Liars (Licking Thicket 2)

In short, though Tucker Wright was a perfectly nice guy, I was afraid I had a one-track mind, and that track led directly to Diesel Church. But if dating other guys wouldn’t work to help me guard my heart, what the heck was I gonna do to stop myself from falling for my fake fiancé?

Fortunately for me, Miss Sara was running the refreshment counter. Maybe she’d have some advice.

I got in line behind old Amos Nutter as a loud cheer went up from the far side of the field, along with delighted kiddie screams.

“Ah, that’ll be the apple bobbing done,” Amos remarked, his gray-and-white mustache twitching. “D’you know, Parrish, there was a time I couldn’t be beat in that contest?”

“Is that so, sir?” I asked politely, still distracted.

“Yep. All Nutters love bobbing. It’s kind of our thing.”

I blinked, my attention caught. “Pardon?”

“Now everyone knows Johnsons are big fans of the Lickin.’” Amos rolled his eyes. “That ain’t no secret. Big Red Johnson goes crazy at Lickin’ time. And don’t get me wrong, Nutters like the Lickin’ too. But you might say bobbing is what Nutters do best.”

“That’s… real good to know, sir.”

“It’s all in the stance, you see, Parrish. You gotta get in there and not be afraid to get wet. Legs spread, mouth open wide. Gotta use a steady up-and-down motion and not go too far, too fast. It’s more about the lips than the teeth.” He attempted to demonstrate, right there in the refreshment line, but he ended up grabbing my forearm when his legs shook and he had to clap a hand to his mouth to push his dentures back into place. “’Fraid my knees aren’t up to much anymore. Not like the good old days. But once upon a time, men would tremble when they heard I’d be bobbing.”

I tilted my head to one side and blinked, sure I’d heard him wrong. Had he actually said…

“He’s right,” the white-haired lady who’d gotten into line behind me confirmed, like maybe I wasn’t taking Amos at his word. “And no Nutter in the Thicket’s ever bobbed as beautifully as Amos here.”

I turned in time to see her duck her curled-and-shellacked head to hide her blush.

“Why, Emmaline Proud,” Amos declared, leaning around me. “I had no idea you’d ever seen me bob.”

“It was a while back,” she whispered. Then Emmaline, Lord help us all, scratched the toe of her sensible shoe in the dirt, bit her lip, and darted a flirtatious glance back at him.

I was becoming extremely uncomfortable, and I was still at least six people back from Miss Sara.

“Must’ve been! It’s been many a year since I bobbed in public,” Amos agreed. “Though I do keep my hand in the game privately, of course.”

Really? Really?

“I remember your last bobbing perfectly,” Emmaline insisted. “It was 1958. You were moist but majestic.”

“Oh. Well now.” Amos turned a violent shade of puce and stroked his white mustache like it was an emotional support animal. “That might be the nicest thing anyone ever said about me. You couldn’t’ve been more than a tiny slip of a girl back then, young as you are—”

Young was a relative term, apparently.

“Yes, but some things just stick with you,” she said fervently, raising her gaze to his. “No man’s ever bobbed the way you do.”

Amos looked poleaxed. “Why, Emmaline. All these years, and you’ve never said…”

“Ms. Emmaline, why don’t you go ahead of me?” I interrupted, stepping back to swap spots with her. “I insist.”

“Yeah, come stand by me, Emmaline. I’d love to buy you a pop.” Amos took her arm and threaded it through his. I wasn’t sure who’d be holding who up, but maybe it didn’t matter.

“Grandpa!” A redheaded boy of maybe seven or eight with a soaking wet shirt ran up and threw his arms around Amos’s waist. “I won!” The boy pulled back and showed him a little medallion and a half-eaten apple.

“‘Atta boy, Jackie,” Amos praised, wrapping his arms around the boy’s slim shoulders. “I never doubted you.”

“Bobbing’s what Nutters do,” the boy said modestly.

“Jack Nutter, you are a chip off the old block,” Emmaline tittered, and the boy preened when she ruffled his carrot hair and nudged him ahead of her to the counter.

Wait. Someone had named the poor child—?

“You get used to it, Parrish,” a wry voice said.

I turned to find Brooks behind me with Mal tucked up against his arm. Their hands were intertwined.

“Used to what?” I asked.

Mal was the one who answered. “To this town being crazy. Perfectly crazy. And, conversely, crazy-perfect.” He grinned and looked around expectantly. “So, where’s Tucker?” He looked about as invested as the ladies at the entry table had, though probably less likely to remind me to be G-rated. “How’re things going with you two?”

“I… um…” I hesitated.

Dunn Johnson strolled up to stand beside his brother in line. “Dear God. Remind me not to judge the apple bobbing again next year. Those ankle-biters are violent.” He glanced right and left before lowering his voice. “The Nutter kid made apple bobbing into a full-contact sport. He was soaked to the gills. But damn if he didn’t get the biggest apple on the first try.” He sounded admiring.