The Wedding Circle by Ashton Lee Page B

Jeremy added, hoisting his snifter.
    â€œWell said. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for my parents to appreciate why I’ve always wanted to be a librarian. It’s ridiculous that they’ve made me feel defensive about it.”
    Maura Beth’s smile grew even wider as her mother and Susan McShay finally came in from the deck and joined Connie for what looked like more girl talk. “I think we’re going to be just fine,” she told Jeremy, observing their body language from afar. “And that’s not my cordial talking.”

7
    Trouble in Takeoutland
    B arry Bevins was beginning to worry. He thought he knew all the back roads in and around Greater Cherico, but now he had to admit it. He was lost. He’d been driving around in the fading light for over fifteen minutes, trying to locate the takeout order address. He’d even called The Twinkle on his cell phone to reconfirm it.
    â€œYes, Barry,” Periwinkle had told him. “You don’t have it written down wrong. 305 Littlejohn Lane is what I’m showing here. You’re on the right road. I’m sure you’ll find it soon. But give me another shout if you need help.”
    Barry ended the call and then focused on the folly of it all. This was what came of Miz Peri buying a used panel van instead of something new that had a GPS system. And his mother had refused to let him get a fancy cell phone with that particular app. Too expensive, she had told him. But perhaps this latest incident would persuade her to let him upgrade.
    Nonetheless, he was becoming so rattled that he turned off the Hunter Hayes CD he’d been listening to right in the middle of his favorite country music cut—“I Want Crazy.” Well, he certainly seemed to have gotten his wish. The dilapidated houses out this way were getting fewer and farther between with each minute of travel. The last mailbox he’d been able to make out as he passed it in the fading light had read: 212 Littlejohn Lane. But this was no city street filled with next-door neighbors who were always ready to lend a hand. It was one of those winding country roads—the kind with no line of sight and the sort of dangerous curves that could cause careless or drunk drivers to have wrecks. But when it changed from smooth asphalt to bumpy, noisy gravel, Barry knew it was time to turn around and ask directions. He’d remembered his mother’s comments on that particular subject once. “Men never stop and get help. I know that shiftless father of yours never did!” she’d declared.
    So it was with no small degree of apprehension that he pulled over to the side of the road and slid out of the front seat of the van as he approached the little shack at 212 Littlejohn Lane. There were lights on inside, but the place had seen better days—if it had ever had any at all. The flimsy columns seemed to be struggling to hold up the roof, and there was clutter everywhere along the sagging front porch: an old tire leaning against the wall, a couple of rusty folding chairs, a watering can, stacks of magazines weighted down by bricks, and several terra cotta flower pots filled with dirt but with nothing growing in them. There was also a faded sign staked in the middle of the weedy yard that read: BEWARE OF DOG. Thankfully, there was no barking to be heard, and it even flashed into Barry’s head that the dog had either died or wised up and wandered off for greener pastures.
    He had not even reached the porch steps when a tall, slim man opened the front door and stepped out. Backlit the way he was with Barry looking up at him, he was just a dark figure with vague features, and therefore somewhat disturbing to behold. Echoes of slasher movies filled his head.
    â€œKin I hep ye?” the man said, his voice thin and high-pitched.
    Barry froze in his tracks, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Yessir, I think I’m