The First Law of Love (9 page)

Driving up to the single stoplight on Main a minute later, I suddenly realized, from a block away, that I was approaching the back bumper of Case Spicer's big, rusty-red truck. A burst of tension squared my shoulders and caused even more sweat to form on my temples, along the back of my neck; in light of how I had Googled him this afternoon I felt more like a spy than ever, and tried to sink lower into my seat.

There
'
s no way he could know your car. He doesn
'
t realize you
'
re behind him, jeez, Tish.

I eased to a stop a good ten feet away, unobtrusively scrunching lower into my seat. My driver's side window was rolled down to allow in any cool air that felt like drifting into my scorching vehicle, and I could hear country music emanating from Case's truck; I recognized the Eli Young Band, and I peeked cautiously at the back window before me. He was wearing a cowboy hat and seemed to be messing with the radio, his left hand hanging from the top of the steering wheel as he leaned towards the middle of the dashboard.

My throat felt a little tight and I looked instantly away, my gaze flickering to the tailgate. A grudging smile tugged at my lips then as I observed the detailing present there: the top edge of a black horse, scrawled as though in mid-stride, leaping over an acoustic guitar; beneath these images were the words
Gotta Ride, Gotta Play.

So he
'
s cool. So what?

“Tish! Hey there!” I heard to the left and my attention snapped that direction to see Wy Rawley emerging from the little hardware store, backpack slung over his shoulder, probably just getting done with work. He waved energetically at me, stepping out into the street and jogging towards my car, which could only happen in a town as tiny as Jalesville. Or Landon.

In front of me, in his truck, Case straightened as though jabbed in the side.

“Hey, Case!” Wy called to him, such a friendly little shit. “How's it going?”

“Wy, you're gonna get run over!” I scolded as he reached me, my face flushing as hotly as though I'd been caught peeping into Case's bedroom window.

“Are you coming for dinner Friday?” Wy asked, leaning a hip on my car.

“I sure am,” I said to him. I really liked the kid, but I was flustered as hell right now and not up to conversation. The light turned green and I indicated with my left hand. Though I couldn't move unless Case drove forward, and at present he wasn't moving an inch, turned as though to peer over his shoulder at Wy and me.

To my consternation, Wy reached in the window and honked my horn, holding it down for extra emphasis.

“Hey!” I squeaked, horrified. I wanted to simultaneously yell that I hadn't done that and sink right through the ground.

In front of us, Case lifted his right arm as though in a wave and then drove away. I sat there with my foot still on the brake, all hot and irritated.

Wy said amiably, “See you Friday then!”

“Friday,” I agreed as he headed back to the sidewalk, before turning left and out to Stone Creek.

***

I liked my little apartment.
It was lit cheerfully by the late-afternoon sun as I stepped inside and I turned in a slow circle after I'd shut the door, indulging in a space that was completely my own. No roommates, no sisters, no parents. Just me. To illustrate the freedom of this, I tossed my keys onto the floor, kicked out of my heels and tugged the clip from my hair, shaking out its length. Then I clicked on the radio on the otherwise mostly-bare kitchen counter, still tuned to the country station I'd found yesterday, cranking it loud.

And in the next second I was debating who I could call to alleviate my loneliness. I ran through the list of my family; Camille would be serving supper for six (seven, counting the baby). Ruthie and Mom would be out on the lake probably as it was a summer afternoon; likewise with Aunt Jilly. I could no doubt drive out to the Rawleys' place, certain that they would welcome me, but I felt a little silly imposing upon them like that, especially since they'd hosted me Saturday night and would again on Friday. I had no real desire to talk to Grace or Ina, or my dad. And I had no friends in Jalesville as of yet.

Maybe I need a pet
, I reflected, slipping out onto my porch and taking a seat on my single lawn chair, bracing my bare feet on the railing. I shaded my eyes against the low-lying glare of the slowly-setting sun, catching the scent of grilling meat from someone's nearby apartment. My stomach growled in hunger and I was going to have to face cooking something for myself, sooner or later. I closed my eyes then, at last letting myself focus on the thoughts that had been clamoring for attention in my mind since noon today.

So
…
what
'
s Case doing right now?

Does he play somewhere tonight?

He said he can
'
t live without playing guitar.

Maybe he
'
s at the Rawleys
'
house, right now.

My heart fluttered even harder at this thought. I knew that Case and his brother Gus were like family to the Rawleys. Maybe he had stopped over there for some reason, this very evening. He said he ate dinner there on Fridays.

But that
'
s four days from now.

Maybe he
'
s there, maybe right now
…

I was holding my phone in my right hand almost before I realized I had moved. I swiped through my contacts, finding the one for Clark, pressing the icon to call his house before I could second-guess myself. Clark answered on the second ring, asking, “So how was your first day?”

My heart was thrashing around, but I kept my voice calm as I replied, “Good, it was actually really productive.”

“Good, good,” Clark said. “Have you had a chance to go shopping? For food, I mean. Camille warned me that you aren't good about cooking for yourself.”

Bless my big-mouthed big sister. It wasn't that I didn't know how to cook; I thought for a moment about summers past, at the café, begging Blythe and Rich to let me help them on the line. I just hated cooking for only me. I admitted, “She's right on that count.”

“Why don't you stop out for a bite, hon?” Clark went on. “I have a couple of chickens baking. Wy said he saw you this afternoon, and I told him he ought to have invited you for supper right then.”

“You're so nice,” I told Clark. I wanted to beg,
Will Case be there? I know he lives close by
…

As though reading my mind, Clark said, “Thank you kindly. Case said he saw you today too. He came by on his way home. Just left.”

Just left?

No
…

“He did?” I asked, hoping for any additional snippets of information. My voice sounded suspiciously reedy and thin, but Clark didn't know me quite well enough to perceive that this meant I was all jacked up.

“Wanted to see if Marsh was able to play drums on Thursday night,” Clark said. “Lee Heller asked the boys if they would play at The Spoke, as it's been a while. It'll be a good show. I meant to ask you to join us there.”

“I will plan on it,” I said, feeling a surge of anticipation spiral outwards from my belly.

“And how about some baked chicken in about an hour?”

Clark was such a dear. I said, “Count me in.”

Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a blur. By Thursday morning, I had established a tentative routine – up at seven to shower and dress, grab a slice of banana bread from the incredible supply that Mary had gifted me with, toting my empty coffee cup along to the office, where a large pot was perked every morning, again courtesy of Mary. Maybe I drove a little too slowly past Spicer Music on my way to work. Possibly I kept watch for big maroon trucks. If my back was turned when the bell above the office door tingled, my heart became a firecracker in my chest.

Despite everything, I had not set eyes on Case since Monday. Since Monday when I'd been behind his truck at the stoplight. I was far too chicken to walk down the street to his music repair shop. But I thought about doing so almost constantly. Meanwhile, I drafted legal documents as directed by Al, made phone calls to families who had not yet sold to Capital Overland, encouraging them to come to the informational meeting next Tuesday. According to Al, not all of the sales were yet final, and he tasked me with contacting these folks as well. By the second day of phone calls, people were referring to me by name, even before I'd introduced myself.

“You're that new lawyer of Al's,” I heard more than once. It seemed my presence was feeding the grapevine pretty well.

“I am, thank you,” I responded crisply.

One woman said, “You're the one taking over for Al, aren't you? When he retires?”

“No,” I was quick to inform her. “I'm only here for the summer.”

“Oh,” she said, but her tone implied that she knew otherwise.

I had built a pretty decent case (argument, really, as the informational meeting hardly amounted to a hearing) for next Tuesday, though I was mentally gearing up as though it was indeed a legal proceeding, considering Derrick Yancy opposing counsel.
My enemy
. I planned to point out that selling now for quick cash was not in the best interest of individual families, not to mention the entire town. I had also been reorganizing the office itself; the files were in shit shape.

Al told me about seventy times a day how he couldn't imagine what he'd done without me. I thanked him just as often, privately hoping that this would also equal a glowing recommendation to his old friend, Ron Turnbull, come the end of summer.

“I'm serious as a heart attack,” he said.

“Patty just brightens up this whole space,” Mary agreed. To Al, she said, “Helen Anne wouldn't like to hear you talking about heart attacks in that fashion, Albert. Considering your own father, God rest him.”

I had eaten dinner with the Rawleys on Tuesday night as well, fending for myself on Wednesday, and planned to meet them at The Spoke this evening. I was all quivery with nervous anticipation an hour before; I had showered for a second time, left my hair down, and stood in my bra and panties in front of my bedroom closet. Despite my best intentions, I had not yet done any laundry; I even had a roll of quarters sitting on my dresser.

This weekend
, I promised myself.

I ransacked my clothes for something that was right. Suitable for listening to music in a bar called The Spoke.

Jeans
, I decided, tugging on my favorite faded pair.

Too cutesy?
I held up the buttery yellow blouse. It was very feminine and annoying, one that Camille had lent me. I tossed it onto the bed, atop an ever-increasing pile.

Too deliberately sexy?
I considered a red-and-black striped tank, one with a neckline that fell pretty low between my breasts. Especially when I wore the bra I was currently wearing. I glanced down at my cleavage and reconsidered my bra choice.

Quit
, I snapped at myself.
It
'
s fine. But maybe pick a different shirt.

I finally settled on a cobalt-blue tank, a soft cotton one with silver detailing around the hem that I had always liked but never found an excuse to wear in Chicago, except around my apartment there.

Not because Grace once said that this shirt matches my eyes perfectly.

Not because Case once said I had beautiful eyes.

Not because of that at all
.

But then I found myself applying an extra coat of mascara, and decided I wasn't above a little flattery. Things he'd said in the past still affected me, clearly. Maybe they had always been in the back of my mind, still very much there, though unacknowledged until recently.

I left the windows down on the way to The Spoke, almost vibrating with energy and nerves as I pulled into the parking lot there, already packed with vehicles; immediately I spotted Case's truck, tailgate down. Which meant he was probably outside here, somewhere.

Oh God, oh my God
…

Calm down, Jesus, Tish.

I climbed from my little Honda and immediately stumbled a little, as I was wearing sandals with wedge heels. I caught myself on the car to the left, casting my gaze about to make sure that no one was watching; I felt reasonably certain that I had been unobserved in my clumsiness. I leaned carefully back in the car to grab my purse, though I hated carrying a bag into a club, for fear of it getting stolen. I could already smell grease and hear music, the subtle thump of it through the walls, and my heart began to match this heightened pace. I settled my purse strap firmly over my shoulder.

I hadn't taken six steps before I spied Case, coming out of a door near the back of the place, wearing jeans and his cowboy hat, boots and a belt with a silver buckle.

Oh wow
, I thought, my feet stalling.

He caught sight of me in the next instant; he paused for a fraction, about twenty paces away, before lifting his right arm in a casual wave, giving me the sense that he was about to go right back to what he was doing. Though when I headed in his direction he waited, watching me somberly, the evening light striking the bottom half of his face. The top half was in the shadow of his hat brim.

“Hi,” I said, stopping about five feet away, suddenly completely embarrassed. I felt as though I had done something unimaginably bold and my face was hot. Hot all the way back to my ears.

He resettled his hat and said in his deep voice, “Hey there. Clark said you were coming to the show.”

He looked so good in the sunset light, so damn good that my fingers tightened around my purse strap and my heart seemed to be beating everywhere within my body. At last he said, “I'm just unloading the truck.”

“You need any help?” I asked, moving closer, indicating the truck bed.

He seemed to gather himself together, resuming his original course. He said over his shoulder, “It's all heavy stuff.”

I followed right behind him, insisting, “I'm pretty tough.”

At that he sent me a half-grin. We were at the open tailgate then, our hips no more than two feet apart. I could see his eyes better now, without the distance between us. He studied me for the space of a breath, half-grin fading away, his face becoming unreadable. Lightning-flash quick, his gaze detoured to my lips, then just lower, before he turned to the truck and became very businesslike, saying, “I feel like a jerk asking you to carry something for me.”

I thought his voice might possibly be a little hoarse. And I would be a liar through and through if I didn't admit that I had just felt his eyes upon me like a touch. The feeling was strong enough that my nipples became instantly firm and round, as though he had actually cupped his hands over my breasts. I felt all breathless and electric, slightly stunned at
the intensity of this.

It
'
s just been too long since you
'
ve had sex
, I told myself.

“Well that's just silly,” I told him, referring to him being a jerk for asking me to carry something.

He sent a questioning look my way this time, shouldering a huge black duffle bag. He had very good hands, strong and wide through the palm, long-fingered and brown from the sun. The hair on his wiry forearms was as red-gold as that on his head, and there were cinnamon-tinted freckles on the back of his hands. He settled the strap over his broad right shoulder and reached with one hand to grip the lip of the tailgate, in order to slam it closed; I stepped back so he could.

“My fiddle is in the truck. If you wouldn't mind grabbing that…” he said, nodding at the passenger door.

“I think I can maybe handle a fiddle,” I said, drippy with sarcasm, again earning a half-grin.

Inside the cab of his truck, it smelled fucking good. Spicy, somehow. The fiddle case was black, sitting on the right side of the bench seat, and I closed my fingers around the handle, thinking of how many times his fingers had surely been wrapped around this same spot. I cradled it against my breasts; somehow the pressure of the instrument case alleviated a fraction of the desire to be caressed that was swiftly overpowering me.

Case watched me approach, again stone-faced and silent. I held his fiddle case to me with both arms.

“We can sneak in back here,” he told me, indicating the door at the rear of The Spoke.

He led the way, allowing me the chance to study the back pockets of his jeans, the way his t-shirt subtly hugged the lean shape of his back. Burdened as he was with gear, he still held the door for me, silently watching me pass in front of him, holding his fiddle. Once inside, we were surrounded by the excited, contagious buzz of people nearby, people ready for a good time, as addicting as anything you could inhale or shoot up. Case leaned momentarily close to my right ear and said, “This way,” and I shivered as I followed him again.

We cut through a back hallway, to what amounted to a storage room, where Marshall was sitting on an old keg, a black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, and tuning a guitar. He looked up as we entered and said, “Well hey there.”

I was still clutching the fiddle case against me. Case set his armload on the floor and turned to me, causing my heart to speed up again. He nodded towards my breasts, but I realized he was indicating the instrument as he told me, “That fiddle has been in family since around the time of the Civil War.”

“No kidding?” I asked. “Can I see it?”

Marshall grinned at the eagerness in my voice and said, “I hate to tell you, but it looks just like a fiddle made today.”

I surrendered it over to Case's hands and he said without looking up from the instrument, “Now that's where you're wrong, little bro.” He dropped gracefully into a crouch and nodded to me to do the same; I did at once, my right knee very close to his left. Case balanced the black case over his thighs and carefully opened the hinges, revealing a beautiful piece of craftsmanship; even my untrained eyes could perceive this. It shone honey-brown in the single light fixture in this small, windowless room.

“Did someone in your family make it?” I asked, watching his face, rewarded as he looked into my eyes, his own unreadable. He studied me no longer than the time it took for me to grow slightly breathless.

Looking back at the fiddle, he said, “I'm not entirely certain. I only know that an ancestor of ours brought it to the war with him, the Civil War that is, and then it came west with the family, in the late 1860s. Years and years ago, Mom found a few old letters in one of Dad's trunks. And this fiddle was also in there. I learned to play on it.”

I was thrilled that he was telling me these things, sweet, personal things. I asked him, “Can I touch it?”

This prompted Marshall to snort and then laugh, the guitar in his hands whining with a shrill, discordant note as he turned one of the little handles connected to a string. Case only smiled a little, the half-smile that I was already beginning to anticipate, and nodded. I smoothed the fingertips of my right hand over the butter-soft wood grain and then pressed all four of them gently on the strings.

“I love imagining all the people who played it before me,” Case said.

“That is something to think about,” I agreed. “How many songs does it know, you know what I mean?”

He nodded in understanding.

Wy popped his head around the door all of a sudden and caught sight of me, saying, “
There
you are, Tish.”

There was such a sense of relief in his tone that I giggled a little, replying, “Were you worried about me?”

“Well, we saw your car but you weren't in the bar anywhere,” Wy explained. His brown hair flopped over his forehead and he swiped at it impatiently. He said, “C'mon, we got seats right in front.”

This meant I had no excuse to linger and so I rose as gracefully as I could manage to my feet. Case's eyes followed, even though he remained in a crouch. I held his gaze, feeling all quivery and warm inside my clothes, and said, “Good luck.” Then I immediately backpedaled, correcting, “I mean, break a leg…shit, one is bad luck, isn't it?”

Case was grinning now, and this expression on his handsome face did things to my insides. Heated things. He said, “Naw, that's if we were performing in a play.”

“Well, good luck all the same,” I said. I wanted to tell him that I was so very much looking forward to hearing him play that I could hardly contain my excitement. But I could be just as much an expert at hiding my emotions as he; I hadn't attended law school for three years for nothing.

“Thanks,” he said softly, and then Wy stepped into the room to appropriate my elbow. Seconds later we were heading down the hall and into the main area of the little bar and grill, which was delicious with the scent of greasy food. Neon lights in predominantly warm hues gave the space a feeling of easy welcome. There was chatter and laughter everywhere, country music from a jukebox, people milling about with drinks, servers in black aprons weaving expertly from table to table.

“God, I've wanted to see these forever,” I told Wy, pausing by an empty two-top, admiring the wagon wheel beneath the glass tabletop. “Mathias made one for his and Camille's cabin. But these are original wheels, aren't they? Not reproductions, right?”