He’s wearing low-slung jeans, tight and fitted through the legs, leather loafers, and another button-down, this time a navy-and-yellow windowpane design. Those sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the hair on his muscled forearms sun kissed.
“I’m going to get my seat,” Mama says to no one in particular, but she doesn’t move a hair.
“We should. We don’t want those Palmers getting the back row. Don’t they know that once you claim a row, it’s yours forever?” comes from Aunt Clara.
No one budges.
“I hate it when they do that,” Mama murmurs. “I’ve been here longer than they have. That is my seat. We should make a rule about that.”
Aunt Clara nods. “And your husband, God rest his soul, was the mayor of this town for fifteen years. You’re a pillar of the community. Practically royalty.”
Patrick clears his throat. “Uh, the front row is typically always clear. At least that’s how it was at my last congregation.”
“No one likes the front row. Put some whiskey up there, and they might come,” Aunt Clara says in my ear, but I’m barely noticing, looking at Jack.
He’s still standing there, eyes on me. He hasn’t stopped looking!
“Let’s go save our row, Cynthia,” Aunt Clara finally says loudly and shoos Mama into the auditorium.
They scurry away, tossing looks back at us.
Now it’s just me, the preacher, and the football player.
Definitely the beginning of a bad joke.
Jack breaks our gaze to shake Patrick’s hand.
“Jack Hawke. Glad to meet you. Nice place.”
They share a much firmer handshake than he and I had.
“Welcome,” Patrick says with a big smile. “I’m a huge fan, actually. Used to play in high school. Wide receiver. What brings you to Daisy? You know Elena?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.
“I do. And a couple of others here in Daisy—” Jack says, then stops when the choir starts in with “Amazing Grace.”
“Oh, sorry, that’s my cue. Have to go.” Patrick nudges his head toward the auditorium. “First day and all. Great to meet you.” He gives me a smile. “You too, Elena. I’ll see you at auditions hopefully?”
“Sure.”
And then he walks away, his rather nice frame disappearing through the doors that lead to where the choir sings. There’ll be a chair up front for him to sit in while the song leader leads the choir.
I frown, turning back to Jack, finding my voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
He winces, and what I think is a guilty expression crosses his face. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here, but this day just got a whole lot more interesting.”
I replay his words in my head. “So you just happened to come to Daisy today—for church?”
“Not exactly.”
“Ms. Riley!” The voice comes from the door as Timmy Caine bounds into the foyer. I smile, glad of the distraction, when he rushes me and wraps his good arm around me, the other one in a cast. The white plaster has names written in bright colors. I see Jack’s and a drawing of a Tiger that looks a whole lot like Jack’s tattoo on his back . . .
With thick wraparound glasses, a tiny frame, and clothes that I think have been worn by someone before him, Timmy is small for his age and one of my favorite students who pop in the library. He’s had a rough time, his dad passing away last year in a drunk-driving accident. He was coming home from the Piggly Wiggly when a car ran a red light and plowed into his driver’s side. He died at the scene. Mama was terribly upset, taking food and visiting with Laura for several days. This little town is gossipy, but when one of our own needs us, people stick together.
Jack ruffles Timmy’s hair. “Hey, little man. I beat you here. Told you I would. My car is fast.”
“Thank you for meeting us for breakfast! And for the new bike,” Timmy says. “Those banana pancakes at the diner were so good. Mama says we’ll have to do it again.”
He took the Caine family to breakfast?
Jack smiles. “Next time, we’ll try the waffles. Sound good?”
“Yeah!” Timmy dashes away and peeks into the sanctuary. “The place is packed. We’ll have to sit on the front row. Mama, remember that time Mrs. Claymont was singing in the choir, and her teeth came flying out?”
I laugh, recalling that story from Mama, then suck in a breath, connecting the dots from the googling I did on Jack Hawke last night. I watched snippets of his press conference online, getting the highlights, but the kid he ran over was never named since he was a minor. I eye the cast on Timmy’s arm and look back at Jack.
Jack has been watching me, and when I look up at him, he reddens. “Elena, I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”