Page 3 of Slow Burn
John cleared his throat as if he’d heard his son’s comment. “Thanks, everyone. Really. It’s too much, but I appreciate it.”
His voice over the loud speaker had the side conversations about Jocelyn Murphy dying down, even if Cole’s awareness of her presence did not.
“I never aimed to be anybody special,” John continued, staring down at the podium. “Just showed up and tried do the right thing. Hope I got it right more often than not.”
Straight-forward. Very John Hauser.
He did a little salute with the award and shook the mayor’s hand again as everyone started clapping, a raucous sound that made Cole’s hands itch to do anything else but add to the clamor.
With subtlety in mind, he turned to look for Jocelyn in the crowd, but the crew from the station blocked his view as they filed out of their row to rush the stage. Dozens of hands patted his daddy on the back, even while the guys razzed him for being so nervous. He grinned, the ribbing relaxing him, and Cole was reminded that his pop had built himself a kind of family at that station, one he’d never quite got a piece of.
Cole slipped an arm around his mama’s shoulders, guiding her into the aisle as she dabbed at her eyes with tissues, beaming so bright it almost hurt to look at her. That was the best part of it all. Her pride was its own glow.
She waded through the crowd to rescue John from all the attention, which kept a steady tinge of red under his already ruddy complexion. Cole followed, though he searched for the dark-haired woman who’d lingered in the back so uncertainly. Like that lost man on the abandoned road, his wish to find her brought the mirage back into view.
The most surprising thing about Jocelyn’s appearance, and the reason he told himself he couldn’t keep his eyes away, was the fact that she was a grown woman now, a walking contradiction to what he’d believed about her for years. Always relegated in his mind to that little girl in the story, the whispered-about black mark on his town’s history, it felt impossible to match this woman to the image that existed in his memory.
Someone bumped him, breaking his concentration, and he turned to see his daddy reach for his mama’s hand and tug her into his side. Cole knew the move for what it was—an attempt to deflect the spotlight. As much as Pop hated it, his mama loved the fuss, and John was letting her bask in the shared accomplishment.
People pressed forward, trying to get closer to shake John’s hand. A few settled on shaking Cole’s or cuffing his shoulder,offering congratulations as if he had anything to do with it. It restarted the buzzing under his skin, and he tugged at his sleeves, trying to fade into the background.
And then there was Jocelyn, closer now even as she still fiddled with the loose lock of hair. She looked like she didn’t want to be seen but didn’t quite want to disappear.
“Is that Bonnie Murphy’s girl?”
The voice was familiar enough, and Cole wasn’t surprised to see Edith Wetzel lean in to Harriet Munson like this was the biggest news since the preacher’s wife left town. Edith flapped a paper fan incessantly, making wisps of her hair flutter around her face.
“Spitting image,” Harriet said.
“Never thought I’d see her around here again, bless her heart.” A judgmental sweep of the gaze sent Edith’s ridiculous spider-leg eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. “I hope she doesn’t ruin the fall festival.”
Harriet gasped as if someone had just spit in her prize-winning potato salad. “Heaven forbid!”
Almost like they knew he was watching, both women looked at Cole with a scheme already brewing. Since he was part of the setup committee for the festival, he’d likely be hearing the plot they’d hatch before the day was through.
He’d have to shut that down quick. Wouldn’t stop the jaws flapping, but it might send a message to anyone looking to drag him into it.
Wishful thinking.
He shifted his attention back to Jocelyn, hoping that was message enough for the old biddies. She was taller than he realized, and he himself was a tall man. Her hands clutched at the purse she held, her nerves becoming more obvious the closer she got to his folks.
If she’d heard the women, she gave no indication. It was a mild enough conversation, easily ignored. But Jocelyn had been gone from Cedar Hollow for two decades, and gossip could ignite faster than dry tinder in a small town, and it often burned viciously. It would take some thick skin if she planned to stay longer than five minutes.
Big assumption on his part, but it seemed damn wasteful to drive the hours it took to get here and only stay for this one event. And just like that, the shrewd glint in her eyes made sense.
He folded his arms across his front as Jocelyn stepped up to his mama, who reached out to draw her in for a hug.
But almost as if he’d televised his inner monologue, Jocelyn’s dark eyes shot straight to his, and he could swear her chin lifted a fraction of an inch, issuing a challenge that was a siren song to the very core of his makeup.
Aw, hell, he was in trouble.
three
“The wind forgets, but the flame remembers.” - Matshona Dhliwayo
The things they said about small towns may have been true, but the overly romanticized presentation set an unrealistic expectation for those who’d never truly experienced it. The way people whispered and stared at Jocelyn was downright un-Christian instead of endearing, but it was nothing she hadn’t expected.
Nan hadn’t thought going back to Cedar Hollow was a good idea, and not just for that reason. It was where she was born, where she’d been raised, and where her remaining relatives still resided, but she’d cut herself off from the history—happy and heartbreaking—a long time ago. The grief made it unbearable for her to set foot in this tainted town.
