Haverhill Book 2: Test Scene

When I get a new book idea, i frequently write a test scene to help me understand where it’s going and whether my idea is big enough to become a whole book. This is a test scene that I’ve written for a second Haverhill book. If this becomes a series it will be an anthology of books each about different characters in Haverhill.

I lingered on the patio at Ralph’s Cafe enjoying the breeze and the soft snoring of Steve McQueen, who ruled the cafe’s porch like his own tiny kingdom. It was a Tuesday afternoon in April, and the spring bulbs were blooming and fragrant along Myrtle Avenue. It was just the kind of afternoon where Haverhill shined. The chicken salad in my sandwich had been delicious, and the atmosphere at Ralph’s couldn’t be beat. The lunch crowd had dissipated, but I didn’t want to go. I was celebrating.

I’d had a closing that morning on a big house out by the country club that had gained me a pretty solid commission, and I had taken the afternoon off to celebrate. There was a time when I would have celebrated by taking myself to the salon for highlights and to soak up the latest gossip, but I had other goals now. I wasn’t Heather Aycock, town gossip, anymore. I was done watching Haverhill from the outside looking in. I meant to be one of the people worth knowing in this town. And this morning was a big step. After years of helping families on the outskirts of Raleigh and Haverhill sell their mid-century three-bedroom ramblers, I had sold a giant antebellum Greek revival house in the good part of town. It would not be the last if I had anything to say about it.

I had been savoring that feeling along with Amy Monroe’s chicken salad for an hour now, and the atmosphere was so good I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t even mind Amy’s old dog snoring like a chainsaw in the sun spot.

My heart stuttered as I looked in the front window to see Amy and Fleming Sinclair, that Scottish contractor who had beaten out the handsome minister of Joyner Creek Baptists for her heart. I didn’t want her contractor, although no woman with eyes in her head and a healthy libido would kick that man out of bed. No, I wanted what they had. 

In the weeks since the cafe had opened, I had watched them. They did things for each other, little thoughtful things. Amy always set aside a sandwich and a scone for him to take home. He often showed up after the lunch shift to walk her and old Mac the three blocks down Myrtle Avenue to her family home, the one he’d helped her renovate. I had hoped she would list it with me when she decided to sell, but I wasn’t upset she’d changed her mind. Fleming carried treats in his pocket for her dog, and she furnished the cafe with his handmade furniture and kept his business cards by the register.

They supported each other. That was what I wanted. It was something I’d never had. Hell, it was a kind of relationship I’d rarely seen. Fleming dipped Amy low, and she extended an arm in a flourish before clasping his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. I sighed, doubting that kind of love would ever come my way. But I was going to learn from Amy’s example. She hadn’t waited around for love to find her. She’d built a life for herself, been successful. The love part had been a lucky surprise. That’s what I needed to do.

They’d be closing soon. I should go, but the porch was so nice, It was the perfect place to daydream, to think about what I was going to do to get more clients like the ones I’d worked with that morning. I just wasn’t ready to go. I looked down at my plate which held nothing but crumbs and a pickle wedge. I picked up the wedge and took a bite. My mouth was filled with the flavors of dill, garlic, and mustard, and my lips instantly puckered from the salty sourness.

“It’s enough to make you lose your lunch isn’t it?” A man’s voice came from behind me.

I was so startled I stood, my chair scraping back on the concrete. I whipped around to see who had caught me staring at such a private moment and froze. I was one hundred percent sure I was going to die of embarrassment right there on the concrete porch. 

Willis Keith Monroe stood there, his eyes on the same scene I’d been watching. He looked like every girl’s dream. He’d certainly been mine for as long as I could remember. Will Monroe was Haverhill’s golden boy, an athlete, good student, son of one of the town’s oldest families with his father’s good looks and his mother’s good manners. I didn’t know who had taught him kindness, but once when we’d been in elementary school, some boys had been teasing me about my clothes and where I lived, and Will, who was a couple of years ahead of me, had stepped in and sent them running. At ten years old he’d been my champion, my first and only champion, and I had fallen in love for the first time.

I hadn’t seen him since his Aunt Ralph’s funeral almost a year ago when Hadley Joyner had been practically glued to his side. And now, he’d caught me staring jealously at his sister making out with her beau. All I could do was stare at him in shock.

His caramel brown eyes drifted to my lips and he gave me a sexy-as-sin smirk. “I don’t mean the pickle, I mean my sister and Laird of the Wood Lathe in there.” He nodded toward the picture window before looking back at my lips, which I realized to my even further embarrassment were still puckered from the salty pickle. He was going to have to call the fire department because the blush in my cheeks felt like an inferno. In fact, if I had spontaneously combusted on the spot, I would not have been surprised. Somehow I managed to hold up what was left of my pickle, and said, “I don’t know what she puts in these, but they’re so good.”

“It’s our grandmother’s recipe.” Will arched an eyebrow in a conspiratorial look and leaned closer to me, mischief sparkled in his eyes. “I’d tell you the secret ingredient, but my sister would murder me in my sleep.”

There was no way, absolutely no possible way on God’s green Earth Will Monroe was flirting with me. In spite of his fifth grade heroics. WIll had barely noticed me by the time we got to middle school and high school. He’d been at the pinnacle of the social strata of Haverhill High School, and I was a double-wide dwelling country girl far beneath his social sphere. We might be adults now, but in my experience those class distinctions still stood. In a place as small as Haverhill your social status was decided early and usually stuck, not that I didn’t mean to change mine. 

But I hadn’t been this close to Will Monroe since God was a boy and I wasn’t going to fumble this. I glanced at Amy and her man whose muscles rivaled even Will’s Coast Guard trained physique. Then I looked back at Will with a smirk of my own and said, “I think she might send him to do it.”

“He’d do it too.” Will said with a low chuckle. His eyes drifted to my mouth again. “She’s got him wrapped around her finger, that’s for sure.”

It was just the pucker from the pickle that had him staring at my lips. But when his tongue darted out to lick his power lip, I thought Amy’s pickles might work better than any plumping lip gloss I’d ever tried. I turned back to the spectacle in the window to break the tension before I did something stupid like lean in for a kiss. “I think they’re sweet.”

“I think you need another bite of that pickle to bring you back to reality.” Will followed my gaze to the couple inside who had returned to swaying to whatever music Amy had playing. “That kind of love burns out fast.”

“That’s a cynical way to look at it.” Will Monroe had his pick of the opposite sex. It surprised me to hear him sound so jaded.

“Learned from experience,” He leaned back and shrugged. “People tend to want who they think the other person is. They don’t always stick around when they see who the person actually is.”

“I guess I can see that. You think when people see past the surface they get turned off?”

He gave a short nod. “That’s been my experience.”

It had been hers too if she was honest. The few men she’d dated had seen the image she presented to the world. Lately, that was the put-together professional. When they learned she was a girl from the Pine Hills they often pulled back, sometimes before they even met my family. Still, I had to believe in a love like Amy’s or at least what I thought Amy’s was like. “I know what you mean, but I don’t think I want to give up on real love. I think they might have found it.”

He watched the couple in the window, and I thought for a second I might have seen a fleeting wistful look. I hoped I did. I didn’t like to think of Will as a cynic who didn’t believe in love. Then he shook his head and faced me again. “This is an awfully personal conversation, and I don’t even know your name.” He held out his hand as if they’d never met. “I’m Will Monroe.”

That hit me right between the ribs. He had no idea who I was. And why would he? I’d been in his little sister’s year in school, and Amy and I hadn’t exactly been friends. She was a town girl and I was not. Why would he remember the pigtailed girl in second-hand clothes he’d defended in fifth grade, or the awkward, too-tall teenager who had watched him from afar in high school. I tried to hide my disappointment behind a laugh as I shook his hand. “I know. We went to school together.”

“We did?” He held on to my hand looking at me like he was trying to figure out where we’d met.

“I’m Heather Aycock. I was in the same grade as Amy.” I pulled my hand from his with some effort. My heart was sore, and the pickle was quickly turning sour in my stomach.

WIll’s face said he was still struggling to place me in his memory.

Before my humiliation could get any worse. I picked up my work tote and slung it over my shoulder. “Well, it’s been nice, Will, but houses don’t sell themselves. I’d better get back to it.”

“Wait…” He said, but I wasn’t about to continue this conversation.

I dropped my napkin onto my plate and shoved it into his open hand. “Tell Amy the chicken salad was delicious.” I spun around and high-tailed it off the porch and down Myrtle Avenue as fast as my kitten heels would carry me.