was good at sweeping a room. Didn’t want anyone to feel left out. He was also a master at acknowledging questions, comments, and good wishes without actually stopping.
“Thank you so much,” he said to a sweet young couple, then, “I know, crazy, huh?” to someone else. When a snarky old guy turned around and told him that he obviously approved of spray tans for men, he said, “You betcha!” even though he’d never had a spray tan in his life. Always better to kill ’em with kindness.
Oh, but that was Roger-the-busboy asking about the tan. Damn. Harrison would’ve flipped him off had there been no ladies present. All in fun, of course.
“Your name’s on the water tower!” cried Mrs. Bloomfield, his old third-grade teacher. “How many people can say that?”
Aw, hell. He had to stop to see her . He leaned over her table and took her tiny, withered hand. “I hope you’re well, Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“Except for a weak bladder, I’m fine.” She smiled demurely.
“Mama.” The woman with her put a finger to Mrs. Bloomfield’s lips, then looked at Harrison. “Sorry. She says anything she wants these days.”
“Not a problem,” Harrison replied.
“You look so handsome,” Mrs. Bloomfield said behind her daughter’s finger, “in your tight trousers.”
Awwk-ward … He glanced at the daughter, who just rolled her eyes and put away her finger. “Uh, thank you, ma’am.”
“You must be rich as Croesus.” Mrs. Bloomfield fondled her dyed macaroni necklace, probably made by one of her own students.
“I never met the guy,” Harrison replied with a smile that had won him millions of female fans, “so I wouldn’t know.”
She laughed. “Is this your girlfriend? Or wife?”
True’s eyes widened. “No, Mrs. Bloomfield. It’s me, True. You were my third-grade teacher, too.”
“True?” Mrs. Bloomfield squinted at her. “Oh, for a minute I could swear you were your mother in that outfit.” Ooh. Sucker punch from an innocent old lady. “Aren’t you marrying Dubose Waring?”
True nodded. Poor kid.
“Then what are you doing with Harrison?” Mrs. Bloomfield said, right into a lull in general conversation in the dining room.
True looked at him.
He’d let her handle this one.
“We’re just friends,” she said into the silence. “Old friends.”
“That’s right,” Harrison told Mrs. Bloomfield. “True here’s putting up me and my brother Gage—and his two mutts—at Maybank Hall while his house is undergoing renovations. A few weeks tops, and then we’ll be out of her hair.”
“What?” True’s eyes flew wide.
“He said you’re letting him and Gage and his two mutts stay at Maybank Hall,” Mrs. Bloomfield repeated to her as if True were deaf.
Which meant the whole dining room stopped chewing so they could hear True’s answer. She smiled like an angel, but Harrison could tell she was seething.
“I heard every word,” she told Mrs. Bloomfield. “I’m just not sure he got that right.”
“Sure, I did,” he said easily. “I’ve got Gage’s pickup truck out front on Main Street now. The dogs are kenneled up in the back. Oh, and we needed to bring his old TV set along. A chair, too, and a few other little things. I hope you won’t mind.”
“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. “Who wouldn’t want to help out Biscuit Creek’s two biggest stars? I’m not sure we appreciated the extent of you Gamble boys’ talent when you were growing up. We should flog ourselves for being so obtuse. Or at the least bend over backward to make it up to you now.”
Yeah, that pretty much summed things up.
“Isn’t that right, everyone?” Mrs. Bloomfield said.
“Hell to the yeah,” crowed a guy in a Simpsons T-shirt, his mouth full of okra gumbo and corn bread. Touching—but a little gross.
“Good golly, yes!” Paul the bartender, who was still a geek, piped up from the back. Good ol’ Paul. Rather, Dr. Paul. At least someday.
“Anyone who likes
“Thank you so much,” he said to a sweet young couple, then, “I know, crazy, huh?” to someone else. When a snarky old guy turned around and told him that he obviously approved of spray tans for men, he said, “You betcha!” even though he’d never had a spray tan in his life. Always better to kill ’em with kindness.
Oh, but that was Roger-the-busboy asking about the tan. Damn. Harrison would’ve flipped him off had there been no ladies present. All in fun, of course.
“Your name’s on the water tower!” cried Mrs. Bloomfield, his old third-grade teacher. “How many people can say that?”
Aw, hell. He had to stop to see her . He leaned over her table and took her tiny, withered hand. “I hope you’re well, Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“Except for a weak bladder, I’m fine.” She smiled demurely.
“Mama.” The woman with her put a finger to Mrs. Bloomfield’s lips, then looked at Harrison. “Sorry. She says anything she wants these days.”
“Not a problem,” Harrison replied.
“You look so handsome,” Mrs. Bloomfield said behind her daughter’s finger, “in your tight trousers.”
Awwk-ward … He glanced at the daughter, who just rolled her eyes and put away her finger. “Uh, thank you, ma’am.”
“You must be rich as Croesus.” Mrs. Bloomfield fondled her dyed macaroni necklace, probably made by one of her own students.
“I never met the guy,” Harrison replied with a smile that had won him millions of female fans, “so I wouldn’t know.”
She laughed. “Is this your girlfriend? Or wife?”
True’s eyes widened. “No, Mrs. Bloomfield. It’s me, True. You were my third-grade teacher, too.”
“True?” Mrs. Bloomfield squinted at her. “Oh, for a minute I could swear you were your mother in that outfit.” Ooh. Sucker punch from an innocent old lady. “Aren’t you marrying Dubose Waring?”
True nodded. Poor kid.
“Then what are you doing with Harrison?” Mrs. Bloomfield said, right into a lull in general conversation in the dining room.
True looked at him.
He’d let her handle this one.
“We’re just friends,” she said into the silence. “Old friends.”
“That’s right,” Harrison told Mrs. Bloomfield. “True here’s putting up me and my brother Gage—and his two mutts—at Maybank Hall while his house is undergoing renovations. A few weeks tops, and then we’ll be out of her hair.”
“What?” True’s eyes flew wide.
“He said you’re letting him and Gage and his two mutts stay at Maybank Hall,” Mrs. Bloomfield repeated to her as if True were deaf.
Which meant the whole dining room stopped chewing so they could hear True’s answer. She smiled like an angel, but Harrison could tell she was seething.
“I heard every word,” she told Mrs. Bloomfield. “I’m just not sure he got that right.”
“Sure, I did,” he said easily. “I’ve got Gage’s pickup truck out front on Main Street now. The dogs are kenneled up in the back. Oh, and we needed to bring his old TV set along. A chair, too, and a few other little things. I hope you won’t mind.”
“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. “Who wouldn’t want to help out Biscuit Creek’s two biggest stars? I’m not sure we appreciated the extent of you Gamble boys’ talent when you were growing up. We should flog ourselves for being so obtuse. Or at the least bend over backward to make it up to you now.”
Yeah, that pretty much summed things up.
“Isn’t that right, everyone?” Mrs. Bloomfield said.
“Hell to the yeah,” crowed a guy in a Simpsons T-shirt, his mouth full of okra gumbo and corn bread. Touching—but a little gross.
“Good golly, yes!” Paul the bartender, who was still a geek, piped up from the back. Good ol’ Paul. Rather, Dr. Paul. At least someday.
“Anyone who likes
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