Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [23]
The crowd shifts a little, obscuring my husband. Before I can get to him, Leah Grimes stops me. I hardly recognize her. She’s lost weight (must be prewedding jitters), her hair is dyed a magnificent red, and the cut is pure Dottie West, a neat chin-length bob with feathering.
“Leah, you look so pretty.”
“Love done it to me.”
“Congratulations on your engagement. Worley is a fine man.”
“I know.” Leah blushes. I look over her shoulder and see my husband putting the toy rifle down on the shelf of the duck booth. A woman I have never seen before touches him on the shoulder; he turns around and grins at her.
“Are you having a church wedding?” I ask Leah while repositioning myself to get a better look at the woman talking to my husband.
“Nope. We’re gonna elope. Perty soon, too. Soon as Worley gets the pipes done at the Mutual’s.”
“How are things at the house?” I ask Leah. Jack is laughing with the woman.
“Good. Good. I want you to know if you ever need me to do anything fer ye, I’d like that. Baby-sit for Etta. Sew fer ye. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Leah. But you’re gonna have your hands full with a new husband directly.”
Leah smiles and nods. Her friends join her, and they go off to the crafts booth. Instead of following them to check out the apple butter, or going to Jack and introducing myself to the strange woman, I go up the stairs to the balcony. I circle around the upper level so I can watch them without either of them seeing me. I feel guilty doing this (slightly). I sit down behind a family dressed as sunflowers, munching on popcorn balls. They ignore me and watch the people below. As I slide down in the seat, I can see Jack Mac and the woman perfectly.
From overhead, she looks like the Athletic Type. She is small and fit. Even though it is late October, she still has the bronzey glow of a summer tan. I thank God for the Art of Chinese Face-Reading and the bright fluorescent gym lighting, which helps me to get a good look at her. She is definitely attractive. She has deep-set brown eyes (a secretive nature, great) which flash in a way that shows a sense of humor and a certain intelligence. She has a long, angular face and a large head (means she’s not hurting for money). Her short blond hair is sprayed into a casual bob, with spiky bangs. (She looks about forty, but maybe that’s just the sun damage.) She is neatly dressed; even her trim, faded jeans are pressed. The collar on her pale pink blouse is turned up, as are the sleeves. The top three buttons are open, revealing a freckled chest and a high, small bust. (I quickly unfasten the second button on my denim shirt and sit up straight.)
She says something; my husband throws his head back and laughs. She holds a set of used books to her chest (good, I’ll ask Iva Lou about her) and gazes all around, giving him an opportunity to take a good look at her. Isn’t she a little old to be playing the coquette? It doesn’t matter. My husband is enjoying this! She sways back and forth, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot as she chatters. She is doing most of the talking (of course she is, I’m not married to a conversationalist), then she leans in and whispers in my husband’s ear. As her lips near his earlobe, I feel a stab of jealousy in my gut. Part of me wants to jump up on the balcony wall, latch on to one of the bedsheet ghosts, swing down onto the floor, and knock her over like a bowling pin. But I am his wife, so I would prefer to knock him over first and take care of her later. However, I do nothing. I sit here frozen.
Why is he still talking to her? What does he see in her? I have my answer. She laughs a final time and pats the small of his back. (That’s a little low on a married man’s body to pat, in my opinion.) She turns and walks away. My husband