Читать книгу A Woman Like Annie - Inglath Cooper, Inglath Cooper - Страница 10

“I. WANT. HIM.”

Clarice made her dazed declaration with Glenn Hall still framed in the rearview mirror of Annie’s Tahoe.

Annie accelerated, and a cloud of dust kicked up behind them on the gravel driveway. “Clarice,” she said in her best you-know-better voice.

“I know. I’m not supposed to like him.”

“I didn’t say that,” Annie objected. “It’s just that a lot is riding on whether or not he changes his mind.”

“Agreed. Point being?”

“Point being that needs to be our focus.”

“You afraid that steering wheel’s going somewhere?”

“What?” Annie looked down at her own white-knuckled grip, immediately loosened it. “I guess I feel a lot of pressure on this, Clarice. It’s important.”

“Well, I know that. But what harm can come from me showing a little interest in him?”

“I don’t know. Just that maybe it’s not a good time to distract him.”

“There are distractions, and there are distractions.”

It was pointless to argue. Annie knew her sister well enough to recognize immediate infatuation when it struck.

Clarice popped on a pair of black Armani sunglasses, slid down in her seat and blew out a sigh. “Sorry I was zero help in there. But mercy, I have never in my life seen a man that good-looking.”

“You think?” Annie shot some deliberate neutrality into her response. Clarice hardly needed encouragement.

“Think? You’re kidding, right?” Disbelief reverberated through the Tahoe’s interior. “Annie, surely J.D. didn’t do that much damage to your eligible man antennae.”

“Mine’s on temporary hiatus in the hall closet.”

Clarice laughed. “At least you can joke about it now.”

“They call that progress in therapy circles.”

“Well, it is, actually. For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to say his name because it hurt too much to see the pain on your face.”

The mood in the Tahoe had gone suddenly somber. Annie heard the love in her sister’s voice and was grateful for it. Clarice had indeed seen her on the down side of disillusion. Not a pretty sight. “I have a feeling J.D. and Jack Corbin have a lot in common.”

Clarice’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot toward the roof. “How so?”

“Self-interest being their number one priority.”

“Well, I won’t deny it where J.D. is concerned. But isn’t it jumping the gun to hang that sign in Jack Corbin’s window just yet?”

Annie kept her gaze on the road, maneuvered around a brown bag in the middle of her lane that had fallen off the A&E Seed truck in front of them. Guilt needled at her. Maybe it was a tad unfair. She was going on surface impressions, after all. Hadn’t she been the one defending him to Clarice just a couple of hours ago? And now she was ready to put him in the same box with J.D. and toss the key in Lake Heron. “I just wish he would give the company a chance to get on its feet. That’s all.”

“Maybe he will. Party’s not over yet. And even though I talked a big game before going over there this morning, I wimped. But I’ve got all the googly-eyed stuff out of the way now, so maybe I’ll actually be able to string together a few coherent sentences at the picnic.”

Annie smiled.

“You aren’t interested in him, are you?” Clarice asked, failing to hide her worry.

“Oh, Clarice, of course not,” Annie said. As sisters, they’d had this conversation numerous times in their lives. And Annie always said the same thing because if Clarice really wanted the guy, she didn’t stand a chance, anyway. Not that she was interested in Jack Corbin. Or any other man at the moment. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I am very, no, extremely, happy with things the way they are in my life. I’ve finally proved to myself I don’t need a man to be complete.”

Clarice shot her an exaggeratedly appalled look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Heresy.”

“No, if I ever start looking again, it’ll be the flip side of J.D. The kind of man who drives a nice ordinary Buick or Chevrolet. A man with roots. Feet on the ground. Steady. Dependable.”

“Boorrring!”

Annie laughed. “Boring can have its selling points.”

“Not if you’re talking about men. You’ve got to be willing to get burned a time or two to ferret out a good one.”

“Then they ought to come with warning labels.”

Clarice laughed now. “Oh, Annie, most of the time they do, we just choose to ignore them.”

NO DENYING IT. Jack was having his share of serious misgivings by the time he pulled into the C.M. parking lot just after five o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.

Who, of all the employees at this picnic, would be glad to see him coming? No one. He, after all, was the guy in the black cape, the one with villain scrawled across his back in big bold letters. Had he secretly hoped they might understand that everything ran its course, had its time? That the glory days of C.M. were over, and he was merely the one taking the steps to put it out of its misery.

No, he didn’t expect them to understand that. Probably should never have said he’d come to the thing in the first place, but Annie had flung the invitation at him as a challenge. And he wasn’t a man to ignore a challenge.

He parked his car at the back of the lot, got out, and reached in the back seat for the basket of fried chicken he and Essie had spent the past two hours making. He’d been more hindrance than help, he was sure, but Essie had been so thrilled to hear that he was attending the picnic, she had practically floated around the kitchen fixing his mistakes, two of which had included a dozen eggs splattered on the brick floor and a measuring cup of flour upended on the countertop.

The parking lot was full. The factory itself sat on twenty acres of what had once been prime farmland. Its owners had sold out and moved back to Ohio some twenty-five years ago. Jack’s father had bought the property for its flatness and the fact that it was surrounded by Virginia mountains, the trees lit up every fall with colors only nature could blend. Now, in September, they hugged the level piece of land on which C.M. sat in an embrace of green.

Music floated out from behind the building. Bluegrass. It had been years since he’d heard the twangy notes of a fiddle. Homesickness knifed through him with an unexpected edge. The sound brought with it a deluge of memory, fiddler’s conventions he’d gone to as a boy with his dad who had loved the folk music and taught Jack to appreciate it. Booths set up with candy apples and hot cakes, Jack’s father letting him use his own money and his own judgment in buying the treats. Jack had always gone home with a stomachache. Joshua had believed in letting his son make his own mistakes, reasoning that was the only way he would remember them.

The factory itself was an enormous brick building, tall pane windows letting in plenty of natural light. Joshua Corbin had wanted to give his employees an appealing place to come to work every day. “Light affects a man’s soul, son. We weren’t made to live in the dark.” The words echoed in Jack’s head as if he’d just heard his father say them.

He followed the music, rounding the corner of the building. Hundreds of people filled the grass yard in front of him. Adults—young, old—teenagers and toddlers. What looked like the whole town. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not this. Laughter. Smiling faces. Some flat foot dancing up front by the bluegrass trio. On the stage hung a banner that read: C.M. THANK YOU FOR THE GOOD YEARS.

Jack blinked, surprised.

Fifty feet or so out from the music were tables of food. He looked down at the basket of chicken in his own hand and felt like an intruder at someone else’s party.

But a round-faced woman with soft gray hair bustled up just then, taking the offering from him. “Come right on in. Um, this smells good. You make it yourself?”

“Had a little help,” he said.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Jack,” he said, feeling like the Grinch about to steal Christmas.

“I’m Ethel Myers. Retired now. Worked here for twenty years, though. Still miss it.”

He could do little more than nod.

She waved him inside. “Go in and get comfortable now. We’re just about ready to eat. Iced tea and lemonade set up on those tables over there.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re surely welcome,” she said and waved a greeting to another latecomer.

Jack weaved his way through the crowd, recognizing some faces, sure he heard someone murmur his name. He picked up a glass of sweet tea from the table Ethel had directed him to, then stood there on the periphery of the crowd, wondering at the jovial tone of the gathering. His understanding from Annie had been that this was a farewell picnic of sorts for those who had worked at C.M. He’d fully expected to be the target of seriously grim head-shaking. Had maybe even brought himself here because on some level, he thought he deserved their ire for not giving the factory another chance.

There wasn’t any to be found.

This felt more like a celebration. Balloons in a rainbow of colors bracketed the tables set up around him, all of which were loaded with so much food they practically groaned beneath the weight.

“Well, I’ll be darned.”

A man in bib overalls and a red plaid shirt stuck his hand out to Jack and said, “You’re Joshua’s boy, aren’t you?”

Jack shook the man’s hand and nodded. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“Woulda known you anywhere. Look just like him.”

The statement was made with a thread of surprise running through it, but mostly gladness, which startled Jack more than a little.

“I’m Henry Sigmon. Your daddy hired me, let’s see, nineteen years ago, I guess. Company wasn’t such a big thing then. But I needed a job, and he gave me one. Been here ever since. I remember him bringing you to the Christmas lunches. Sure was proud of you.”

“Lot of good food at those lunches.”

Henry gave a you-better-believe-it nod. “We’ve got some unbelievable cooks around here.”

Jack managed a smile, the man’s recollection stirring up an unexpected pang inside him. Even then, he had known his father was proud of him, and there wasn’t anything else in Jack’s life since then that had created that same sense of worthiness. Not a degree from Duke. Nor the career he’d made for himself.

“Wish this had ended up differently, you know?” Henry’s smile had disappeared, in its place obvious disappointment. “For the last couple years, most of the people here have done what they could to lighten the load. Taking regular pay for overtime hours, closing down the day-care center your father built.”

“Day-care center?” The question was out before Jack had time to wonder what the man would think about his not knowing such a thing.

Henry looked surprised but said, “Yeah. Built about ten years ago, I guess. Sure did make a difference for a lot of families. Moms and dads could go spend their breaks and lunches with their children. Not having the expense of child care made working more realistic for a number of people. But no doubt it took a lot to keep it running, so everybody voted to close it six months ago since the company just seemed to keep losing money.”

Henry shook his head. “Wish we could have pulled it out for you. Would have meant a lot to a good many of us. Being able to do that for your father. It would’ve been a nice way to pay him back for everything he did for us.”

Jack tried for a response, but the words stuck in his throat. Again all he could do was nod. None of what Henry Sigmon had just said should have made any difference to him. But it did somehow. He’d convinced himself there wasn’t anything personal about the closing of this factory. He had a feeling he was going to be very, very wrong.

ANNIE SPOTTED HIM from the other side of the crowd.

It would have been impossible to miss him.

First of all, he was taller than nearly every other man at the picnic. Second, he looked about as comfortable being here as a cat in the middle of a dog show.

Her first inclination—the one she would have followed last night while lamenting the fact that anyone could be heartless enough to just auction off this place—was to let him feel the pinch of that a while longer.

Her second—the one that could not deny that Jack Corbin didn’t seem like a bad guy, just one misled—had her weaving her way through the crowd.

She tapped him on the shoulder. “You made it,” she said.

He turned, looking relieved to see her. “Yeah. Even brought some chicken.”

“No pancakes?”

A smile touched his too-appealing mouth.

She took pity on him. Couldn’t help it. She’d invited him here, not sure what his welcome would be. He didn’t strike her as a man to be cowed by much in life, but in his shoes, most people would have been.

“How about saying hello to a few people?”

“Sure,” he said with a nod.

Annie led the way to a group a few yards away. She put a hand on Estelle Thompson’s shoulder and said, “Estelle, this is Jack Corbin.”

Estelle stepped back to allow the two of them entrance into the circle. “Well, I’d recognize you anywhere,” Estelle said, beaming a smile at Jack. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I started working here shortly after your daddy built on the new section.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said. “It’s nice to see you.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Annie introduced and re-introduced Jack to as many people as she could. Maybe she could make him see that real people with real families were going to be devastated by the closing of this factory.

Several dozen introductions later, Annie tipped her head toward the end of the field opposite the bluegrass band where Tommy and a group of boys were hurling baseballs at one another’s gloves. “Say hi?”

Looking relieved, Jack nodded and followed her through the crowd of people. They stopped a few yards short of the boys’ circle.

“Point taken,” he said.

“Hope I didn’t use too big a stick.”

“Big enough.”

Annie looked down, feeling more like a bully than she cared to. “For a lot of people, losing their job here will mean having to change their lives, Jack. Moving to another place.”

Silence stretched out between them, more contemplative than awkward. Annie sensed he was considering her words, weighing them against his own conscience. And suddenly she felt hopeful again.

“Got a good arm on him,” Jack said finally, nodding toward Tommy who had just thrown the ball to one of the other boys.

Annie folded her arms across her chest, hoping she didn’t sound like a mother hen when she said, “I almost wish he’d show no talent whatsoever for the sport.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s an awfully hard way to make a living.”

“Aren’t too many roads that make it easy.”

“He’s just so determined to be as good as his dad. But what if he’s not? I don’t want him to spend his life feeling like he didn’t measure up.” Annie pressed her lips together. She hardly knew this man. Why had she just told him that?