Page 7 of In This Moment

“Thank you.”

Once they were gone, Forest sighed. “Made quite the first impression on her, didn’t you?”

Graham nodded. Yeah, he had, but hopefully she’d accept his apology and he’d try to do better. He’d always been a bit of a hothead and sullen with his moods. She was right. Their ways might be different than what he was used to, but it didn’t mean they were bad. Taking his sour attitude out on the town wasn’t going to help him adjust or fix his past.

“Got a favor, since we’re on the subject.” Forest wiped the condensation from his glass with his thumb. “I’m not for certain, but if she comes into the Gazette looking for a job, I’d appreciate it if you could find her one.”

The Vallantine Gazette was the town’s small newspaper, owned by the mayor, Gunner Davis. He’d hired Graham as editor in chief, leaving him responsible for staff and content. Didn’t mean he’d hire just anyone. Odd that Forest would ask Graham for this particular favor.

“She have any experience?”

Forest nodded. “She went to college somewhere in the northeast. New York or Jersey or Boston. I forget, but she was on staff at a paper up there when her grandmother died. I assumed she was back to get affairs in order until Dorothy told me the other day that Rebecca was staying.”

Okay, that already gave her more education and experience than his current employees. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Like I said, I don’t know if she will or not, but thanks.”

They ordered an onion stack, finished off their beers while munching, and parted ways.

Since he’d met Forest for drinks right after his encounter with Rebecca, Graham had walked to the tavern because it wasn’t far, and he’d wanted to clear his head. Breathing in the scents of spring, he headed down Main Street, passing the office storefront where the Gazette was located, several other shops, and turned for his street, lampposts dimly lighting the way. Crickets chirped and leaves crackled, but other than that, it was quiet. No horns. No sirens. Stars unmasked by smog or buildings.

There wasn’t much in Vallantine he couldn’t visit on foot, unless he went the other direction toward the plantations, beyond the park and cemetery, or toward the riverfront. It was such a change of pace from the big city life, and he found he liked it. More laid back, friendly faces, and milder climate. Back in Minnesota, there might still be snow on the ground and a bitter nip to the air. Grass would be dormant, trees bare, and nothing in bloom yet. Here, the temperature was hovering near the mid-sixties with a warm, humid breeze.

Every day, sometimes more than once, he’d acknowledge the little things, pleasantries, as he spotted them or as they arose because he found he was less grouchy. Glass half full. He’d made the choice to apply for the position at the Gazette on Forest’s suggestion, accepted Gunner Davis’s offer of employment, and moved a thousand miles away from where he’d grown up, all to begin anew. Part of that hadn’t been choice, but he’d owned up to his mistakes. They’d landed him here. He either rolled with it or wound up miserable.

Damn, but he was trying. The fish out of water scenario was proving true more times than not.

He passed Rebecca’s house and stopped outside his own before realizing he’d walked the four blocks home. Lights were on inside her place, but the curtains were closed over the front bay window.

He wondered what had drawn her back besides her grandmother’s funeral. If she had been a transplanted southerner in the north, had she not liked it? Missed home? There were a few people he’d met who’d moved to Vallantine due to jobs or family, but the majority had been from here, spanning many generations.

She seemed like neither, actually. There were traces of an accent when she spoke, at least when she wasn’t angry, but that had appeared more for show than breeding. Her dialect was a mix of upper east coast and deep south. Heck, had he met her anywhere else, he’d have no clue where she was from. Urban polish and sophistication warred with chill pleasantries and down-home mannerisms. Such an interesting contradiction.

Letting himself in the house, he called for his dog, Twain, and thought about how he’d like to know more about what made Rebecca tick. Attraction aside, she was…interesting. She had the same regret in her eyes that he’d been living with for too long.

Pitter-patter of nails hit the wooden floors, and his rescued mutt came around the corner to greet him. Part hound, part shepherd, parts unknown, Twain had found Graham his first night in the house by creating a ruckus with the garbage cans out back. He’d offered the dog his other half of a cheeseburger, which had been readily accepted, and they’d been buddies since. After a vet visit and flea bath.

Graham adored the doofus to no end. He rubbed the soft, longish brown, black, and white fur, telling his excited companion how he, in fact, did miss him while away. Soul mates. Twain behaved as if he’d been born to be Graham’s dog, sticking close on walks or snuggling beside him on the couch when he was in a crappy mood, gaze adoring. It had ebbed the loneliness that had taken up residence in Graham’s chest.

The house wasn’t half bad, especially compared to his old shoebox apartment in Minneapolis. A small two-bedroom, but he didn’t need much. It had been flipped by the previous owners and move-in ready, which had been a bonus. Light gray birch hardwood throughout, except the bedrooms, which were carpeted. Navy blue drapes matched his two couches. The white walls were bare. He should hang pictures or something. There weren’t any personal touches on the gray tables to make the place homey, either. Every time he walked in, he thought the same thing. He needed to make the place his, but a needling niggling sensation in the back of his head had kept him from doing so.

He sighed. Chances were, he wouldn’t get comfy in the house until he was settled in town or his job. Everything felt fluid or temporary. Like it could all be taken away from him.

Just like it had in Minnesota.

He headed to the kitchen, also remodeled with black cabinets and gray speckled granite countertops, and fed the dog while talking about his day. Habit. The mutt seemed to understand, too, tilting his head, barking to add his two cents.

“Met the new neighbor. She’s pretty. I think you’ll like her. She’s quick on the take with a smart mouth.”

Bark.

“You’re probably right. She’ll like you better than me. I apologized, but I don’t think I’ve won her over yet. Too soon to tell.”

Bark.

“Correct. I’ll keep at it.”

A laugh, and Graham threw the ball out back for Twain, then changed out of his work clothes and into sweats. Remote in hand, he parked his butt on the sofa and turned on the Braves game in time to catch the ninth inning, dog beside him, head in his lap.

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