Page 2 of Make Me Love You

“You walking?”

“Yeah.” It was only a couple blocks. Not worth taking her truck.

“Take an umbrella. Storm’s coming.”

Emma glanced up at the nearly blue sky. The lone cloud had increased to four. But she wasn’t fooled by that. The air had that thick, humid feel that promised a summer dumping, and the clouds might be puffy like cotton balls on top, but underneath they were flat and quickly darkening. “Not until this afternoon.”

The May heat was intense, but that didn’t stop her from walking as fast as she could. It felt good to stomp on the sidewalk, to move her muscles. Frustration made her stride long and purposeful. She was nearly there when she caught sight of a police car moseying by.

Instantly she hunched her shoulders and ducked behind a lamp post, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. Not that she was afraid of being arrested—she’d never had so much as a parking ticket—she just didn’t want to see him.

Eli Carter. Her one-time best friend until he’d arrested her dad eight years ago for cooking meth.

The black paint on the lamp post was chipped in several places. She peeled anxiously at it with her thumbnail, holding her breath until she saw the number on the car: 699, not 701. It wasn’t him. She glanced around, hoping no one saw her being weird with the lamp post, and continued to City Hall.

Her strides weren’t quite as purposeful now. She was thrown off by the not-Eli sighting. In truth, she shouldn’t be so worried. She hadn’t really seen him in eight years, not since that night she’d told him she never wanted to see him again. It shouldn’t have been possible to avoid a person for eight years in a small town that had two gas stations, one grocery store, and not much in the way of entertainment. She should have run into him constantly.

Apparently, he had taken her at her word. Oh, she’d seen glimpses of him here and there, at a party or around town, but he was always gone so quickly she was never completely sure it was him or wishful thinking.

No, not wishful thinking. The opposite of wishful thinking, whatever that was. Fearful thinking?

Emma was so lost in her thoughts that she found herself staring at the mayor’s door without any memory of having arrived. She shook her head to clear her mind and then rapped sharply on the oak door.

“Come in!” Mayor Whittaker bellowed. He glanced up as she entered. “Ah, Emma. What can I do for you? Nothing to do with angles and planes, I hope.”

Emma blinked, abashed. Before retiring five years ago, Mayor Whittaker had been the tenth grade geometry teacher at John Hart High School. Geometry wasn’t her best subject—although, to be fair, she didn’t have a best subject. She was a B-average student—a source of endless disappointment and frustration to her education-minded parents—with a couple A’s and C’s sprinkled in. Geometry had been a C, and she had worked hard for it.

But she could tell from the twinkle in his eyes that Mayor Whittaker didn’t realize his joke stung, so she shrugged it off. She wasn’t here for geometry, anyway.

“You can tell me how I’m to keep my business open when the chicken plant closes, that’s what you can do for me.” Ignoring the fact that she hadn’t been invited to take a seat, she yanked back a chair and plopped down on the cracked vinyl cushion. “People came from all over western North Carolina to work in the factory, and they stopped by my place every morning for breakfast on their way in. No one’s coming in anymore. They’re staying in their own towns, or they’re moving to Delaware. What are you going to do about that?”

Mr. Whittaker leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. He peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Sounds like a job for the mayor.”

Emma loved Mr. Whittaker. He looked like Santa Claus. So much so, in fact, that he dressed up every year and read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” to kids at the library. But right then, Emma wanted to strangle him, and it she didn’t care if that would get her coal in her stocking. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. You’re the mayor.”

“Hm.” He pondered that. “How old are you now, Emma?”

“Twenty-eight. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“A person must be twenty-five or older. It’s one of the two qualifications for mayor. The other one being that a person can’t otherwise be employed by the town. Which you aren’t.” He leaned back and grinned like a fox in a hen house. “Have at it.”

A bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Have at what?”

“Have at being mayor.”

“No, thank you.” She laughed. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But Mr. Whittaker didn’t laugh. He stared at her patiently.

She stopped laughing.

“But you’re the mayor.”

“Turned in my resignation to City Council last Monday. My final duty is to find someone to act as mayor until a special election can be held.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He sighed. “I’m tired, Emma. Sick and tired, if you want to know the truth. Doctor O’Hare says if I don’t get my blood pressure under control I’m not long for this world. When I first ran for mayor five years ago—unopposed, you remember—I was newly retired. I thought this would give me something to do, and be a nice way to give back to the community I love so much. I still love it, but I can’t do it anymore. My wife and I are heading out to California, where Cecily moved with her husband. We want to see our grandkids every day.”

Her heart sank into her beat-up Converse sneakers. The Whittakers were a Hart’s Ridge institution—and Mrs. Whittaker was the deputy mayor.

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