Page 34 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

He hefted the picnic basket from the back seat while I lifted out the blanket, a soft quilt I slept under each night. I hadn’t thought that part through, because now every time I drew the cover over me in bed, I would think of him.

Even more than I already did.

Hugging the quilt, I picked my way toward the table, sidestepping roots and crunching spikes from the sweet gum tree. “What got you started racing?”

“My bicycle didn’t go near fast enough for me, so I built a dirt bike from scraps at the junkyard. Since my grandparents owned the garage, I had the perfect mentor whenever I ran into a problem with the design.” He set the picnic basket on the sturdy plank table, the benches lightly shaded by oak tree branches. “It took me months, but I succeeded. She was a sweet ride. After I tore up Granny’s garden one too many times, Grandpa made this track for me.”

I touched the Mason jar full of dahlias and daisies, a delicate—and thoughtful—addition to the wooded picnic spot. “Are these from your grandmother’s garden?”

“Guilty as charged. I was careful only to pick the ones from the back.” He winked before continuing, “My grandfather took me to a race over in Darlington. You probably don’t know, but they have this egg-shaped track with brutal turns. I could calculate in my head how the drivers should navigate ... Sometime during that trip I realized I’d heard the calling, and now I’m chasing my dream.”

A whisper of unease teased through me to hear him speak about his ambitions. For the first time, I realized his dream was big enough that it could very well take him away from Bent Oak. I dropped the quilt onto the planked seat and refused to let the day be tainted by what-ifs.

One container at a time, I set out our lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches cut into triangles. Corn fritters. Deviled eggs. And of course, pound cake with sweet tea.

He whistled his appreciation. “That’s quite a feast.”

“I’m a fan of picnics after my shift. Libby and I come swimming down this way sometimes, when Keith’s in school.” I pointed north. “Not too far that way, actually.”

His forehead furrowed. “Winnie, I don’t want to be inappropriate or forward, but is that safe out here, swimming alone?”

I bristled at that, ghosts of days with Phillip reminding me of all the times he censured me under the guise of being protective. “Are you worried we’re skinny-dipping? If so, why does that matter? Men skinny-dip.”

We actually hadn’t. Instead, we’d stopped short of stripping completely, leaving on our cotton underwear and support bras. Probably not wise to include that part since the picnic was spiraling.

“I worry for your safety. Not just the current, but being out here unprotected,” he said simply. “Do you have any fear?”

An odd statement coming from a man who’d just taken on a racetrack at a hundred miles per hour. Then I reminded myself this wasRussell, my friend, a man who’d shown himself to be honorable time and time again.

Could his comment about pursuing his dream, even if it meant leaving town, have driven a knee-jerk reaction from me to push him away? “I have all sorts of fears,” I admitted, resting a hand on top of his. “So many that every now and again I decide on the easiest one to face to give myself a break from the weight of it all.”

Today, I would dismiss my fear of rejection.

“Well, to easemyfear”—he flipped his hand to clasp mine—“next time you ladies decide to take a swim, let me know. I’ll just sit with my back against the tree—facing away, of course—and make sure no one else walks up on you.”

“What a noble and selfless deed,” I said with a smirk, drawing a laugh from him as we shook hands on the deal. Then I shifted my attention back to pulling out plates and setting the table. “I enjoyed watching your race last weekend. Congratulations on your win.”

“Why didn’t you stick around afterward?” he asked, pouring tea from the gallon jug into two glasses.

“I had a busy week coming up at the mill.” An excuse. I’d made a hasty retreat, too tempted to stay.

“Maybe after the next race, we could go out for drinks and dancing at the Tipsy Cow. Do you like to dance?”

Like to dance? Ilovedto dance. All kinds. Even disco. But most of all, doing the shag to beach music.

“I can hold my own.” The warm sun on my skin relaxed me as we filled our plates and sat across from each other. My fingers itched to trace the checkered pattern of his plaid shirt, to feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. “My mother signed me up for lessons at a local studio the day I turned five. Tap. Ballet. Jazz. Three times a week. Even baton lessons. She had plans for me to be a pageant girl.”

Sharing even a benign part of my past felt strange after closely guarding my secrets for so long. But this memory was generic enough,not particularly traceable, and I wanted to offer at least some part of my history to him.

He quirked a dark eyebrow. “From your tone, I take it that you didn’t agree.”

The day before the pageant, I stood up to my mother for the first time. I was only seven. Knees knocking, because I wanted to take a pottery class that afternoon instead. My father told me if I made my mother happy by participating in the pageant, then he would pay for private pottery lessons. We struck a deal.

Daddy forgot to stipulate that I should try to win.

I was fifth runner-up. There were seven contestants. My mother was so embarrassed she never asked me again. I expected my father to be angry—Mama was his world, after all. But he congratulated me on being a tough negotiator. He was proud of me.

Even then, I’d known that wasn’t an invitation to join the family business. If I’d been a boy ...

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