barn.”
“I’ll put it in my trunk now so I don’t forget it.”
Curious. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to try to get it fixed.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
As if she knew anything about bikes. She helped him retrieve it from the barn anyway, along with the parts that had been knocked off, and then she loaded it into her car trunk.
It was a mess. He didn’t expect to see it again.
They drove for a couple of miles in silence, mileage underscored by the constant rolling hum of tires on pavement. He wracked his brain for something to say to this woman he barely knew even though they’d grown up in the same town, had attended the same schools, had witnessed the same births, deaths and marriages. How could a couple of people who’d shared so much also have shared so little? They were neither friends nor strangers.
What did he expect? That’s what came of living in the same town but avoiding each other—of him avoiding her, that is. He didn’t know what had been going on in her head all of those years. And he was becoming curious.
“DON’T YOU EVER TALK?” Monica’s question cut through the tension in the cab.
“Huh?”
“Why are you so quiet? Don’t you believe in casual conversation?”
He bristled. He talked all the time to people with whom he was comfortable. He was not comfortable with Monica. Not by a long shot.
He thought of all of the times in high school when he’d wanted more from her—not more attention, but any attention. She hadn’t even noticed him. Now she wanted more from him? In his book, his respect had to be earned.
It wasn’t something she deserved just because her name happened to be the same as that of the town’s founding father. Nor because she had money and he didn’t. She had no right to his conversation or his inner thoughts because she hadn’t earned them.
“I talk when I have something important to say.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to sound so cold.
He felt her withdraw. He needed to monitor his responses and treat her better. He wasn’t mean-spirited. Not usually. Her scent, so different from his own, filled the cab. “Why do you smell different today than yesterday?”
“You noticed?” She sounded surprised. “I thought it was a subtle change.”
“It is subtle. I mean, it’s like you changed your perfume, but didn’t. Like it’s the same perfume, but slightly different. Yesterday, it smelled more citrusy, like lemon, and today it’s more...not quite floral, but sort of like bergamot.”
When she didn’t respond, he glanced away from the road for a second to find her staring at him with her mouth open.
“I’m impressed, Noah.” She nodded slowly. “Seriously impressed. You have a sensitive nose. That’s exactly the change I made.”
“Say what? The change you made? What do you mean?”
“I make my own perfume.”
“You do?” She kept surprising him, piquing his curiosity. “I’ve never known anyone who made their own perfume.”
“I’ve been experimenting with different essential and natural oils.”
“Why? There are a million perfumes on the market.”
“I know, but I haven’t found one that suited me perfectly. There’s always something wrong with them, or something missing. Or, they’re way too strong. I like concocting original, personal scents.”
“So you added bergamot to the perfume you were wearing yesterday?”
“I have a base perfume that I’ve been slowly working on. I have several different mixtures going at any given time.”
“Why bergamot?”
“Because I like it in Earl Grey tea. It’s fragrant and floral without being sickly sweet.”
“You know, I have wildflowers in my fields.”
“What kind?”
“All kinds. You should check them out.”
“May I steal some?” May I, not can I. Perfect grammar again. He liked it.
“Of course. I also grow herbs.”
“You do? You grow them fresh on the farm?” She sounded excited.
“Yep.”
She was silent for a while and then asked, “Will you teach me about them? Help me learn to recognize them?”
“Sure.”
Silence fell again.
“May I turn on the radio?”
He nodded and she fiddled with the knobs. The cab filled with music, but she kept the volume turned low, sort of as background filler.
“So these are people who don’t have enough money to buy their own groceries?” Monica asked as they approached the small Keil ranch.
“The Keils are having trouble making ends meet right now.”
“Why? Is the father crippled or something?”
Noah tensed. “Nothing so Dickensian. Robert has been hanging onto his small ranch for years. He’s a hard worker, by the way.” A note of defensiveness had crept in.
Flatly, Monica replied, “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“Rich people—” he glanced swiftly down at the designer jeans she wore “—often assume that anyone out of work or hungry is just lazy.”
She stared out the window, but said, voice low and quiet, “Noah, please stop making assumptions about me. You don’t know me.”
His conscience pricked, he relented. “Fair enough. I’m sorry.” He found he was sorry in truth. They had to get along—they were stuck with each other. And this roller coaster of flaring and abating tension would exhaust them both.
She deserved an explanation. Maybe then she would understand how a simple family managing all right could suddenly find themselves in dire straits through no fault of their own. A reversal of fortune could happen to anyone. As he thought about it more, he realized that Monica probably would understand, because hadn’t Billy’s death been a reversal of fortune for her? Her fortune being her happiness?
“Robert
