“Sometimes I find that the company of children compares favorably to the company of adults,” I said wryly.
“Touche.” He didn’t seem at all offended—he still was grinning—but I immediately felt remorseful because I knew I’d been rude.
“Or maybe it’s that I don’t always have much to say around adults,” I said.
“Not having much to say doesn’t stop most people.” His expression was impish. “Not me, anyway.”
His self-mockery caught me off guard, and I smiled. As I stood, planning to return to the backyard, I said, “I should introduce myself. I’m Alice Lindgren.”
“Oh, I know who you are. You think I’d forget the name of a girl who refuses to go on a date with me?”
“I didn’t—” I paused, flustered. “That was years ago. I was involved with someone. It wasn’t personal.”
“I thought maybe you’d heard some terrible rumor. Or, better yet, some terrible truth.” He grinned; clearly, he was accustomed to being considered charming.
“If there are terrible truths about you circulating, you might want to take care of them before running for office.” I could have played it cool and pretended I didn’t know who he was, but I didn’t see the point. Everyone at the barbecue knew who he was, whether or not we’d met him before. And he knew we knew; otherwise, he’d have introduced himself when I had.
“Before I run for office, huh?” he said. “Word travels fast.”
“Madison is a pretty small town.”
“Yet we’ve never met until now. How do you explain
?”
I shrugged. “Have you lived here that long? I was under the impression—Isn’t your family more from Milwaukee?”
“Au contraire, mademoiselle. I’m a Madison native. Went to kindergarten and first grade at Duncan Country Day and came back for part of eighth grade.”
“Oh, I teach at Liess,” I said. “I’m the librarian.”
“Aha! I thought you showed authority when you were reading. Cliff and Kathleen’s little girl knew just who to ask, huh?”
“Now do you believe I wasn’t hiding out?”
“There was a boy on my street growing up who went to Liess,” Charlie said. “Norm Barker, but we called him Ratty. He was a good kid. Real pale face and pink, quivery nose, but a good kid. I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on the guy since 1952.”
“I suspect the school has changed since Ratty’s time.”
Charlie grinned. “You mean it’s not lily-white anymore?”
“Not exactly.” There was a silence, and I suppose it was to fill it—it was in the interest of preventing Charlie from implying that Liess’s non-lily-whiteness was a bad thing (I didn’t know if he would imply this, but I didn’t want to run the risk)—that I announced, “I bought a house yesterday.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding? Just you, not . . . ?” Not at all surreptitiously, he glanced at the ring finger of my left hand.
I ignored the question. “It’s on McKinley. If you know where Roney’s Hardware is, it’s behind that a couple streets.”
“Congratulations—way to get yourself a little piece of the American dream.” He held up his own left hand, high-five-style; to slap it required walking toward him, which, a little self-consciously, I did. Our hands hit firmly, a satisfying slap, and he said, “It’s in decent shape? The pipes and the roof and all that jazz?”
“It seems all right, although the inspector hasn’t gone through yet.” I tapped my knuckles against the wall. “Knock on wood.”
“You run into any problems, I’d be happy to take a look.” He paused. “Not that I know a damn thing about house maintenance, but I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”
Although I laughed, I felt a clenching in my stomach. No. This barbecue was about Dena’s interest in Charlie Blackwell, not mine.
And then he said, “How about if you let me take you out for dinner next week to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of the ten percent mortgage rate—you free Tuesday?”
“Oh, the rate isn’t nearly that bad anymore,” I said. “It’s closer to seven percent.”
“What, the other fellow’s still in the picture?” His voice remained game, but I could tell he was rattled that I hadn’t immediately accepted his invitation—I could tell by the way the corners of his smile collapsed a little. “You want me to challenge him to a duel, that’s what you’re trying to say?”
I had no desire to hurt Charlie Blackwell’s feelings. I attempted to sound as sincere as possible when I said, “Unfortunately, I have a busy few weeks coming up—lots of lesson plans.”
“You can’t do better than that? Lesson plans in July, hell, that’s on the order of needing to wash your hair.”
“It’s not you,” I said. “It’s really not.” We were standing a few feet apart, and I was tempted to set my palm on his cheek. He was more vulnerable, less smug, than I had initially thought. Then I did close the space between us, but all I touched was his elbow, through his pink oxford shirt. This close to him, I could sense his clean soapy warmth, the way he smelled of beer and summer. I tilted my head. “Should we go back to the party?”
