bought all over again, and delivered late. He couldn’t be sure, but the pink color of her drink sure looked like she’d found some strawberries. As she took another sip and looked out the windows, the expression on her face did not seem harsh, as he expected. It actually seemed peaceful. He began to breathe easier. “Uh, well, I got the groceries. I’ll bring the rest in.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What did you do? Buy them again?”
It was tough trying to look innocent while feeling so cornered.
“Uh . . . no, I got the groceries. I got ’em in the truck.”
She set her glass down and looked at him with her head slightly tilted, her fingers drumming her chin. “They’re already in the house.”
His mind went blank. “Ma’am?”
“My strawberries, my oranges, my strawberry nonfat yogurt, the porkchops, the flour and my Knox for Nails, all of it. You got it all the first time.”
“The first time?”
“Yes, before you decided to take a snooze by the side of the road, remember?” She went to the double-wide refrigerator and swung the door open. “Here are all the perishables, safe and sound, no thanks to you.”
It took a few seconds for Nevin to conclude that whatever cover story he’d concocted had already failed. “I, uh, I didn’t want to get into an accident, you know, go off the road in Mr. Macon’s truck.”
“You might try sleeping at night,” she responded briskly. “Lucky for me, someone happened by and saw you sleeping in the truck with my perishables sitting in the back, out in the sun, about to go bad.”
So he’d been caught. Worse than that: snitched on. “Who?”
She went to the windows and pointed. “My new hired hand.”
What? Pain and jealousy twisted around inside him, and Nevin hurried to the window.
“He came to the front door with all four sacks in his arms and told me where he’d found you parked, snoring away while my yogurt sat in the sun. He’s very sweet and conscientious.”
Nevin saw the big John Deere tractor emerging from behind the horse barn, pulling a trailer of hay. “What’s he doin’ on my tractor?”
She cleared her throat. “On my tractor,” she corrected. “He’s transferring hay to the other barn.”
“That was my job!”
“You were sleeping, Nevin!”
He looked at her with horror in his eyes and a wrenching pain in his stomach. “You’re giving him my job?”
“Oh, we’ll see.” She cocked her head and gave him a motherly look. “ He didn’t lie to me.”
“But I paid for ’em! I paid for the second load out of my own pocket!”
She waved her hand, not wanting to discuss it. “Give me time to think it over, Nevin. Take the day off. We’ll just see how everything works out.”
Before turning on his heels and getting out of there, Nevin took a long, careful look at the man he knew he would hate. The fellow was young, with black hair and a beard, dark skin, blue jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, now looking his way and giving him a friendly, gloating smile and a little wave.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON , with just a few hours of daylight left, Norman Dillard stepped out of his motel office and checked the sky. There were a few clouds up there still, drifting like small islands in a vast sea of blue and getting smaller and scarcer by the hour. The cloud watching at Antioch Mission might be ending soon. He removed his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to the idea that he should get up to the church to see what was going on. He didn’t want to. He was not a man of faith, and Praise the Lord types got on his nerves, especially women having Hallelujah conniptions. But he was supposed to be the knowledgeable guide who could answer questions and speak local facts, and that meant he had to see the sights for himself. It was business, pure and simple.
He drove the few short blocks and pulled into the church parking lot to find about two dozen people gathered there, necks craned skyward, cameras
She gave him a puzzled look. “What did you do? Buy them again?”
It was tough trying to look innocent while feeling so cornered.
“Uh . . . no, I got the groceries. I got ’em in the truck.”
She set her glass down and looked at him with her head slightly tilted, her fingers drumming her chin. “They’re already in the house.”
His mind went blank. “Ma’am?”
“My strawberries, my oranges, my strawberry nonfat yogurt, the porkchops, the flour and my Knox for Nails, all of it. You got it all the first time.”
“The first time?”
“Yes, before you decided to take a snooze by the side of the road, remember?” She went to the double-wide refrigerator and swung the door open. “Here are all the perishables, safe and sound, no thanks to you.”
It took a few seconds for Nevin to conclude that whatever cover story he’d concocted had already failed. “I, uh, I didn’t want to get into an accident, you know, go off the road in Mr. Macon’s truck.”
“You might try sleeping at night,” she responded briskly. “Lucky for me, someone happened by and saw you sleeping in the truck with my perishables sitting in the back, out in the sun, about to go bad.”
So he’d been caught. Worse than that: snitched on. “Who?”
She went to the windows and pointed. “My new hired hand.”
What? Pain and jealousy twisted around inside him, and Nevin hurried to the window.
“He came to the front door with all four sacks in his arms and told me where he’d found you parked, snoring away while my yogurt sat in the sun. He’s very sweet and conscientious.”
Nevin saw the big John Deere tractor emerging from behind the horse barn, pulling a trailer of hay. “What’s he doin’ on my tractor?”
She cleared her throat. “On my tractor,” she corrected. “He’s transferring hay to the other barn.”
“That was my job!”
“You were sleeping, Nevin!”
He looked at her with horror in his eyes and a wrenching pain in his stomach. “You’re giving him my job?”
“Oh, we’ll see.” She cocked her head and gave him a motherly look. “ He didn’t lie to me.”
“But I paid for ’em! I paid for the second load out of my own pocket!”
She waved her hand, not wanting to discuss it. “Give me time to think it over, Nevin. Take the day off. We’ll just see how everything works out.”
Before turning on his heels and getting out of there, Nevin took a long, careful look at the man he knew he would hate. The fellow was young, with black hair and a beard, dark skin, blue jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, now looking his way and giving him a friendly, gloating smile and a little wave.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON , with just a few hours of daylight left, Norman Dillard stepped out of his motel office and checked the sky. There were a few clouds up there still, drifting like small islands in a vast sea of blue and getting smaller and scarcer by the hour. The cloud watching at Antioch Mission might be ending soon. He removed his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to the idea that he should get up to the church to see what was going on. He didn’t want to. He was not a man of faith, and Praise the Lord types got on his nerves, especially women having Hallelujah conniptions. But he was supposed to be the knowledgeable guide who could answer questions and speak local facts, and that meant he had to see the sights for himself. It was business, pure and simple.
He drove the few short blocks and pulled into the church parking lot to find about two dozen people gathered there, necks craned skyward, cameras
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