Chapter Four
Like the other dozen or so communities within the county, St. Florence was unincorporated and therefore had no localized government to manage the day-to-day stuff. Growing up on the Levane farm, Cory had found it interesting they lived in a place with no mayor or elected official, yet everything operated smoothly. The phones worked, Mr. Berger delivered the mail six afternoons a week, and big red trucks with hoses showed up whenever something caught fire. When parades rolled through the center of town, the mayor of the county seat typically waved to residents from the lead convertible.
Over time, he stopped questioning the town’s lack of a figurehead and enjoyed his childhood. Cory never intended to enter politics, but always kept it in the back of his head that if he ever decided to run, he’d need to do in a bigger city.
When it came to St. Florence, though, the absence of local government didn’t equate to an existence free of bureaucratic controversy. Here people lived in the heart of Virginia’s wine country—some nicknamed this region Napa East for all the acres of twisted vines heavy with juicy varietals—yet the idea of taking part in this type of agri-tourism set many teeth on edge.
You want to come to the farmers market and stock up on fresh veggies, goat cheese, and home-churned butter from the milk of grass-fed cows? Come on down, and bring your money. You want to set up a tasting room or a craft brewpub in our town? Keep driving.
On the road and in the home stadium locker room, Cory read the emails from his mother and sisters, Lisa and Suzanne, with increasing amusement. Eunice’s messages arrived more frequently, with proper spelling and punctuation, outlining her every complaint with the county’s economic development office. You cannot fathom the stubbornness of some people. One woman in particular, Miss Nanceen Fox, continuously escorts prospective brewers around town. Bart won’t answer her calls anymore, so she’s naturally fixated on the southeast corner of our property. Every week there’s a new offer. She simply won’t take no for an answer.
Then from the younger sib, Lisa: OMG! Y won’t Mom & Dad join the frickin’ 21st cent.? You’d think St. Florence is going to turn into a post apoc. ghetto if they set up one lousy winery. It’s not like they want to sell Paw’s house to a meth head. LOL
The land in question had been willed to Cory after his grandfather’s death, but since he was a minor when Paw passed, his parents assumed possession of the still-vacant farmhouse and barn. The two-story, four-bedroom home retained its original plumbing and ancient—by Cory’s standards—appliances, but he knew with a bit of hard work and a check ending in several zeroes one could convert it into a nice bed and breakfast. His parents had hoped somebody, if not Cory, then Suzanne and her husband, would assume responsibility for it and fill it with grandchildren. Not that Eunice and Anthony would mind having a quaint B&B as a neighbor, but every prospective buyer wanted to use the barn to hold ginormous tanks of booze and convert Grandma Levane’s sitting room into a pub. “Granny Levane’s mother campaigned for Prohibition!” he’d heard more than once. Every time the subject came up, Cory sensed a disturbance in the St. Florence Cemetery.
The aforementioned Bart, the town’s only real estate agent, specialized in selling farmland and no doubt would have given his left testicle to broker a sale of the property to anybody with deep pockets and a dream. He ignored Miss Nanceen Fox, yes, but not because he shared the collective views of the residents of St. Florence. He knew he’d never get the town to agree to such a sale.
Bottom line: the elder Levanes wanted the house’s virtue intact. Suzanne and Trey liked their condo in Richmond with all the contemporary amenities just fine, and visits to St. Florence sufficed. Lisa wanted to teach English to diplomats’ children in Korea. Cory didn’t want to knock around a big-ass drafty house by himself. So it stood there, empty and unused and falling apart. Up yours, Big Chardonnay.
Make no mistake, Anthony and Eunice Levane enjoyed the occasional glass of wine. They didn’t frown when Suzanne’s husband took a beer with dinner. Send somebody from the county with the intent on courting a business dealing in alcoholic beverages and out came the petitions. Phone calls to the mayor of the county seat. Everything but signs and chants. No beer! Steer clear! Get used to it!
A denizen of St. Florence could, though, purchase adult drinks in restaurants and at the Food Stop. If one wished to sit in a converted firehouse with several friends and enjoy a small-batch stout over a game of Cards Against Humanity, one drove to any number of breweries in the Valley, beyond the county line. Cory heard from Aaron that Lost Girls had opened only last month and enjoyed a healthy following. He didn’t know the four women who owned the place, but understood they were part of a motorcycle club. Kind of like Sons of Anarchy, only with breasts and without the random murders and gun smuggling.
Boobs and beer. Where was this joint when he was in college?
This being a gorgeous Saturday in Crozet, Virginia, the Lost Girls folks had all three garage doors of the converted space rolled up. Long community tables with benches filled the interior, while four large wooden discs, each atop an oak barrel, doubled for more intimate seating on the carport patio. From here, one could watch patrons try their luck at cornhole, tossing a heavy beanbag onto the elevated board while holding a pint glass, without spilling a drop.
Cory did just that, sipping on today’s special IPA while Aaron’s first shot thumped down on the narrow space above the round hole in the board and remained still. A corner of the popcorn-filled canvas pouch tipped over the edge, but it didn’t count unless the bag fell all the way down.
Aaron snapped his fingers in a silent “dagnabbit” and scowled. His wife Erica, Coolidge High class of the year behind them, let out a belly laugh and nudged his non-beer-holding arm.
“Nice try,” she chided. “Now watch the master in action.” She cupped her pouch, bright-red to Aaron’s chocolate-brown, in her right palm and gave an underhanded toss. It landed atop Aaron’s, and both bags tumbled to score.
“Aha!” Aaron pointed and rejoined Cory at the table. “That counts, right? Just like if you score off your own goal, the other team gets the point. And I got that other bag in a while back, so this puts me ahead.”
Erica slumped in the chair beside her husband and side-eyed him with teeth bared. “It does not count; no points. You have the make the shot. Your bag was in the way.”
“That is BS and you know it, woman.” Aaron had the phone out now, no doubt checking the Internet for official cornhole rules. “Cory, help us out here.”
No, not getting involved. The Olesons were friends of his, and they rarely fought, but when it came to any type of game they morphed into competitive, blood-thirsty souls. Ever since high school, it was like that. The memory of an UNO game taking a sordid turn, shreds of colored playing cards raining from the sky like debris from a four-alarm fire, lingered in the back of his mind.
“Sorry, guys. I’m not impartial enough to decide. I like you both too much.”
“Wimp.” Erica razzed him and reached for the pumpkin ale she’d left on the table.
Cory smiled and kept his glass to his lips for a few seconds longer to mask the inevitable downturn in his mood. Watching the couple nuzzle each other and haggle over points in a cornhole match triggered his envy. During his time in professional football, when he was able to hook up with any friends from home for a drink or dinner, he heard fawning variations of how he had it made. Success. Money. The “Ring.” All the while Cory stared at pictures of wives and kids and longed to say the same thing to his buddies.
Since sitting down at this table with his beer, he noticed how people paused in passing, checking that finger for something sparkly. Sorry, folks. He only took the ring out on special occasions these days, which basically amounted to family gatherings. He’d wear it out in public more often if not for his mother’s irrational fear of a machete-swinging jewel thief on a Bucati, roaring up a sidewalk and plowing through pedestrians to lop off his hand and claim the prize.
Seriously, she’d seen something similar on a crime drama titled with initials and badgered Cory until he agreed to put the championship ring somewhere safe.
He’d trade that hunk of metal in a heartbeat for a love like Aaron and Erica shared.
“What’s so funny?”
Erica’s question brought him out of his reverie. “Nothing,” Cory muttered, “just something I remembered from earlier today. How are your parents doing?” He knew they were watching Presley for the rest of the day, so he figured they had enough stamina to keep up with a preschooler.
“They’re good, thanks. I’m so glad they offered to take Pres.” She gestured with her beer hand to the scene around them. A few leashed dogs padded around on the concrete or else rested, head on paws, while their masters enjoyed themselves. “A lot of these breweries are pretty kid-friendly with the lawn games, but Pres has developed this phobia of large dogs. He freaked a bit last time we came here, and we couldn’t stay.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Was he bitten or scared by one?”
Aaron shook his head. “Not that we’ve seen. His TV viewing is limited, nothing violent or frightening. He got clingy at the farmers market when somebody’s yellow Lab went past. We’ll have to do something about that. I don’t want this to stick.”
“Maybe take him to a shelter, or pet store. Show him some smaller dogs and gradually work up,” Cory said. “I’ll talk to Mom and Dad if you like. People come to the farm all the time to see the goats, and I’m sure there’ve been times when a kid got skittish.”
“Yeah, maybe visit a petting zoo,” Erica said, nodding. Then her mouth rounded in a pout reserved for adorable babies and animals, and baby animals. “Speaking of…oh, look at that little cutie.”
She sounded persuasive enough for Cory to turn his head. So glad for that, too. Winnie approached the patio. Rather, the beagle she had on a retractable leash led her closer. The handsome tri-colored dog darted around legs and sniffed his way toward the cornhole boards, inspecting and licking hands presented to him and squinting as fingers scratched behind his ears. His owner smiled and apologized her way through the gathering crowd. She looked lovely. She had changed into a black dress with large white polka dots and matching flats. Vintage-style, her sisters would have described it, with the wide buckled belt around her waist and the thin white sweater covering what the halter-cut top would normally expose in hotter weather. Only her hair, worn down around her shoulders, took away from the I Love Lucy look.
Not that it bothered him. Cory pictured his arm around her waist, drawing Winnie into a red-hot jitterbug and making that skirt twirl up so he could see where her stockings ended.
Right. He never even devised a victory dance for when he scored because knew he’d look ridiculous shaking his money-maker.
He held up his hand and called out to her. “Hope you guys don’t mind. I invited Winnie Segal to come,” he told the Olesons. “I’m seeing about hiring her for some design work.”
“You won’t do any better in town. Winnie redid the logos for Perk Me Up, and they look fantastic. She’s great,” Erica said and smiled to greet Winnie. Cory didn’t miss Aaron’s subtle eye roll at the compliment, and wondered if the man took it as a mild dig against his managerial abilities. Maybe Cory overthought it. One might excel at running a café but stink at creating signage to bring in the customers. Marketing took talent and an eye for envisioning the best look for a brand. Cory learned as much meeting with agents willing to parlay his success on the football field into profitable media ventures.
It made his head spin during his first few seasons with the Cougars. His name on a jersey and his face on a Wheaties box…that’s about all he’d hoped for in his career. People wanted to turn him into a bobblehead, a posable action figure, a video game, a spokesman for energy bars. He just wanted to play football.
Now he wanted whatever got him closer to Winnie Segal.
Cory pulled out the vacant chair for her, and Winnie registered surprise during introductions. “Okay,” she said to Erica, “I do remember you from school, yes, and from the market with your son.” She then glanced at Aaron and nodded politely. “I thought you looked familiar when you came to the booth today.”
Aaron said nothing, but offered a half-smile.
She settled in with the beagle and her large handbag slouched at her feet. “What can I get for you?” Cory asked. “If you’re not into beer, they’ve got canned sodas and bottled water.”
She glanced quickly at the laminated menu, and her features scrunched. “Whatever’s the least hoppy is fine, thanks.” She pulled a spiral pad from the bag and rested it on her lap. Cory thought she was going to say more, but Erica wedged in and started up a conversation about Winnie face-painting for an upcoming event.
“I’ll go up with you.” Aaron held up his empty glass, white suds streaking down the insides, and let out a short burp. Erica covered her half-full pilsner to indicate she was done for drinking.
Inside, he leaned against one corner of the counter that stretched the width of the converted building and waited for a server to get to them. Aaron stood close, too much for his comfort, and snapped at a woman trying—and failing—for a clandestine selfie with Cory in focus over her shoulder.
“Come on,” Aaron barked at her. “He just wants to drink a beer like anybody else. Give him that, all right?”
The young brunette looked chagrined, ready to cry, which nobody needed right now. “Hey, it’s fine.” Cory placated her and offered to pose for another shot. He waited until she bounced away before turning back to Aaron. He kept his frustration in check. He knew his friend meant well, and while smothering attention unnerved him, it didn’t help his image to have people biting off fans’ heads on his behalf. Especially if he didn’t sanction it.
“Sorry, man. I should have asked,” Aaron began.
“Don’t sweat it. I won’t be upset when people stop taking pictures and asking for autographs, but it’s okay if people come up. So long as they’re not hanging by the bathroom stall while I’m using it.” He laughed.
“Well, Presley appreciated the signed ball. We’ll have the task of getting him to let go of it.” Aaron laughed. “He wants to take it to show and tell next week.”
Cory thought back to his email inbox, and the offers coming in via his mother to make an appearance at the elementary school during a special assembly. He saw his social calendar filling up quickly. Best to get all the glad-handing out of the way, and maybe in time people would see him as just another guy from St. Florence.
One of the brewery’s co-owners approached from the service side of the bar. The ash blonde wore a skintight, scoop-necked red shirt with her leather vest. Her club name, Satin, was stitched on a patch over the right breast, and as Cory glanced in the mirror behind her he caught the large design of the club’s logo—a vintage pinup girl with Bettie Page bangs, wearing a black catsuit and waving while astride a fat missile—emblazoned on the back. She eyed Cory with the desire of a starving carnivore preparing to slice into a juicy, rare steak.
“How was that IPA?”
“Good stuff. Hope you keep that one.” He crooked his neck toward their table. “What would you suggest for somebody who isn’t much of a beer drinker?”
“That they set aside their inhibitions for a day, but if you’re talking about somebody who’s into that ‘taste great, less filling’ jazz we got the Neon Angel….” Satin pulled a tap shaped like a princess wand and filled a shot glass for Cory to sample. “Vixen calls it the anti-Bud, but it’s pretty lightweight.”
Well, Winnie trusted him to pick, and the Neon Angel went down smooth without causing him to squint. He ordered a glass for Winnie and a refill of his IPA.
Aaron watched Satin pour. “What business do you have with Winnie Segal?”
Huh. Had Aaron intended the question to come out like a sneer? What business was it of Aaron’s to care? He was a guy asking a friend from high school to enjoy a drink and conversation, perhaps discuss a project to keep him busy in his retirement. Lord knew Eunice had a honey-do list ready for him.
He tried to answer but Satin cut in. “Winnie Segal does all that Web design and artwork, right?”
“You need a website?”
Satin huffed out a laugh. “I got a guy for that. Vixen’s cousin. She’d kill me if we went another direction. What I’d love is a new tat. I’ve seen her work at the farmers market. How much does she charge?”
If the biker chick wanted Iron Man’s mask permanently etched on her face, Cory doubted any respectable tattoo artist would oblige. He shrugged and suggested Satin come over to the table to meet Winnie.
She slid over the beers and nodded in that direction. “Maybe when the crowd dies down.”
Cory turned to look. Several people gathered around the table. Erica chattered with the crowd while Winnie bent her head, doing something he couldn’t quite see. As he moved closer and set her beer before her, he realized she was busily sketching in her pad. People watched over her shoulder and murmured their amazement as her pen stroked and swirled and an image took shape.
He scooted his chair closer for a clearer view. Winnie spun ovals into faces and rectangles into towering spires. In seconds she’d rough-sketched a pirate kicking a football between the two towers of London Bridge.
“What’s this?” he asked, impressed by the workmanship. Winnie’s skill amazed him, even with the rudimentary drawing. “It looks like what Marcy was describing earlier.”
She nodded. “I wasn’t sure what you had mind with your book, so I’m just going off some of Marcy’s ideas from earlier. I don’t think I’d be able to help with the text. If you’re not writing outright, you may have to find a ghostwriter for it.”
Erica leaned over then glanced up. “Oh, are you writing a book, Cory?”
“It’s been suggested I try, and I hadn’t thought it possible until I saw this.” He gestured to the drawing, which Winnie finished with a flourish. With her permission he took the pad in hand and studied the impossible field goal. Imagine if Winnie had more time for a proper drawing. It would look wonderful in color in a children’s storybook.
“I mean, it seemed like a fantasy, but this came from a vague concept her cousin had. Look at it.” The crowd had dispersed, but the few who remained murmured pleased noises over Winnie’s handiwork.
“Bear in mind, a page for a picture book is going to take a lot longer to do,” Winnie said. She reached for her pad but Cory wasn’t ready to surrender it yet. The drawing, no matter how rudimentary, impressed him. It flattered him, too, to think Winnie showed some interest in a half-cocked idea connected to him.
His thumb brushed a corner, lifting the page. She’d drawn something else, but when he lifted the coarse paper to see, Winnie let out a warning squeal.
“Please,” she said, and made a more concerted effort to claim her work. She snatched the pad and stuffed it back into her bag. “I’m sorry. It’s just that some design work I do is confidential. Business people don’t want their ideas exposed, you know.”
The excuse made sense, but the worried expression creasing Winnie’s forehead spoke more of embarrassment than breach of contract. Intriguing. The woman obviously had talent for a variety of design. Perhaps she’d drawn something “not safe for work.”
This from a girl fellow Coolidge seniors had unofficially dubbed The Girl Most Likely Never To. Hmmm. Still waters and all that.
“Well, I still want to talk about illustrating a book, if you’re up for it.” Cory had no clue how to begin, how to plot, what to name the characters, but already he dreamed of holding a finished product in his hands. “I suppose I should have come prepared, like you. I don’t even have a title.”
“I’d suggest The Longest Yard but it’s been taken.” Aaron drank deeply from his glass and, setting it with a loud thunk on the wooden table, nodded to his wife. The cornhole boards had opened up again. “How about a rematch? I’m the mood for redemption.”
“Why not? I’ll spot you a point because I pity the foolish.” Erica rose from her seat and excused them from their company.
Cory thought it nice of Aaron to give him this time alone with Winnie, although his friend’s manner had somewhat roughened. Aaron didn’t look their way, just focused ahead of him and wrinkled his nose as though smelling something foul.
Bad batch of brew? How? He’d gotten the same thing Cory was drinking.
“How does she stand it?”
His attention snapped back to Winnie. No smile from her, either, though she appeared relieved, her posture relaxed.
“I think Aaron’s always been competitive. Erica has a good sense of humor. She rolls with the punches,” he said. In the distance, Mrs. Oleson wiggled her hips and pretended to toss a bag over her shoulder. Onlookers goaded her while others mock ducked for cover.
“That’s not what I meant, but whatever. I didn’t come here to open up old wounds.” Winnie glanced behind her, silently regarded the scene, then turned back to her beer.
Cory began to ask what she meant by that, and realized she referred to conflicts between her and Aaron that happened in high school. From what he remembered of Winnie, she’d been large back then, but not a pariah. Well, the occasional taunt of “Hey, Winnie Sea Cow” from others burned in his memory, but when he could he’d sought out the offenders and shut it all down.
She knew that, right? She hadn’t told him to fuck off when he texted, and it had to mean something.
“I like your tattoo.” She pointed to the red Ed Hardy-style heart on his upper right arm. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the whole design. The curling white scroll etched across bore the acronym LACES. Since having it done, everybody from teammates to sports commentators speculated the tat had something to do with the sport. Laces on the football, or his cleats. Why the devotion? Many asked, but nobody had yet posed the question to him directly.
Until now.
“Do you belong to a secret society?” Winnie grinned. “Some sports shoe company hot for your endorsement offered you a million bucks to get their brand on your body?”
“Not even close, but since you’re such a good friend.” His glance turned conspiratorially left and right. “It’s for my family.”
She thought a moment, and on went the lightbulb. “I get it. Lisa, Anthony, Cory….”
“Eunice and Suzanne, yes,” he finished. “I’ve heard so many ‘out there’ possibilities for this.” He flexed the muscle. “One guy thought it was all the teams I’d end up playing for. The Lions, the Cougars, the Eagles, the Seahawks.”
“What team begins with A?”
He shrugged. “None. I guess the A was for Atlanta or Arizona, or an expansion team to be named later.”
“That’s funny.” Her face turned serious. “You really consider me a friend?”
An odd question. Why would she believe otherwise? “Uh, yeah,” he said. Maybe now wasn’t the time to suggest he hoped for more. The look of disbelief curdling her features made him uneasy . She fidgeted a bit, as though preparing for some prank to drop.
“We went to school together, had a few electives in common, right? I wasn’t on the same track with you for all the core classes, but….” Memory, don’t fail me now. “I’m trying to recall a time I wasn’t nice to you, or didn’t consider you somebody I was on good terms with, and I’m sorry it’s not coming to me.”
“You were okay back then.” Her voice took on a wistful tone, still not convincing. Damn it. “You weren’t exactly chatty with me, is all.”
“Are we remembering the same thing? How about in Spanish when we broke out in groups to perform skits for the final project?” Their team of five had voted on performing a Gilligan’s Island parody. He’d doubled as the Professor and the Skipper, whipping his sailor’s hat off and on to deliver different lines en Español.
Winnie had made a delectably fluent Lovey Howell, as he recalled. She’d twirled a strand of fake pearls around her finger and lamented how having all the dinero in the world meant nothing when you lived in a grass hut in the middle of the ocean.
“We did get an A,” Winnie said, nodding, “despite Johanna Greenspan being sent to the front office for wearing a low-cut gingham blouse and Daisy Dukes tighter than her skin. Come to think of it, though, losing a MaryAnn with bad inflection probably contributed to that good grade.”
Ugh. Johanna. He’d have gladly kept his distance from that airhead if not for Lisa’s desire to make the cheer squad. Cozying up to Captain Johanna under the pretense of studying with her helped when his sister’s tryout succeeded, seeing as she stumbled a few times during tryouts, but it was hell for him afterward. He’d felt dirty for leading Johanna on, and since then had refused to leverage his celebrity for family favors.
“There’s a name I haven’t thought of in years.” Not a complete lie, but when the girl popped up in his memory it hardly inspired warm feelings. “Whatever happened to her?”
“Where do girls like her go after high school? She went to ODU and got her Mrs. degree.” Winnie sipped her beer. “Married a big-time lawyer’s son, who became a big-time lawyer himself.”
“She ever finish college?”
Winnie shook her head. “Can’t say. She doesn’t even pump the gas in the Mercedes SUV she rolls into town when she visits, but I don’t think you need an education for that.”
“Must be nice.”
“Yep.” Winnie let the P sound pop through her delectable lips. For a moment, she puckered as though waiting for a kiss. What kept him from obliging? Too many people around, yes, none of whom needed to know their business. When it happened, he hoped for a moment more private.
“This is good, by the way. Thanks.” Winnie toasted him with her Neon Angel.
“Glad you like it.” This came from Satin, who approached from behind Cory and propped a booted foot on the chair Erica vacated. “There’s a growler special on that one today. Half off to go.”
“I couldn’t keep a growler at home. It’s just me.” Winnie set down her glass. “I’d be afraid the beer would go flat.”
“I hear ya. We’re looking into having some of our beers canned for distribution. People’re asking about when some of the restaurants will start selling our stuff, but to be honest I’d rather keep everything in one place where I have my eye on it.”
“Even one tap at a popular Richmond joint will raise your visibility,” Cory said.
“You sound like Blaze.” Satin nodded over to the bar where a tall woman in a leather Lost Girls vest served a frothy pint. Cory admired the biker chick’s dark hair with the blue and green alternating streaks. All the women in this group stood out among the crowd and had great marketing potential. He’d picked up a few tips here and there while playing football. He always came into contact with players interested in expanding themselves as brands.
No harm in that. One needed an income after the last fourth quarter. On that thought, he asked, “Ya’ll need a spokesperson?” He wanted it to sound like a joke, but Satin eyed him as though the idea had merit.
“We were thinking about making a pinup calendar as a promotional item. You got a thong bikini?”
“It’s at the cleaners.”
Winnie nearly snorted beer through her nose. Satin enjoyed a hearty laugh and slapped his shoulder. “I’ll spare you the visual in my head.” When she calmed down a bit, she turned to Winnie. “Hey, I liked that signage you did for the Main Street Florist shop. You draw a good motorcycle, too?”
“Harley, Indian, BMW?” Winnie’s lip quirked up and she turned to a fresh page on her pad. Armed with her pencil, she sketched out a graphic according to Satin’s specifications: a low-rider bike with a long, flexible rose stem entwined around the muffler, wheels, and handlebars, with the bloom replacing the headlight. Even in black and white, the drawing looked stunning.
Winnie detached the page, and Satin held it up for a better look. “Oh, that’s beautiful. I can get my guy to fill in the color, no problem. How much I owe you?”
“Oh, gosh.” Winnie’s cheeks pinked. “You can have it.”
“Seriously. This is for a tattoo I want done on my back. I’m going to pay the man with the needle, so it’s only fair you get some of my money, too.” Satin reached for her back pocket and pulled out a suede billfold. No dainty ladies’ purse for this gal. Out slipped a few twenties through the woman’s fingers. “This looks like a five-hour job, and he charges me only fifty an hour because we barter the rest in beer. So I figure half?” Satin frowned and looked at a bewildered Winnie. “I don’t have enough. You got one of them apps that takes money on your phone?”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve never drawn a tat before, so I wouldn’t know what to charge. How about this.” Winnie steepled her hands on the table and thought a moment. “Let’s say the forty cash and you tell everybody you know who did the design.” She fished a few business cards from her purse. “If you’ll let me set these out by the bar in addition, we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll do you one better and throw in a free pint a month for a whole year. You come see me and I’ll set you up.” Satin tapped the stack of cards on the table and winked. She took the drawing and stood. “This tat’s getting a lot of exposure, too. I plan to wear halter tops all summer long.”
“That was rather generous,” Cory said after Satin left for the bar. “Some artists charge upwards of three hundred an hour for ink work. I’ve seen guys on the team drop a few thou for their sleeves.”
Winnie arched an eyebrow. “You implying that I’m cheap?”
The question stymied him a moment. The beer dulled his senses and he needed a second to decide if Winnie kidded him or was actually ticked. When she smiled, he felt better. “I just think creative people should be paid what their work is worth. And that bike and rose sketch was amazing.”
“Well, it’s not like I need the money. I do, yeah, but I’m making enough from the freelance work and the face painting to get by.”
“Sounds like you prefer to break even.”
Winnie sipped her beer again, then shook her head. “Cost of living here is low compared to other parts of Virginia, and I like living in St. Florence. If I want to experience city life, I can hop a train to New York then come home when I get sick of it. I’m already living the dream—I answer only to myself.”
Who could argue with that? Cory had seen much of the country and parts of Europe while playing exhibition games. Winnie had a point. The world offered gorgeous scenery, rich food, and interesting people, but at the end of the day nothing felt more comfortable than your own bed.
The more he thought about it, the more he looked forward to readjusting to life in St. Florence. Quite a bit had changed since he was drafted, but he figured it wouldn’t take long to find his groove.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
Winnie had the beagle in her lap now, and she scratched behind his ears while the dog regarded Cory with narrowed eyes. “This is Zeppo. He’s the best roommate a girl could want. Never hogs the TV remote, or stays up late howling. Nicer than most people I know.”
“I hope you’re not lumping me into that category.” Okay, no more beer. He required sobriety to interpret Winnie’s humor.
“You’re alright.” She grinned, but her mirth faded with a slow turn of her head. Aaron looked in their direction…no, more like sneered. What was his old friend’s problem? Cory wanted to have a drink and reconnect with a lady he liked, a terrific talent and a woman of substance. Aaron’s expression read of disapproval.
Well, tough on him. Aaron had a wife, so he had no say in Cory’s romantic life, rather the one he tried to jumpstart.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave Winnie his full attention again, and his eyes on her must have helped. Her face softened once more, and here came the smile. “I agree with you, too, dogs are the best. My one regret playing for the Cougars was I couldn’t keep one in the house. Well, it wasn’t impossible, but being away for weeks at a time it wouldn’t have been fair to a pup to have other people care for him.”
“You’re retired now, nothing stopping you.” Winnie settled Zeppo back on the ground. The beagle circled a few times before resting his head on his paws.
“I need to settle in one place first. Figure out if I’ll stay.” He craved a kind word of support, even a joking oh, you can’t leave. He already counted several votes among his family, and no doubt Aaron leaned toward having a famous pal within reach.
He drank his beer. What am I thinking? Awfully full of himself to expect Winnie to encourage him to plant roots, like he expected all the women to fall at his feet.
“You could do worse than St. Florence,” she said. “We have fresh air, close to hiking.” She hoisted her glass in Satin’s direction. “And a kickass brewery not far from town limits.”
“That’s it, then.” He slapped the table. “You don’t by chance freelance for the county tourism board, do you?”
Winnie offered a coy look. “I’m not getting kickbacks for every resident retained, if you’re asking.”
“All I need now is a decent tattoo artist. I didn’t see a shop in town. Maybe I ought to ask the ladies here.”
Winnie opened her mouth to speak, but Aaron called over to them. He and Erica had finished their cornhole match and now wove through the thickening crowd to their table. “Cory,” he clamped down on Cory’s shoulder, nearly spilling the beer. Cory didn’t much care for the contact. “Erica and I were thinking of heading over to Pancho Villa’s for dinner. We got the grands to extend their babysitting time, like we needed to twist their arms.” He chuckled. “How about it, wanna join us?”
It sounded clear to Cory’s ears his friend offered one invitation. He glanced at Winnie, who busied herself with straightening her notebook and purse and checking on her dog. Aaron’s neglect of her came off as rude. Had his friend always been like this? If it had to take several years away from home to get him to see people for how they really were, what did it say about him?
“Actually,” Cory said, “I wanted to ask Winnie—”
“Oh, you go on ahead,” she broke in, smiling when Erica shifted behind her chair to move toward a freer space. “I have to get home and feed Zeppo then get some work done. That’s the beauty of being freelance. I set my own hours. Still have to finish the tasks, though.”
“I think that’s awesome. You can work anywhere,” Erica said.
“No place like home, though,” Aaron added.
Cory noticed the color of Erica’s face; she deciphered the hidden meaning of her husband’s words. Winnie, go home. Erica huffed and started toward the parking lot, and Cory’s respect for her ratcheted up a bit. Nice to know he wasn’t the only one who disapproved of Aaron’s assholery.
Not that he was actually doing anything about it himself…
He wanted to speak up, but Winnie stood now and tugged on Zeppo’s leash. “Thanks for the beer,” she told him. “I’m sorry we didn’t get too deep into discussions about your book.”
“How about tomorrow?” Cory held up a hand to Aaron. “I’ll take a rain check? I promised Mom I’d be home tonight for dinner.” Without waiting for a response, he followed an already walking Winnie toward the parking lot. “Hey,” he told her, “you didn’t answer my question.”
“Sorry.” She looked down at Zeppo, who skittered about, growing restless with the influx of people. “The people are starting to spook him. I wanted to move before he tangled with that dog over there, too.” She nodded her head toward a couple leading a French Bulldog toward the bar.
Good excuse. Growing up on a farm, he knew all about nervous animals. “Are you free anytime tomorrow to get together? I was thinking about that tat design you did for Satin, and I planned to have some new ink done. You interested in doing another one?”
“You want a rose-entwined motorcycle for halter top weather, too?”
He laughed. “More like a cougar, something to commemorate the old job. That’s the one thing I didn’t have done when I played for them.”
“Really?” She quirked her lip, looking utterly kissable in that moment with Zeppo circling her legs and threatening to bind her ankles with his leash. Reese Witherspoon, eat your heart out. “I love drawing animals, so that’s a breeze. You can text me tomorrow. I have a few meetings in the morning, but I believe my afternoon is free.”
“Great,” he said. “You may just get some more tat design business out of this.”
Zeppo unwound from her path, Winnie straightened and started for her car. “What would help is if I saw one of my designs being inked. You mind if I come watch?”
“Yes! I mean, I don’t mind. Not at all.” He clamped shut before he turned into a babbling fool. The notion that Winnie proposed seeing him again made him happy.
“All right then. You have my number off my business card, so text me the specs for your design, and I’ll email you samples.” With a smile, Winnie started for her car with Cory waving her off and watching her every step swishing those polka dots to and fro, thinking how he’d like to touch each one, and points underneath.