Page 53 of Where It All Began
“Debatable,” John whispered back. “How’s the ankle there, Cardona? You going to be able to climb a ladder to save any ferrets?” John opened a new beer for his friend.
Michael scoffed. “Please, this won’t even slow down my six-minute mile.” He said it while watching Hazel’s face.
Hazel eyed him up. “Six flat?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Six thirty-two,” he said with no small amount of pride.
“Huh, not bad,” Hazel said, raising her fair eyebrows.
Phoebe could see it coming even before Michael did.
“Not bad? What do you run?” Michael leaned forward in the chaise, daring her to beat his time.
Hazel lifted her wine glass to her lips. “Six nineteen.”
Michael called bullshit, and they immediately began planning a race to settle the dispute.
“They’re going to be married and having babies in no time,” Phoebe predicted.
“They’ve been dancing around each other for ten years. It’s going to take more than a sprained ankle and Cardona’s fat head to get those two out of their own ways,” he predicted.
“What are you two whispering about over there?” Michael demanded. “Lovers’ secrets?”
“Oooooh!” Elvira and Hazel made kissy noises reminiscent of twelve-year-old girls at a sleepover.
“I forgot to mention that Michael knows, too,” Phoebe said in a stage whisper.
“You’ve got a big mouth,” John told Phoebe.
She grinned guiltily. “Good news travels fast in Blue Moon.” Which meant that, by tomorrow, most of the town would know that John was sleeping with his new farm hand. She hoped Mrs. Nordemann wouldn’t take offense to pre-marital sex. Not that she and John were going to be marital.
John’s bland tone snapped her out of her reverie. “Then I guess the entire town already knows Cardona here fell on his ass just looking at our sheriff friend.”
“Oooooh!” Elvira and Phoebe crooned as Hazel sent Michael a long, questioning look. The tips of his ears turned pink again, something John didn’t hesitate to point out to Hazel.
They ate and joked as the sky turned inky black and the stars popped out between the leaves of the trees. Hazel filled them in on some of her more amusing small town calls for aide. Elvira, her leg looped over the arm of her chair, filled them in on stories and scandals from Blue Moon’s previous generation, and Phoebe answered questions about Penn State, sharing her impressive—and necessary—knowledge of the school’s football program.
Elvira started a fire and turned on the radio in her kitchen, the blues—a neutral choice for Blue Moon, which was in a war between the ’60s and ’80s—poured through the window into the backyard. They lit citronella candles and incense sticks to chase away the mosquitos and broke into Elvira’s stash of homemade ice cream.
John looped an arm over Phoebe’s shoulders as Michael put everyone in stitches with a story about an English class substitute and Linus Fitzsimmons’ special brownie recipe.
And right then, every damn thing in Phoebe’s life was perfect.
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When Elvira got up to open another bottle of wine, she asked Phoebe and Hazel to come help her.
“Ooooh, girl talk,” Michael called after them as they trooped inside.
Elvira held up two bottles. “Cab or blanc?”
Hazel and Phoebe pondered. “Blanc,” they agreed.
Phoebe grabbed a bag of pretzels.
“Are you still hungry?” Hazel groaned stroking her flat stomach. “I ate my entire sub. All twelve inches of it.”
“Twelve? Really, I wouldn’t have expected Michael to have that kind of weaponry,” Elvira teased.
