Sass & Serendipity (8 page)

“So this is it,” she said, gesturing toward the large, curved display window. Inside, on a shelf covered in red felt, lay an assortment of products. Shaving cream, toothpaste, baby lotion, aspirin, shoe polish, cotton swabs, Wrigley’s spearmint gum, and a Day-Glo green water pistol. Propped in the corner was the soda fountain menu.
Shake or malt (chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry) … $4.00! Brown cow … $3.00! Soda … $2.00! Alma’s pimiento cheese sandwich … $4.50! Pie of the day … $3.50/slice!

The door chimes tinkled as Daphne and Luke stepped from the sidewalk into the air-conditioned interior. They paused just inside the entrance, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light.

“This is awesome,” Luke said.

“Yeah.” Daphne took a deep breath of cold, stale-smelling air. She felt as if she were seeing the place for the first time, and she found herself gazing in wonder at the pressed-tin ceiling and the curvy chrome barstools at the nearby counter.

How was it that she’d never noticed how wonderful this place was before? So quaint and charming. The perfect backdrop for a classic romance.

They passed shelves stacked with hair products and headache remedies and sat down on two stools.

“Well, hello there, darlin’!” Mr. Mason emerged from behind a display of sewing notions and stepped through a wooden gate to the area behind the counter.

Daphne smiled. Gabby always hated when men called them darling or sweetheart or doll. She said it was sexist and demeaning. But Daphne liked it. She even thought it was polite, in an old-Southern-gentleman sort of way.

“Haven’t seen you for a while now,” Mr. Mason went on. “You sure are growing up fast. I hardly recognized you.”

Daphne grinned and laughed. Ironically, she thought Mr. Mason hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps his hair and trim beard were a little whiter, and his belly seemed to strain against the buttons of his checkered shirt a bit more, but otherwise he looked the same as he always had.

“What can I get y’all?” he asked.

“Um …” Daphne looked quizzically at Luke.

He shrugged. “How about some floats?”

“Maybe we could share one?” she suggested. “I’m not all that hungry.”

It was a total lie. She was so hungry she could probably drink a whole one by herself. But she wanted to complete that traditional portrait: the two of them sitting together with the soda glass between them, their bodies making the shape of a heart as they bent forward to sip from their straws.

“Okay. Uh … one root beer float, please,” Luke said.

“With two straws,” Daphne added, swiveling back and forth on her stool.

“Coming right up.” Mr. Mason gave a quick nod and then headed for the soda machine at the opposite end of the counter.

Daphne looked over at Luke and smiled. He smiled back—not a stiff, awkward one or a cocky smirk, but a warm, gentle one. A
real
smile. Her left tennis shoe tapped against the railing at the base of the bar. It was tough to keep still while her insides seemed to be doing one of her cheer routines, the hard one with all the flips and the pyramid building. She wondered if Luke was feeling it too—this sense that Fate was in play, that powerful forces were nudging them together. Of course he felt it. How could he not?

All of a sudden the sound of muffled hip-hop music welled up close by. It seemed inappropriate for the setting, wrecking the illusion that they’d tiptoed back in time.

Luke rummaged in his backpack and pulled out his phone, silencing it with a finger tap. “Hello?” he said, pressing it to his ear. He turned on his stool so that he faced the back of the store. “No. Just grabbing a snack … Oh, yeah. Sure … Okay. See you in a sec.” He lowered his hand and tossed the phone back into his bag. “I’ve got to go,” he said, swiveling back toward Daphne.

“What? Why?” Daphne winced at the whine in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Things had been so perfect, and now this.

“I’m stupid. I just totally forgot I was supposed to do something with the guys. Could we … try this again sometime?”

His eyes were so droopy and sorrowful, she couldn’t help
feeling a little better. Besides, he wanted to meet up with her again. That couldn’t be bad.

“Sure,” she said, making herself grin.

“Here.” He fished a wad of bills out of his front pocket and placed a ten on the countertop.

“But that’s too much,” she protested.

Luke waved his hand as if erasing her words. “Don’t worry about it. Just take it.”

“All right.”

“Okay then …” Luke slid off his stool and draped his pack over his right shoulder. He paused, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. Was he going to kiss her?

She leaned forward slightly and lifted her chin, correcting the flight path between his lips and hers. But to her disappointment, he extended his right hand. A handshake?

Of course. She supposed it was proper for a first date at a soda fountain.

She managed a flimsy smile and slipped her palm into his grasp. Only instead of pumping it up and down, he simply held it. Then he slowly pulled her toward him and pressed his mouth to her forehead. At first Daphne was disappointed. It seemed odd—like a kiss her dad would give her. But as his lips lingered against her skin, she shut her eyes and enjoyed the feel of it. It was romantic, even, in an old-fashioned way. Conservative, but full of the promise of something bigger later.

After a while his hand and lips let go. Daphne opened her eyes, hoping to catch a smile on his face, but he was already heading out the door. She watched him stride down the
sidewalk. The spot where he’d kissed her tickled a bit, as if it were giving off sparks, and she wondered if it could have left a mark, like Harry Potter’s scar or the glittery bubble shape made when Glinda kissed Dorothy.

“Here you go!”

A frosty glass suddenly appeared in front of her. Mr. Mason plopped a straw into either side of the float, said, “Y’all enjoy it now,” and ambled off toward the back.

Daphne pulled out one of the straws and licked off the ice cream before setting it down on the counter. Then she twirled around on the stool, sipping from the remaining straw.

She had too many emotions inside her, all scampering about and wrestling each other. The excitement over the kiss … The regret that he had to go … The joy that came with things like root beer floats and lucky pennies … But mainly she just felt restless. She was ready to officially start her happily-ever-after with Luke.

She could already see it. He would walk her to and from her classes, carrying her books the whole way, and all the girls in school would envy her. He’d invite her over to meet his mother and watch
Jane Eyre
on TV. He’d meet her dad and the two of them would become like father and son. Then her dad would come visit more often and maybe even move back to town.

He was her handsome prince who had come to rescue her from her dreary, ordinary life. The only one who saw how special she really was. Just like Cinderella, but without the magical ball.

She whirled around on the stool and sat leaning against
the bar, kicking her feet out in front of her. Through the window she could see Mrs. Plata sweeping the sidewalk in front of the gift shop. Next door was Shelly’s Boutique, with its strangely posed mannequins and tinted lighting. In the corner of the display window stood a piece of posterboard with the word
PROM!
in iridescent orange letters.… And next to that stood a mannequin wearing the most beautiful dress Daphne had ever seen. Bright pink—the same shade as cotton candy and teacup roses and kissable lips. The color of romance and all things feminine.
Her
color.

Daphne’s mouth let go of the straw and curled into a wide grin.

Maybe there
would
be a magical ball after all.

“Yes, hi. Do you still have the apartment available? The one advertised online last Sunday? No? Well, do you have anything else? I see. Thanks anyway.”

Gabby hung up her cell phone and glanced back down at the page of For Rent ads she’d printed that morning, neatly folded and dotted here and there with circles she’d drawn in red Sharpie. Picking up her pen, she drew an X through the two-bedroom, two-bath condo off 290. That made four noes—if you didn’t count the guy who’d seemed drunk and kept asking what kind of shoes she had on; she’d no’d that one, too. Now her only hope was to wrangle a raise out of Mr. Pinkwater when he got back from his dinner break. And “hope” and “Pinkwater” rarely belonged in the same sentence.

Gabby’s face stretched in an enormous yawn. All these
late nights trying to improve her calculus and physics grades were starting to add up, making her feel weary and headachy. She let out a long, defeated sigh and fell forward, resting her head on the counter. This was one reason she preferred manning the ticket window to selling concessions. Because of the set movie times, all the work came in waves, allowing her a break between features. Plus, it gave her a clear view of the parking lot so she could see when Pinkwater returned. Which shouldn’t be for another fifteen minutes. Giving her an opportunity to rest her eyes …

A sharp rapping sound jolted her upright. Gabby blinked rapidly, trying to refocus on her surroundings. Gradually, a figure came into view. Someone was standing just outside the glass partition. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Eyes the same color as the bottle of glass cleaner in the corner of the booth. Prentiss Applewhite. The town’s iconic rich boy … and the reason Sonny Hutchins was dead.

Again Gabby felt that ache in the exact center of her body, like the ghost pain of a missing vital organ. Prentiss freaking Applewhite was standing just a few inches away, looking at her. No,
grinning
at her. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if his presence, in and of itself, was a reason to rejoice.

But of course he’d feel that way. He had never had to pay for driving drunk and killing his cousin. His powerful family had stepped in to rescue him, as usual. They actually had the gall to go along with rumors that Sonny was the one driving when everyone knew it had to have been Prentiss on one of his drunken sprees. The Applewhites’ fairy-tale version even
made it into the newspaper, such was their power. Some said they had paid people off. Whatever they’d done, it worked. As far as Gabby knew, Prentiss was never jailed or sentenced to pick up trash or even issued a ticket. Apparently laws didn’t apply to rich people. So in Prentiss’s mind he was perfect, and he probably assumed she thought the same.

“Hi there,” he said. He grinned at her, showing off flawlessly straight white—and no doubt expensive—teeth. The guy was incredibly handsome in that standard sort of way. Dazzling smile. Big, dopey-looking blue eyes. Short blond hair in some sort of hip, messy-on-purpose style, with bangs that stuck up like a fish fin. And the most ridiculously chiseled jaw. He was like a cartoon hunk come to life.

Even before the accident the town’s residents loved to talk about him. He and his family lived in a gigantic Victorian at the end of Elmhurst Drive, one of the nicest homes in the town, if not the whole county. Because the Applewhites deemed Barton schools not good enough for their precious son and sent him to some Episcopal academy in Austin, Prentiss sightings had always been limited to holidays, summertime, and occasional weekends. Gabby had only seen him a few times herself after the accident, driving around in his candy-apple-red Mustang (which was, surprisingly, still intact). But he’d hardly been spotted at all since he’d started at the University of Texas last fall.

So what was he doing there on a weekday? Didn’t he have classes?

Most likely he was skipping. Since being in one of the town’s wealthiest families gave him something like diplomatic
immunity, Prentiss probably assumed a college degree was automatic, whether he went to class or not.

“Can I help you?” she asked through a tightly clenched smile.

“I don’t know …,” he said, his voice trailing off as he turned to peruse the Now Showing! movie ads along the brick wall of the cinema.

He didn’t know? Then why the hell had he bothered to knock?

Gabby impatiently tapped her pen against the counter, fighting the urge to spray him with glass cleaner through the tiny cutout hole. Meanwhile, Prentiss rocked on the heels of his Tony Lamas as he scanned the posters, completely disregarding the fact that he was wasting her time.

Oh, come on. It wasn’t as though they were great art. One, for a romantic schmaltzfest that Daphne had already seen twice called
Love, Lorna
, featured a tearstained letter in soft-focus. The next, which basically showed a pile of bloody body parts, was for a horror flick called
Writhe
. But the one Gabby hated the most was for the new movie that had just opened a couple of days ago. It depicted a stoic muscleman holding a machine gun while a leggy redhead sidled up against him. Snippets of reviews stood out in all-caps lettering across the top, with phrases like “HIGH-OCTANE!”—as if a film could fuel a pickup truck.

“So what’s good?” Prentiss said suddenly, turning to face her.

Gabby frowned. “You’re asking me what you should see?”

“I feel like a movie, but I’m bumfuzzled as to which one. You work here, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Well then, I figure you can recommend a good flick.”

“
The Godfather
is very good. You can even watch it from your home entertainment system. At home.”

Prentiss laughed. “I guess. But I kind of want the live theater experience. Surround sound. Popcorn. Surely you’re at least a little familiar with these here options.” He smiled wide, revealing his pearly teeth. “So what do you like?”

Gabby folded her arms over her chest. “Giving recommendations is not part of my job.”

“I suppose. But you could try to sell me on something. It probably wouldn’t hurt.” He continued to grin at her, as if she were some sassy court jester sent to amuse His Highness. “I mean, you do want my business, don’t you?”

“Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me whether you come in here or not. And anyway, they all suck.…” At that moment, Gabby noticed movement just past Prentiss’s left shoulder. Mr. Pinkwater’s gold Buick was pulling into its spot in the front row. “But … I guess if you really want a suggestion, you might like
Rules of War
. It’s supposed to be very”—she swallowed—“high-octane.”