***So far, Miranda Jessup Buckley has been jilted, fired and left to take care of her ex-lover's child.   She has found a dead body, been shot at and flirted with.  Interesting turn of events.  But she's not ready for a pushy reporter to show up at work. ***

 

 

 

Mitch never makes it inside my home.  He, Aaron and Waylon spend the better part of an hour throwing the dumb football back and forth, and then talking about football.   I've never seen Waylon so much as look at a football game on television but he sure was spouting off names and statistics.  

 

Aaron spends most of his time talking about the cheerleaders and their outfits.  

 

When Mitch said his goodbyes, he shakes Aaron's hand then Waylon's.  He nods his goodbye to me.  Did I misread him?  I know I'm not the best judge of men but flirting is flirting.  It was like he was saying goodbye to one of the guys.  Maybe it's a good thing he didn't make it inside the trailer.  I could have made a fool of myself.

 

I sit on the porch for twenty more minutes, watching Aaron and Waylon toss the football back and forth before I remind Waylon he needs to shower and get ready for bed.

 

He heads one way and Aaron heads towards his own place.  As Waylon passes me, he pauses.  

 

"I like him.  He's okay."

 

"Who are you talking about?  Aaron?"

 

"Your new boyfriend."

 

"I don't have a new boyfriend."

 

He cocks his eyebrow.  "Whatever."

 

I wait until he's in the bathroom taking his shower before I go inside.  It's almost midnight but I'm sure Matt is still awake dealing with the door.  I dial his cell phone.

 

He picks up on the second ring.

 

"Yeah."

 

"They working on the door?"

 

"Glass repair guys will be here first thing in the morning.  I got my cousin to help me put some plywood up."

 

"Be honest, Matt.  You want me to take a leave of absence?"

 

"This wasn't about you, Miranda.  Cop just said four vehicles had their windows shot out and two other businesses at the south end of Iverton were shot up.  So, no, I need all of  my employees to show up tomorrow. "

 

A wave of giddy relief washes over me.  They weren't shooting at me.  It was random.  Mitch was right.  It was redneck mischief.

 

"Okay.  Hope you get some sleep tonight,"  I say.

 

"Not much chance of that.  I'm going to be sleeping here tonight."

 

"Sorry.  That has to suck."

 

Matt has this dry, raspy laugh.  It's rare that he does laugh, but despite all that's gone on lately, he graces my ears with it tonight.

 

"My wife is PMSing this week.  This is like a get out of jail free card."

 

 

                 ***************

 

 

 

I help Rita get our soft drink order together and then I inventory the beer cooler.  It's a busy enough morning but slowly slacks off around two in the afternoon. 

 

The glass company replaces the glass in the door.  It looks starkly new.  No stickers or scratches mar the surface.  

 

Every so often I will spot a stray nugget of glass on the floor.  I will probably be finding them for weeks to come.  

 

When Rita goes to the back office for her lunch break, I pull the stool up and plop myself down behind the counter.  I shoot the shit with some tourists, help an old man pick out a card for his wife's birthday, and scan a People magazine that Rita brought in several months ago.

 

"Hi," I say in my fake but convincing friendly voice as a chunky young woman walks directly to the counter.  "Can I help you with something?" I ask.  All the while, my brain is pleading, "No.  Please just grab a Snickers bar and leave."

 

"Would you be Miranda Buckley?"

 

Her voice is familiar but I can't place it.  I'm not sure whether to run or fight.

 

"Well, that all depends on who you are and why you want to know."

 

She stares at me with steely blue-gray eyes.  She isn't challenging me but she isn't timid either.

 

"I'm Colleen Weaver, from the Gazette.  We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago."

 

"Ah, yes.  We did, didn't we?  And I think I told you to leave me alone."

 

She doesn't so much as bat an eyelash.  "No, you told me not to call you at home again.  So, I respected your wishes. That's why I'm here."

 

If there's one thing I hate, it's people who use technicalities to get around things.  Politicians and cheating partners are very adept at this sort of thing.

 

"Ms. Weaver, did you go to college?"

 

"Yes.  University of North Carolina.  The one in Wilmington."  Her smile reveals her pride in saying this to me.

 

And I know that all she sees is a thirty-something woman who seems to have peaked with being head cashier at The Little Eagle Gas and Go.  If she's a reporter, she's done her research and knows I didn't go to school.  She knows I have a failed marriage and that I got dumped by my last boyfriend.  That, plus the information that Missy told her when they met for coffee, means Ms. Weaver thinks she knows all about me.

 

But that's where she's wrong.  I am a very different person today.  I am not the sum of my past and my mistakes.  Oh, I'll own them.  Hell yes.  But I am not the Miranda Buckley she's researched.  Nope.  I am the new and improved Miranda.

 

"I just want to hear from you about your dealing with the late Ed Preston," she says. "I have interviews with people who know you.  I'll be honest, there's a deadlock of those who like you and those who don't.   But everything I've got is hearsay."

 

"Didn't Missy Toblerone give you the goods on me?"

 

"Yes.  She wasn't your biggest supporter."

 

"What happens if I don't talk to you?"

 

"My editor will have me use what I've got and I'll put in a line about how you refused to comment."

 

I sigh.  If I don't defend myself, who will?

 

"I'll talk to you ... on one condition."

 

"Which is what?" she says. 

 

"Look into the disappearance of Jason Toblerone."

 

Colleen pulls out her phone and types something into it.  "Jason Toblerone.  When did he go missing?"

 

"Almost three years ago."

 

She types a little more then puts her phone away.  She holds out her hand.  "Okay.  It's a deal.  When do you want to talk?"

 

"I can meet you tomorrow morning.  Or you can come to my house.  I really don't want people eavesdropping."

 

"Text me your address."

 

I don't bother telling her my stand against cell phones, just write my address on a piece of paper and hand it to her.   "Nine-thirty?"

 

"Sounds good.  And, Mrs. Buckley, you won't regret this."

 

I smile silently at her as she heads for the spotless new door.

 

"I already do, Colleen," I whisper as she steps outside.  "I already do."

 

 

 

To be continued ...