The lady behind the meat counter greeted him warmly. Young and pretty, she cocked her head, looking Thomasina up and down.
“Thomasina Rose.” Thomasina reached across the counter to meet the woman’s outstretched hand.
“She’s my new renter,” Trace told the woman. “This is Emmaline Newton. She makes the best sandwiches in Liberty Flats.”
“I try anyway.” Emmaline flashed a freckled grin, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Uncle Earl? Come out here and meet Trace’s new renter.”
An old fellow with a shock of white hair and a whiskered chin sauntered out, welcomed Thomasina to Liberty Flats and disappeared into the back room again. The gray-haired dog on the floor woke up and limped around the counter after him.
“Got a checker tournament going on back there, do they, Emmie?” asked Trace.
“Yes, and I wish they’d wrap it up so I could get some help. What’ll it be today, Trace? Turkey or ham?”
“Surprise me.”
“Turkey,” said Thomasina.
“With all the fixings?”
“Why not?” agreed Thomasina.
Emmaline made their sandwiches on paper plates. She gave them pickles, napkins, a bag of chips and straws, as well. Trace sent Thomasina outside with change for the pop machine while he settled up at the cash register. Side by side they crossed the street to the park, and chose a table in the shade.
Thomasina noticed that he waited for her as she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the food. The sandwich was made on fresh-baked sourdough bread. With all the cheese and lettuce and tomato and other goodies, it was impossible to make a neat eat of it. Thomasina spread a napkin on her lap, tucked another in her hand and gave up trying to control the drips.
“Get your phone calls taken care of?”
Thomasina nodded. “I’ll be at Milt’s tonight, but I talked my supervisor into a three-day weekend to complete my move.”
Trace extended the open bag of chips.
Thomasina took a handful Hearing a cardinal, she tipped her head and searched the trees.
“There,” said Trace, pointing.
“The honey locust or the ash?” asked Thomasina, still searching. “The ash! Of course! I see him now.”
“You know your trees.”
“Thanks to my folks. Flo knows them by leaves, and by wood, too. Better than Nathan even, and he’s a woodworker. You have a nice shop, by the way.”
“Thanks. Be nice if I had more time to spend in it.”
“What is it you do at the car plant?”
“Trim line.”
“Do you like it?”
“The money’s good, the work, fast-paced monotony.”
“If you had your druthers?” asked Thomasina.
“I’d rather be building houses,” admitted Trace. “My uncle’s a contractor. He got me started. Then the bottom dropped out of the industry. He couldn’t get enough jobs to keep us both busy.”
“So you went to the factory?” Thomasina asked, munching on a chip. At his nod, she added, “Building’s picked up in the last couple of years, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. But you never know how long it’ll last. The guys with deep pockets can weather the slumps. A fellow just starting out can lose his shirt. What kind of building does your father do?”
“He’s retired,” said Thomasina without clarifying that Nathan was her foster father. “Foster” always sounded awkward to her. “Mom and Dad” never quite fit, either. Perhaps because she had gotten to know them as Nathan and Flo before they became her guardians. “Woodworking is just a hobby with him,” she said.
“It’s a good one if you like working with your hands.”
Thomasina’s gaze fell to his hands just as he crumpled the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in. They were strong hands, nicely shaped, and brown from the sun.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any hobbies?”
“Reading. Flowers. Yard sales. Children.”
He smiled. “Come from a big family, did you?”
“No.”
He glanced up when she quit talking. His eyes met hers, but to Thomasina’s relief, he didn’t ask questions. She brushed the crumbs on the table into a pile. “What about you?”
“Just Mom and Dad and Tootsie. My folks live in Bloomington now.”
“Tootsie is your sister?”
He nodded.
Thomasina licked mayonnaise off her thumb and started gathering up papers while he talked about his sister and her job with a computer corporation in California.
“I guess you’re wanting to get back to your moving,” Trace said, when she had tidied up the table. “Are you going to get to the big stuff today?”
“The furniture?” said Thomasina. “I don’t think I’ll have time today.”
“Do you have someone to help you? Brothers? Friends? Your folks?”
“My parents are in Arizona. But two boys in my building bought a purple truck last week,” said Thomasina. “I can probably talk them into helping me out for a tank of gas, a sack of hamburgers and change for the video games at the mall.”
“Teenage versions of our little neighbors, are they?” he said with a baiting grin.
“No. Friends.” Thomasina paused in pleating her napkin and looked at him from beneath half-cocked lashes. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way,” she added.
A scar had left a narrow indention at the corner of Trace’s eye. It blended into the fine lines that framed those darkly fringed bachelor button blues when he returned her smile. He glanced at his watch a second time, and got to his feet. “If you’re finished, I’ll drop you by the house.”
“That’s all right. I’ll walk home,” said Thomasina.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I want to stop by the post office and change my address. May as well pick up a sack of groceries, too. Does Emmaline carry chocolate doughnuts?”
“Still planning on making friends with the rug rats?” he asked.
Tough guy. Squinting in the sunlight, so innocentlike. Thomasina smiled and countered, “Couldn’t be you like them just a little bit yourself, could it?”
“They’re no worse than traffic jams. Root canals. Clogged drains. Purple trucks,” he said.
“What’s wrong with purple trucks?” inserted Thomasina.
“There’s only one color for trucks. See there?” Trace tipped his head back as the cardinal overhead chirruped in agreement.
“Oh hush, bird. Nobody asked you,” said Thomasina.
Trace chuckled, waved and sauntered across the street to his truck, gleaming red in the sunshine.
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