Jackson clears his throat, turns around, too.
She’s tall. Taller than Jane. Must be the older sister. She’s dressed head to toe in beekeeper wear.
“We’re talkingbusiness.” Ethan’s voice is scalpel sharp, slicing back, cutting through the air, which has instantly thickened with tension. “Julia, where is your baby sister?”
“In her swing. Right by the bee boxes, so I can keep watch.”
Her tone is one of a martyr, and though a fine mesh of net clouds her face, Jackson feels as if her expression is hardened, mouth twisted into a snarl.
“Honey, this is Mr. Ford, Jackson Ford. A well-acclaimed interior designer here in town.” Ethan’s voice is level, but prodding. “He’s doing me the honor of looking at some of my pieces.”
When Julia doesn’t speak or budge, Ethan crosses the room, takes her by the wrists, jerks her forward. Gives a sharp cough.
She raises her hood, bores her sky-blue eyes, framed with a pair of cheap, dime-store glasses, into Jackson’s.
She’s not near as pretty as Jane, Jackson thinks. She morefavors the mother. Her eyes aren’t the almond shape of Ethan’s and Jane’s; they’re round, the blue dull. Her face, too, is round, her mouth small.
And it’s not just her homeliness—her vibe is flat, too. Stoic, laced with disdain, as if she can sense the gay on Jackson, as if she knows how close he and Ethan were to getting it on.
“Pleasure to meet you.” She sticks out her hand for Jackson to shake.
His hand is drenched, so Jackson drags it across his jeans first, then accepts hers. “Pleasure is all mine! Your father here is quite the craftsman! I’m so impressed!” He’s overdoing it, trying to cover up their near indiscretion, but he can’t help himself. “Truly amazing work!”
She stares back at him coolly, calculating. Remains icily silent.
“So, you’ll be in touch?” Ethan asks Jackson, clapping him on the back as if they’re old pals and not almost fuck buddies.
“You bet!” Jackson clambers away, sneakers clawing the dirt floor, adrenaline slinging through his veins as he moves as quickly as he can back toward his car.
29
Jane
Sweat trickles down my chest; I pluck the front of my dress, trying to cool off.
Mom and I are parked outside the Andersens’ house. Well, notrightoutside. We don’t want them to see us. But if they do, Mom has a whole story cooked up about how we’re going door to door in the neighborhood, taking around her samples.
The windows are down, but the air is still. Fat clouds hang over us, threatening rain, but it seems like it’s all gonna be a big tease. That we’ll never get a drop, and the whole day will have this muggy, weighty feel to it.
I take a long pull of my Coke, then drag another greasy Tater Tot through ketchup and devour it.
Mom wrinkles her nose at me. She hates fast food, never lets us eat it. Calls it the devil’s food, the devil being big corporate America.
But this morning I went to Pa with my palm held out andshook him down for a five-dollar bill, my payment for agreeing to do this. He handed it over, then told Mom totake her wherever she wants to go.
I swear that even more than the drinking or smoking, when I snuck around with Luke, the fast food was what I loved most. Crunchy tacos from Taco Bell, salty fries from McDonald’s, gooey cheeseburgers from Whataburger. After mainly eating homemade meals and organic vegetables from our garden, this stuff feltsinful, tasted like heaven.
Thinking of Luke just now, a lump burns in my throat. I miss him. Haven’t talked to him since the accident with Cookie. Obviously, I’m not riding her anytime soon to the general store again, so I’ve been waiting for a moment at home when I’m alone so I can call him.
“Put that mess away,” Mom orders. “I see ’em.”
I stuff the carton back in the paper bag, crimp the edges down. Peering up at their house—no, theirmansion, which could easily swallow a dozen of our homes—I see the Andersens striding across the lawn.
Mrs. Andersen’s drop-dead gorgeous, her natural beauty made all the better by things Mom hates: makeup, jewelry, fine clothes. And Mr. Andersen is like some kind of Viking god. I thought this at the fish fry when I saw them with Nellie, and now the thought pops back up again: I can’t believe she’stheirs.She’s not ugly but she’s notthem.
Mr. Andersen’s got his hand on her lower back. He swings open the passenger door to his sleek black Jeep Wagoneer beforetucking her inside.
Our own engine grumbles to life, and Mom hand cranks her window shut, motions for me to do the same. She twists the knob on the AC, and it gasps like it normally does before spitting out air that smells like an old leather shop.
