Page 29 of Just a Plot Twist
I grew up in cities in Florida and Washington. It wasn’t a super urban existence, but it wasn’t this. Those weren’t go-to-the-grocery-store-and-everyone-asks-you-about-the-hernia-surgery-you-had-last-week type of places.
Longdale is. The last time I was here, I stopped in at the store on my way back to Platt Park and overheard this very thing happening. An older gentlemen pushing his cart along the aisles in the same pattern I was got asked about his hernia surgery three separate times by three separatepeople. He even thanked one guy for bringing him some soup after he got home from the hospital. It was bizarre.
And also kind of amazing.
Which is one reason I joined the hiking club here in town—I wanted to get to know my family better, so I thought getting involved in their community might help.
And now, remembering the hike has me thinking of Claire Lawson again.
I should text her to ask how her ankle is. As a concerned citizen and fellow member of the hiking club, only.
The tree-lined road I’ve been driving on turns into Longdale’s Main Street, complete with a county library, a sandwich shop, various boutiques, and the city office building.
“I’m here to look up some land records,” I say to the woman at the front desk.
Once she directs me to a bank of computers in an alcove on the second floor and gives me a card with the password and instructions, I get to work. The longer this takes, the more chance that Cinnamon is going to wreak havoc on my place.
It only takes a few minutes to find what I’m looking for. I am a tech geek, after all. Peter Schiller’s name appears on not one, but three separate land deeds. They’re all adjacent to one another and listed as commercial. I stare at the address. I passed those empty lots on my way into town.
I’ll stop on my way back and take photos of the site for Thomas.
What are you doing, Peter?
The business name listed is Epic Finances. I should also look for business license info while I’m here.
I’m printing off the records using a pay-per-page printer/copy machine in the corner when a scraping noise startles me. I turn around. Claire Lawson is supported by crutches. She’s adjusting her footing, wincing in pain.
She’s in a thin, light blue button-down blouse and a darker blue skirt, using crutches and wearing a scowl on her face. Her hair is piled high on her head, and her injured ankle is wrapped in an ACE bandage.
“Claire?” I rush to her, taking in the way her blouse plunges low at the neckline. I…don’t mean to. It’s just that it’s…uh…quite low. Not typical clothing for an office. As I near her, it becomes clear: a few of her top buttons are undone.
This is awkward. I reach my hand up to gesture towards it. She’d want to know, right? I would if I was walking around with my fly down.
And I get it. She’s sort of disheveled at the moment, with the crutches and all. Not that disheveled means she’s somehow less attractive, because that’s not it. She’s gorgeous, even with the scowl.
Before I can point out the button issue, she gasps, her eyes narrowing. “Benson Kilpack? What are you doing here?”
“Well, I…” I glance at her neckline again. Ugh. I probably look like a gawking creep.
“I got the flowers.” She brushes a lock of hair that’s escaped her ponytail from her face, resting the crutch against her side. Her scowl only deepens.
I’m sure my face looks confused because…I canceled that flower order. I backed out of it and hit “cancel” and everything.
But that’s neither here nor there because she got flowers from me. How did that happen?
“Oh! That’s great. Good, good. Glad you got them.”
She begins using her crutches again, taking a few more laboring steps until she reaches the doorway of an office.
“I don’t remember the last time I got flowers from a man.” Her gaze flits to mine and her eyes widen. “Not that they’refrom a man…in the classic sense.”
She frowns, chews on her bottom lip, and leans more on one of her crutches than the other, like she’s trying to offset some of the discomfort in her ankle. She lifts her crutches again and enters the office, tilting her head to ask me to come in, too. “I mean, you’re a man, but you didn’t send themlike that.”
I follow her dumbly as she continues. Is she…annoyed with the flowers? And what makes her think I wasn’t sending her flowers “like that”? I mean, I wasn’t. But how does she know that?
“This is my office,” she gestures with one hand to the space around us. “And these are your flowers.”
She rests her crutches against the wall and pats the top of one of the bright yellow blooms. Like she’s patting the top of a puppy’s head. She’s still frowning, but she meets my gaze now.
