If Catfish Had Nine Lives(21)

            “I wish your museum was set up.”

            “Someday,” Jake said.

            “I don’t suppose . . . Well, I don’t know if this is inappropriate or not, but I’d love to take you to dinner, perhaps this evening?”

            There was nowhere for me to go. I could open the door and go into the front room or all the way out the front door, but not without Esther having to move a little, which would interrupt the moment. The idea of hiding under the table ran through my mind briefly, but thankfully I realized that would have been ridiculous. I simply looked away—at the ceiling, then over toward the files. On second thought, the ceiling was better, because it had the interesting chandelier. Yes, I could inspect the chandelier parts.

            “I . . .” Jake began.

            Come on, Jake, do NOT say no. I almost shot him a stern look, but I just squinted as I continued to inspect the light fixture.

            Jake had never had much of a personal life. He’d dated, and even had a girlfriend or two since high school, but nothing had stuck. He never seemed particularly lonely, but there were times when I thought he might appreciate some female company other than me and Gram.

            “Actually, I’d love to. May I pick you up?” Jake said.

            I held back a fist pump, but the pull of a smile was too strong to ignore, so I gave into it. I smiled at the chandelier, and then at Jake.

            “I’m at the campsite. I’ll meet you in front of the high school at seven o’clock?” Esther said.

            I liked her style.

            “That’s perfect. I look forward to it.”

            “Great.” Esther glanced at me shyly, her cheeks blushing like any good redhead’s.

            I just smiled at everyone as I opened the door and let Esther go through first.

            Of course, Jake rolled his eyes at my grin.





Chapter 7




            Though I was becoming anxious to find Gram again, and Joe, and change out of my overalls, my plans were diverted, but at least it was by someone I wanted to talk to. Orly signaled to me as he steered his big old pickup truck down a side street at the end of the boardwalk.

            “Miss Winston,” he said after he stopped the truck and reached over to open the passenger door with a push on some extra squeaky hinges. “You have a minute?”

            I’d only known Orly for a few days, but our relationship had been built on things that either bring people together quickly or not. We’d chatted as we were setting up a mess hall of sorts, while unfolding some cots and transporting cooking utensils. I’d learned that he was born in Hutchinson, Kansas, and had lived there all his life, minus a brief time in Tennessee and a “little-more-than-brief” stint in Georgia. His love of Kansas, specifically the small town of Hutchinson, was, frankly, kind of cute. There were a lot of small towns in the Midwest, and most of them were populated with a healthy number of people whose goal was to leave small-town life behind and move to a big city. Not Orly, though. He was, in his own words, “as deep into Kansas dirt as all that wheat.”

            He’d been married once, but his wife had died about ten years earlier. He had two daughters, only one of whom, so far, had given him a grandson to dote on. He said he’d be happy with a whole herd of grandbabies to spoil rotten. His use of the word “herd” could probably be attributed to the fact that he was also a cattleman back in Hutchinson, with a “smallish” ranch. I hadn’t been privileged to hear one of his poems yet, but he told me that his cattle and the cattleman’s life were his biggest writing inspirations.

            I’d liked him immediately, even though I’d sensed that he wasn’t comfortable with welcoming new friends into his life. Despite the fact that he was the president of the International Cowboy Poetry Association and had been involved with it for twenty-five years, in positions that required a multitude of communication skills, it was evident that he purposefully kept things close to the vest. Scratch that—close to the very Western-style vest. He was silent and observant much more than he was talkative. He also gave the impression that he was efficient in everything he did. No matter what task he was attending to, there were no wasted movements, no backtracking, no repeating. He was one of those people who probably was good at everything.