Catching His Eye

“I’ll say. They think if they can stand upright they’re hot stuff.”

“So go see him, Em. Why not?”

Emily met her gaze. “I don’t know.”

“I do. Go. Go with no expectations except to see an old friend. Go without making yourself nuts, just like you were meeting one of us. Go and talk to him, and let him see who you are now. The very worst that’s going to happen is you’ll have a new friend.”

She nodded. “Okay. Why not? I’ll go, and I’ll talk and I’ll leave my expectations at home.”

Chapter Three

Scott handed Mrs. Newberry her package of green beans then forced a smile. The immediate reward of a return smile did little to elevate his mood. He couldn’t stop thinking about the plane tickets sitting in his suitcase. First class, round trip from Los Angeles to Bristol, Connecticut. The plane would be in the air right now, with some other passenger in his seat.

“Are the tomatoes ripe?” a strident voice said from behind him.

He turned to find Dora Weeks, one of his mother’s closest friends. She was his mother’s age, but right now, she looked years younger. She was a tiny thing, not even five feet tall, with completely white close-cropped hair. The biggest thing about her were her glasses, which were so thick they made her eyes look twice their size.

“Yes, Mrs. Weeks, they’re ripe.”

“Not too ripe.”

“No. In fact, if you’d like I can help you pick one out.”

She nodded. “Your father always picked out my tomatoes.”

“He was good at that,” Scott said, an unexpected twinge hitting his heart.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Weeks followed him toward the produce department, forcing him to slow his walk to a crawl. “He knew his vegetables.”

“He also taught me, Mrs. Weeks.” They passed the bread aisle, and Scott noticed the stock was low. Of course that meant he had to fix it, because there was no stock boy anymore. Not for a month. His mother hadn’t even tried to hire a new one.

He finally reached the tomatoes, and he looked for a beauty. All the produce was good, that hadn’t changed, but there were tomatoes and there were tomatoes.

He sniffed a contender, searching for a distinct aroma he knew intimately but couldn’t describe. Years of working part-time and summers in the store under his father’s watchful gaze had made Scott a grocer, whether he liked it or not.

“Your mother must be so proud.”

“Thank you. I had a good run, before the old ankle blew.”

Mrs. Weeks looked up at him, her huge Mr. Magoo eyes confused. “A good run? I meant she must be so proud that you came home. That you’re here when she needs you. She’s not well, you know. She tries to hide it, but I can tell.”

Plane tickets flashed in his mind for a second, but he chased them away. If he started down that path, he’d never find his way back. “I know, Mrs. Weeks, and I’m very grateful you watch out for her.”

“I do my best.”

He presented his tomato on his open palm. “Here she is. Best tomato in the place.”

Mrs. Weeks smiled as she took the vegetable in her hands. She smelled it and smiled. “Like father like son.”

I hope not. The uncharitable thought caught him off guard. What a thing to think. His father had been a fine man. Honest and thorough and kind, even though he was tough. He’d worked his whole life so that the family would have a decent house and cars, and so that Scott could go to college.

“You tell Mary I’ll come by on Tuesday.”

“I will, Mrs. Weeks.”

She headed toward the checkout counter. He wondered if her daughter came to visit. Probably. Probably called all the time. Franny Weeks was eleven years older than him, and she used to be his baby-sitter. She’d been a piece of work. Always had her nose in a book. Hated sports, even watching them.

He headed toward the bread aisle to see what he had to bring from the back. For nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, there were quite a few people in the small store. Neighbors, each one.

He noticed Jack Gates, who had retired after a lifetime of working at the hardware store. Scott remembered when Jack had helped him build a doghouse for Knute, Scott’s old mutt. Knute had passed on fifteen years ago, but the doghouse, still in the backyard, looked weathered but sturdy. Just like Jack himself.

Aura Lee Merchant studied the salad dressing, her body shaking with Parkinson’s disease. She’d been a teacher at Sheridan Elementary, although he hadn’t been in her class.

Ted Cooper, Mrs. Freed, Karen Crane. They’d all been coming here for years. No superstores for them. They liked the personal service, but more, they liked the continuity. At least that was his theory.

But whatever the reason they liked the store, they would stop coming if things didn’t improve. The rolls were almost all gone. Half the name brand breads were gone, too. He’d better call the distributors and find out what was going on.

A young man, surprising in this store of older customers, approached him tentatively. “Mr. Dillon?”

“Yep.”

The boy cleared his throat. Wiped his hands on his jeans. He looked to Scott to be about thirteen. His Cowboys T-shirt had seen better days, but it was clean. “I’m Jeff Grogin.”

“How you doing?”

Jeff thrust out his hand. Scott shook it, wondering if this was his next stock boy.

“Is it true that during the state championships you threw for 549 yards?”

A fan. Too young to have seen Scott play. But in a town this size, his football career was as well-known as the Pledge of Allegiance. “Yep. It’s true.”

The boy blinked a couple of times. “I play some football, too.”

“Do you?”

“For the Tigers. I’m the varsity quarterback.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

Sir. Suddenly Scott felt like he was a hundred. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to, um maybe have a Coke or something?”

Scott raised his eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Bobby’s face flushed scarlet. “No! I mean, no, sir. I just thought—”