Free Shakespeare's Christmas by Charlaine Harris Page A

Lou. Across the table from us was Patsy Green, squired by one of the ushers, a banker who played golf with Dill, I remembered.
    The salads were served almost immediately, and Dill properly asked Jess to say grace. Of course, Jess obliged. Next to me, Jack bowed his head and shut his eyes, but his hand found mine and his fingers wrapped tightly around mine. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it—I could feel his warm lips, the hint of teeth—then deposited the hand back in my lap and relaxed his grip. When Jess said, “Amen,” Jack let go and spread his napkin on his lap as though the little moment had been a dream.
    I glanced up and down the table to see if anyone had noticed, and the only eyes that met mine were my mother’s. She looked as though she were half embarrassed by the sexuality of the gesture . . . but pleased by the emotional wallop of it.
    I had no idea what my own face looked like. A salad was placed in front of me, and I stared down blindly at it. When the waitress asked me what dressing I wanted, I answered her at random, and she dolloped my lettuce and tomato with a bright orange substance.
    Jack began gently questioning Lou about her life. He was so good at it that few civilians would have suspected he had a hidden agenda. I tried not to speculate on the nature of that agenda.
    I turned to Jess, who was having a little trouble with a jar of bacon bits. After the nicely decorated room, plunking the jar of bits down on the table reminded me firmly we were in Bartley. I held out my hand with a give-me curve of the fingers.
    Somewhat surprised, Jess handed me the jar. I gripped it firmly, inhaled. I twisted as I exhaled. The lid came off. I handed the jar to him.
    When I looked up in his face, there was a kind of dubious amusement on it.
    Dubious was OK. Amusement wasn’t.
    “You’re very strong,” he observed.
    “Yes,” I said. I took a bite of salad, then remembered that Jack needed to know more about this man.
    “Did you grow up in a town bigger than Bartley?” I asked.
    “Oh, not bigger at all,” he said genially. “Ocolona, Mississippi. My folks still live there.”
    “And your wife, is she from Mississippi also?”
    I hated this.
    “Yes, but from Pass Christian. We met in college at Ole Miss.”
    “And then you went to seminary?”
    “Yes, four years at Westminister Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. Lou and I just had to put our trust in the Lord. It was a long separation. In fact, after the first two years, I missed being away from her so much, we got married. She held any job she could get in the area while I worked to graduate. She played the organ at churches, she played the piano for parties. She even worked at a fast-food place, God bless her.” Jess’s square, handsome face relaxed and warmed as he talked about his wife. I felt acutely uncomfortable.
    The salad dressing was thick as sour cream, and sweet. I shoved the most heavily laden lettuce to one side and tried to eat the rest. I couldn’t just sit there and question him.
    “And you,” he began the conversational return, “what’s your occupation?”
    Someone who didn’t know my life history?
    “I’m a house cleaner, and I run errands for people. I decorate Christmas trees for businesses. I take old ladies grocery shopping.”
    “A girl Friday, though I guess ‘girl’ is politically incorrect now.” He gave the strained smile of a conservative paying lip service to liberality.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “And you live in Arkansas?”
    “Yes.” I prodded myself mentally. “Shakespeare.”
    “Any bigger than Bartley?”
    “Yes.”
    He eyed me with a determined smile. “And have you lived there long?”
    “Over four years now. I bought a house.” There, that was contributing to the conversation. What did Jack want to know about this man?
    “What do you do in your spare time?”
    “I work out. Lifting weights. And I take karate.” And now I see Jack. The thought sent a warm rush through my pelvis.