18. A Matter of Time
Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 18
Welcome to Episode 18 of Dancing at The Orange Peel, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Episode 1 | Full Episode Guide | Extra fun content in THE MAILBAG
Previously: Episode 17, Wednesday’s Lessons. After an unsettling experience while window shopping, Libby welcomes Uncle Grant’s playful interactions as they go into the Chamber of Commerce. But Mama's explanation about where the yellow roses on her desk came from ends Libby’s merriment.
In this episode: Gwen attempts to divert Grant’s focus from the roses and Libby’s odd behavior. But she can’t draw his attention away from the inevitable.
Episode 18: A MATTER OF TIME
Gwen felt Grant’s eyes settle on her. Uncrossing her arms, she sat angled to face him in the chair beside her desk. He looked puzzled, likely not just about those darn flowers—she’d been so stupid to bring them into work—but also about Libby. Her daughter rarely acted out the way she just had, but there was no way Gwen could explain her behavior without telling Grant about Nate, and somehow, she had to get Libby to understand that she couldn’t talk about him either. How could she do that without seeming like she was instructing her little girl to do something wrong?
Her chest felt weighted. In an attempt to steer Grant’s focus from the flowers, she asked, “Do you work tonight?”
“Yeah, later. Chief called me in this afternoon because Frank’s wife went to the hospital with labor pains again.”
Good, a safe subject. “For real this time?” She laughed but regretted how forced it sounded. “Are you working a double then?”
Dorothy rose from her desk and flashed them an evil eye. Her co-worker never had patience for family and friends interrupting their workday, Libby excepted.
“Nah, another false alarm. Just like last time, Frank showed up for his shift and Chief sent me home.” He paused. “Except for some paperwork, I don’t have to be back until eleven.” Another long silence and then, “And I’m kinda gettin’ hungry.”
His backhanded hint for a supper invitation didn’t surprise her. It was Wednesday, after all. How easily, with Brenda now gone, he was slipping back into their routine. But that wouldn’t work anymore, at least not for her. She tapped a fistful of papers on her desk to even them and didn’t respond.
He stared at his hands. She patted his knee as a silent request to move his leg so she could open the bottom file drawer. Eventually, he poked again at what he wanted. “Libby says she’s up for a game of cards, or Chinese checkers . . . something. Anything.” He glanced at the roses again and shrugged. “Me, too. S’long as you are.”
Over time, Gwen had developed a menu of reasons why they couldn’t spend time with him. She’d used them all, some to better effect than others. But he’d become a master at hooking her through Libby’s attachment to him. The only excuse she could muster now was weak, rote: “Well, it’s a school night.” If he came, he’d stay until Libby went to bed. And then . . . She certainly wasn’t up for another exchange like they’d had Saturday. Might as well be honest about it. “Besides, last time—”
“I know, I know. I said things I shouldn’t have.” He waved at the air between them. “Forget all that. I could bring Chinese.”
Forget it?
Her mind reeled.
Just like that? Forget he said he loved her? Loves her. No, no, no. Loved. Only in that moment. Not true and not lasting. That’s the Grant she knew.
All she could do was stare at the papers on her desk, open-mouthed.
“I don’t go in ’til eleven,” he reminded her and reached for her hand. “You won’t have to cook,” he cooed. “That way”—his tone sobered and he lifted his chin toward the meeting room—“you two can focus on trying to beat me at whatever game she picks.”
She frowned. Libby adored being with him and she deserved some fun. He’d have to leave by eleven, well before Nate would arrive. Guilt flushed her cheeks, but she felt her resolve melting. She nodded then huffed as surrender settled in. “Whatever she picks, she’ll probably beat us both.”
He chuckled. When he stood, he smoothed the front of his neatly creased uniform across his stomach, adjusted his holster and handcuffs. His pride in being a police officer was ironic after all the trouble he had gotten into in school. A man in uniform. Every girl’s dream. June’s fantasy anyway, but instead her sister had ended up with Nelson, a grocery man in a white apron. At least he was faithful.
Grant waved a finger at the roses. “Never noticed that color in Leona’s yard.” Gwen’s stomach tightened. “Pretty,” he added. He stepped toward the meeting room.
Apprehensive about what Libby might say to him, Gwen followed.
When he pushed open the door, Libby’s head was down, face buried in her arms on the table. Was she sleeping? Gwen dreaded their next private conversation. Could she help her daughter understand any of this?
Grant went behind Libby’s chair and rested a hand on her shoulder. His voice was soft. “Princess, how about sweet and sour chicken tonight?”
Libby turned her head, not raising it at first, and glanced quickly away from Gwen. Stretching, she stood, collapsed against Grant, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Her head lolled back and she peered up at him. “Yeah.” She was enthusiastic, but her voice sounded raspy, like she’d just woken up. “With a fortune cookie.”
With a light touch of two fingertips on Libby’s arm, Gwen gently corrected her. “Yessir.”
Libby shrugged her hand away and hugged Grant tighter. He pushed the hair out of her face. “Get that homework done then, so I can beat the both of you.”
Libby dropped her arms and plopped back into the chair. “It’s just spelling words.” She pushed away the papers on the table before her. “Easy stuff.”
Gwen stooped to pick up a page of the vocabulary list off the floor.
“Piece of cake for you,” Grant said. “We’ll practice them before our game anyway.”
All three startled when the phone in the middle of the conference room table rang. Gwen could see Dorothy at the visitors’ counter, occupied by a young lady with long dark hair held by a red bandana tied at the back of her neck. They unfolded a city map across the counter. Gwen placed the list of words in front of Libby and reached for the phone. “Kent Creek Chamber of Commerce. How may I help you?”
“Hey, Nin. You and Lib need a ride home?”
“Hey . . . Denny.” She hadn’t heard from her brother since Sunday, the day he’d arrived home early from college for Easter break and they’d squabbled over the reason. “Hang on.” She cupped her hand over the receiver and asked Grant, “Can you drive us home? Or will you come later?”
“Gotta finish that paperwork at the station first. Sorry.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said into the phone. “Please pick us up.” She hesitated. “Have you thought about what I said?”
Her brother’s reply made his impatience clear. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
She had to ask anyway: “You’re still going?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
She huffed in frustration. “So, nothing sunk in?”
He didn’t answer.
“We’ll talk about it when you pick us up.” She hated sounding like their mother. “Five o’clock,” she barked as if he didn’t know when her workday ended. She hung up and dropped into one of the big leather chairs.
“Yay!” Libby sang, oblivious to Gwen’s irritation. “We don’t have to ride the bus home!” Then she paused, forehead wrinkling. “Did what sunked in, Mama?”
Before Gwen could answer, Grant asked, “Dennis is home?” He stood at the conference room window now, peering over the main office.
She pursed her lips. “A week early.” Through the slats in the blinds, she saw the front door swing open. She could not stifle her gasp.
Stuffing hands in his pockets, Grant jutted his chin. “That the new member?”
When Libby saw Nate, she leaped from her chair.
With Grant’s back still to them as he stared out the glass, Gwen grabbed Libby’s arm and pulled her close. “Say nothing.”
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