The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (33 page)

chapter forty

The Pumpkin Festival was a sister celebration to Andrew Jackson High’s Homecoming Week, and in Candy’s opinion, the former was far superior to the latter in almost every way. For one thing, it was a larger event, bringing in folks from neighboring counties and a good share of tourists as well. At first it was just a county fair to judge produce and livestock, but Pumpkin Fest had blossomed over the years into a full carnival. Natural accompaniments to the judging were pony rides and a petting zoo for the little ones and seasonal delicacies for everyone. Of course, one could find anything and everything pumpkin—pumpkin tarts and pies, pumpkin breads and jams, pumpkin ice cream and smoothies, and lately, stranger options from serious entrepreneurs, like pumpkin ravioli and pumpkin pasta sauce. The aroma of Candy’s favorite dish (pumpkin funnel cake), wafting across neighboring Fairbrother Field, lifted her spirits considerably as she wove through the school parking lot.

She let herself be swallowed by the crowds, milling around flashing, whirling, zooming carny rides. A serendipitous meeting at the edge of the field knocked off the remaining crumbs of the chip on her shoulder; her cousin Sean and his jolly hound dog were closing up the pony trailers for the day. The dog might have been even happier to see Candy than she was to see him, judging by the pouncing and rapturous licking she received, so she gave him a good rub-down in gratitude.

Moving into the thick of the carnival, she lingered by craft tables and artists’ tents that she had never seen at Pumpkin Fest before. She lamented her decision to shun that afternoon’s events in her effort to stay clear of the Homecoming Parade. Most of the best stuff was probably already bought out.

“Candy, hey. Out here in all your finery?” She turned to see Erica’s dad hailing her from across his folding table of dulcimers.

“Hi, Mr. Norman.” Walking over closer, she was glad to see that he had apparently already made a killing; there were very few instruments left to sell.

“Where’s Erica?”

“Oh, they’re doing the professional pictures—you know, for the Homecoming Court thing.”

Mr. Norman winced. “She was real nervous about being up to par. After John was elected during half-time on Friday and all. She doing okay?”

“Nervous?” Candy scoffed, feeling guilty about her resentfulness; the image of her homely friend, holding the bouquet of roses outside John’s house, flashed through her mind. “She shouldn’t be. She looked absolutely gorgeous tonight, and no one I saw at that dance could have topped her.”

“Well, that’s real nice of you to say. I’m glad she could go with good friends this year. And if anyone deserved to represent your class more than John, I don’t know who it is.”

“Really?” Candy had missed most of the games so far.

“Shit, that boy rushes his ass off on the field, and the season ain’t half over.” Mr. Norman’s assistant burst into the conversation, bringing four more dulcimers from their storage trailer to lay out for display. Maybe they hadn’t sold as many as Candy thought.

“Language please, Nick. There’s a lady present.”

“Well, I guess so.” Nick pretended to see Candy for the first time, his grin lecherous as he surveyed her body. “Candy, I didn’t know you was even a girl.”

“Nice to see you, too, Nick. Don’t worry, Mr. Norman. Erica’s having fun.”

“I’m glad, honey. Thanks.” His countenance was lit with pride. He cut off any further remarks from his subordinate by barking instructions, as Candy sidled away.

She moseyed through the stalls and tents, trying to decide whether or not to indulge in some fried fair food. It would be greasy and plentiful, thereby messy and wonderful in equal measure. Just when she made up her mind that she didn’t care about her make-up anymore, and supposed that even velvet dresses could be dry-cleaned, she rounded a food cart at the end of one aisle and her heart jumped into her throat. Across a small clearing, there was a flare of bright blue fire spitting around a glowing orb of orange glass, lighting up the faces of onlookers. Rachel usually arranged such demos to draw interest and encourage sales during the most lucrative art fairs, a status which Pumpkin Fest had finally obtained. But the person performing the demo, gripping the glass tube on either side of the molten bubble, spinning and turning it to heat it and bend it just right, was not Rachel.

The glass artist’s back was to her, with his boots spread wide and his knees soft in raggedy blue jeans. His tank top was damp with hours of grueling, sweaty work at the torch. A mirror had been hung at an angle over his workbench, to give his audience a better view of the flame-working process. Candy could see his forehead, smoothed in concentration. Dark sunglasses shaded his eyes from the glare and his hair was pulled out of his face, under a bandana. But there was no mistaking Sam’s jaw line.

She dodged back behind the food cart and rooted for her compact in the bitch-bag, smiling at the irony. How handy a mirror was, all of a sudden. Checking her eyes and hair, she dabbed some powder on her nose and—looking around to make sure no one was watching—she reapplied her lipstick in two swipes. Heart pounding, she sauntered around the corner towards Rachel’s tent and quietly joined Sam’s audience.

She watched him work for about fifteen minutes (which felt like fifteen hours), before she saw Sam glance around as he finished a bead. He spotted her and smiled to himself. Her pulse raced. She hoped beyond hope that she saw kindness there, instead of satisfaction. He checked his watch, then called into the tent, “Last one, Caleb.”

Overjoyed, Candy’s mind raced with what she would say to him—if he wanted to talk to her. She watched his triceps flex with the turning motion of his wrists; the howling wolf tattoo that raced down from his right shoulder danced on the surface of his skin. She tried to calm her nerves by mesmerizing herself with the stylized black swirls of fur, claws and teeth encircling Sam’s upper-arm.

Be cool. Be calm. Be confident.
She flinched.
If he still wants you, don’t ever let him go.

Then he was slapping Caleb on the shoulder as he took his turn at the torch, grabbing the rag hanging from his belt to wipe the sweat off of his face. He rubbed the stubble along his chin, looking around for Candy. She stepped away from the crowd to wave at him timidly. To her immense relief, Sam’s face broke into a grin and he spread his arms wide. “Hey,” he drawled, obviously tired.

She skipped around the demo audience and leapt into his arms, certainly less cool than she had counseled herself to be. But definitely happy. “It’s so good to see you, Sam.” She buried her face against him before she started to cry.

“I probably stink,” he said, without attempting to pull away. His arms tightened around her.

“I like it.” Sam’s chest rumbled under her ear in a quiet laugh. “I missed it,” she said, finally pulling back from him enough to look into his face. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He watched her for a few thundering heartbeats and seemed about to speak. Candy held her breath.

“That was a fantastic performance, son.” A bustling man in a baseball cap and “Members Only” jacket burst forth. The man clapped Sam on the shoulder, somehow oblivious to the intimate reunion he was interrupting.

“Thank you, sir.” Sam drew back from her and the man grabbed his hand for a congratulatory shake. He dug around in a fanny pack and slipped Sam a few folded bills.

“Wonderful, you made it.” Rachel swept in from the shadows at the rear of her tent, taking control of the uncouth tourist with grace. She angled him toward her more expensive display cases. “Now that you’ve seen the basics of glass art in action, let me show you something to knock your socks off…”

Candy and Sam exchanged looks of relief and made haste to exit the public arena through a backdoor flap, into the alleyway. In the muffled quiet behind the carnival tents and stalls, they looked at each other anew, completely alone. And suddenly bashful.

Candy flapped a hand toward the tent. “You’re really getting good at the torch, I’m impressed.”

“Thanks.”

“That sure was fast. I mean, you’re a real apprentice now already, huh?”

Sam thumbed his nose and shrugged. “I work at it a lot.”

“So…I should just call you Sam, right? I’m not trying to be snarky or anything.” Candy begged herself to stop rambling.

“Yeah.” He let out his breath in a whistle. “Yeah, call me Sam.”

“Well...I’m glad we got that make-up bit over with.” Candy tried to laugh, but it sounded like a sob. “Let’s move on, right?”

“Please.” Sam reached for her hand and pulled her close. He leaned over to press his forehead against hers, willing her to just
be
for a few moments, and she allowed herself to savor it. A soft, lingering kiss left the flavor of lipstick on both of their lips, and he pulled back, his eyes alight with humor. “So, I guess you went to the dance after all?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a hot date?” he teased.

“We just went as friends. The foreign exchange student, Antonio—”

“Antonio di Brigo, I know.”

“Oh. You heard about that, huh?”

“Small town, everybody’s heard about that.” He stepped back a few paces to sit down on an upright barrel stacked beside Rachel’s storage trailer. He pulled out a cigarette and the butane flame lit up his face. He squinted against the smoke. “Be hearing about that dress for a while, too, I bet.”

Candy spun around and kicked one high-heel up behind her, sticking out her tushie and putting her fingers to her lips in a shocked Betty Boop rendition. “You likey?”

“Smokin’.” He slipped his palm around the top of her thigh and urged her closer. “But I think you’re beautiful in whatever you wear.” She tittered off-balance and braced herself against his shoulders. “Or don’t wear.”

Her country rose, which she had threaded into her purse chain, bumped into Sam’s cheek. He looked down at it and touched the limp petals.

“Poor thing stood up pretty well to all the abuse.” Candy felt guilty for slinging her purse around in frustration with the rose onboard, and she gently freed its delicate stem. When she looked up, Sam was watching her. “John gave it to me. What?”

“John.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea—me and John are just friends.”

“Friends,” repeated Sam, taking the rose from her and bringing it to his nose. He let the petals fall onto his face, brushing his lips against the velvety tickle. “Then how does he know that you’re as soft as rose petals?”

A hot blush shot up her neck. “It’s not like that. He just knows I’ve loved them since I was little. And red: my hair, my fiery temper.”

“Fireworks come to mind before roses.”

“I know I have a short fuse.” She shrugged, still ashamed of her outburst at The Palace that day. And at Rachel’s studio.
Might have been one or two more...

“Fireworks are gorgeous.” Sam reached up and pressed two fingers against her forehead, to smooth away her troubled brow. He looked at her with sincerity, then his teeth gleamed in a wide smile, “Just not when someone lets them off in your face.”

“Okay … okay, I get it.” Candy threw one leg across his lap to straddle his hips.

Sam shook his head, resisting her sidelining technique. “Girls like you can get away with anything.”

“Girls like me?”

“Beautiful girls.”

Me? The beautiful people? No, that can’t be what he means.

“Why are you always fighting me, Candy? I’m on your side.”

“What side am I on?” She had never been sure.

“Mine.” It was a question, an invitation. She watched his eyes, her heart pounding. That was all she wanted. The wind picked up, whistling through the tent flaps around them. A shutter ran through Sam, then through her.

“Gettin’ pretty chilly.”

Candy rubbed her palms over his shoulders in an attempt at warming them, but he sucked in with a hiss, “Your hands are freezing.”

“Sorry, I guess I’m pretty cold, too. Darn girlie dress.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say—it’s pretty short.” He leaned back to gaze at the top of her stockings, where he ran his thumb over a garter clipped to the hem. “Those are nice.”

“Not slutty?”

“That’s why they’re nice.” They both tried to laugh, but shivered instead. “I have Rachel’s truck tonight.” Sam hooked his finger around a dress strap and pulled her face closer to his. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Sam said he had some quick clean-up to do, but not much, since Rachel’s crew would be at it again in the morning. He gave her a quick kiss with the promise of more, then went to it. Candy was elated. She wandered back to the front of the exhibition tent like she was in a dream. She had never hoped the night would end so miraculously. Leaving with Sam. She could hardly contain her happiness.

I don’t know how I lost him, but I am never going to make that mistake again.
She sat on a packing crate in front of Rachel’s tent, grinning ear to ear.

“There she is.” She startled to hear Antonio’s voice. Lindsay Yates and Amanda Jameson were huddled against each of his arms like parentheses. Candy cursed them privately, but smiled and waved them over, as if she too had been looking for her date.

“Hey, guys,” she called, choking back her suspicion about who had been spreading the lame rumors about her all year.

“We’re so over the ‘Bunny Hop,’” Amanda said in disdain.

Lindsay, always the peppy cheerleader: “Whatcha doin’ over here, Candy?”

“I was just…”

“Hi.” Sam appeared from between two tents without warning, and Candy watched as Amanda’s face froze into a black glower. Candy warmed from head to toe as Sam held out his bomber jacket for her to shrug into.

“Hello, again.” Antonio stepped forward, stretching out his hand to Sam and offering Candy an expression full of understanding and acceptance.

“Sorry about last time, man.”

“Last time?” Candy wondered.

Sam shook his head resolutely: forget it.

“So, Sam. I heard you’re doing the glass thing now,” Amanda said, faking magnanimity. Candy knew better and enjoyed the spectacle, watching Amanda make a big show of asking all about glass blowing. Candy sat on her crate, enveloped inside the smell of Sam in his cozy, wool-lined jacket. She felt more peaceful than she had in weeks.