Free Snow Dance by Alicia Street, Roy Street

 
     
    Winter 1998
     
     
    CHAPTER ONE
     
     
    Amanda stood waiting her turn at the register in Billings’s Paint and Hardware. What little patience she had was eroding by the minute. The wire handles of four heavy cans of Sunflower Yellow paint cut into her palms. She’d worn two sweaters under her pea-coat and leggings under her already snug jeans, which meant she now had rivulets of perspiration tickling her skin.
    Worst of all, the guy holding up the works in front of her was the one who’d been checking her out earlier. He even offered to help her choose which color paint to buy. As if this middle-aged bumpkin in a hideous orange parka and army green trousers that looked like his dog had chewed them would know anything about color and design.
    She kept her distance, but could hear him yapping away with the cashier, a young dude, probably still in high school. Their folksy chat went on and on. Something about snow plows. And ball joints? Kinky? Doubtful. Boring was more like it.
    Time to clear her throat. Audibly.
    It worked.
    Mr. Orange Parka turned to her, tucking the paper bag holding his purchase into his pocket. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you were waiting.” He reached toward her paint cans. “Those are too heavy for a lady.”
    “I’m just fine, thanks.” Amanda sidestepped him and heaved the cans onto the counter. Nearly putting her back out of line. Did they have a chiropractor around here?
    “See that, Parker? This is one strong woman.” He extended his hand. “Russ McNeil.”
    She sighed, took his hand and mumbled, “Amanda Kushinski.”
    Men. At forty-five she’d had more than her fill. They turned up in all sizes and shapes, each with their own come-on. Each one with the same goal in mind: the bedroom.
    After a long, exciting career as a Broadway dancer that included a leading role in A Chorus Line and a remake of Kiss Me, Kate , where she got to sing “I Hate Men” — how prophetic that little ditty turned out to be— she’d seen it all. Producers, directors, businessmen and movie stars. Not to mention her illustrious, womanizing ex-husband. Amanda had moved to North Cove because it was one of several small farming and fishing towns out here on Long Island’s eastern tip. It seemed like a place free from all the hype. A good place to find solitude and maybe even some sort of peace.
    At least this Russ was the rustic type. Pun intended. But when it came to women, obviously even the cozy, down-home guys turned phony.
    He pointed a thumb at the cashier. “This handsome buck is Parker Richardson.”
    Parker was, in fact, quite handsome, but he seemed to be brooding or troubled over something. The teen gave her a silent nod, which Amanda barely had a chance to return before he trotted away to the back of the store.
    “Parker’s got a lot on his plate right now,” Russ said, watching him, concern in his gaze. He faced Amanda. “You’re the one who’s opening a store that sells old clothes.”
    “ Vintage clothing,” she said. “There’s a difference. But then I don’t know much about snow plows.”
    She assumed her snarky tone would put him off, but when Parker brought back a cardboard box and set the cans in it, Russ offered to carry it out to her car.
    “That’s very kind of you, but I can manage.” With her narrow frame, Amanda would have rather hauled the cans by the handles than muscle this hulky box, but she didn’t have the heart to refuse Parker’s considerate gesture. “Nice to meet you both.”
    Russ hurried to the door and held it open for her. “Sure you won’t let me take that for you?”
    Amanda wanted to growl, but she replied in a happy singsong. “No need.”
    “Watch your step,” Russ said. “Everything’s freezing up out there.”
    He followed her into the gray January dusk, but headed to the opposite side of the parking lot. Thankfully.
    A few yards from her black Toyota SUV, congratulating herself on getting rid of him, Amanda stepped in a