Word Gets Around by Lisa Wingate

Author:Lisa Wingate [Wingate, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2010-07-10T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Lauren Eldridge

It took a minute for Aunt Donetta’s voice to penetrate the fluffy, floaty fog in my head, which is saying something, because Aunt Netta’s voice is a force of nature, like Superman’s X-ray vision. It can breech the six-inch stone walls of the Daily Hotel and still be as clear as a bell. Folks next door in the café always know when someone comes into the beauty shop, because they can hear, How-deee! Be there in just a little ol’ minute. There’s coffee in the pot. …

For some odd reason that I couldn’t explain, her greeting bounced off the misty observation that Nate was taller than I’d thought. There was a little cleft in his chin that was … was …

“Yoo-hoo … y’all two are missin’ lu-unch.” The words were like the annoying buzz of a horsefly, circling incessantly, determined to land. I wanted to swat away the noise, think about the dinner invitation. What if I said yes?

Was it more than a dinner invitation?

Did I want it to be?

What was I thinking?

“Y’all come on over to the tent and—” Aunt Netta’s aborted sentence was more disturbing than whatever she’d been about to say. She’d stumbled onto something worthy of a short silence, which was unusual. Now she would cogitate about what might have been going on before she entered the barnyard.

Oh shoot, was the only thought I had time to form before Aunt Netta went to work. “Well, goodness, y’all two are busy talkin’ out here.” She pretended not to notice that she’d just caught Nate and me in a moment of … whatever just happened. “I didn’t mean to bother ye-ew te-ew,” she stretched out the words, coated them with honey butter so they’d slide down all sticky-sweet.

Nate broke the invisible link between us, glancing at Aunt Donetta. “I was just trying to talk the horse whisperer here into taking a look at the script with me this evening.”

Having no experience with Aunt Donetta and her legendary penchant for matchmaking, Nate was unaware that he’d just dropped a big wad of stinkbait into the catfish pond. Mama fish would be all over it quicker than I could say, There’s nothing going on here, Aunt Netta. The guy in the flip-flops and I were just talking … about horses and scripts. You know I’d never be interested in a guy who wears flip-flops.

I wouldn’t.

Ever.

My father made fun of guys who wore what he called them beach shoes. His contempt harkened back to the infamous years of the hippies. He said men should wear a man shoe—cowboy boots in general, slippers after hours, tennis shoes only after major surgery, or for the church softball game and occasionally donkey basketball.

When my father took us to Corpus Christi as kids, his idea of beach attire was rolled up Wrangler jeans and tube socks, which was just as well, because my father’s legs hadn’t seen the sun since he quit the 1959 Daily High track team to spend more time rodeoing.

He

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