A Small-Town Girl. Shelley GallowayЧитать онлайн книгу.
playful expression sobered. “Oh my gosh, Cary. You aren’t really thinking of leaving, are you? You were going to help me teach that continuing-ed class this summer and give me a hand ordering new textbooks. You can’t leave me with just Dave and Linda.”
“Dave’s easy and Linda is…okay.”
“Linda’s twenty-two years old—I could be her mother. Please sign your contract.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are going to sign it, right?”
“I’ll let you know by two.”
Christy turned on her heel, leaving Cary to stare at his contract again.
Why was committing another three years such a big deal? He loved teaching at Lane’s End. Surely he hadn’t gotten so hurt by Kate that he was willing to change his whole life just to avoid her?
No, it was more than that.
Signing meant accepting how his life was. As long as he held off committing to the job, Cary could play with the idea of moving somewhere different, of doing something different.
Growing and changing. Taking a risk. As Gen had said at the café, change was a good thing.
That stopped him in his tracks.
Now there was a person who obviously didn’t mind starting over. She was as independent a woman as he’d ever come across, giving off “I’m self-sufficient” vibes like nobody’s business. He admired her for that.
At the moment, he was stuck in Drive and his road was straight farm country. Nothing of interest for miles and miles. He’d taken it a hundred times.
But yet…
Closing his eyes, Cary thought of Dean and Melissa. Everyone at church. The guys he went running with. Dave. Christy.
Lane’s End. This was where he belonged. Cary knew it the way he knew Sludge would eat his Nikes if given the chance.
Deciding not to put the inevitable off a moment longer, Cary signed the contract and placed it in the folder to take down to the principal.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Gen knew something had to be done. She’d tossed and turned all night, plagued by dreams of basketballs and lions and kids screaming like banshees.
Her first thought when she awoke had been about work. Again. Obviously she needed some balance in her life, stat. But how?
Padding to the bathroom, she flipped on the light and grabbed her brush. As Gen fixed her hair, she examined herself in the mirror. She looked the same as ever. Boyish figure. Lean and muscular, thanks to the frequent workouts at the gym. Her long, dark hair had always served her well. It was easy to pull back and was her best feature, in her opinion. Of course, not even really good hair could keep a man’s attention.
Thinking once again of her former partner, she wondered what had gone wrong. Why weren’t she and Keaton together, as she’d hoped? Was it because she wasn’t girlie enough? Chatty enough? Interesting? They’d gotten along well and had been good friends, but obviously he’d wanted something—someone—else.
Remembering their frequent meals together, all she could remember Keaton commenting on was her love of junk food. That wasn’t good. Maybe she’d been too aloof and afraid of showing him who she really was. She was already repeating that behavior with Cary, after all.
She remembered their meeting the other day. She hadn’t felt so tongue-tied around a man since Keaton. Could she actually pursue another man after that fiasco? Did she even know how? Gen had to admit she’d never been good in the romance department.
Quickly she braided her hair, then padded into the kitchen, getting a bowl of Froot Loops as she poured another cup of coffee.
The only truly feminine person she knew was her sister. Margaret had also never been one to shy away from giving advice—and she’d had no trouble winning over her husband.
Before Gen chickened out, she picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hey, Genevieve! This is a surprise.”
Gen was caught off guard by the exuberant greeting. “Hey, Meg. How are you?”
“I’m good. Oh—hold on a minute,” she said as Gen heard cereal rattle on a tray. “So did I surprise you, me knowing it was you right away? Shane got me caller ID.”
Gen grinned. Some things made their way more slowly than others to Beckley, West Virginia. “I’m glad you finally have it. How are Will, Jackson and Emily?”
“Happy. Crying. Driving me crazy. The usual.” Her tone turned thoughtful. “So why are you calling? Have you been injured again? Are you in the hospital?”
It was humbling to realize the only time she reached out to her family was on holidays or during medical emergencies. The last time Gen had called her sister out of the blue was after she’d sustained a knife wound during a gang altercation.
“I’m fine, Meg,” she hastily replied. “Actually, I called because I need some advice.”
“What’s going on?”
Gen opened her mouth but couldn’t say it. How could she admit to her beautiful, oh-so-together sister that she didn’t know how to step out of her shell? “I need a hobby.” She winced at the lame excuse for the call.
“Huh?”
“Okay. I know to a mother of three kids under five it sounds silly, but…got any ideas?”
“I thought you had that awful dog.”
“Sadie’s still around,” Gen admitted, nodding to Sadie as she thumped her tail.
“And don’t you work out like crazy?”
“Not as much as I used to. I was thinking I need some variety in my life. Maybe something a little more crafty.” Gen closed her eyes as she heard what she was saying. Really, could she sound any more backward?
But Margaret wasn’t laughing at all. “What? Like knitting? Crochet?”
Gen would rather stab someone with a knitting needle than try to figure out how to use one. “No.”
“Hold on.” Once again Gen heard her sister talking to all three kids, followed by another onslaught of cereal being poured. “I’m not fooled by this hobby talk for a second, Genevieve Slate. What’s really going on?”
It was scary how Margaret could sound just like their mother. “Nothing.”
“It is so something. It’s a man. Right?”
It was more like a lack of one. But who was she to split hairs? “Kind of.”
“Gen…just tell me.”
“This morning it occurred to me that all I’ve been doing is working and taking care of Sadie. Maybe I need something to get me out more, give myself a reason to put on some lipstick and just relax once in a while.”
“I get it.”
“I doubt it. I don’t think you’ve ever had to worry about being seen as just a friend by any guy.” Although Gen said this with horror, she had always been impressed—and a bit jealous—that boys had always loved Margaret.
“Stop that talk,” Margaret admonished. “Momma never gave you credit, Gen. Just because you weren’t interested in prom dresses or lip gloss didn’t mean you weren’t attractive. You are, you know. You’re beautiful.”
Margaret’s words were like a soothing balm, coating over a lifetime of old hurts and imagined slights. Once again Gen wondered if maybe the world hadn’t pushed her away as much as she’d been pushing.
After her sister settled yet another argument with her children, she came back on the line. “Gen, I’ve got the perfect hobby. It’s not quite crafty, but it’s more your speed. Gardening.”
Didn’t