Chapter 14
This would work. Because he wanted it to work. He ignored the electric pulses coursing through his body and focused on the bowl of chicken salad, plate of rolls, platter of fruit and cheese slices. Too much? Too blatant? No. It was just food; George had to eat. Offering her some food didn’t give away his intentions.
But he did have intentions. He just wasn’t about to show his hand yet. She had, and that gave him the advantage. God, the stuff she’d written. She said she’d been in love with him.
In love.
That was
huge
. It was, if he admitted it to himself, a little scary. Or a lot scary, depending on how honest he was going to be. Still, she’d been eighteen, and a lot of years had passed since then. Maybe she was seeing the past through a haze of nostalgia. Maybe it didn’t really have anything to do with him exactly, but because of her particular mind-set right now (what with all the crap her recent boyfriend had put her through), what had happened between them suddenly looked a whole lot better, even though it wasn’t real.
But it had been real. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d denied it, though. He hadn’t admitted it to himself, either—not for years. Then George had come roaring back into town, blasting past him and his colleagues with that car of hers, like a kid on a tricycle scattering chickens in a yard, and it all came back to him.
He hadn’t noticed her at all, at first. He’d been fifteen when he’d first moved to town, and at that age he didn’t look much past the end of his own nose. He only knew George as a pale, freckle-faced, fairy-like girl with tangled blond hair that looked almost pink in a certain kind of light. Just his new friend Sera’s kid sister, doing time in middle school and, judging by the longing looks she’d bestow on Sera and her group of friends when she thought nobody was looking, wishing she were older. Casey had thought it was sort of cute whenever he caught her peering at them from around a doorjamb, one light-brown eye and half a head of reddish-blond hair the only thing showing. He never mocked her for spying on them. Instead, he always tried to catch her eye to see that alarmed blush of hers redden her skin, starting below the collar of her shirt and creeping upward to take over her face. That was when he’d given her the nickname of “Goose”—to make her laugh (or, more likely, to trigger that blush). Funny how nobody else picked it up. He was the only one who ever called her that.
Casey had certainly never expected to have his head turned by George when they were in high school. He was happy, popular, busy (with classes, sports, and chores at home), and content with his group of friends and his sweet, pretty girlfriend Celia. When George started high school, Casey noticed she’d grown and matured, of course, but she was still a young girl, a freshman, when he was a junior.
He didn’t realize she’d gotten under his skin until he started his senior year. As a sophomore, George had blossomed into a beautiful, waiflike creature. But the only thing delicate about George was the way she looked. Inside she was all sharp intellect that could cut you at twenty paces if you weren’t careful. Having a conversation with her was like walking through a minefield—you had to have your entire route mapped out, or you’d be blown to smithereens.
Because she wasn’t conventionally attractive, the boys at school weren’t interested in her. At least, not overtly. She wasn’t flirty or giggly, and certainly wasn’t of average intelligence—she was one of the smartest kids in school. Maybe
the
smartest. Not part of the nerd clique, though. A free agent. She was Georgiana Down, Girl Genius, indefinable and impossible to pigeonhole, whom everyone expected to go far. So the boys ignored her in public but, Casey was sure, thought about her plenty in private. Just like he did.
So George might never have had a shot at homecoming queen, but she didn’t care. She killed on the debate team, contributed to the school newspaper and literary magazine, and each year put together a yearbook filled with more popular students’ pictures, never hers. It seemed she was always behind the scenes, yet Casey was always aware of her presence, her influence. Aware of her. And, gradually, he became more and more interested in her personal life. If she wasn’t home when he and his friends invaded the Downs’ house and raided the fridge, he wondered where she was, who she was with, what she was doing.
Casey sought her out more and more often, curious to know her thoughts about schoolwork, or a new movie, or some school- or town-based political event. Anything, really. He just wanted to know what was going on inside her head. He always looked for her, in school and out, hoping that just once Sera would let George hang out with their group of friends. (She never did.)
He felt so strongly about her back then, but he’d been too much of a coward to follow through, never getting up the courage to ask her out after he and Celia broke up. He never told her he had a crush on her. And then he had to go and ruin everything by bypassing all the social conventions and planting one on her when she’d least expected it. Yeah, that had happened. Nothing she’d published on her blog the other day had been incorrect. He
had
kissed her. And then he had backed off. He ran. He regretted it then, and he still regretted it now. Oh sure, he’d come up with a bunch of reasons for taking off, but when he thought about them now, they seemed pretty flimsy. He had just been a chickenshit, no two ways about it.
Now he had a chance to make it right, and he wasn’t going to blow it. He was going to woo Georgiana Down. Better late than never, and acknowledging the lost years in between with no regret. Or as little regret as possible, anyway.
He checked the floral arrangement on the round table in the middle of the spacious foyer. Was it big enough? Did it make enough of a statement to show that he was a sophisticated, gracious host who was so effectively in touch with his masculinity that he could have a flower arrangement in his home and not think twice about it? Did it convey the promise that this place would be top-to-bottom perfect one day soon? Well, if it didn’t, it was too late now. He didn’t have time to get another, better one—if there was such a thing. Hell, he’d gotten enough weird looks from his crew when he’d had this one delivered; he wasn’t about to go through that again.
What was he doing bringing in a bunch of flowers when he barely had any furniture, anyway? Did he think this was going to impress her? George Down, who brooked no bullshit, who always seemed to see right through him?
Casey picked up the vase. This was stupid. It looked like he was trying too hard. He should get rid of it. But then he heard a knock on the back door that rattled its window. Too late. She was here.
He put the vase back on the table, vaguely realizing she wouldn’t see the flowers anyway since she’d come to the back door, and rushed to let her in.
“Hey,” she said, a little breathlessly, stepping over the threshold. “Am I late?”
He lifted the straps of her laptop bag from her shoulder. “No, you’re right on time.”
“Oh good. I got stuck behind Burt Womack. I swear, he’s psychic. He gets these premonitions when someone has to get somewhere by a particular time, and he makes sure he gets on the road in front of them and screws everything up. He’s a one-man rolling roadblock.”
“Come on in.” He led her down the narrow back hallway and into the main part of the house, went down another hall to the right, and stood in the doorway of his office to let her go through first.
“So this is the nerve center of . . . what are you going to call this place? Still Bowen Farms?”
“Bowen Farms Inn and Conference Center. And, er, pumpkin farm. And Christmas tree farm. I . . . haven’t really thought it through yet.”
“Sounds like it,” she murmured with a sly look. “Bowen Farms should cover it.”
Casey put her laptop bag on his desk. “Make yourself at home.”
“I brought my computer because I wasn’t sure what kind of setup you had . . . and . . . oh.”
She was staring at his boxy computer with an expression that may have been confusion, or amusement, or horror. Maybe a mix of all three.
“It still works,” he said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.
“It’s, uh, vintage?”
“I haven’t had time to upgrade lately.”
“I’m sorry. It’s fine. I don’t mean to . . .” She sighed, putting her wrist to her forehead, and tried again. “Sometimes I don’t . . . what was that stupid saying Mr. Archer used to always use in English class? ‘Engage brain before putting mouth in gear?’ I have a problem with that. Probably from spending too much time alone, online. Typing gives me those precious few minutes to review what I’m about to say before I actually say it. You don’t get that in real life.” Then she stopped short. “I also tend to ramble once in a while. Don’t mind me. I’ll regain my social graces eventually. Maybe.”
She stumbled to a halt and that familiar blush crept across her skin, drawing his eye to the scooped neckline of her shirt. Casey wondered if she was thinking about her recent blog post.
He noticed George swiping at her forehead again, and he rushed to ask, “Is it hot in here? I’m sorry I don’t have the air-conditioning installed yet. But I can turn on a fan or two—”
He really needed to cool this place down. It was only June, and already the heat and humidity had infiltrated the usually cold interior of the high-ceilinged, drafty, shaded house. It was only going to get worse. He really had to call the central-air guy.
“No, it’s okay,” she said, pulling out her laptop and opening it up. “I’m fine.”
“Drink?”
“Water?”
“Lunch?”
George stopped fussing with her computer and looked at him strangely. Yeah, he was pretty jumpy too—they were making quite a pair.
“I mean,” he said, more sedately, “it is lunchtime. I’ve got some—”
“Yeah, sounds great.”
He let out a breath. “Great. Good. I’ll go get it.”
When he came back into the room carrying a tray full of food, he found George hunkered down behind her laptop, staring at the screen. She had an odd, intense look on her face, and Casey hesitated, not wanting to disturb her. He set the tray down as quietly as he could.
After a moment or two, he asked, “Everything okay?”
She glanced up, shook herself, and put on a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”
“
Not
okay?”
“It’s just . . . unusual. I was checking my blog, and there are a lot more messages than I’m used to getting. My readers send me letters asking for advice, and share stories about their bad dates and bad relationships,” she explained, and Casey didn’t interrupt to tell her he’d become well acquainted with all the different facets of her blog. He didn’t want to sound like a stalker or anything. “Usually I get maybe ten or so a day, but . . . I’ve got
way
more all of a sudden.”
“Well, that’s good, right? Lots of activity on a blog is good? I’ve been studying up on it, in case I need one,” he added. “Er, do I need one?”
That got a gentle laugh out of her. “You might. It’s a good idea. And yeah, getting a lot of traffic is always good, but this spike is weird.” She shook her head. “Maybe the blog was mentioned in the news, or some other blogger talked about me. That always gets a certain amount of new people coming to the site. That must be it. I’ll track it down later.”
Casey pulled up a chair alongside hers and sat down. He handed her a glass of water and touched it with his own. “A toast to your success. We always knew you had it in you, Goose.”
She took a sip. “Who’s this ‘we’ you speak of?”
“Oh, you know, the town.”
“My God, it’s a collective entity. A hive mind.”
“Like you didn’t already know that.”
“Oh, I absolutely did.”
“Well, everybody was watching you when you were young. Very high expectations.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
“That’s Marsden for you.” He passed her the fruit and cheese plate. She took a sliver of hard provolone.
“You too, you know,” she said around a mouthful of cheese as she delicately swiped at her lower lip with her pinkie. “The hive mind expected great things from you as well.”
“The hive mind pays far too much attention to people who don’t warrant it.”
“Now, I don’t believe that for one second.”
“You think it
doesn’t
pay too much attention to—?”
“No. I don’t believe that you don’t warrant it.”
He made a skeptical noise as he dumped a spoonful of chicken salad on the bottom half of a roll. “Let’s review: After I finished college, I left my parents high and dry and went into
finance
.” He said the word the way other people would say “murder for hire.” “And I did it simply because I was sick of not having any money. I decided I wanted some. Or, rather, a lot of it.”
“So?”
“It’s hardly a higher calling. Hardly . . . art.”
“You
have
been spending too much time in this town.”
“We’re surrounded by visual art, crafts, music, all sorts of high-minded stuff every day. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that it’s assumed we’d do something with our lives that . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Contributes to the beauty of this existence?”
“Well put. And instead, I became a professional money grubber.”
“Well, now that you put it
that
way . . .” She smiled at him from behind a peach slice. “Ease up, golden boy. You did just fine. Saved the farm, bailed out your parents. That’s the stuff of tearjerker movies right there. Now you’re going to contribute to the town revenue and bring in more tourists.”
“I haven’t saved the farm yet.”
“Well, I’m here to help get you started. Want to get to work?”
“In a minute. Eat first.” He took a bite of his sandwich and watched as George’s eyes drifted back to her computer screen. “Tell me one of the stories of the lovelorn sitting in your inbox.”