The Unmaking of June Farrow(57)

“Ignore them,” Esther murmured, pulling the first of the full buckets toward her. She hauled it up into her arms, the stalks of flowers towering over her head.

I did the same, following her across the brick-paved street to where the large white canvas tent had been raised. This was exactly how we still did it, tenting the bridge and filling it with lights so that the Faire felt like it was suspended over the river.

Every farmer and business owner in town made a contribution, and the flowers were Esther’s. I’d grown up doing the same delivery with Gran each year, and our blooms hung in garlands from the corners of the tent, adorned tables, and decorated booths from one end of the bridge to the other.

The pound of a hammer rang out, the busy street loud at our backs. Esther hoisted the bucket higher in her arms, leading us to the mouth of the bridge, where a man with a clipboard had spotted us.

“Morning!” He looked up from his pen, eyes skipping to me.

Esther gave him a nod. “Morning, Robert.”

“June.” A woman said my name in greeting as we passed and I smiled, keeping myself half-hidden behind the flowers.

“Beatrice Covington,” Esther whispered beside me. “Her husband used to work on your farm before Eamon had to let him go.”

Had to. I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but she was already motioning toward someone else.

Her eyes darted to a black man wearing suspenders, crouched at the corner of the tent with a hammer in hand. “That’s Percy Lyle. He owns the pig farm down the road from you.”

Lyle. That family was still living in Jasper in my time.

“Claire White,” Esther said under her breath as a woman waved us to a line of tables.

“I’m never going to remember all of this,” I muttered.

“You won’t have to.”

Esther set the bucket down beside the stage and I did the same, keeping my hands busy with untangling the stalks. There was an assembly line started, where three women were wiring together branches of willow. They were already whispering, eyes shooting in my direction every few seconds.

“Heard you were back.”

The voice at the end of the table belonged to the woman Esther had called Claire. She had a willow branch in one hand, a small pocketknife in the other.

I gave her a placid smile. “It’s good to see you, Claire.”

“Over here, Esther. We’re out.” Another woman waved at her from the other side of the stage.

Esther’s eyes met mine before she reluctantly picked up her bucket, heading that way.

Claire snapped the branch, working it into the garland. “Was startin’ to think Sam was lyin’ about seein’ you. Thought maybe you’d come by to say hello, but it seems you’ve been very busy since you got home.”

She didn’t look up at me, clearly in control of the moment. There was more to what she wasn’t saying than what she was.

“You know, we’ve been prayin’ hard for you. Thank God your mama is better.” Her gaze finally flickered up.

“Thank you.”

The words were flatter than I wanted them to sound, but I wasn’t a stranger to this kind of arms-length inquiry. The morbid, superior curiosity of people who pretended to be good Christians was something still alive and well in Jasper.

“We took a few suppers over to the house; poor Eamon looked like he was starvin’ to death.” She gave a hollow laugh. “And you know the town has tried to do what they can to help out at the farm. A real shame to see it fall into such a bad state. It just breaks my heart.” She frowned.

I could feel a fire burning in my chest, her words like gasoline, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Eamon wasn’t mine. He didn’t belong to me. Still, I couldn’t stand that look on her face when she said his name.

“Hello, Claire.” Esther was suddenly beside me again, her hand tightening on my arm before I could speak.

The woman smiled wider, but it was stiff. “I was just tellin’ June how much she was missed while she was away.”

“Yes, well, that’s very kind of you.” Esther’s tone was placating at best.

“None more than Annie, surely.” Claire’s smile deflated, and she locked eyes with me.

Again, the words singed. Whatever the reason, I had left Annie, and I still couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around that. The shame of it was growing heavier by the day, and Claire didn’t look the slightest bit concerned about offending me. I recognized that cool judgment in her tone. The sweetness-laced insult. I’d known a lot of women like that in my life.

“June, honey, would you mind popping into the diner and getting a pie for supper?” Esther pressed a couple of bills into my hand, and I had to fight to unclench my fingers.

“Sure.” But I didn’t move. Esther had to turn me toward the opening of the tent and give me a nudge before I started walking.

I could feel Claire’s scrutinizing eyes follow me as I stepped out of the shade of the tent and into the sunny street. Once I was out of sight, that same attention found me from three women on the sidewalk.

I ignored them, pinning my eyes on the diner, where the words COFFEE, SANDWICHES, and PIE were painted on the windows that overlooked the river bridge. Behind the glass, almost every table was filled.

Other than the paint color, it didn’t look that different from Edison’s Cafe. My reflection moved over the windows as I came up the walk, and I reflexively tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to look relaxed. Like everyone wasn’t already staring at me.