“Then I’m all yours.”
When we show up to the table, Tall Paul scowls. “What good is this guy? We need Colleen.”
“I’ve got you covered,” Sam says, hand over his heart. “As her twin, I was forced to watch every Disney movie and Nickelodeon show and memorize the words to every girl anthem right alongside her.”
“He doesn’t listen to country in his truck.” Lowering my voice, I add, “He listens to top forty instead.”
Small Paul shudders. “Top forty?”
Big John slaps the table. “You’re in.”
Sam is as good as his word, and we smash the Quick Picks. Even better, he never stops touching me the entire night. Whether it’s an arm across the back of my chair, his fingers playing with my hair, a squeeze of my hand when he gets excited about knowing an answer, or a full-on kiss to the mouth, I have to stop myself from climbing in his lap so I can feel even more of him.
Buzzing with giddiness and humming “New Romantics”—Sam’s encyclopedic knowledge of Swift lyrics never ceases to amaze me—I don’t even notice another human in the bathroom until I step out of the stall and up to the sink to wash my hands. Not until Ginny hands me a paper towel.
“Oh, hi, Ginny. And uh, thanks.” After drying my hands, I throw the balled-up paper away before turning back to her. “Good game tonight.”
She just rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her sparkly shirt. “I may be just a dumb hick who works at the Quick Lick, but I know fashion, Didi Mayer.”
“Wh-what did you say?”
“I knew it.” Her smile is so slow and smug, I almost expect her to twirl a mustache. “Your name isn’t really Diane McCarthy.”
“How? I mean—”
“Come on. Nobody actually from this part of New York wears Fendi t-shirts and Vivienne Westwood jeans. We couldn’t even afford J. Crew or Madewell.” She rolls her eyes. “Like they carry those lines at Walmart. Uh-uh, only big city transplants drop cash on clothes the way you obviously have. I took one look at you and I knew: You’re trying to fit in somewhere you don’t belong. What I couldn’t figure out is why you’d want to.” Tapping her chin, she begins to pace the small space between the sinks and stalls. “Then I noticed that your face never shows up in your videos, which made me wonder, is she hiding something? Or from someone?”
She spins to face me and stops to wag a finger back and forth. “Too bad for you, I have a vested interest in finding out and a whole lotta time on my hands. Hardly anybody shops at the Quick Lick anymore, not since the damn Amazon fulfillment center opened up in Coxsackie and you can overnight anything you need. So I have plenty of time to search on the internet, and looky what I found.”
Like a detective in a cheesy movie, she whips out what looks like a Xerox of a newspaper photo and gazes back and forth between it and me.
“Didi and Hermann Mayer, Jr. Mm-mm-mmm.” She peruses the picture as she hums. “I still don’t know why you changed your name. Maybe you’re running from a messed-up marriage to this Hermann guy, but it won’t be long until I find out. And believe you me, whatever I dig up, I’ll tell the entire Bedd family, starting with your beloved Samuel, not to mention the whole damn hamlet. Not only do I have spies, I have ways of getting out the word, you see.”
Carefully refolding the photocopy, she tucks it away and pats her bag. “Unless you pack up your Gucci bags and get out of town before dawn, that is.”
I have no words, but just in case I did, she leans in, poking my breastbone with a pointy, pink-tipped fingernail.
“And before you try and tell me that you and Sam were made for each other, don’t forget that I have something you don’t have, no matter how much money you’ve got. I’ve got a centuries-old family farm, right down the road. One that he can help me run when we get married so he can move back home where he belongs.”
Stepping back, she wags that finger back and forth.
“And. You. Don’t.”
CHAPTER 21SAM
Before my dog can wake me Wednesday morning, my phone does. Seeing my grandmother’s name pop up on the screen, I answer immediately. Ethel Bedd never calls her boys just to chat. “Hey, Gran. Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” she says, sounding very upset.
This has me sitting up, heart pounding. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes. I am very hurt. When I went downstairs to make coffee this morning, I found a note on the kitchen table. Do you know anything about it?”
Wondering why she thinks I’d leave her a note, I tell her no, swing my legs out of bed, put the phone on speaker, and head to the kitchen to start my own coffee.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“I swear, I didn’t leave you a note.”
“The note is not from you.”
Obviously, I think as I begin to fill the carafe with water.
“It is from Diane.”
At the sound of her name, alarm bells go off. Hands shaking, I turn off the faucet. “What does it say?”
“It’s a very lovely letter thanking me for my hospitality—someone raised that girl with excellent manners—and apologizing for leaving without saying goodbye. She says”—paper rustles and Gran clears her throat—“‘I have other obligations I’ve ignored for far too long, so I’m afraid it’s time for me to move on.’”
What the hell?
“Did you say something or do something that would drive her away?” Gran asks.
“No, ma’am, I promise.” Sitting heavily at the counter that divides the kitchenette from the living area, I go over the previous night in my head. “We met up at trivia, then I drove her back to your place, said goodnight”—I, of course, leave out the heavy petting that ensued in the cab of my truck until Gomer tried to get involved—“and then went back to my apartment.”
