Army, okay?”
“The Army, Sarah. You don’t call it ‘army.’ I was in the Army. Try to get it right.”
“Whatever. Come on, Levi, don’t be a hard-ass. It’s Thursday. I have one class tomorrow afternoon. I can skip it.”
“No, you can’t. I’ll drive you back tonight.”
“Levi! I’m so homesick! Please let me sleep here!”
He ran a hand through his hair, then surveyed the cobwebs he’d picked up under the porch. “Fine. I’ll bring you back tomorrow morning. Pull up your schedule so I can make sure you’re not lying.”
She smiled, the winner of this round. “Sure. But take a shower or I’m gonna puke.”
He stood up. “Want to help me wash the dog?”
“No. But I appreciate the offer.”
He moved to ruffle her hair, but she ducked. “Levi. Clean up.”
He knew his sister loved him. She’d even changed her last name to Cooper when she was sixteen, to make sure everyone knew who she was, she’d said. But he still wanted to kill her sometimes.
He took the dog into the bathroom—his own bathroom, thank God for that—and turned on the shower. The dog bent his head in deep shame. “Yeah, don’t give me that, chicken chaser. Who’s idea was it to go under the porch?” He took out his phone and dialed from memory. “Hi, Mrs. Holland, it’s Levi Cooper.”
“Dear! How are you? Do you know how to get flying squirrels out of the attic? Faith doesn’t want us to set traps, and I don’t want her to watch her grandfather fall to his death, though to be honest, widowhood is looking better and better these days. By the way, that pipe that burst last winter? Do you remember the name of the plumber you recommended? Ever since Virgil Ames moved to Florida, I don’t know what to do! And Florida! Who’d want to live there? All those bugs and lizards and alligators and tourists.”
“Bobby Prete should be able to fix the pipe, Mrs. H.,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got Faith’s dog with me.”
“Oh, yes, he ran off when Ned was watching him.”
“Can I bring him up?”
“Just give him to Faith, dear. She’s down on the green, anyway. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get ready. Lovely talking to you.”
Levi took off his shirt and threw it in the tub, giving it a good rinse before putting it into the laundry bin. “Come on, dog,” he said to Blue, who’d curled up in a tight ball and was pretending to sleep. “Time to face the music.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WERE PROBABLY five hundred people crowded onto the green and the streets around it for the Seventeenth Annual Cork & Pork, which sounded disturbingly perverted but was in fact a pig roast and wine tasting. Five hundred people, Faith noted, and it seemed like at least half of them were dying to console her—still—over being jilted on her wedding day.
“You were the most beautiful bride,” Mrs. Bancroft was saying. “Really. We were all so shocked. So shocked.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you seen him? Is he here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, Mrs. Bancroft. But we’re getting together next week.”
Mrs. Bancroft stared at her, shaking her head. “You poor, poor thing.”
“Oops. There’s my brother. Gotta run.” She left Mrs. Bancroft and went over to the Blue Heron tables and looped her arm through Jack’s. “You needed me desperately, dear brother?”
“No,” he said, pouring a one-ounce taste for a woman whose T-shirt proclaimed her as Texan and Carrying. “In fact, I’m not sure we’re even related. How many sisters do I have, anyway? You seem to be multiplying.”
“Mrs. Bancroft is the eighth person to call me a poor thing and ask how hard it is to see Jeremy again.”
“You are pretty pathetic,” he agreed. “Your name again?”
“Why are so many people in my way?” asked Mrs. Johnson. The long-time Holland housekeeper managed somehow to convey terror in her beautiful, lilting Jamaican accent. “Shoo, children. If you don’t leave soon, there will be body parts everywhere, and I washed and starched and ironed this tablecloth this morning. If you want to live, move, I say.” She straightened out the bottles so they were perfectly aligned.
“It’s a wine tasting, Mrs. J.,” Jack said. “We can’t move.” He turned to the gun-toting Texan. “What did you think? Can I pour you something else?” he asked.
“I’ll just have more of the white zin,” she said.
“It’s a rosé,” Jack said. Faith imagined he was trying not to weep over the misnomer of his beloved wine. The lady drained it, smiled and wandered off.
“Jackie,” Mrs. Johnson said, “did you eat this morning? I brought you a sandwich. I don’t want you eating any of the slop they’re serving here.” This earned her a dirty look from Cathy Kennedy, who was staffing the sausage booth for Trinity Lutheran. Mrs. Johnson returned the look hotly, till Cathy Kennedy broke. Most people did.
Mrs. J. unwrapped the sandwich and put it in Jack’s hand.
“Yes, little prince,” Faith said. “Eat up. Maybe Mrs. J. will chew the food for you so you don’t have to work so hard.”
“Don’t be so disgusting and unladylike, Faith, and here, Jackie. Eat.”
“Where’s my sandwich?” Pru asked, joining them.
“Did I not make you griddle cakes this very morning?” Mrs. J. asked.
“Oh, God. I hear Lorena,” Jack said. “Pru, uh, come help me with something really important. Faith can handle the tasting.”
“Get back here,” Faith hissed. It was no good. Both siblings bolted, leaving her to staff the tasting table with their housekeeper, who clucked in disapproval. “Mrs. J., why can’t you marry Dad and make us all happy?” Faith asked. Though she wasn’t completely sure, Faith thought Mrs. Johnson was widowed. Then again, the woman didn’t spill about her personal life. Ever.
“Don’t get me started on your father’s many flaws, the least of which is his recently terrible taste in women.” Mrs. Johnson stared at Lorena, her face swelling with regal disgust. “Five o’clock in the afternoon and she, with a dress that exposes more than half of those tired breasts. Shameful, shameful.”
“I’m working on a replacement,” Faith murmured, unable to tear her eyes off Lorena, who wore a strapless tiger-print sundress several sizes too small. The bodice was smocked, the stitching stretched to the “we can’t hold on much longer” point. Dad, on the other hand, was in his customary aging Blue Heron shirt, stained Blue Heron cap and stained jeans, yucking it up with Joe Whiting, another winemaker from farther up Keuka. Dad was probably unaware that Lorena (and everyone around them) assumed he was on a date.
“You’d better work fast, my dear,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Your father, he is not the most observant of men.”
“I know.” If it wasn’t related to grapes, Dad tended not to notice. So, yes, it was possible that, before he fully realized what was happening, Lorena could move in, change his will and sell off ten acres to a water park developer. But finding the perfect woman, that was a challenge. Dad worshipped the memory of St. Mom.
“Can I have a taste of the Gewürztraminer?” a man asked.
“Absolutely,” Faith answered, snapping to attention. “This one got a 91 from Wine Spectator, and we’re very proud of it. It’s been aged for eighteen months, so it’s just now starting to speak. The nose is lovely, don’t you think? Passionfruit, pepper, a little