Immortal Mine (4 page)

“Absolutely no Abba,” Kevin strongly
interjects.

“
Lion King
.”

“Too expensive.”

This volley goes back and forth with
suggestions and rejections from everyone—well, nearly everyone. Sam
silently watches, and I keep my mouth clamped, afraid I’ll be mean
again. I’m watching Sam unobtrusively, noticing that he’s eating a
home lunch. I guess with all that food foisted on him and his
uncle, he’ll be eating meals from home for some time.

“What about
Les Miserable
?” At this
suggestion, everyone falls silent—but only because of who suggested
it, in perfectly accented French, I might add.
Pretentious
jerk.
All eyes turn to Sam, and I can feel it; they’re
considering it. Really, am I the only one left with a brain in my
head?

“Three years ago.” That’s all I have to say
to bring them to their senses. Three years ago when we were lowly
freshmen, the seniors—a rather large class at eighteen students—put
on a production of
Les Mis
without allowing any of the
younger students to be part of it. That was cause for contention
enough, but when it turned out so spectacularly, the bar was raised
to almost impossible heights.

Groans and moans round the table.

“Am I missing something?” Sam asks.

“Long story,” Stacy tells him. “Besides, who
could sing the part of Jean Valjean?”

“Well, not to brag, but I could,” he tells
her, smiling in a way that’s both charming and modest. I nearly
gag, but the other girls at the table all melt and make googly eyes
at him. I can tell they are considering it again.

“Let’s do
Grease
,” I tell them,
rolling my eyes.

“Yes,
Grease.
You can play the part
of Sandy, Niahm.” Hilary leans forward excitedly.

“I don’t—”

“You have to,” Stacy informs me. “You’re the
only one with a strong enough voice. And you’re blonde. And
sweet
.” I glance toward Sam to see what he thinks of that
assessment, but to his credit, he doesn’t roll his eyes, though his
jaw tightens a little. He doesn’t even glance at me.

“Jon, you’ll be Danny.”

“No way,” he argues. “I wanna be Kenickie.
He’s the cool one. That’s where I’m at,” he laughs, bumping fists
with Kevin.

“Well, that leaves you, then, Sam.” I sit up
straight in my chair at this pronouncement by Heather. “If you can
sing Jean Valjean”—she pronounces it in a very Americanized way
rather than with the French inflection—“then you can surely do
Danny Zuko.”

“Wait, no, I don’t think that’s a good
idea—” my protest is lost in the flurry of voices as they start
choosing parts. I’m about to speak up louder when Sam does
something very odd.

He opens a small Tupperware container—then
immediately slams it shut with a quick look my way, his cheeks
flushed. What in the world—then it becomes clear. I know exactly
what is in that container. He grabs it with the clear intention of
putting it back in his bag.

Before I’m completely aware of my intention,
my hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, roughly stopping him. I
push the container back to the table with a thump.

“Don’t stop eating now,” I snarl. All
conversation stops, eight pairs of eyes coming to rest on me. Sure,
now
they hear me.

In the silence, their eyes dart back and
forth between my irate face, and his chagrined one.

“I’m… uh, actually, I’m full,” he stammers,
still avoiding eye contact.

“What’s in the container?” I question,
snarky.

“I… um, oh, it’s… nothing,” he finishes
lamely.

“Pie?” I purr.

“Just… it’s… um, yeah.”

“
My
pie?” I clarify. His cheeks are
flushed, and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed…or angry. Both,
maybe.

“Oh, Sam, if it’s Niamh’s pie, you
definitely don’t want to pass on it. She makes the best pies
around. Probably the best pie you could get
anywhere
,”
Hilary pronounces, clearly still trying to be the center of his
attention.

“I… I don’t have a fork,” he says
unconvincingly, pulling his hand and the container from beneath my
own, which was still in place, I realize belatedly.

“You don’t really need one, do you?” I ask
mockingly. “Just use your fingers.”

This is met with a moment’s stunned silence
at my rudeness. Not saying anything, he puts the container back in
his bag. Before he can close the bag, Heather is shoving a fork at
him.

“Here, you can use mine. It’s clean. Hill
isn’t kidding when she says you don’t want to miss out on it, if
it’s one Niahm made.”

Sam doesn’t have much choice now but to open
the container and eat the piece of apple pie residing within.
Normal conversation resumes for the most part. Sam eats the pie
slowly, glaring my way momentarily then turning a charming smile on
Heather. He manages to convey utter pleasure at the taste, while
maintaining a distantly angry look. It becomes difficult to watch
him, but I refuse to look away, even if he won’t return my
look—even if I am ashamed at my stupid temper tantrum. No one seems
to notice this little drama occurring in their midst—except for
Stacy, who is kicking me under the table.

Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.

I lower myself into one of the kitchen
chairs, throwing the remainder of the apple pie on the table in
front of me. I pick up the fork and dig in like a starving man.

“How was school?” Shane smirks, and I throw
him a dirty look. He laughs. “That bad, huh?”

He takes a seat across from me, jerking his
chin toward the pie.

“Gonna share?”

I growl at him, and he laughs again.

“Guess not. Want to talk about it?”

“No,” I mutter, shoving another bite in my
mouth. How can someone so wicked make something so heavenly? “I
mean, I really don’t know what I did to her.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up, but he remains
otherwise calm. “Her?”

“Niahm…” I break off, realizing I have no
idea what her last name is.

“Eve?” Shane repeats.

“No, Niahm. N-I-A-H-M. Niahm.”

Shane sits up a little straighter at the
spelled name.

“Samuel…” his voice is a warning.

“No, I know. I know it’s not her.
Trust
me I know how much it isn’t her.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the Niahm I knew was sweet, kind,
loving. This one is…
not
.”

“Well, that clears it up,” Shane’s teasing
tells me he’s off guard once again, as he relaxes back against his
chair back.

“She just… no matter what I say, she takes
offense.”

“And you care because…?”

I’m silent as I continue devouring the pie,
and Shane gives the table a little rattle.

“I don’t, okay?” I growl at him.

“Look, Samuel, I know you’re used to girls
just throwing themselves at your feet—” his sentence ends in a
grunt as I push the table with severe force into his ribcage. He
lifts his hands in surrender as he tries to catch his breath. To be
fair, I may have cracked a rib with the force of it, and though I
know it will be healed within minutes, I feel bad about the pain
that I know came with it. I gulp down the last bite and shove away
from the table, tossing the empty pie pan and fork into the
sink.

“Wash those,” he says, his voice nearly back
to normal.

“You’re not my father,” I say, but pull out
the sponge and begin washing them anyway. Shane and I have lived
together, moved around together for most of our lives. There are
times when we grind on one another’s nerves enough that we have to
be apart for a time. Shane really
is
my uncle—my
great
uncle.

It’s more convenient to live with him in the
paternal role and myself in the teen role, to keep our story more
feasible. But with two men, who’ve lived as long as we have, there
are bound to be some conflicts. So we might take a few decades
apart, but somehow always find our way back together. Just one
family member, no matter how authoritative, is better than the
crushing loneliness.

“Cheer up, Samuel. Your babies are coming
today.”

I turn at his announcement, feeling lit up
inside.

“Today?”

“Yup,” he confirms. “I got the name of a
local stable where we can board the horses until we get our own
stable refurbished.”

Shane knows me well enough to know how much
this announcement can change my attitude. It’s been a while since
I’ve been able to have my own horse, Autumn Star, with me, as we’ve
been living in large cities. Moving to a small town was my request.
Shane didn’t have to come, he could have chosen to go his own way,
but loneliness doesn’t just affect me.

“You said
horses
. The Irish is coming
as well?” I clarify as I dry the plate and place it back in the
cabinet. I haven’t seen the new stallion yet. I look forward to the
distraction of breaking him.

“Yes, he is. They weren’t supposed to be
here for another week, but if we don’t take possession today, we
lose the Irish.”

“You say there’s somewhere here in town to
keep them?” I ask, placing the newly cleaned glass into its
place.

“I asked around and was told the only place
in town that stables for rent is the Parker farm.”

“Shane?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Sorry about the ribs.”

“What was
with
you today?”

I plop into the recliner, tucking the phone
between my cheek and shoulder, absently rubbing Bob’s head resting
on my knee.

“What do you mean?” I ask, knowing Stacy
will never buy my feigned innocence for one minute.

“C’mon, Vee. You were like a triple W”—by
which I know she means the Wicked Witch of the West—“with Sam
today. What did he do to you to make you hate him so much?”

I sigh, without a good answer for her.

“Nothing, Stace. I really don’t know why
I—hold on, I’ve got a call on the other line.” I push the
call-waiting button on the phone, grateful for the reprieve.
“Hello?”

“Oh,” a surprised voice answers, rich and
deep. “I’m not sure I have the right—I’m looking for the Parker
Stables?”

“You’ve got them,” I answer.

“Oh, great. I’m new in town—”

“Let me guess—Mr. Coleman?”

“Shane,” he corrects, and I can hear the
smile in his voice. “It’s not really hard to guess who I am when I
tell you I’m new in town.”

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Col—Shane, I’m
seventeen and there hasn’t been anyone move into town for my whole
lifetime.”

“Well, that’s quite some time, isn’t it?”
His voice rings with irony. Strange. “Is your father in? I’d like
to speak to him about stabling my horses.”

“No, sorry. He’s out of town. I can help
you, though. How many horses?”

“Uh… two.” He seems hesitant to deal with
me.

“That’s fine. I have four empty stalls right
now. One-fifty a month for both. That includes usage of the wash
bay and the arena either for exercising them yourselves, or for
letting them loose in. I’ll feed and water them daily, but you’ll
have to muck the stall yourself.” I use my best business woman
voice. It works. When he answers, his tone turns businesslike, the
hesitation gone from his voice.

“That will be fine. My nephew and I will
make sure one or the other is there daily.”

My stomach drops. Shoot! I forgot just whose
uncle I was speaking to. I should have kept my wits about me and
told him the stable was full.

“How soon will you be bringing them by?” I
force myself to ask, hoping he doesn’t notice my sudden
hesitancy.

“Actually, they arrived unexpectedly today,
a week early. Can I bring them now?”

Relived by his use of the word “I,” I relax.
At least I won’t have to deal with the arrogant Sam today.