Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(17)
Harriet is quick to add, “Don’t forget recently jilted by your bride. It’s really too bad.”
I try not to chafe at the (almost) thorough accounting of my life. Especially having my dad’s name dropped so casually into conversation. I knew word traveled fast around this town, but damn. I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow also know I’m Ranger. And is it just me or did Harriet definitely smile when she said it’s really too bad?
Normally, this is where I’d say something polite and flattering (read: distracting) and then I’d get out of here before they have a chance to ask me anything personal. I’ve always felt uncomfortable being known. It’s why writing under a pseudonym has worked so well for me. But part of my great awakening in Nebraska was realizing that I’ve kept myself hidden too much. It’s a harrowing feeling to look around and realize you don’t have a single friend to turn to in a hard time. That’s when I thought of Rome again.
I was happiest teaching here in this town and had envied the tight-knit community they all seemed to have. Originally I stayed living in Evansville when Bart asked me to come teach at the school because that was where I’d always been and it seemed easier to commute than pick up my life and move it. Also, if I’m being honest it was so I could look out for my mom—be nearby if she needed me.
Diana, my mom, didn’t come from a financially stable home, and so when she and my dad got married at a young age, she felt like he rescued her. She’s never been an adult without him, and I think that’s made her feel dependent on him. Which in turn lets him get away with talking down to her, expecting her to be there for his every need, and shutting her out when he doesn’t like something she’s said. Basically treating her like dirt.
I learned early on that I can’t fight with my dad or expect him to learn from his mistakes. He’s not a gracious person. I have, however, learned how to manage him. From time to time my mom, who is sweet to her core, calls or texts me to come defuse his mood. I liked to be nearby when situations like that would arise.
And then I met Zoe, who in no way wanted to move to this small a town, so the idea completely fell to the back burner until I found myself at a crossroads. But now that I’m here, I want to really be here. I want to make an effort to be part of the community. (I’ll still go when my mom needs me, though. I’m used to the hour commute at this point.)
The other reason I’m not rushing to leave this conversation, though, is because there’s one part in particular in Phil’s speech that snagged my curiosity even more than the rest.
“Thank you for your sympathy,” I tell Harriet with a playful smile, letting her know I picked up on her distinct lack of it. “Is Emily related to you all?” I look to them both.
“No,” Phil says simply, arms folded and looking disinclined to expound.
“Oh. It’s just . . . you said our Emily.”
Unmistakable affection enters his eyes. “Emily was born and raised in this town. Her and each of her siblings. To those of us who have been here since their birth, those Walker kids are ours. Just not by blood.”
“Especially after their mama and daddy died when the kids were so little and Silvie raised them,” adds Harriet.
That’s . . . something I didn’t know. Her parents died when she was young? I’m assuming Silvie is Emily’s grandma who died a few weeks before I left Rome. Or maybe not, since I only remember Emily taking one day off from work and then coming back like nothing ever happened. I assumed she wasn’t that close with her grandma, but then again, I know as much about Emily as she knows about me. A fact that’s oddly starting to bother me.
“And as such,” continues Phil, sucking in a deep breath and adjusting the belt around his waist before letting it out in a heavy sigh—and the belt once again disappears beneath his stomach. “I feel the need to inform you that our allegiance lies with Emily, no matter how polite you are.”
“I see.” Except I don’t. Not yet at least, but some sort of realization is definitely tingling on the edge of my awareness. “Well, loyalty is a wonderful character trait, and I could never fault you for that. Especially since you have great taste in socks.”
He beams just as expected. “No one ever comments on my socks except to say they’re dorky.”
I hike up the pant leg of my chocolate trousers to reveal yellow-and-white polka dot crew socks. “I have an affinity for dorky socks.”
“Oh—I like those! I might need a pair.”
“I have a couple more just like these. Stop by my house sometime and I’ll let you steal a set.”
“Really? That would be—”
Harriet clears her throat and takes my peanut butter, scans it, and places it in a paper bag with the logo Harriet’s Market printed on the side. She glances meaningfully at Phil. “Emily,” she says with emphasis, “has always been faithfully loyal to us. And like Phil was trying to say, that loyalty isn’t going to be swayed by some big-city boy trying to infiltrate our sweet town like those gushy romance movies I see on TV.”
“Well—I wouldn’t call Evansville a big city by any means, but it does have a few large grocery stores.” And because I want to be part of this town, and want to establish some friendships, I pause and run a quick calculation of what would make Harriet happy to hear. “But none of them are as great as this place.”