Clementine, 1978. My ten-year-old self moseyed into Wright’s Soda Shop and Sundries to get a chocolate malt. I was skinnier than a pencil lead, and for some reason Mr. Wright thought that was the only qualification needed to shimmy up the medium-sized flagpole right outside his store. He wanted to replace his tattered, well-worn Old Glory and had offered me the princely sum of one dollar and fifty cents to do the job. When I hesitated, he sweetened the pot with free chocolate malts for the rest of the month. Against my better judgment and because of my weakness for milkshakes, I foolishly agreed.
He handed me a flag that strangely smelled like motor oil and supervised while I tucked it under my arm and climbed up the pole. The task was easier than I thought, and with increasing confidence I climbed until I was almost to the top. Then I made a tragic error.
I looked down.
And at that moment I realized something I’d never known about myself. I was terribly, horribly, incredibly, and all the other appropriate adjectives afraid of heights. It didn’t matter that the flagpole wasn’t that high—probably twelve feet, if that. My body refused to move.
Mr. Wright promptly responded to my lack of progress.
“Why’d ya stop?” he yelled, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, perspiration puddling on his balding head.
I sympathized, drenched with a combination of flop sweat and exudation from Arkansas in midsummer. I also remained mute.
“Sebastian?” His tone changed from quizzical to concerned. “You okay?”
I wasnotokay. I couldn’t climb up. I couldn’t go down. I was in the grip of paralyzing fear.
At that point Mr. Wright started yelling in earnest. I don’t remember what he said, only that his loud bellowing brought out a sizable crowd that included three of my buddies who’d been walking around town wasting time.
“Are you stuck?” Roger Brown stated the obvious.
“Whatcha doing up there?” Billy Johnson queried.
“You’re gonna be in trouuuuuble,” Evelyn Margot hollered.
From my perceived atmospheric position, I thought my sister was my buddy Christopher. This wasn’t the first time I mistook her for a boy. When she was five, she gave herself a Marine-esque haircut, on purpose. That day she had on a Razorbacks baseball cap that hid her then shoulder-length hair. True to form, she was being annoyingly unhelpful.
There was a sudden cacophony of voices, and when one unidentified adult claimed that he would call the fire department, that was all it took. The idea of being rescued in front of my friends, a few curious townspeople, and— gasp, Evelyn Margot—spurred me into action.
I wiped one damp palm on the flag, then the other. I quickly climbed the rest of the pole, affixed the flag, and wobbled toward earth, sliding down the last third of the way. When my sneakers hit terra firma, I expected accolades. Or at least a thank-you. Instead, the crowd moaned.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Evelyn Margot standing there in her pink Stay Groovy T-shirt, grinning. “It’s upside down, dummy.”
The egg timer rang, and Seb shut it off. He’d set the timer before starting his column because he didn’t want to be late picking up Jade. He removed the sheet of paper from his typewriter and finished getting dressed. Nothing was far in Clementine, and he had fifteen minutes before he was supposed to be at the inn. It would take ten minutes to get there. He didn’t want to be too early. Or too late. He wanted to be casually on time, whatever that meant. It was the best he could come up with since he didn’t want her to notice how eager he was to see her.
He was quite alert, considering he’d only gotten three hours of sleep. That wasn’t Jade’s fault. Or maybe it was. The second he got home last night, he planted himself in front of his Royal and hammered out almost three chapters of his follow-up novel, which was now exactly almost three chapters long. For the past eight years, he assumed he’d avoided working on it because he was so busy withThe Times. There was also a little fear too. His first book had exploded out of the gate—something he hadn’t anticipated. Now he wondered if part of his reticence had been writer’s block. He sure busted through it last night.
He’d hold off contacting his agent, though. After a couple years of encouragement, they agreed to temporarily part ways, although she was still willing to rep his writing if he ever finished something. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that one breakthrough night had set him on the right track. And if Jade was the reason he was able to move forward...
Seb shook his head and searched for his car keys. Where had he left them? Oh, right. In the bathroom, duh. He grabbed them off the sink and left his small bungalow, trying to temper his anticipation. But it was hard. Last night with Jade had been another breakthrough—a personal one—and he was looking forward tobeing with her and not thinking about work or buyouts or even the past. He wasn’t naive enough to believe they were going on a date, and he refused to call it one.
Could it lead to something else?
Once again he gave his head a shake. He had to stop doing that, imagining things that weren’t likely to happen, even if thinking about those things made him feel good. And hopeful. Wow, when was the last time he felt truly hopeful about anything?
Eleven minutes later he pulled into the inn’s parking lot and saw Jade waiting outside. His heart thumped. He’d never get over how beautiful she was, and he was glad to see she had dressed casually. They were entering the no-business zone.
He got out at the same time she spotted him, and she headed toward him as he zipped over to the passenger side of the car to open the door for her. “Morning,” he said, glad he was sounding nonchalant.
“Hi.” She smiled.
Another thump. Yes, this was going to be a good day.
For the next two hours, he drove through the Ozark Mountains, mostly on back roads since she mentioned she enjoyed them during her Sunday drive. Conversation was casual and easy, and she asked plenty of questions about the area, particularly Clementine. He was glad to oblige.
Around ten thirty he asked, “Are you hungry?”
“A little. Evelyn made breakfast this morning.”
