Free Shakespeare's Trollop by Charlaine Harris Page B

other people sauntered over to discuss this news. And I caught a blaze of some emotion on Bobo’s face, some feeling I found didn’t fit in any category of comfortable response to my trivial piece of gossip.
    â€œHow did you know?” Janet asked, and I discovered I was in the middle of a small group of sweaty and curious people.
    â€œI was there,” I answered, surprised.
    â€œYou were a witness?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhat did she wear?” Jerri asked, pushing her streaky blond hair away from her forehead.
    â€œWhere’d they go for their honeymoon?” asked Marlys Squire, a travel agent with four grandchildren.
    â€œWhere are they gonna live?” asked Brian Gruber, who’d been trying to sell his own house for five months.
    For a moment, I thought of turning tail and simply walking away, but…maybe…it wasn’t so bad, talking to these people, being part of a group.
    But when I was driving away from the gym I felt the reaction; I’d let myself down, somehow, a corner of my brain warned. I’d opened myself, made it easy. Instead of sliding between those people, observing but not participating, I’d held still long enough to be pegged in place, laid myself open to interpretation by giving them a piece of my thoughts.
    While I worked that day, I retreated into a deep silence, comforting and refreshing as an old bathrobe. But it wasn’t as comfortable as it had been. It didn’t seem, somehow, to fit anymore.
    That evening I walked, the cool night covering me with its darkness. I saw Joel McCorkindale, the minister of the Shakespeare Combined Church, running his usual three miles, his charisma turned off for the evening. I observed that Doris Massey, whose husband had died the previous year, had resumed entertaining, since Charles Friedrich’s truck was parked in front of her trailer. Clifton Emanuel, Marta Schuster’s deputy, rolled by in a dark green Bronco. Two teenagers were breaking into the Bottle and Can Liquor Store, and I used my cell phone to call the police station before I melted into the night. No one saw me; I was invisible.
    I was lonely.

S IX
    Jack called Friday morning just as I was leaving for my appointment with Lacey at Deedra’s apartment.
    â€œI’m on my way back,” he said. “Maybe I can come down Sunday afternoon.”
    I felt a flash of resentment. He’d drive down from Little Rock for the afternoon, we’d hop into bed, and he’d have to go back for work on Monday. I made myself admit that I had to work Monday, too, that even if he stayed in Shakespeare we wouldn’t get to see each other that much. Seeing him a little was better than not seeing him at all…as of this moment.
    â€œI’ll see you then,” I said, but my pause had been perceptible and I knew I didn’t sound happy enough.
    There was a thoughtful silence on the other end of the line. Jack is not stupid, especially where I’m concerned.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” he said at last. “Can we talk about it when I get there?”
    â€œAll right,” I said, trying to soften my voice. “Good-bye.” And I hung up, taking care to be gentle with the telephone.
    I was a little early. I propped myself against the wall by Deedra’s apartment door and waited for Lacey. I was sullen and grim, and I knew that was unreasonable. When Lacey trudged up the stairs, I nodded a greeting, and she seemed just as content to leave it at that.
    She’d succeeded in getting Jerrell to remove the boxes we’d packed the previous session, so the apartment looked a lot emptier. After a minimum of discussion, I began sorting through things in the small living room while Lacey boxed the linens.
    I pitched all the magazines into a garbage bag and opened the drawer in the coffee table. I saw a roll of mints, a box of pens, some Post-It notes, and the instruction booklet that had come with Deedra’s VCR. I