skinny-dipped in this lake.”
His laugh was derisive. “Oh, sure. By yourself at midnight.”
“It wasn’t! It was at a coed party.”
“Oh,” he said dryly. “Coed. Boys and girls at the same party. And how many beers did you have to have before you went in? I bet you’re completely soused on two. And I’ll bet it was completely dark and you raced down to the water’s edge wrapped in your towel and didn’t take it off until the last possible moment. And then you stayed in the water freezing, scared to come out and were in bed sick for a week after.”
She stared at him, aghast at how accurate his portrayal of the one racy event of her entire life was. Obviously, he and Graham had talked about her way too much!
“So,” he said, satisfied by her fuming silence, “I know just about everything about you, and you, on the other hand, know nothing about me.”
But that wasn’t exactly true. A memory of his house came to her mind. When he had moved in, the house his family had occupied had been the only rental on their block. Everyone else owned their properties and had been in them for years, forming a family as much as a neighborhood.
And then the Adamses had arrived and moved into a neglected two-story down the street from her own house. The neglect, as she recalled, was not improved by his family’s possession.
Outside, paint peeled and fences sagged, and inside curtains drooped and burnt-out lightbulbs were not replaced. The lawn sprouted weeds, an occasional motorcycle, newspapers tangled in the shrubbery. One old, dilapidated car replaced another in the parking spot in front of that house.
Somehow, even though he had challenged her that she knew nothing about him, Grace could not bring that up. She could not tell him that he was a long, long way from his humble roots.
But he glanced at her face, and she was shocked by what an open book she was to him.
“Oh, wait,” he said, slowly. “You do know a thing or two about me. Boy from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“You lived on the same block as me!”
For a moment something in his face closed, he became intensely focused on driving the car as they entered the first of the twists in the road that ran in a serpentine around this edge of the lake. When he finally glanced at her, a small grin was on his face. “Don’t kid yourself, Gracie-Facie. Same block, different worlds. The Cleavers meet the Osbornes. Only, the poor version.”
The grin was a fake. It said it didn’t matter. It said it didn’t bother him, but there was something guarded in his eyes, daring her to judge him.
She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, but she remembered all too clearly the police cars arriving on their quiet street, the shouting from inside their house, a rather memorable occasion when his mother had stumbled out onto the street drinking straight from a wine bottle.
And she remembered the dignity with which he had handled that, the pride flashing in his eyes as he had retrieved his mother from in front of all her neighbors, walked her back into the house with straight shoulders, his hand on his mother’s elbow, never glancing back at the assembled neighbors.
“You know something about growing up in a house like that, Gracie?”
She knew he was trusting her with something, and that this was not something he did often. The grin was completely gone.
“When you grow up in a war zone, you never expect anything good from life. That bred-into-the-bone cynicism made me a born soldier. And it always made me feel I had a leg up on those who did expect good things.”
She had to admit, he had something there. Look at her, going through life like Pollyanna, her dreams broken at every turn!
But still, there was something about him not expecting good things that made her sad.
“When you expect the worst,” he said, his voice grim, “you are rarely disappointed.”
“And what happens when the best happens?” she asked. “What happens when the boy from the
His laugh was derisive. “Oh, sure. By yourself at midnight.”
“It wasn’t! It was at a coed party.”
“Oh,” he said dryly. “Coed. Boys and girls at the same party. And how many beers did you have to have before you went in? I bet you’re completely soused on two. And I’ll bet it was completely dark and you raced down to the water’s edge wrapped in your towel and didn’t take it off until the last possible moment. And then you stayed in the water freezing, scared to come out and were in bed sick for a week after.”
She stared at him, aghast at how accurate his portrayal of the one racy event of her entire life was. Obviously, he and Graham had talked about her way too much!
“So,” he said, satisfied by her fuming silence, “I know just about everything about you, and you, on the other hand, know nothing about me.”
But that wasn’t exactly true. A memory of his house came to her mind. When he had moved in, the house his family had occupied had been the only rental on their block. Everyone else owned their properties and had been in them for years, forming a family as much as a neighborhood.
And then the Adamses had arrived and moved into a neglected two-story down the street from her own house. The neglect, as she recalled, was not improved by his family’s possession.
Outside, paint peeled and fences sagged, and inside curtains drooped and burnt-out lightbulbs were not replaced. The lawn sprouted weeds, an occasional motorcycle, newspapers tangled in the shrubbery. One old, dilapidated car replaced another in the parking spot in front of that house.
Somehow, even though he had challenged her that she knew nothing about him, Grace could not bring that up. She could not tell him that he was a long, long way from his humble roots.
But he glanced at her face, and she was shocked by what an open book she was to him.
“Oh, wait,” he said, slowly. “You do know a thing or two about me. Boy from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“You lived on the same block as me!”
For a moment something in his face closed, he became intensely focused on driving the car as they entered the first of the twists in the road that ran in a serpentine around this edge of the lake. When he finally glanced at her, a small grin was on his face. “Don’t kid yourself, Gracie-Facie. Same block, different worlds. The Cleavers meet the Osbornes. Only, the poor version.”
The grin was a fake. It said it didn’t matter. It said it didn’t bother him, but there was something guarded in his eyes, daring her to judge him.
She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, but she remembered all too clearly the police cars arriving on their quiet street, the shouting from inside their house, a rather memorable occasion when his mother had stumbled out onto the street drinking straight from a wine bottle.
And she remembered the dignity with which he had handled that, the pride flashing in his eyes as he had retrieved his mother from in front of all her neighbors, walked her back into the house with straight shoulders, his hand on his mother’s elbow, never glancing back at the assembled neighbors.
“You know something about growing up in a house like that, Gracie?”
She knew he was trusting her with something, and that this was not something he did often. The grin was completely gone.
“When you grow up in a war zone, you never expect anything good from life. That bred-into-the-bone cynicism made me a born soldier. And it always made me feel I had a leg up on those who did expect good things.”
She had to admit, he had something there. Look at her, going through life like Pollyanna, her dreams broken at every turn!
But still, there was something about him not expecting good things that made her sad.
“When you expect the worst,” he said, his voice grim, “you are rarely disappointed.”
“And what happens when the best happens?” she asked. “What happens when the boy from the
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