It caught him a little off guard to see that what had become his usual booth was filled with women—in particular, Tamra, Cami, and Christy. They all looked up and waved as Christy called, “Hey, Jeremy!”
“Hey,” he said, trying for a smile. But he was tired. He found himself wanting to make eye contact with Tamra but at the very same time wanting to avoid her since he never knew what to expect from her.
So he leaned toward the avoiding by making a beeline toward the opposite side of the restaurant beyond the seafood buffet. The only table in that area occupied was the one where Abner frequently sat. Tonight he wore a bright yellow hard hat with a red golf shirt and khaki pants. He didn’t look up, so Jeremy left him alone and slid into a nearby booth. Most nights he ate out behind the Crab, but wind had started kicking up a couple of hours ago, so eating inside sounded better tonight. He’d feed the cat after he left.
Polly brought over his usual soft drink and told him to help himself to the buffet with a wink that he figured had something to do with Captain. And as Jeremy dug into a big plate of food, he occasionally heard the girls on the other side of the restaurant laughing. Though . . . never Tamra, he realized. Even with her girlfriends, she never laughs. She should laugh more.
Then he shook his head. Who the hell am I to give advice?
He’d just finished his plate and was ready to go back for a light helping of seconds—including something for a certain one-eyed cat—when Abner and his hard hat slid into the orange vinyl seat across from him.
Abner greeted him by throwing a familiar-looking yellow envelope down on the table between them, clearly grouchy as hell. “You going to this damn wedding shower?”
Jeremy wiped his napkin across his mouth before answering. “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t really want to, so probably not.”
“I don’t want to, either,” Abner groused, “but I have to.”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. Abner didn’t strike him as a man who did much against his will.
“We’re providin’ the food,” Abner explained. “Plus Polly says it’s only decent. Suppose she’s right. But I don’t like parties.”
“Me neither,” Jeremy agreed.
They sat in silence a moment and Jeremy took a sip of his soda.
He’d sort of thought they were done talking, so it surprised him when Abner spoke back up, motioning vaguely across the room. “Why aren’t you sittin’ with them gals?”
Jeremy thought the bigger question was why Abner would assume he would sit with “them gals.” But he just said, “Uh . . . guess I prefer keeping to myself.”
Across from him, Abner gave a solemn nod. “Me, too. Maybe that’s why I like you.” They sat in silence another moment until Abner mused aloud, “Not always good, though, keepin’ to yourself. Maybe you oughta go. To the party.”
Jeremy wasn’t sure if it was actual advice or if Abner just wanted his company there. Safety in numbers and all that. All the quiet outcasts sitting at the same table looking miserable together rather than separately.
Finally he replied. “It’s nice to be invited, but . . . not sure I fit in around here very well. At least not yet.”
Abner gave another small nod. “Me neither.”
“How long have you been in Coral Cove?” Jeremy asked.
“Since 1972.”
Now it was Jeremy who nodded. That was a hell of a long time not to fit in.
“If you want to fit in,” Abner said, “you need to show ’em you’re not so different from them.”
Again, it was difficult to summon an answer because A) Jeremy hadn’t indicated that he cared about fitting in, and he wasn’t sure he did, and B) Abner didn’t exactly seem like the guy to be doling out guidance on the subject. The good thing about talking with Abner, though, was that you didn’t have to answer if you didn’t feel like it and it still felt totally comfortable. So Jeremy just gave the man another nod and left it at that.
Then he went to refill his plate, and Abner departed the booth as well.
After eating a little more, Jeremy wrapped a few strips of breaded cod in a couple of napkins, then slid them into the front pocket of his jeans, left Polly a good tip, and walked to the counter to pay his bill.
“Be right with ya, hon!” she yelled from a table where she was refilling drinks, and as he stood waiting, he could hear the conversation from Tamra’s booth.
“She likes Fletcher!” Christy was saying.
And Tamra and Cami both said, “Really?” almost in unison.
As they chattered on, he realized they were talking about Bethany.
“Only,” Christy went on, “she’s not really into his look. You know, the whole long hair and beard thing. She thinks he looks . . .”
“Like 1970 exploded all over him?” Tamra asked.
“Exactly,” Christy said. “But she’s all into his personality and she thinks he might be cute under the beard.”
“Hmm,” Tamra offered, “I never thought about that before—or what he would even look like without it.”
“Do you think he’d ever change things up?” Cami asked.
“Unlikely,” Tamra answered. “I mean, he’s so . . . Fletcher. He’s not a guy who changes to suit other people, you know?”
“And he’d probably be all like, ‘How will Kim recognize me when she comes home?’” Cami said, imitating Fletcher. Jeremy had only met the guy once, the day the whole town had worked on the municipal parking lot, but he thought Cami did a pretty fair take on him.
“Well, if you ask me,” Christy said, “a change would do him good. In more ways than one. And being open to getting to know Bethany would do him good, too.”
“Amen to that,” Tamra said.
Then Christy added, “And just between us, I wouldn’t mind if Fletcher tidied up his look, too. Like, for the wedding. He’s the best man, after all. And I love Fletcher, but . . .”
“1970.” Tamra and Cami again spoke in unison.
And Jeremy thought Tamra sounded more hopeful as she said, “It really is past time for him to join us in the twenty-first century. I have no idea if he’d even consider it, but sometimes he listens to me, so . . . I’ll see what I can do.”
Oh boy. Jeremy already sympathized with poor Fletcher. He didn’t think he had much in common with the dude, but what guy wanted to have to change to suit a woman? Or maybe more than one woman in this case.
Just then, Polly came dashing up behind the cash register, and as Jeremy paid, she said in a low, secretive voice, “Do you have you-know-what for you-know-who?” Then she gave him the biggest “secret wink” he’d ever seen in his life.
He patted his front pocket easily and said, “We’re good.”
When he walked out the door a minute later, he immediately found a gray cat at his feet and, again, nearly tripped over him. He stopped, looked down. “Not cool, dude,” he said. “Not cool.”
“Meow,” the cat said.
And then it started to rain a little. And Jeremy said, “Shit. I suppose now you’re gonna wanna eat your dinner in my room. Like you’re freaking royalty or something.”
“Meow,” the cat replied as they made their way across the lot.
He’d already nearly forgotten the conversation he’d just overheard, and the one he’d had with Abner, as well. But as he glanced up and caught sight of his own reflection again—this time in the plate glass window that fronted his room—he kept thinking about changes.
He’d already made a lot of them.
But maybe there were still more to make.