When We Touch

I’m rounding the corner toward the enormous house where I grew up when Betty Pepper comes racing down her walk to meet me.

“Emberly! Emberly Warren!” She’s waving one hand over her head and clutching her bouncing bosom with the other. “I need to speak to you right this minute!”

Remembering what happened last night provokes a little growl in my chest, and I’m already on an angry errand. Still, I push the pedals backward and skid to a stop.

Stepping off Dixie, I walk her to the white picket fence surrounding BP’s house. It’s almost noon, and the blazing sun makes me squint and wish for sunglasses.

“Good morning, Miss B,” I say without enthusiasm.

“Emberly!” She’s gasping for breath and touching the beads of sweat off her upper lip. “I swear it’s so hot today, I had to wear my Bermooda shorts!”

“Bermuda,” I correct under my breath.

“Where is my Bucky? It’s lunchtime, and he’s still not home. Did he spend the night with you last night?”

“Good lord,” I growl. “He did not spend the night with me. He tried to spend the night, and when I told him no, he tried to force me.”

The older woman’s hand is pressed to her chest as if she’s on the verge of a heart attack. “My stars! I’m sure that was a misunderstanding. Bucky would never—”

“It was not a misunderstanding. Jackson was there. He got Bucky off me, and I called Chad Tucker. When Chad finally showed up, Bucky had run away!”

“What! I never… Well, that’s just like you Emberly Warren!” Her face is indignant. “Bucky has a tender heart. He made you a special squirrel. I watched him spend hours getting it just right, and you stand here making up falsehoods about him! He’s a good boy, and everyone knows the loose morals you have. Ever since you were a girl running around with Jackson Cane then getting pregnant out of wedlock by some stranger…”

White-hot anger flashes in my face and neck. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter.”

“You’re talking about my son,” she shrieks. “Why, you probably tried to seduce him, and when he resisted, you told lies about him… like Joseph in the Bible. You’re a Potiphar’s wife!”

My hand twitches at my side, and I remember the stories Bucky said his mother has been spreading around town about me. I’d like nothing better than to slap Betty Pepper into next Tuesday.

Instead, I turn my bike, grumbling as I go, “Bucky smells like deviled eggs and he looks like Kip Dynamite. I’d rather seduce a pig!”

“Don’t you walk away from me, Emberly Rose! You’ve got to help me find him! You were the last one with him.”

“I’m not doing anything for you,” I shout.

“You’ve always been this way, Emberly. You can’t hear the truth about yourself. You never could.”

Shoving my bike against my mother’s fence, I spin around and storm across the street again, fire blazing in my eyes. “Don’t tell me what I can’t hear, Betty Pepper! You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t know your son.”

“Oh, I know you. I know all about you and your family!” she hisses. My fists clench, and the old woman draws back, her elbows rising like a chicken. “What are you thinking? Don’t you hit me!”

Her neck is pulled in, causing a double chin to form along her jawline, and her old blue eyes are bulging. I’m breathing so hard my chest rises and falls rapidly, and I realize how this must look. Last thing I need is everyone saying I hit an old woman.

Taking several deep breaths, I force myself to relax. “Tell your son to stay away from me. If you try to slander me, I know at least two other girls who will testify against him.”

I turn and head back for my mother’s house. My fight isn’t with Betty Pepper, and I won’t let her distract me from why I’m really here.

“Hypocritical busybody trying to hold me to some double standard to make herself feel important,” I mutter.

I have a bigger fish to fry.

Pausing on the massive wrap-around front porch of my mother’s house, I center my thoughts. I’m here for one very important reason. Inside, I don’t see anyone on the first floor. Music comes from the second floor. It sounds like Coco is watching one of her children’s shows. My brow

furrows when I think about her hearing what I have to say. I almost back out when my mother rounds the corner from the kitchen into the foyer.

“Emberly?” She stops fast as if I’ve caught her in the act of doing something illegal. “What are you doing here?”

Several sheets of paper are in her hand, but I can’t make out what’s on them. “Is Coco here?” I ask, looking up the stairs.