Waiting for Sparks
But the silence grew.
Chet stood by the window, peering outside.
Am I in trouble? Sparks rubbed his neck. I can’t be in trouble. He sneaked a peek at Naomi. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? The silence persisted.
“How are you feeling?” Sparks ventured.
She twitched slightly. “As w-well as...c-can be expected with—” she swallowed and closed her eyes, then reopened them “—s-somebody w-waking me up every fifteen m-minutes to see if I’m still alive.” If she hadn’t spoken, he might have done the same.
At breakfast, the guys had mentioned that folks were taking bets on whether Naomi would go to rehab if ordered. Had Emma been speeding to see her grandmother when she’d stopped to help him? His respect for her flourished. She’d taken the time to help him, a stranger, while needing to be with family.
“T-to be honest, young man, finances are tight, but you’ll be paid.”
A whoosh of relief left him. “My fireworks always draw a good crowd, so that’ll raise quite a lot of money for the town.”
Summer was on. He only needed one good pyrotechnic event to get back in the game.
As he heard Emma greeting some nurses in the hallway, Naomi wiggled closer, gesturing with a beckoning finger. Sparks hunched forward.
“You’ll be p-paid, but I want you to h-help Emma—coplan with her. But don’t b-breathe a word...until I say so.”
Sparks’s face flushed with heat and embarrassment; his mouth dried so fast he could feel its hinges creak. Help plan the Jamboree?
There were two immediate problems with that edict. First, he didn’t know a thing about planning a Jamboree. Fireworks, yes. But that was it. Second, if he worked closely with the townsfolk and they really got to know him, they would eventually find out he was the type to let them down.
He frowned. Hadn’t the guys at the Dew Drop said Emma was leaving?
* * *
EMMA SWUNG OPEN the door, her back teeth grinding in the old familiar way, ready to tell her grandmother that the nurses said someone would be right in to take the silly tray, when Sparks leaped up and barreled out of the room. She watched him go.
What had caused his face to blush so deeply?
Even though there were more pressing issues, such as Nomi’s rehab and Emma’s own escape, she showed her grandmother the Organic District cinnamon-bomb bread from the tote bag she’d left by the bed. “I forgot. I brought this for you.” Then she looked at the empty chair. “What did you say to him?”
Nomi’s eyes gleamed. “We...were talking about the Jamboree...telling h-h-him...fun.”
This wasn’t the way to stay on track with her goal. This was her grandmother trying to control the situation just like always. “Not for me.”
Emma summoned her courage. Here goes. She took in a big breath. Think new green suitcases, think British Airways.
“Emma...” Nomi’s lips, lopsided now, twisted as she spoke. “You...liked it. Miss F-f-fire...crac...ker...you r-remember?”
Emma did remember and was glad Sparks wasn’t around to hear the tale. What had made him tear off like that?
What had she just been thinking about? Oh, yeah, the Miss Firecracker pageant. Indeed, she did remember. Short the required number of contestants for the kiddie pageant, Naomi had coerced Emma and her best friend Zoo to participate.
As they did every year, a group of townspeople protested this exploitation of women. Required to wear a red, white or blue T-shirt and blue shorts, each five-to seven-year-old contestant sang a patriotic song or twirled a baton to the same sort of tune. No bathing suits, no interviews about world peace.
Emma and Zoo, unfortunately, did not sing on key and were not particularly coordinated. Zoo agonized through “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and Emma gave herself a black eye from her baton. Neither of them won, and Emma had thrown the baton in the lake. She now changed the subject. “Think how fast you will progress with twice-a-day therapy.”
A vehement shake of Naomi’s head.
“Nomi—”
Naomi stretched her lips with effort. “Me...” She stopped and drew in a deep breath. “P-planning would be a little much...”
A little? Denial is a warm bedfellow on a cold night of reality.
Naomi nodded. “Someone else...plan it.”
Emma’s spirits soared. Here was a breakthrough. If Nomi was going to be reasonable about this, why not the rehab?
“Someone will turn up,” Emma enthused. A girl had to move on. Right on to England, Lady Emma. “The Jamboree has always been and always will be around, so there’s no need to worry. Now, let’s get you ready for transport to the facility, Nomi. I’ll have the nurse bring the transfer forms.”
Her grandmother rose up on her good elbow like Napoleon on his deathbed. “Emma,” her imperial tone commanded. With eyes boring into Emma’s, the left one slightly unfocused, she said, “You must p-plan the J-jamboree.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE KNEW SHE sounded juvenile, but it wasn’t fair. Dashing away the wetness on her cheeks, Emma half ran, half walked out of the hospital.
Every time she reached for something, her grandmother would snatch it out of her hand: sleepovers rejected for civic service, particular friends deemed unsuitable. The list ran on and on.
Emma crossed the parking lot, the asphalt so heated it felt squishy under her sneakered feet. A tall woman dodged out of Emma’s way and then grabbed her by the arms.
“Zoo!” Emma exclaimed.
“Hey, Emms.” Zoo hugged her. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with the bulls at Jem Silver’s ranch. Sorry I didn’t text as soon as I heard you were in town. I’ve been swamped.”
Zoo would be a voice of reason in this mess. They’d been friends forever, as different as two people could be. Zoo, thin, with black hair and pale blue eyes, attracted boys like flies on manure, as Emma was fond of saying. Zoo spoke her mind and got away with it. Zoo had sweated away on ranches and farms since she was old enough to ride her bike from town.
This work ethic of Zoo’s had earned her Nomi’s seal of approval. Zoo was everything her grandmother wanted, and Emma never heard the end of it. Fortunately, Zoo was also fun and kind.
Emma steered her friend toward the Omni. “Do you know what she did to me this time?”
Zoo grinned. “Haven’t heard that in a while. What’s the tyrant up to now?” She had, on more than one occasion, stood up to Naomi, inspiring awe in Emma.
Emma rationalized that it was easier to butt heads with Naomi when you weren’t related. Chet did it all the time, and he lived. Then again, it could be Zoo and Chet were vertebrates, unlike herself.
“She told—no, ordered—me to plan the Jamboree. Never mentioned my trip to Europe once.” New situation, old anger, she acknowledged, but it seemed fresh each time it happened.
A flood of words gushed forth as Emma unlocked the door to her car. Heat poured out. “My only family member, and she pulls rank like when she got me a teaching job at the high school without asking me—and I went along with it. Like when Nomi overrode Grumpa on...on just about everything.” She moved around the outside of the car, opening doors and windows. “Darn it, I hate feeling like I have no backbone.”
“Lighten up, Emma. Tell your grandmother you won’t do it. But don’t hate her for asking—um, assuming.”
Emma hid a grudging smile. “How can I love someone so much and still want to put massive distance between us?”
“You don’t want Nomi out of your life, just out of the way of your life.”
“You ruined a perfectly good temper tantrum, you know?”
Her friend smiled. “My day, I guess.” She laughed as she said, “Just told Jem Silver his sperm count’s too low to breed. That ruined his day, too.” She laughed some more at Emma’s open mouth. “For his bull to breed.”
Emma imagined the scene with the handsome rancher and a giggle slipped out. She slid into the sizzling seat. “Yow. Hot. Okay. I’ll go back to town, drum up a replacement—before I hit Nomi with my decision.” She turned the key and squinted up at her friend, standing next to the car. “Thanks, Zoo.”
“Any time, you reactionary, you. Hey, what’s this I hear about the summer stud tackling you in front of the entire student body? That where your face got messed up?”
* * *
AS EMMA ENTERED TOWN, loneliness wormed its way around her heart. Sparks’s offer of food to make up for driving her into the dirt came to mind. If she hadn’t imposed a man moratorium, she’d go out with him.
He’d be fun. She wanted fun. She wanted—oh, blast—she wanted to stuff her face at the Dairy Delite. Emma punched the brakes and careened into the hamburger stand’s parking lot. The squeal drew the looks of those lined up by the order window, including a blond man towering above the others.
With his head thrown back, Sparks was laughing at something someone in the group had said. By the time she cooled her face enough to get out of the car and walk to the window, the others had drifted away, leaving Sparks to watch her approach.
“Hi,” he said.
Zoo’s teasing zipped through her head, and she blushed. Their complexions matched, red for red. On the heels of that was Zoo’s suggestion she find a replacement to plan the Jamboree.
Emma needed someone who got along well with everyone, although why that would be a requirement since her grandmother didn’t, Emma wasn’t sure, but it seemed a good thing. And the best person would be one who didn’t know how...how her grandmother could be. That left no one who lived in Heaven and the surrounding area. “Hi, yourself,” she replied.
Those fabulous blues scanned her face, and then his gaze flickered away.
“You ran away from my grandmother.” Really, she didn’t blame him.
The redness of his face deepened as he glanced down at his foot and scraped some gravel.
She continued in a brisk tone, “Can you believe my grandmother ordered me to plan the Jamboree? I’m about to go to England.” She’d leave out the part about being dumped by Brad. About how “baby, I’ll always be there for you” was merely a fairy tale.
Today she was especially looking for someone to lift her spirits.
“Imagine that,” he muttered, and stared at the ground, watching an ant struggle with a crumb of bun. “She say anything else?”
“No.” Somebody ought to tell Mr. Gorgeous about SPF 45. If he kept burning his face like that, he’d be getting bumps frozen off with liquid nitrogen by age forty.
“Nothing else?” He seemed somewhat disappointed; no, bitterly disappointed.
Obviously, she didn’t know him well—but still, she expected excitement, interest. Instead, he seemed as stimulated by her pronouncement as an eighth grader assigned to plot a time line for the Revolutionary War.
Starla Fleming slid the window open with a bang. Sparks startled.
“Are you gonna order something, Emma? If you’re not, I’m gonna sit in the back and watch my soaps,” Starla rasped, then peered at Emma’s scraped face.
Emma ordered an orange cream shake after a wary look at the scab Starla was scratching on her arm. The woman disappeared from the window, the roar of the shake machine following.
Emma turned back to Sparks. “My grandmother thinks she can con me into organizing the Jamboree. I have my own life.” Who could she find to take her place? Someone ignorant of her grandmother’s schemes, that was who. She scrolled through a mental list... Empty.
Her red-faced companion chewed his bottom lip and swept the toe of his sneaker back and forth. Finally, he looked up at her. “She trusts you, Emma. It’s a big year.”
Emma’s disgust came blurting out in an ugly noise. That was feminine, she thought, duly embarrassed. She cleared her throat. “Big year, my foot. The Jamboree hasn’t changed in my lifetime. She’s charmed you like I hear you’re charming the rest of the town. You don’t know what it’s like. All you have to do is design the fireworks, pass your instructions over to your techs and skip on to the next adventure.” Stop it, Emma. Transferring her anger at her grandmother to this innocent visitor was not cool.
“Hey, Spaaarks!” kids yelled from a passing car. “Dude!”
The man was a magnet. Everyone liked him. The hair on her arms prickled, then she gave him a broad, welcoming smile, like a hungry spider that had spotted a fly.
And he’s new in town.
The window being flung open startled them both this time. Starla’s arm emerged. After a quick look for the scab, Emma slid her money through the window and grabbed the shake. The window slid shut. A moment later, the blast of a TV sounded.
“I’ve had things not turn out. I know what it feels like,” Sparks said, his brilliant blues on her boring hazels.
She jutted out her chin, momentarily forgetting her mission in the rush of resentment. “Sure you have.” But her tone was not friendly. She’d be the first to admit she was acting the drama queen. Pull yourself together, girl.
Should she ask him straight out to run the Jamboree or make more small talk? Hadn’t he wanted to make it up to her for slamming her into the end zone in front of the under-eighteen population of Heaven?
“My dream was to have parents. It never happened.” He said the words matter-of-factly, as if he’d commented on the heat, which was substantial and was pitting her underarms out in a most unbecoming way.
The ant in the crack by her feet suddenly seemed immense compared to how small she felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she managed to choke out.
Sparks must have sat on the front steps like she had on birthdays. She used to imagine her mother was a lost princess held by a wicked king.
“Maybe you ought to go see your grandmother and get it straightened out,” he said.
This reminded Emma of her brilliant idea. She sucked up another mouthful of shake while she scrutinized his burned face. “You might want to wear a heftier sunscreen.”
“My face isn’t always this red.” He mopped his brow.
But Emma was barely listening. “Didn’t you say you wanted to make it up to me, you know, for tackling me?”
The color of his faced plunged to a deeper shade. “With food. I said, food.”
Perhaps, Emma thought, looking more closely—easy to do with Sparks—he was blushing. What had she said that would make him blush? Oh, never mind the man’s skin tone, she chided. Get to the point.
She leaned toward him, eyes wide in entreaty. She hoped it looked like entreaty and not that her contacts had dried out. “What if you planned the Jamboree? You’re getting to know a lot of people here. They like you.”
“Me?” His voice shot up. Somewhat cute, really. “I...already have a job. You really should talk to your grandmother.”
Emma released an exasperated sound. “You only have to design your fireworks. You don’t even have to blow them up. So you’ll have all sorts of free time. Nomi’s created this gigantic black binder with all the procedures already mapped out.” She snapped her fingers. “Piece of cake.”
Sparks’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Emma, talk to your grandmother.”
She stepped back. Sparks looked as if he wanted to crawl under the ant.
A familiar emotion crept up Emma’s neck. “What is it you don’t want to tell me?” she asked. “I can see it in your face.” She hadn’t taught junior high for nothing. Very good liars aside, she’d learned to spot omissions.
He gulped. “I’m no good at keeping secrets, but she made me, Emma, I swear.”
So that was the reason for his flushed face and repeated urges for her to talk to her grandmother. For “she” could only mean one person. One person who didn’t need a first or a last name. One person who thought she was the master puppeteer. Emma’s back teeth fused. She gritted out, “What did my grandmother make you promise not to tell me?”
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA LEANED INTO the heavy glass door of the IGA, still minus a replacement after a night of thinking. One day left to clear up everything and still make her flight.
Her grandmother was an adult, as Brad had said repeatedly. Nobody could blame Emma. She’d done everything.
Everyone was afraid of her grandmother. And it didn’t matter that it would probably be a kick to work with resident summer-fun guy Sparks Turner. Chet had been no help. Zoo had run through the same options Emma had conjured up.
Then Emma had felt guilty about wanting others to solve her problem, then gotten mad about feeling guilty, then guilty about being mad about it. Then she’d eaten way too many slices of butter-soaked cinnamon toast to forget the whole matter.
The pungent odor of extrasharp cheddar cheese twitched her nose. Mr. Telford and his wife had sold the grocery store to their son Vince. He’d graduated a few years behind Emma. Vince broke off his whistling to greet her from behind the meat counter. Resting his big forearms in front of him, he grinned. “Emma, what can I get you? Got some nice chops. How’s your grandmother?”
“My grandmother is going to be fine. She’s a Chambers.” Her eyes roamed the deli case. Mmm. Twice-baked potatoes. A little comfort food might help tonight while she changed a lifetime pattern and came up with a good idea fast.
One crummy day to get it right.
Vince’s gaze shifted up and beyond her shoulder. “Sparks! Looking for lunch?”
Emma whirled to find Sparks looking at her, his expression changing the second she locked eyes with him. Those questions when she caught him watching her... Was he thinking, “What is her problem? What is the big deal here?”
As she hurriedly began to inspect every single item in the deli case as though it was the most fascinating deli case on the planet, a new idea struck.
“Hey, Vince, I’m looking for someone to run the Jamboree. Wanna apply?”
Vince laughed as if she’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Em, this weekend has been a great start to the summer so far. My barbecue went out the door in slabs.” He tied the string around the potato wrapped in white butcher paper and pushed it toward her. “Hope the Jamboree will be enough.”
Emma grasped the package and tucked it in her basket. “Enough for what?”
As he bent across the deli case to respond, a bullhorn voice, elevated to carry into the next county, vibrated through the store. “Vincent, how do you expect to stay in business if you don’t have what people need?”
Vince patted Emma’s hand and stepped aside to wait on Sparks, whose eyes had widened at the stentorian bellow.
“It’s only Beryl,” Vince reassured him.
Feral Beryl wore a chip on her shoulder the size of Heaven Lake, daring anyone to breathe on it, much less knock it off.
While Emma was growing up next door to the woman, balls that went over The Berlin Wall never came back, at first. Grumpa would have to go and get them. Then one day Beryl started returning the balls over the fence and that was that. To be fair, Emma thought, Beryl had had her share of hard times.
After leaving the deli counter, Emma dropped a loaf of sourdough from a local organic bakery into her basket alongside the tomatoes, lettuce and bacon.
Beryl and her alcoholic husband had screamed at each other for years until the night he’d gone for beer and didn’t come home. Old Mae Cunningham swore that evening’s events had sealed the deep line between Beryl’s eyebrows and gradually added more than a hundred pounds to the woman. Now Feral Beryl lumbered around in a caftan and sandals. Once she retired, she spent most of her time working in her backyard and criticizing town events.
A warm hand landed on Emma’s shoulder and caught her attention. Sparks. In the produce aisle. Standing very near to her.
“Look,” he said, his hand remaining on her shoulder until Emma shot a pointed glance toward it. “You don’t want to plan this Jamboree.”
“I don’t.” Finally they agreed on something.
He spotted the items in her basket. “BLTs! How ’bout I buy some more bacon and we make ’em together?” At Emma’s silence, he shrugged. “Sorry.”
Although...maybe the sandwich making would give her an opportunity to convince Sparks to take on the five-day Fourth of July event.
“I don’t want to plan it, either, to be honest. I’m on vacation. A man of the world, committed to no one. So let’s find someone else.” His grin indicated his pleasure at solving both of their problems.
Emma sighed and moved toward the checkout. Great. Only she’d already solved both of their problems.
As she opened her mouth to reply that she was busy—man moratorium, you know—the phone in her pocket buzzed and played the opening chords of “I Will Survive.” She moved a couple of steps away and answered the call. “Hello?”
It was the nurse she’d spoken to at Garden Terrace, the temporary facility for the next step of her grandmother’s recovery. The doctor had cleared her grandmother for rehab, but Naomi was having none of it. “There’s no medical reason to keep her at the hospital...and I think they need the bed...” The nurse’s voice trailed off. She thanked the woman, said she’d be in touch and ended the call.
Emma decided on and then added shortbread cookies and chunky chocolate fudge ice cream to her basket as she tried to think of something helpful. A breath later, she felt, rather than saw Sparks beside her, his warmth reaching out to her.
What was she going to do? Her mind flashed to a picture of her grandmother grinning and holding up a map of England, taunting her.
She changed directions and headed toward the checkout, and heard Beryl again, informing Vince of more of her opinions. “If I was running the Jamboree, there’d be changes, I can tell you.”
Evidently, Beryl’s changes would start with changing the organizer’s title from Jamboree coordinator to supreme empress of the universe. Her grandmother would hitchhike from Garden Terrace as soon as she heard crazy news like that. Not that it would ever happen. Nomi would never allow it.
Emma stepped up to the checkout, Sparks at her side. He had the sense, she was relieved to find, to not say a word. Something. She had to come up with something to get her grandmother to rehab. If she didn’t get better— Tears smarted in Emma’s eyes.
“I’d get rid of that Cadillac Naomi rides in during the parade. It smacks of elitism. And if you ask me...”
Nobody had asked Beryl. Nobody ever did. Naomi had first rode in a Cadillac in the early 70s as mayor when an Evanston car dealership offered it; Grumpa had ridden with her as fire chief. Eliminating that tradition from the Jamboree had as much chance of happening as Beryl did of running the show this year or any year.
Emma’s feet stopped moving. If Nomi knew Beryl was thinking of changing the Jamboree... Of running the event? This...this might work. Her grandmother would never agree to go to Garden Terrace unless—unless her grandmother got something she wanted in return. This time the tears were for Emma herself.
She hit Redial and was connected to the nurse. “I’ll get her there,” Emma promised. It took only minutes to make the arrangements. A pang in her heart struck deep. But the longer her grandmother was not in rehab, the less she’d recover. Could Emma depend on the lengths Nomi might go to keep Beryl out of the Jamboree?
Emma closed her eyes, feeling faint. Had it come down to this? The shores of England began to cloud with fog. An image from the movie My Fair Lady, which she and Grumpa loved, faded quickly.
With the basket slung over her arm, Emma forced her legs to engage and continue walking to the register.
“Are you—” Sparks began.
Emma flung up a hand as if to ward off his kindness. “Please.”
“Can I help?”
“No.” To get lost in those eyes would ruin everything for her. The man moratorium had to get her through.
Another intense gaze, and then he nodded as though confirming something to himself. Sparks turned and strode out of the store.