Free The Rebel and His Bride by Bonnie Pega

exposed all the raw need and old hurt that still lay beneath.
    She spent the morning at home. It felt safer. She did a little housework and helped her grandmother bathe Marigold, her pet pig, in the inflatable wading pool in the backyard.
    “So how’s the work on the play going?” Virgie asked as she reached for the brush she used to scrub Marigold.
    “Gran, I’ll do that. You just watch and keep that cast dry.”
    “Marigold likes to be scrubbed a certain way, honey,” Virgie said, though she relinquished the brush. “Use small circles and a firm, but gentle pressure. And work up a good lather. She likes lots of suds.” She patted the pig on the head. “Did you see the preacher at church last night?”
    As if you didn’t know I would!
“Mm, yeah,” shemurmured. “You know, Gran, I think I’ll run out to Magda’s later this afternoon. Daisy and I haven’t had much of a chance to just sit and talk.”
    “Did you get along all right?”
    She pretended to misunderstand. “Daisy and I get along fine, Gran.”
    “I mean you and the reverend.”
    Annabelle gritted her teeth, but kept her expression impassive. “We get along fine, too, Gran. Why shouldn’t we? He’s a preacher. It’s his job to get along with everyone. I’m not sure I remember how to get to Magda’s, so you’ll need to tell me before I go. I never can remember whether it’s the first road after Denning’s Creek or the second.”
    “When do you see him again?”
    “See who?” she asked in an innocent voice.
    “Why, the reverend, of course.”
    “How should I know? I may run into him tomorrow night at rehearsal. If not, I’ll probably see him on Sunday at church.
If
I decide not to sleep in,” she added deliberately, hoping her grandmother was astute enough to hear the exasperation in her voice.
    Apparently her grandmother
was
astute enough, because she dropped the subject. Annabelle was grateful for the reprieve, though she knew it was only temporary. But she really didn’t want to talk about Gregory. She didn’t want to think about him, either. What a shame she could ask her grandmother to drop the subject, but couldn’t make her own brain click off.
    She worked hard the rest of the day to think of something other than Gregory, and with the distractions posed by her drive out to Magda’s, she managed to repair some, though not all, of the chinks in her emotional armor.
    She smiled as she drove down the dirt road, riddled with mud puddles, that led to Magda’s. She’d always loved this part of White Creek. The long dirt road was bordered on either side by the fields of strawberries that Magda tended. She sold the fruit at a couple of roadside stands over in Waverly, and used the money to help pay for food for the dozens of stray cats she made a home for.
    Annabelle could remember spending many a summer afternoon here with Magda’s daughters, surrounded by purring cats and stuffed with sweet juicy strawberries. She missed those days, especially since she’d developed an allergy to strawberries about five or six years ago.
    When they were teenagers, she and Danni had spent hot summer evenings with the girls giggling over one boy or another. If she remembered correctly, Lily, not Daisy, had had a crush on Buddy Wilson throughout high school.
    As she negotiated the potholes in the road Annabelle quickly called a few clichés to mind, in case Daisy wanted to know how she was handling seeing Gregory again.
Honestly, it’s fine. We’re just good friends now
. No, too vague.
It was over long ago
. The problem was she wasn’t sure it was over.
Oh, comeon, let’s talk about something more interesting—like your love life.
Maybe that one would work.
    Unfortunately, no one except the cats were home at Magda’s, and Annabelle certainly didn’t want to go back to Gran’s and stare at the walls. She needed distraction, so she headed farther down the dirt road to Ferndale, Lem Petrie’s fancy-sounding, but dilapidated farmhouse.