Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [131]
The familiar voice brought him out of his reverie. He looked up and smiled at Josie Jackson. “A penny? I expect that’s more than they’re worth. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She stood looking at him for a moment, openly appraising him. She was wearing a flower-print blouse with a scoop neck and a full, knee-length skirt cinched about her narrow waist. She had tied back her blond hair with a ribbon, and wore sandals and a gold bracelet. She looked fresh and cool, even in the stifling heat. “I missed you at breakfast this morning. You didn’t come in.”
He smiled ruefully. “My loss. I overslept, then went straight to church. The Freemarks invited me.” He drew up his good leg and clasped his hands about his knee. “I don’t get to church as much as I should, I’m afraid.”
She laughed. “So how was it?”
He hesitated, picturing in his mind the dark shapes of the feeders prowling through the sanctuary, Wraith stalking out of the gloom of the foyer, and the demon hiding somewhere farther back in the shadows. How was it? “It wasn’t quite what I remember,” he replied without a trace of irony.
“Nothing ever is.” She came forward a step. “Are you alone this evening?”
The expressive dark eyes held him frozen in place. He looked away to free himself, then quickly back again. Nest had gone off with her friends. Old Bob had taken Evelyn home. He was marking time now, waiting on the demon. “Looks that way,” he said.
“Do you want some company?” she asked, her voice smooth and relaxed.
He felt his throat tighten. He was tired of being alone. What harm could it do to spend a little time with her, to give a little of himself to a pretty woman? “Sure,” he told her.
“Good.” She sat down next to him, a graceful movement that put her right up against him. He could feel the softness of her shoulder and hip. She sat without speaking for a moment, looking at the people gathered about the pavilion, her gaze steady and distant. He studied the freckles on her nose out of the corner of his eye, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” he confessed finally, struggling to read her thoughts.
She looked at him as if amazed that he would admit such a thing, then gave him a quirky smile. “Why don’t we just talk, then?”
He nodded and said nothing for a moment. He looked off toward the pavilion. “Would you like an ice cream or something to drink?”
She was still looking at him, still smiling. “Yes.”
“Which?”
“Surprise me.”
He levered himself to his feet using the staff, limped over to the food stand, bought two chocolate ice-cream cones, and limped back again, squinting against the sharp glare of the setting sun. It was just for a little while, he told himself. Just so that he could remember what it was like to feel good about himself. He sat down beside her again and handed her a cone.
“My favorite,” she said, sounding like she meant it. She took a small bite. Her freckled nose wrinkled. “Hmmmm, really good.” She took another bite and looked at him. “So tell me something about yourself.”
He thought a moment, staring off into the crowds, then told her about traveling through Great Britain. She listened intently as he recounted his visits to the castles and cathedrals, to the gardens and the moors, to the hamlets and the cities. He liked talking about England, and he took time to give her a clear picture of what it was like there — of the colors and the smells when it rained, which was often; of the countryside with its farms and postage-stamp fields, walled by stone; of the mist and the wildflowers in the spring, when there was color everywhere, diffused and made brilliant in turn by the changes in the light.
She smiled when he was done and said she wanted to go someday. She talked about what it was like to run a coffee shop, her own business, built from scratch. She told him what it was like growing up in Hopewell,