Page 112 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

“Should I stay home then?”

“No! I need you.”

“Let me go buy something.” I should have known to buy something less audacious before now. This day was always coming.

“No time. It’s fine. You’re right. It’s just me. Let’s go.”

We take her hybrid rather than my Jag because it looks like a normal car. Mine doesn’t fit in at all among the practical Fords and Chevys.

When we pull up, music pours out of the American Legion hall, the doors thrown open.

I pay for our tickets to get in. The room is brightly lit for a dance. I’m expecting a band to be playing, but there’s a man onstage with a microphone and a laptop, barreling out commands to the groups of dancers all doing coordinated moves.

“I don’t know how to do any of that,” Kelsey says, moving closer to me. “I’m about to chicken out.”

“Most people aren’t dancing,” I tell her, steering her toward the bar. “Let’s get some wine in you, and it’ll be better.”

She takes in the room while I get the attention of the man behind the counter.

But he laughs when I ask for a chardonnay. “We got a box of red back here. Will that do?”

I nod and hold up two fingers. “Wine for you, too?” he shouts over the music, doubt all over his face at my decision.

I realize I better fit in or Kelsey will get even more anxious. “No, I meant two drinks. Make mine ...” I glance over the collection of bottles lined up on a shelf. “Michelob.”

He nods and pulls one out of an ice chest, popping the top with the inside of his elbow. Then he drags the box of wine up to the counter and pours an entire red plastic cup full of it. That’s like half a bottle.

That’ll get her relaxed.

I pay for the drinks and head back to Kelsey. “Here you go.”

She stares at the cup. “What is that?”

“Your Wyoming chardonnay.”

“I better get some pie to slow down that wine,” she says.

We head over to the bake sale. Three ladies guard the pastries. I’ve never seen a spread like it. Brownies, cookies, every kind of cake, at least twenty pies.

“What can we get you?” one asks.

“I’ll have some apple pie,” Kelsey says, then looks at her red wine. “Actually, make that chocolate cake.”

She’s trying to pair box wine with dessert. Classic Kelsey.

“Anything for you, handsome?” The grandmotherly woman gives me a wink.

My trainer would throw himself on the pyre of sugar if he saw this table. “I heard there was someone in this fine town who makes a coconut pie so good that I’ll want to propose marriage.”

All three women start giggling. Kelsey smiles over her cup. I’m pleased to have made her happy.

“Abigail makes the best coconut pie,” the grandmother says, elbowing a tall woman with cat-eye glasses, “but she’s spoken for. I, however, got three proposals based on my bourbon-pecan pie back in my day.”

“I think I must try a slice of this commitment-inspiring pie.”

Abigail nods in agreement. “And Eleanor’s been single since 2004.”

“Oh, hush now, this boy’s no older than my Frankie.” Eleanor cuts a generous slice of a pecan-topped pie and hands it to me. “Enjoy your pie.”

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