Mayday (3 page)

Helen thought back to her conversation with Tina. “The first of March, if I remember correctly.”

“Is there a Maypole involved?” Angie asked.

“As far as I know.”

“I'll attend the meeting too.” Angie leaned back in the booth and folded her arms, her lips curved in a satisfied smile. “Not as a representative of the library. As your friend. But also as someone who wants to see her neighbors drop a flower vagina onto a giant wooden penis and then dance around that penis by torchlight. I can honestly say I've never anticipated a community event more in my life.”

Mary buried her face in her hands again.

Penny pursed her lips. “I don't know how much Angie's presence will help you with the mayor, but I can pretty much guarantee she'll distract you from your woes. Especially once discussions about the Maypole begin.”

“Goodness gracious,” Mary muttered.

“And the rest of us will support you in any way we can, Helen,” Constance said. “You have our word.”

With that promise, Helen's heart lightened for the first time in a few days.

“I wonder if Sam would want to apply for an IT position at the library,” Penny said, tilting her head in thought.

“Sam?” Mary asked.

“Sam Wolcott, my half brother who lives on the Eastern Shore. Same mother, different fathers. Thus the different last names,” Penny explained.

Oh, Jesus. No. There's no way
. Once more, Helen's heart dropped to her feet.

“Penny . . . You never mentioned Sam's last name before,” Helen said.

“Maybe not.” Penny shrugged. “Why does it matter?”

“Does Sam happen to work in a library right now? Say, one in Salisbury?” Helen asked, hoping to God Penny would answer with a resounding and definitive “no.”

“How did you know?” Penny's brow furrowed in confusion.

Now Helen assumed Mary's usual position and spoke through her hands. “Remember that guy I met at a conference three months ago? The one I sort of . . .”

“Slept with and conveniently neglected to give your phone number to?” Penny scrubbed her eyes with her hands. “Jesus, Hel.”

“I wanted to erase the memory of Wes from my body,” Helen defended herself.

“With
my brother
?” Penny groaned.

“I didn't know!”

Leaning over, Penny buried her face in Angie's shoulder. “Oh, God. Does Purell make some sort of disinfectant for the brain?”

Angie patted Penny's shoulder and grinned. “Well, well, Helen. Aren't we the woman of the hour?”

“I've slept with two men in thirty-five years. Two!” Helen moaned. “Why is this happening to me?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Angie said.

“My brother is a catch,” Penny mumbled into Angie's sweater.

“He is,” Helen hastened to agree. “I simply didn't want more than what we had.”

“And what they had was sex,” Angie said, leaning in close to Penny's ear. “Hel had sex with your brother. Hot, sweaty, naked sex.”

Penny whimpered and plugged her ears with her fingertips.

“You're evil,” Sarah said. “I like it.”

Mary lifted a finger to get everyone's attention. “Maybe the library won't offer a new IT position. Or maybe Sam won't want it. And maybe the mayor won't play a big role in the May Day planning meetings.”

Helen's forehead hit the table in front of her with a distinct
thunk
. “That's not how my life works, Mary. Unfortunately.”

This
, she thought.
This is why I should have remained a virgin forever. Maybe I could have thrown on a sheet, called Zeus my father, and become a huntress. Or lived in a cave and marketed myself as an oracle. Or flung myself into an active volcano to prevent an eruption. Anything but this. Anything.

Angie lifted a hand to get the attention of the waitress. “I can't wait for the first May Day Celebration Committee meeting,” she said, beaming. “Let the games begin.”

W
es regarded the half-full meeting room from behind the podium, watching more and more people file into the space he'd reserved at City Hall. He couldn't suppress a huge grin at the sight, even knowing he probably looked like a total doofus.

At long last, he could point to visible evidence of what he'd managed to achieve. All these people were arriving for the first May Day Celebration Committee meeting, to plan for an event the city could hold only because he'd squeezed extra funds from the City Council after over three years of arguments and pleas. An event that would draw locals and tourists alike to Niceville's downtown and kick off his effort to revive the area's economy. An event that would serve as a personal celebration of his greatest accomplishment, one no one understood but him.

After almost twenty years, he'd managed to clear the stench of failure from his lungs. The air smelled cleaner. The chatter he heard from the arriving committee members sounded sweeter. More cheerful. Even the colors looked more vivid.

One color in particular, actually. A flash of brightness came bobbing in from the doorway, almost entirely obscured by a tall blond woman walking ahead of it. He craned his neck, trying to figure out what source of light had caught his eye. Then the blonde moved to the side, and he could finally see. His gaze focused on a head of coppery red hair and a pale, dimpled face.

He froze, unable to breathe for a long, painful second.

Helen. Former schoolmate. One-time lover. To his shame, one mediocre time at that.

Helen, the woman who had unwittingly served as the catalyst for his recent successes.

Helen, his greatest regret of the past year.

Chatting with the blonde and not looking his way at all, she selected a seat at the end of a back row. From what he could tell, she hadn't changed much in the last ten or so months. She still appeared soft, all curves and gentle, round warmth. Just like at the bar, she wore a knit dress—though this one revealed a lot less cleavage than the one he remembered—along with leggings and a pair of flat Mary Janes. Her fiery mane of red curls hung maybe an inch longer than he recalled, barely brushing the shoulders of that dress. And as he watched, she pushed the frames of her horn-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of her nose, precisely as he'd seen her do that night.

Helen. Still lovely. Still exuding intelligence and lively enthusiasm.

Their encounter nearly a year ago should have been all about her. Even through a haze of self-disgust and frustration, he'd noticed how she shone in a crowd. But he'd needed a way out of his own head more than he'd wanted the possibility of a real connection with a woman.

So he'd used her. Used sex to distract himself from his failures, in a grim repetition of old patterns he'd tried so hard to break. And afterward, he'd looked down at Helen sprawled across his bed—all tousled red curls and pale, velvety flesh, the embodiment of his secret dreams—and known he'd fucked up. Big-time. Because a man wanted to give a woman like her the world, and he couldn't give her anything. Not even a decent romp in bed, and certainly not a man worth her attention and energy. So he'd turned her away, hurting her. Hurting himself.

She's still a woman who deserves more than you can offer
, an insidious voice whispered inside his head. A whiff of that familiar stench drifted his way again, and he shook his head hard to remove it from his nostrils.

No. That wasn't true anymore. Now he could offer her something. An apology. An explanation. Above all else, a man worthy of her time.

What would happen between them without alcohol and despair muddying their interactions? Would they enjoy each other's company? Would she accept his apology? Could the two of them make a fresh start and see where it led?

He didn't know. But he could find out. Right now.

Someone caught his arm as he strode down the rows of seats. Reluctantly, he turned to face the obstacle in his path. “Yes?”

“Is it time to start the meeting, Mayor?” Mrs. Whipler asked, her voice querulous. “I need to get home before eight. Tonight's episode of
The Bachelor
isn't going to watch itself, you know.”

A glance at his watch confirmed it. Seven on the dot. Which meant he needed to get the meeting started and tackle Helen later. Not that seeing her body in that thin knit dress made him think of tackling her. More like stroking the soft skin beneath the fabric. And God, he knew just how that skin would feel under his fingers. The memory had haunted his dreams for months, along with the shuttered look on her face when she'd swung her legs out of his car and walked away without looking back.

Shrugging away that image, he made his way back to the podium and started the meeting.

“Welcome, everyone. I'm Wes Ramirez, Niceville's mayor, and I'm delighted to see such an enthusiastic community response to our upcoming May Day events.”

His eyes scanned the audience as he talked about the city's plans. More women than men, which wasn't surprising when it came to volunteer opportunities. A few people wearing expensive coats, and others in worn but clean clothing. A mix of different racial and ethnic groups. A representative cross section of the community, exactly as he'd wanted.

A familiar face caught his eye. He inclined his head, greeting a woman seated toward the back, her graying black braids caught in a low bun. Bea Carter, one of the nine members of the City Council in Clearport, Virginia.

She occasionally made the five-hour drive to visit her brother in Niceville, and she'd been corresponding with Wes since he'd managed to wrest extra money from his own City Council. In Bea's messages and periodic visits, she asked him about his experiences with the Niceville government, probably hoping to apply what he'd learned to her own struggling city. He hadn't realized she planned to attend any of the May Day meetings, but maybe she wanted to propose similar community events in Clearport.

Her head bowed in a subtle nod of acknowledgment, and he smiled at her.

Then he couldn't avoid it anymore. Inevitably, his gaze swung back to Helen. And that's when he realized. While the tall blonde next to her kept her narrowed, hostile gaze glued to him as he spoke, Helen didn't make eye contact. She looked at the podium. Maybe even his shirt. But she never met his gaze. Not once.

She hadn't simply failed to notice him when she'd walked into the meeting room.

She was ignoring him. Completely.

 

Nearly an hour later, she still hadn't made eye contact. Not when he spoke about the city's role in the celebration. Not when other speakers came to the podium, explaining subcommittees and divvying up responsibilities. Not ever. At least, not until he reached a vague line in the meeting agenda.

“I see that the library sent a representative to discuss the history and symbolism of May Day, but I never got a message confirming the name,” he said. “So if anyone's here from the library, please feel free to come to the front and make your presentation.”

That Helen rose from her seat didn't come as a shock to him. Given her lack of willingness even to look his way, he didn't think anything other than professional necessity would have driven her within fifty feet of him. She made her way to the front, her eyes focused on the podium rather than him. Only when she arrived and he failed to move out of her way did she raise her gaze.

“Excuse me, Mayor Ramirez,” she said, her voice firm.

He couldn't locate a single iota of warmth in her tone. Certainly not the kind of heat he felt standing only inches away from her.

“Wes,” he said.

“Excuse me,” she repeated. “I need to get to the podium.”

He didn't budge. “Please call me Wes, Helen.”

Now he could feel heat emanating from her, all right. But not the heat of affection or desire. No, the heat he sensed came from fiery rage.

Her soft lips firmed, and she flicked a dismissive glance at the microphone he was blocking with his body. Rather than pushing past him or calling him by his first name, she instead turned to face the crowd from where she stood. “Good evening!” she shouted. “I'm Helen Murphy, and I'm a part-time adult reference librarian at the Downtown Niceville Library!”

He turned away before she could see the grin he couldn't stifle. What a firebrand. He was pretty sure if he read her mind right about now, he'd hear something along the lines of,
Fuck your microphone, Mayor Ramirez. And fuck you too.

Once he had his face under control, he turned back to her. “Here,” he said, interrupting her introduction and moving away from the podium. “Why don't you use the microphone?”

“Thank you,
Mayor Ramirez
,” she said.

“You're welcome,
Helen
,” he answered, and then took a seat directly in front of her.

“As the mayor said, I'm here to discuss the historical context of May Day,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “Some people celebrate May Day for religious reasons, or to acknowledge the contributions of labor. But the city's festivities will focus more on the holiday's roots as a spring festival.”

“You mean
fertility
festival,” Mrs. Whipler called out.

Helen took a deep breath before responding. “I mean a
spring
festival, which celebrates the miracle of life in all its forms. Europeans used to hold celebrations in honor of the goddesses of vegetation and spring, like Flora, Walpurga, and Maia. Which is where we get the name May in the first place. Different groups gave the festivities different names. The Romans called the event Floralia, but others called it Walpurgisnacht, Whitsuntide, or Beltane.” Helen ticked off the names on her fingers, her eyes distant in thought.

“Tick-tock, girlie,” Mrs. Whipler said. “Skip the nerdy bits. If I miss the rose ceremony, I'm blaming you.”

This time, Helen briefly closed her eyes as she took another fortifying breath. “Even after belief in those goddesses faded, towns and villages still gathered in huge groups to celebrate the fertility of the soil, livestock, and”—her cheeks turning a bit pink—“people.”

“See? What did I tell you? Fertility festival,” Mrs. Whipler crowed. “And if I remember correctly, most of those ancient festivals ended with people naked in the shrubbery.”

Helen's already-pink cheeks turned darker. “That . . . may be accurate.”

Mrs. Whipler thumped her cane on the floor. “And that's not even getting into the symbolism of the Maypole, which is just a huge penis with a flower vagina on top.”

A man in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a down vest stood up toward the back of the room. “Niceville shouldn't spend taxpayer money on a city-sponsored penis festival. Shame on you, Mayor Ramirez!”

Wes came to his feet, ready to intervene. Before he could, though, Helen rushed to smooth over the situation.

“No, no, no,” she soothed. “We're simply following a combination of traditional American and European May Day traditions. Some of which may involve a big cylinder of wood. Sure, it resembles a huge penis. But you know how sometimes a cigar is just a cigar? This large wooden pole is just a large wooden pole. Not a city-sponsored penis. Not at all.”

“What's this about a flower vagina?” a woman to the side of the room shouted, her hands clamped over the ears of her teenage daughter.

By now, Helen's cheeks looked like she'd stood directly in the summer sun for hours. “In traditional May Day celebrations, as I said, towns erect a large wooden Maypole with ribbons attached at the top. People hold the ribbons and dance around the Maypole, gradually intertwining the ribbons. But before they start dancing, a woman usually drops a . . . round garland of flowers on top of the . . . pole.” She sounded like she had to force the last few words out.

“Penis, meet vagina,” Mrs. Whipler concluded.

Wes could almost see Helen fight against rolling her eyes as she answered.

“No, ma'am. Just an ordinary wooden pole and a garland of flowers.”

“Hmmph.” The older woman settled back into her seat, crossed her arms, and drummed her fingers against one forearm.

Wes couldn't help but wonder if Helen would dance around that non-penis Maypole. Just the thought made his heart hasten its beat. And that was without considering the whole flower-vagina dropping over a pole-penis image, which had produced other bodily effects.

“If there aren't any other questions, I'll let Mayor Ramirez introduce the next speaker,” Helen said.

The man in the back stood up again. “My grandpa said that Niceville's old May Day celebrations always resulted in lots of new babies nine months later. Is that true?”

“Well . . .” Helen hesitated.

“He showed me old newspaper headlines about the festival.” The man held up a yellowed slip of paper. “This headline reads ‘Niceville Citizens Use Leftover Maypole Ribbons for Unsanitary and Appalling Purposes Amongst the Bushes.'”

“Uh . . .” she faltered.

He held up another wrinkled paper. “And this one reads ‘Niceville Doctors Overrun with Citizens Itching in Sensitive and Unspeakable Places after May Day Festivities.'”

“Probably mosquito bites,” Helen said. “Anyway, I think now would be a good time to turn this meeting back over to the mayor.”

He made his way to the podium. “Thank you, Helen, for that . . . informational . . . presentation.”

Minutes later, he ended the meeting and resumed following the plan of action he'd devised an hour ago. His first task: Locate Helen. His second task: Get her alone. His third task: Apologize profusely. His fourth task: Well, he'd just have to see how tasks one through three went.