Mammoth Secrets (14 page)

Lilah walked up the road, hefting up her groceries. She smiled in anticipation of his question. Why did she have a car in the driveway if she never took it anywhere? She'd never registered it in the state of Arkansas, as if doing so would admit failure: that she was staying once and for all. Just another hillbilly failure—Ryan Simpson's favorite accusation.

Jake's finger traced a dust track across the hood.

“Hey,” she called. “You made a clean spot.”

“Funny.” He stepped to her side with hands out. “Looks as if it hasn't moved in an age.”

“Hasn't.” She shrugged. Even if she could keep it, the sporty ragtop fit in Arkansas about as well as…well, about as well as she did. She pushed the thought aside. “After all, I can walk everywhere I need to go. I promised I wouldn't move it until I was free. How about we take it for a spin?”

“It's done, then? Your divorce?”

She nodded. “Signed today.”

He met her gaze, eyes hooded simultaneously with a pastor's concern and a man's unveiled interest. “Want to put the top down?” Jake shot her a wicked-looking grin. “Drive it out to the carnival?”

“Like a date?”

He plucked the bag from her, his intentions to carry them inside obvious. “Sure.”

They walked inside.

“Aren't you worried about someone seeing you there?”

“At first.” His gaze turned heavy as he unpacked the contents and watched her put each item in its place. “Then, I had an idea maybe by going we could remind folks that it's OK to have fun. In moderation, that is.”

Milk, juice, apples, and bread properly stowed, she turned back to him. “Moderation?”

“Mmm.” He discovered a tube of lipstick among the breath mints and magazines at the bottom of the bag and rolled it to her.

“In moderation.” Lilah raised her brows and swiped her lips without looking—loving the heated spark in Jake's gaze. “Well? What do you think?”

“Jury's still out.” He drew her to him, thumbs hooked in her belt loops. His head angled down until she stood in his shadow. He trapped her in his warm, heavy-lidded gaze. “May I?”

“I'm a free woman now.” She nodded, waiting.

His eyes closed; his lashes nested together, expression soft, restrained, yearning. He met her lips, a caress more than a kiss. Sweet and shaking, their dance subtle yet undisguised.

Utterly lost, her arms drifted around his neck, her hands intertwined in his hair, in the kiss. Heat flooded up, rocketing through her entire being and into him, as if their souls met and melded somewhere in the heavens.

“Come with me.” He pushed her from him, his gaze pleading. “I was thinking we could take your car.”

He looked so hopeful, so anxious for her to say yes, she couldn't resist the tease. “I don't know…Driving around in a car that dusty? People might talk.”

 

 

 

 

 

20

 

He steered the convertible into the carnival's paved lot. Though sensible, after the hour he'd spent on the wash and wax, she laughed when he paid an extra dollar so as not to park it in the dirt. After a brush to her wind-mussed ponytail, she flipped the visor mirror, taking his hand as he opened the car door.

Fingers laced, they walked to the ticket booth. Even after helping wash the car, the tips of his fingers remained ink stained. Did he handwrite his sermons? She really knew little about him.

“Evening!” the buck-toothed lady behind the window called.

Lilah offered a twenty. His answering frown told her everything. This was a date, and he was paying.

Jake accordioned the bands of script tickets, and they followed the line through the gap in the chain link fence.

She skated a foot on the dry grass, momentarily second-guessing the soft yellow sundress she'd selected. The cool breeze danced the hemline just above her knees. Her white sneakers, already smeared with a line of dust, would be dirt-brown before the night was over.

“Ready?”

They crossed under the brightly lit sign into the opening night of the Reunion Carnival.

She hadn't been in years.

The locals—especially the members of the Cherokee Spring Memorial Church—claimed they would never walk through the gates into such a heathen display of drunken debauchery. Some of the parishioners who'd screamed the loudest on Sunday were actually here, with kids and wives in tow.

Jake sauntered down the midway, passing the petting zoo and fortuneteller booths, the tattooed man and freak show. He nodded their way through the massing crowd, tossing waves, how d'ya do's, and smiles to the shocked faces of his flock.

He's enjoying this!

“See you at Revival tomorrow?” he asked Eddie, a burly man standing in line with three or four of his friends. Neon bulbs over the kiosk spelled out “Beer Garden.”

“Uh, yes, Pastor. I'll be there.” He shook Jake's outstretched hand, his right wrist wrapped with a bright orange band for entry to Beer Garden.

“Have a good time!” Jake clapped him on the shoulder and ushered Lilah ahead.

She tilted a glance up.

Mammoth's new pastor.

Her friend. Her date.

Jake positively glowed under the red, yellow, and blue swirl of lights. His smile easy; his manner deliberate but somehow uncalculated.

Teenagers tossed rings for prizes and measured their strength with huge wooden mallets.

Jake stood in line behind them, waiting his turn. He wanted to try everything.

She almost choked on her funnel cake when Jake led her over to have their palms read. Mouth full of sweet pastry, she wondered if the woman in the purple shawl and dark green eye shadow had any idea she'd just told a pastor about his past lives.

“Why am I always Elvis or Napoleon?” He frowned at his hand. “Just once, I wish someone would say I was a sheep herder in south Angola, lived a modest life, and had seventeen children who took up the family biz after I passed to the great beyond.”

Lilah laughed powdered sugar onto his shirt. “Sorry.” She swiped it away with a brush to his chest and felt hard muscle and warmth beneath.

He clasped her hand, held it there.

Melodies jangled in the background along with the whirls of color, the merry screams from the roller coaster. She finished brushing away sugar dust. “You're a mess.”

“In more ways than one.” He accepted the last bite of funnel cake in exchange for a light kiss. He glanced around to see who was watching even as her ears set to burning.

A handful of carnival attendees caught the sight of Pastor Jake kissing Lilah Dale. She could hear it now, even as that dark-haired banker lady sharp-elbowed her husband; that new checkout girl from Ultimart, the one with the ropy braids and ocean gray eyes, sucked on an ice cream cone, watched a moment, then cast her gaze down and went the other way.

“That ought to get them talking,” Jake murmured.

“Why are you doing this? What's your message, Pastor Gibb?”

“I want you to win that panda bear.” Jake slanted a smile. “Doesn't every girl want the big panda?”

She glanced at the display of stuffed animals dancing in the soft breeze. “Is it that the girl wants the enormous bear, or that the boy wants to win her one? Like some bizarre male rite of passage?”

They wandered past feats of strength to the softball throw. Seven chances to knock over the trio of stacked milk bottles, a sallow-faced carnie with a cocky grin challenged passersby. Seven to win the oversized bear.

Lilah picked up a ball, gauged its weight against her palm. Tossed it up and caught it with confidence. “Tell you what. I win? You carry the bear.”

He waved her forward. “This I've gotta see.”

Seven bull's-eyes later, he accepted the treasured bear. The man behind the counter replaced the red-ribbon-tied animal with another.

“So, what?” Jake adjusted the creature under his arm. “You ran cross country and played softball?”

“Four years in high school. Could have been state champs if, well. If.” Lilah jogged up her brows. “That made me thirsty. Want anything?”

They wandered toward the food court again and sipped sodas while listening to a band play a tune. The singer donned the same dark glasses as the one he impersonated and did his best to match high notes.

“What now, Pastor?” She turned back to Jake, cringing at the pitch. The panda perched on the chair next to him. “I'm pretty sure you've shamed most of your parishioners into facing their inner sinner.”

His straw stuttered, soda meeting ice. “That's what you think we're doing here?”

“Isn't it?”

Their fun evaporated into the humidity.

They left the court in silence. Every attempt she made to rouse the former mood fell flat. Why had she spoken so sharply? Questioned his motives?

“Do you want to leave?” She waited in line next to him, while the Viking ship swung screaming riders back and forth in the background.

“Do you?” His dark eyes were unreadable; his tone, measured.

The ship came to a rest and the carnie called up the next boatload.

Jake tilted a glance to her and then looked away, his focus trained on the passing crowd as they sat, side by side, lowered the safety bar, and nestled the big bear between them.

The teenagers around them raised their hands and hollered as the ship swung higher and higher.

Jake gripped the bar, didn't touch her, and didn't move to hook hands with her again. Off the ride, his manner was easy with everyone he greeted—everyone but her. He greeted Scott, Emma, with their cotton-candy-eating kids. The family shook their heads, laughing as they headed for the fun house, as if all shared some inside joke.

Lilah's stomach sank from either too many sweets or her own sour mood. No amount of amusement rides or cotton candy could revive the jovial bond between them. They walked on, separated by more than the bustling crowds.

“Here.” She relieved him of the oversized prize and clutched the panda bear before her like a shield. Feet dusty, her stomach churning, she kept worry to herself. “I guess we should—”

“Wait. One last thing.” He dragged her away from the food court. “Follow me.” Jake paused in front of the glassmaker's stand: The Glass Shack. On the other side of the counter, the glass man sat on a stool with a blowtorch in one hand and a glass rod in the other, his protective headgear obscuring his face. A crowd of gawky pre-teen girls waited while he worked.

Lilah leaned in to watch the form of the bird take shape.

The glass bender wove and spun the quick-melting glass rod through the blue flame. With pliers, he pinched, pulled the neck, added details to the wings. Quick cooling the figure in oven-mitt-like pads, he flipped up his mask to focus on the small crowd. One of the tweens paid, took the figurine of a swan, and went down the hill.

“Well, hey there, Pastor.” The glassmaker shoved up his hood, studied Lilah. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

The sick feeling kicked up to near panic. The man making lovely, delicate glass figurines was the guy she'd mistaken for homeless weeks before. Their gazes met, and Lilah forced a weak smile. She shifted her panda shield up.

Jake stepped forward, stuck a hand in his pocket. “Evening, Mr. Guthrie.”

“You know each other?” she asked.

“Sure. We go way back.” Jake shook the carnival worker's hand.

Lilah frowned through the same exchange Jake made with everyone all evening.

Except this time, the man paused, unrolled the paper between gnarled thumbs. The glassmaker tilted his head. “What's this?” He cackled as he read. “Passing out scripture?”

“Figured a subtle reminder couldn't hurt. You're welcome to join us at the Revival.”

The man laughed. “Don't'cha go waitin' on a sinner like me.”

“Invitation remains.” Jake freed the panda and shoulder-bumped Lilah. “Hey. How about you make something for my girl?”

Her gaze remained glued to the roll of paper the glass man pocketed. This is what Jake had been doing here all night? She wished she could vanish into the dust and float away on the breeze.

Lilah upturned her gaze into the face of the man from the alley and smiled.

The glassworker nodded as he fired up his tools, voice muffled behind his lowered mask. “I've got just the thing for you.”

The solid glass tube stretched, loosening in the flame; fire-heated, he swirled and elongated the strands into a mass of melting crystal. His tools set to work. A pull here, a twirl of red-hot glass, and a subtle form of a bird formed. A heron, with a curved neck, long beak, and wings outstretched, watchful and waiting.

Panda under his arm, Jake placed a rolled up, inch-wide piece of paper in her hand.

She shifted weight, wanting to bolt in any direction, yet she remained, waiting, as the man she'd so misjudged finished the tiny work of art. She unrolled the note, read its contents. “Be joyful, as unto the Lord!”

How many of these little notes reminding of God's love did Jake have in his pocket? How many hands, hearts, received Jake's subtle messages as she wandered beside him, oblivious, her mind tripping elsewhere? Spirit slain, she realized she wasn't worthy of this man. How could she be friends with someone who kept so much out of sight? Let alone date him. Everything needed to change. Now. Before it was too late.

“Here you go, ma'am.” The glass artist's low voice rumbled. He edged the heron toward her. Its neck arced, a trout held in its open beak.

“Lovely,” she whispered. Picking up the bird, she turned it in the light, catching the strands of green and blue woven among the clear glass. “Looks like it's gonna take flight any second.”

Jake reached to his billfold. “How much?”

“That'n's a gift.” He looked down at her, then back to Jake. “For the message.” The artisan didn't look anyone in the eye.