Page 77 of Text Appeal

“Grandma said to wish you luck,” he says. “She’s in charge of cow poo bingo this year. Otherwise, she would have come and watched your moment of glory. But Daisy has a habit of trying to knock down the fence and wander off the field. As cows go, she’s something of a renegade.”

“You didn’t record my win on your cell to show her like a good boyfriend?”

He frowns. “Shit. Was I supposed to?”

“No.” I smile. “You’re fine.”

“Thank fuck for that. Talk to me,” says Connor, leading me through the crowd. “How did you and my ex come to be in cahoots?”

“Long story short. Though before I begin, please bear in mind that this is probably one of those it-made-sense-at-the-time sort of things.”

“Got it.”

“Ava decided the best chance for me to bond with your mother was to say we both worked on the pot of chowder she made. We had from the time it took us to walk from our cars to the cook-off tent for her to teach me the recipe.”

“Surprised she didn’t tell you to write it on your hand.”

“She did,” I answer. “I thought it was a bad idea. Is that what she used to do in school?”

“No. She’d wear these baggy basketball shorts to exams and have notes written on her thigh.”

I laugh.

“Since when does Ava want you to bond with my mother?”

“I know. It was news to me too,” I say. “Her relationship with you obviously didn’t bring out the best in her, but I think Katja is really good for her. She also seems to be doing a lot of work on herself. In all honesty, I applaud her for today’s efforts.”

“Huh.”

“Riley, honey,” shouts Harold from a stall selling berry jams. There’s a choice of strawberry, blackberry, blueberry, and huckleberry. “Congratulations on your chowder.”

“Thank you!”

Connor asks, “What are you going to do now that people think you can cook?”

“I can cook,” I say, only mildly outraged. “My cinnamon toast is fucking amazing, thank you.”

“I stand corrected.” He draws me in close and kisses my hair.

“See if I ever heat up a microwave dinner for you.”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. But what’s nice is how some of the people nearby stop and smile. Like his happiness is a rare enough event that it’s worth taking notice.

There’s a lot being offered at the fair. From fish fry and food trucks to beer kegs and coffee carts. Along with stalls for the local wineries. A tractor pulling a line of carts loaded with people chugs along nearby and laughter can be heard coming out of the hay maze. But he steers us toward the dunk tank. With good reason.

“Shanti,” says Brian in a pleading voice. “C’mon, babe. There’s no need to be like this. I thought we were friends!”

Shanti pins him with her stare. “Not even a little. And do not call me babe.”

Brian is seated above a tankful of water and there’s a whole lot of ice in there. No wonder he looks cold and miserable. His black eye from last night doesn’t help his overall appearance. Connor is carrying off his injuries with style. Like a rebel or a rogue. Someone a little dangerous and a lot hot. But Brian brings none of that to the picture in his sodden-wet polo and matching shorts. It’s just a whole lot of mediocre white man getting an involuntary ice bath.

One of the baristas from the café holds out a trucker’s cap. “Shanti’s going to keep dunking him until her arm gets tired. Support the effort. All funds go to charity.”

“How much a throw?” asks Connor.

“Five dollars for two balls.”

He takes a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and drops it in the hat. I do likewise with a ten. Should have brought more cash with me. Supporting local charities while subjecting Brian to repeated ice baths is highly important. A joy for all to see.

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