Bittersweet Read Free

onto Glendale Row, I can’t help but relax my frown a little as I see Petula and Grace sitting out on their porch. The two old ladies are sisters, and were both married to the same man—one after the other. After Petula divorced him, he was with Grace for five years before he passed away. Share and share alike, I guess. The two of them moved back in together for company, and now they like to sit on their porch, gossiping about the people that go by as they eat home-made cobbler for dessert.
    “Hi, Mrs. Manningtree,” I call, and wait.
    “Well, hello, dear!” they both reply in unison, chuckling. It makes me laugh too, every time. They each lift a worn, brown hand to wave as I pass. I turn down onto Myrtle Street, thrilled to be only five minutes away from heaven’s own soft furnishings. I’m not even mad at Maxine for splurging on the new couch any more. If I could, I’d collapse in a heap on that thing and not consider moving again until I start to desiccate. Or have to pee, I guess.
    The street is quiet tonight, bathed in the burned glow of a beautiful sunset. Since it’s summer, most folk are either on vacation or already firing up the grill in their backyards. I take a breath and try to enjoy it, and I’m just about getting over my TV-show-touchiness when I notice something’s impeding my already-slow progress. I pause, bending down to fish a stone out of my sneaker, when a voice from the other side of the street makes me jump.
    “Hey!”
    I straighten up and swivel around. There’s nobody else around except for a guy standing on the steps that lead down from the train station: dark-haired, lean but toned-looking, with a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He’s not from around here, I can tell. Though maybe the fact that he’s coming out of the train station is sort of a giveaway.
    I glance about once more and realize he must be talking to me. And that he just had a full view of my ass up in the air. Great. Then again, it’s one stage above a wolf-whistle in the rudeness stakes to call out “hey” to a girl in the middle of the street, and he ought to know it. I fold my arms and glare at him. He has the beginnings of a cocky smile on his lips, but as I look at him, his face falls a little and his super-straight teeth fade from view.
    The Stare must have had the desired effect.
    “Um, could you help me out?” he says, coming down the steps and crossing the street to stand in front of me.
    Wow. He’s tall. I have to tilt my head a little to look up at him, and when I do, I crash straight into his eyes. Huge, and piercing blue—I’m surprised they weren’t sending out light beams from across the street. I unfold my arms and clear my throat. Given his looks and his greeting, I have a feeling he’s used to getting a certain kind of reaction from women, and it’s usually more positive. Still, it seems like he really does need something, aside from a better pickup line.
    He drops his duffel bag to the ground and I watch the muscles in his arm ripple under his thin T-shirt. I’m full-out staring, I realize, and I try to regain control of my eyeballs. Still looking at me, one side of his mouth quirking up a little, he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small square of paper.
    “I’m looking for the, uh, the Fairview Hotel?” he says, reading off the paper, and then looking back into my eyes. His voice is deep, like I can feel it rumbling in the soles of my feet. A trickle of sweat begins to form at the back of my neck, but I tell myself that’s what happens when you’re forced to walk a half-hour out of your way on a hot evening because of all this Bittersweet hoopla. It suddenly occurs to me—he must be something to do with it too. Like a roadie, or a production guy or whatever? Seems like every day there’s some new baseball-capped, too-white-teethed arrival in town having something to do with it, and I think I heard a New York accent, which definitely makes