Free Shadows on the Sand by Gayle Roper Page B

three.”
    “Not fair,” they called, looking crestfallen.
    “Come back tomorrow.” I waved and turned my back.
    Greg studied the swirling mass pacing outside the door, thumbs working their keyboards both real and virtual. He seemed to have regained his balance. “See the tall, lanky one? Mac88. He followed me here.”
    I nodded. “Feels creepy, doesn’t it?”
    He reached for his sore shoulder. “Maybe he’ll follow me to Home Depot and back, and I can get him to help me nail the plywood over the hole.”
    “You’re too hard on them.” Mary Prudence came up beside me. “It’s a way of staying connected in an increasingly fragmented society.”
    I laughed. “Mary P, where did you read that?”
    She gave me an impish smile. “Who knows? But it sure sounds good, doesn’t it?”
    “Without Twitter how would we know the cops got Chaz?” Lindsay called from the kitchen.
    “TV? The newspaper?” I offered.
    “Yeah, but when? Tonight or tomorrow? Now we don’t have to worry about whether he got away or not. Think of the anxiety not suffered.”
    I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you would have been just one bundle of nerves.”
    She grinned. “Sister of mine, you are an anachronism.”
    “Anachronism. Yowzah, Linds, I’m impressed.” I looked at Greg’s facein the light streaming in the big front window. “That box of vocabulary flash cards was worth the money after all. And you,” I said to Greg. “Upstairs so I can clean those cuts out without a national audience.”
    Several of the tweeters were watching us, thumbs flying as they did so. One had his cell raised and was snapping pictures. I could just imagine their posts. Grouchy lady. Injured man. What fun they must be having.
    “I washed my face.” Greg twisted away from my ministrations. He grimaced and grabbed his shoulder.
    “Maybe, but you’ve still got lots of little cinders embedded.”
    “They’ll work their way out. I’ve got to go get that plywood.”
    I looked at him in exasperation. “If you don’t want to be disinfected, why did you come here?”
    He glanced out the window at our voyeurs. “Sanctuary.”
    I laughed. “Granted.”
    “Should you be driving?” Mary P peered at him. “You’ve got a good-sized egg, all black and blue.”
    His hand went to his forehead. “It’s not bad. I’m not concussed.”
    “So says the man who can’t see the injury. Drive him, Carrie,” Mary P said. “With that shoulder he’s rubbing, he’ll need help even if his head’s all right.”
    “I can manage a sheet of plywood fine.” He sounded insulted.
    Mary P laughed. “I’m not impugning your manhood, you know.”
    He looked unconvinced.
    Drive him. Did I dare? “I have to close out for the day.” I indicated the cash register.
    “Push-tush,” Mary P said. “I can do that with my eyes closed.”
    She could. She’d done it for years when Carrie’s Café was the Surfside. The question was: Could I do it? Could I spend an hour or more alone with Greg and not give myself and my ridiculous infatuation away?
    I glanced at him. He looked as balky as a mule on a path he didn’t want to traverse. He did not want help. Or was it
my
help he was balking at?
    “When you go, Carrie, don’t forget fluorescent bulbs,” Lindsay called from the kitchen. “The one over my prep table is starting to blink.”
    I glanced at my sister, who was standing in my line of sight but not Greg’s. She was grinning and making “go” signals with all her might. Ricky appeared behind her and made little wiggly movements with his eyebrows that I suspected were supposed to be suggestive but made him look like he had a tic.
    One couldn’t have a secret around this place. It was mortifying. But the light bulbs were all the excuse I needed.
    “It’s me or Mac88 and friends.” I pointed to the sidewalk and the milling tweeters.
    Greg looked ready to protest again, then gave another shrug and another wince. With a rueful smile, he handed me his pickup