Historically Dead. Greta McKennan
“For you...a page one photo, in color, of the town’s premier historical seamstress at work.”
I laughed, and drained my glass. “I’m the town’s only historical seamstress, who has to get back to finish setting in the biggest hem in history. But let’s walk down the Commons and back before we head home.”
The evening air was cooling down, making for quite a pleasant walk. I loved window-shopping on the Commons, a pedestrian mall created by closing off a two-block section of downtown, paving the street over with bricks, and installing decorative lampposts to shine outside the quaint, artsy shops. I never spent much money on the Commons, as neither my lifestyle nor my budget allowed for stained-glass hanging candelabras or fairy statues for garden paths, but I always enjoyed looking.
We strolled past the equestrian statue of Major Samuel Compton, Revolutionary War hero and ancestor to Priscilla and Ruth. Compton Hall had been his home before he was killed in the famous Battle of Laurel Springs. Famous to us in this town, I guess. I stopped to glance at the plaque at the base of the statue.
“‘Dedicated to the heroism of Major Samuel F. Compton, savior of the town of Laurel Springs at cost of his own life.’ I always love that line.”
McCarthy trained the lens of his camera on the plaque. “I don’t know, it seems like it would make a better story if he could have made it out alive.”
“Hey, don’t go criticizing our town hero. You didn’t grow up here. You can’t possibly understand the devotion of the born and bred Laurel Springsian for our own Major Samuel Compton.”
He laughed, and I laughed with him. But I was partly serious about the sense of pride that I felt for the town hero.
We strolled on down the Commons.
“Look, Sean, the new Italian restaurant is open.”
“La Trattoria,” McCarthy proclaimed, eyeing the elegant script letters on the hand-painted sign. “Looks pretty ritzy.”
Indeed, the dining room looked opulent, with its white linen tablecloths set with shining gold silverware and bud vases with a single rose in each. Well-dressed couples out for a special evening filled the small space, the waiting line spilling over to the sidewalk outside. As McCarthy and I lingered outside, appraising this new addition to our small town, Fiona emerged from the crowded restaurant arm in arm with a tall, dark-haired man sporting a charcoal-gray suit and red power tie. In passing a full table, he leaned over the shoulders of two of the men, tossing out a comment that set them all to laughing. When he turned his head to speak to Fiona, I got a better look at him. I knew that face! Sharp nose, thick bushy eyebrows, and a wide, sensuous mouth—once the face of my dreams.
Fiona spotted me and weaved through the crowd. “Daria! I’d like you to meet Randy—Randall Flint, my fiancé.” Fiona squeezed his arm lightly and beamed at him. “This is Daria Dembrowski. She’s making my wedding gown.”
I held my head high as Randall’s eyes fell on me. A wide smile curved his lips as he extended a hand to me. “How nice.”
His fingers scarcely grazed mine before I pulled my hand away. I could feel my cheeks flaming, but I tried not to lose my cool. “Do you know Sean McCarthy? He’s a photographer for the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.”
McCarthy seized Randall’s hand with a sure grip. “Pleasure.” He glanced down at me, clearly sensing my discomfort. “Daria and I were just scoping out the new restaurant. Hot entertainment in a small town.”
I laughed a shade too loudly. “You should have seen the crowds that turned out to tour the new post office downtown last month. Stamp sales spiked at their highest level since the Forever Stamp was created.”
“Hmm.” Randall twined his fingers in Fiona’s and drew her hand close to his chest. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about any spike in Italian food consumption. Dinner was mediocre at best, and the service was extremely slow.” He caught Fiona’s eye. “Shall we, darling?”
She threw me a bright smile. “Gotta go!” She waved as the two departed.
McCarthy took my hand and twined his fingers around mine in an obvious imitation of Randall. He pulled me in close, his eyes twinkling. “So?”
I snatched my hand away and shoved both fists into my sweater pockets. “So, I hoped I would never see him again.” I stalked off down the brick walkway, with McCarthy trotting along to keep up. “I used to date him. We split up.” Or rather, he split, taking the balance of our joint bank account with him, leaving me with a broken heart and a pile of debt. But I didn’t feel like hashing through the whole sordid tale with McCarthy.
Surprisingly, his journalistic instincts did not kick in at this point. He refrained from putting me through the “who, what, where, when, why” litany. Instead, he just eased my hand out of my pocket and held it lightly as we walked through the Commons. “Next time, let’s give La Trattoria a try. I think I just heard a positive review, considering the source.”
I squeezed his hand gratefully.
* * * *
McCarthy dropped me off at home and then took off so I could get to work on Priscilla’s hem. I settled in on the couch in the living room for the long haul. Several yards of hand stitching later, Pete wandered in and turned on the TV. “Phillies game is on tonight.” He sank down on the couch next to me and offered me an open bag of potato chips.
I swept the voluminous skirt away from him. “Don’t get your greasy fingerprints all over my handiwork here.”
He grinned and wiped his hands on his jeans. He wore a soft flannel shirt covering a nondescript T-shirt, with a Phillies cap proclaiming his passion. My brother read baseball statistics books for fun when he was twelve years old, and he never outgrew his love for the game. “Nuts! They’re losing seven to three to the Reds.” He slouched down in his seat and scowled at the TV.
“How’s the filming going for that new movie you’re working on?”
Pete shoved a fistful of chips into his mouth. “We spent all day at the arboretum today, shooting thirty-seven takes of cardinals landing on tree branches. Pretty cool, actually.”
I dropped my needle with a start. “Oh, that reminds me. I need to pick up one of those Japanese maples before Royce throws them all away.”
On the TV, one of the Reds players hit a triple, and two runs scored. Pete groaned.
It seemed like a good time to ask, “Could you give me a ride in your truck? Just up to Compton Hall in the Highlands.”
He stood up and snapped off the TV in disgust. “Sure, why not?”
* * * *
Pete drove with his eyes fixed on the road, his hands drumming meditatively on the steering wheel. I watched him in silence for a few minutes. He looked a lot better than he did a month ago when he had just come home from Hollywood, fresh out of jail on drug charges. He’d gained a healthy amount of weight and the hollow look had just about left his eyes. There was nothing he could do about his broken nose at this point, but still, it felt like the old Pete was nearly back, as if he’d really closed the door on that chapter in his life.
He caught me looking, and threw me a smile. “Checking up on me?”
“You’ll pass. Except for those potato chip crumbs all over your shirt. Disgusting.”
He laughed and swiped at his flannel shirt. “What’s the deal with these maple trees?” He pulled into the sweeping driveway of Compton Hall.
“Royce was pulling them all out to make way for historically correct plantings. He was going to leave them on the side of the house for me to take whatever I want. They’re Priscilla’s prize-winning Japanese maples—I can’t believe she’s letting them go.”
We picked our way through the darkness to the side of the house. I pulled out my phone to light the way. Royce had left an obstacle