The cashier, unfazed by the crazed masses, took in his purchases. “Hear they’re calling for a storm?” she asked, voice slow while her hands busily scanned and bagged.
Would this store ever get a self-checkout? he wondered. If there were another store in Blackwood, he’d have gone there just to avoid this weekly exchange.
“No.”
“Saying we might get a good icing.”
Luc didn’t respond, but as usual, his silence had no effect. The woman kept talking.
“You only been here a couple of years, right?” She barely paused, not waiting for a response. “Haven’t seen real weather yet. Wouldn’t be surprised if you got more up on the mountain than we’re gonna get here.”
How the hell did everybody in town know where he lived? He still couldn’t figure that out. He stared at the belt and willed it to roll his items forward faster.
“Won’t make it off the mountain if we get ice,” she added.
He finally engaged with her. “We’re not going to.”
“Weatherman Bob Campbell begs to differ.”
“No snow,” he said with a farmer’s certainty. He knew. He’d feel it in his phantom knuckle if snow were truly coming in.
“Well, I guess you’re right, since we’re gettingice. Not snow.” The cashier smirked, wagging one of those chubby, age-speckled fingers at him.
In France, a woman this old would never have to work. Nor would a cashier help with anything, much less try to converse. The cashier would ignore everyone, sullen and irritable. Maybe throw down a few plastic bags if none were brought—and even those had to be paid for. He’d prefer angry silence to this constant, cheerful prattle. It was exhausting.
“Snow’s one thing, but when the temps go down and every darn thing gets coated in the clear stuff, you won’t be able to leave your place for days. Bet you don’t see stuff like that where you’re from.”
What if she was right? Would there be time to get his vines pruned before it hit?Ifit hit, which he still wasn’t convinced it would—at least not in the next twenty-four hours.
“When is it supposed to start?” he asked.
“Talking about tomorrow night, but you never know.”
Back outside, the sky was clear, the air cold and crisp in his lungs. No precipitation tonight, at least. The band across Luc’s chest loosened as he headed back, ecstatic to finally be on his own.
God, he was a misanthrope. His chickens more than satisfied his need for company. And yet…
An impression of that woman’s thin, cold hand sandwiched between his own rose up with a warm blush. He’d rubbed her hand, hadn’t he? Trying to chafe some heat into her flesh, he’d thought, but maybe—just maybe—he’d been trying to leach something from her.
Putain, what an idiot.Quel con.
He really should see about getting an Internet connection so he could… What? Develop an online relationship? Connect with some other solitary soul? The idea didn’t interest him nearly as much as the memory of that woman’s pride. Begging for a job with her back as stiff as a rail. Her hand frail-looking, but the bones firm between his, the skin slightly roughened.
He focused on his own misshapen hands. It was a wonder he’d felt the texture of her skin, given the state of his. He tightened and stretched the left hand—stared at that empty space he’d never quite gotten used to. His bones snipped off and discarded like last year’s useless vine.Polish bones, his mother always called them. Just another affectionate insult.
And wasn’t that the crux of everything? Too big for a Frenchman, too thick and rough for smooth seduction. And certainly too ill at ease with the games involved. He shuddered at the memory of dates gone bad.
Halfway up the mountain, Luc was so distracted that he didn’t notice the animal until his truck was nearly on top of it again.Putain, it wasn’t a coyote. It was a damned dog. Probably one of theirs. On the wrong side of the fence.
Or the right side.
From the warm interior of his truck, he waited for it to scuttle away again, but it stayed in the middle of his path. A face-off.
“Casses-toi,” he said under his breath, wishing the dog gone. “Allez, vas-y.” When it didn’t move, he opened his door with a sigh, got out, and stomped toward it. He clicked his teeth in an effort to get it out of the way.
The dog only stood taller, watching him closely. Its ears were plastered to its head, coat hidden beneath a layer of dust and filth.
“Comment t’es sorti, toi?Hein?” he asked, wondering how the dog had gotten out from behind the fence.
