Capture the Wind for Me (24 page)

“Perfect,” he announced with satisfaction. “All I look at is you.”

I felt myself blush. “Yeah, and you've got your best side out.” I gestured at his perfect right cheek.

We both ordered a salad and the steak. I couldn't believe the prices and would have asked for nothing but soup if Greg hadn't quickly announced what he'd chosen, graciously paving the way for my own indulgence. I wondered if singing had already made him rich. He certainly had more money and better clothes than any Bradleyville guy.

Over salad, he told me more about LuvRush's tour. And, surprising me, he talked openly about his Christian faith—how hard it was sometimes to be a Christian around Alex and Lysander and Demetri, who weren't. “I keep talking to them about it, though. And praying for them. They know I am . . . different for a reason.”

He wanted to hear about me, but what was there to tell? I urged him to keep talking, drinking in the sound of his voice, picturing the long hours of practice, the road trips they would take on their special bus. His co-singers, the concerts. Slowly, I felt my worries over Daddy and Katherine slip away.

The waiter arrived to remove our salad plates. I placed my hands in my lap, eyes flicking about the restaurant. Trying to think of something new to say. Fleetingly, I wondered about supper at our house. Had Katherine sat in Mama's chair? Could Robert talk to her?

Greg leaned over the table. “Jackie.”

“Hm?” I looked into his warm gaze, sudden butterfly wings sweeping inside my chest.

“You go away sometimes. I don't know where.”

“Oh. I'm . . . I just think about a lot of things, I guess.”

He nodded. “You think about your mamma a lot?” he asked quietly.

The question surprised me. Greg seemed to flow from easy talk to serious in no time. Maybe he hadn't lost enough to understand how difficult that was supposed to be.

I looked at the rose, picked of thorns and perfect. “All the time.”

“You are very close to her.”

“Yes.” I rubbed a finger along the tablecloth. I could feel his gaze upon me. “Are you close to yours?”

“Yes, very much.”

“How about your brother?”

He rested his elbow on the table. “Danny too. I don't see him much now. But Danny . . . teaches me things. Like a big brother, you know? He has a long talk with me before I leave Greece.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Ah.” He cocked his head. “Things about being a Christian in a world that isn't. Things about traveling. How to . . . watch myself. Family.” He smiled. “Girls.”

“Really?” I teased. “And what did he tell you about girls?”

“You want to hear what he says before I leave, or what he says this morning on the phone?”

This morning. Oh, glory, I could imagine that conversation.
Hey, guess what, big brother, I got beat up at this girl's house.
“This morning.”

Greg fastened his eyes on mine, all seriousness. “He says ‘the best girls come from Bradleyville.'”

Well. Of course Greg's brother would say that, having married Celia. But to say it this morning, most certainly after Greg had told him about what happened at our house. For Greg to make a point of telling me . . . Was I reading too much into this?

Oh, hoo-fah, Greg probably talked this way to all the girls. Tried to make them feel special. It was part of his charm.

I rubbed a small circle on the tablecloth.

Greg reached out his undamaged hand to lay it over mine. Then he lifted it up, lacing our fingers. “I think my brother is right.”

I stared like an idiot at our fingers, wishing for some witty word. None came. I did manage a little, tight smile.

Sudden voices caused a stir at the front of the restaurant. I glanced up and Greg twisted to look, our hands still linked. Three girls our age, looking like knockouts in formals pinned with corsages, swept into the restaurant, followed by their dates in suit and tie. Greg turned back to me. “The ‘prom bunch.'”

Were they ever. Three more girls and their dates followed, filling up the small lobby like multicolored flowers, all fresh and sun-kissed and beautiful. Four had their hair up in elegant twists, adorned with baby's breath. Another's shining blonde hair hung to her bare shoulders in unbelievably thick layers. A pink strapless dress, immodestly low cut, hugged every curve of her body to the floor. The girls chattered with the confidence of the glamorous, laughter and anticipation flowing through the room and causing heads to turn. “There goes our quiet,” I commented. Why couldn't I have worn something more fancy? The hostess began leading them toward the three remaining tables near us. They milled about, dividing themselves into quartets, the girls rustling into their seats and setting beaded purses at their feet.

“Doesn't matter.” Greg squeezed my fingers.

The blonde shook her hair back and glanced our way, then did a double take, her gaze landing on Greg. From the corner of my eye I could see her brow rise with approval. How nice for her that she found him attractive.

I smiled at him. “So. What else did your brother tell you?”

The girl stared a moment longer, her expression crinkling into puzzled suspicion. If Greg noticed, he paid no attention. She leaned over to the girl on her left, her pink formal meshing with the blue satin of her friend's. They whispered, and I knew what was coming next. Sure enough, both coiffed heads turned to assess Greg once more, then checked me up and down. I felt myself grow warm beneath their dismissive looks. Finally, they turned their attention back to their dates.

“I think they recognize you,” I whispered to Greg. He nodded but did not look at them. I felt a wash of gratitude that his eyes remained on me.

The waiter arrived with our entrees. Greg pulled his hand from mine as we were served.

We talked of this and that as we ate, of Greece and Bradleyville and our families. Trying to ignore the increasingly animated banter at the prom tables. After their salads, four of the girls decided to flock to the bathroom, swishing past us with proud chins and lingering glances upon Greg. They caught each other by the arms, exchanging whispers as they flowed up the aisle and around the corner. “I'm telling you,” the blonde's insistent voice floated over her shoulder, “he looks just like the picture on my wall!”

Left to their own devices, the girls' dates traded teasing insults back and forth. One pulled at his bow tie, complaining, “How many more hours do I have to wear this thing?”

Greg smiled at that. “Glad I don't have one,” he said.

“Glad I don't have a formal dress on.” I suppressed a cringe, wondering if he saw through my lie.

The four girls returned. One of them pulled a small camera from her purse and started taking pictures of the others. “Here, do us.” She handed the camera to a cohort and leaned close to her date with a sultry smile.

“Want some dessert?” Greg asked as our waiter took our plates.

I hesitated. “Are you going to have some?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, you all,” the blonde said loudly enough for all of her friends to hear, “we should get a picture together.”

“That's too much trouble,” one of the guys protested. “We can do it at the prom.”

“We'll all get separated at the prom.” She pushed back her chair and stood, motioning impatiently for the others to follow suit. “Come on, I'll find someone to take it.”

Instantly, I knew that “someone” would be Greg.

She approached our table, dripping with feigned innocence. “Would you take our picture for us?” she asked Greg without so much as a glance at me.

“Ah.” Greg forced a smile. “Of course.” He accepted the camera with an apologetic glance in my direction. As he stood up, the girl inhaled sharply.

“Oh, my! What
happened
to you?” She reached out a painted fingernail and touched his cheek.

Greg flinched in surprise, then tried to hide it, ever the gentleman. I could have knocked the girl's hand off. “Just a little accident.”

If I'd have thought fast enough, I'd have answered for him. The words flowed in his soft and intriguing Greek accent. The girl studied him with unabashed interest as two of her friends appeared magically at her side. “You're not from here, are you?”

My, how perceptive. I'd had enough of her. I'd had enough of all of them. “Willy Ray,” I spoke in a clearly annoyed tone, “just take the picture.”

A flicker of amusement tugged at Greg's mouth. He played along perfectly. “Okay,” he said with an apologetic shrug at the girl.

“Willy Ray?” she repeated with narrowed eyes. I could practically see the wheels of suspicion turning in her head. “With an accent like that, your name is Willy Ray?”

“Come on, Charlotte, let's get this over with.” Her date clamped firm hands on her shoulders and pulled her back to their group, her friends following. Greg aimed the camera and they posed, instant dazzling smiles appearing on each girl's face. He clicked and a brilliant flash lit the room.

As her friends reseated themselves, Charlotte retrieved her camera. “Thank you,” she purred, her fingers grazing Greg's. “You know, you sure look like the lead singer from LuvRush.” She waited for a denial, but Greg didn't respond. His silence etched anticipation into her face. Her blue eyes widened. “You are, aren't you?”

Greg hesitated, then nodded.

“And that accent,” she gushed, “I knew it!” Her gaze slid to me and back. She smiled at Greg with sickening indulgence, as if they shared private thoughts. “But what are you doing here? And with a girl from
Bradleyville?”

The question rained over me like acid. I glared at her in rage and disbelief. What did this stupid girl think—that Greg would be impressed by her snotty attitude? And how did she know I was from Bradleyville, anyway? Charlotte surveyed me snidely, apparently reading my thoughts. “It's the dress,” she smirked, her eyes falling to my neckline.

Well, hoo-fah for you,
I railed,
at least half my chest isn't falling out.
All the same, her words bubbled right through my skin. Catty or not, she outshone me a dozen candles to one, and I hated myself for it. Greg stood in shocked silence, his cheek mottling deeper red. I pressed my lips and stared at the tablecloth, muscles stiffening. I wanted to melt right through the floor.

A
tsk
escaped Charlotte's teeth. “Greg,” she pressed her fingers into his arm, “let me take a picture with you.”

“No, thank you,” he managed levelly enough, but she paid no heed. She turned her head quickly to hiss over her shoulder, “It's
him!”

Everything happened so fast. A fluttering gasp rose from Charlotte's friends. Chairs pushed back, excitement springing to their faces. “Could I have your autograph?” one girl called as two more rushed over, spouting questions. Other diners in the restaurant craned their heads at the sudden commotion.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Charlotte fluttered her hands in the air. “I saw him first!” She thrust her camera into the closest friend's hand. “Here, take our picture.” She pivoted to press herself against Greg, her cheek against his jaw.

Greg pulled away. “No!” He grabbed the camera from the surprised girl, pressing it until his battered knuckles whitened. Everyone froze. Greg inhaled, as if he didn't know what to do next. In that moment I understood the dilemma that would plague his life. If he'd been a nobody, he could give in to his anger. But how to control himself as fans watched, the same adoring fans whose tongues would surely wag with disdain if he appeared anything less than perfect?

“Come on, Greg,” Charlotte wheedled, “it's just a picture.”

“Charlotte, leave them alone.” Her date shot Greg a look of apology and embarrassment. “They're just tryin' to eat.”

“Let me be, Sam.” She pouted glossy lips at Greg. “Oh, please. Then I promise I'll leave you alone.” She raked a glance at me again, as if she couldn't imagine why Greg would want anything of the sort.

Greg looked at her, his face rigid. Then, slowly, his expression smoothed. Even with the short time I'd known Greg, I knew he'd forced it. He placed the camera on the table. “Sorry,” he said with ultimate politeness. “But I have a rule when I am with my girl.” He aimed me a quick smile. “If you want to take a picture with me, Jackie is in it.”

Sam snorted. Charlotte wheeled on him, nostrils flaring. It took everything I had to hide my vindictiveness. Even stupid Charlotte knew when she'd been put in her place.

With a toss of her head, she snatched the camera from the table. “Never mind,” she said sweetly to Greg with a bat of her eyes. “Wouldn't want to waste my film.”

Her friend in blue satin sucked in a breath. “As you wish,” Greg said, dismissing Charlotte regally. He nodded to the group. “Good to meet you.” He held out his battered hand to Sam, who stared at it in surprise, then shook it. Greg winced.

A waiter approached the group's tables with a tray of plates. Sam turned grateful attention to the food. “Looks like our chow's here. Let's eat.” The subdued group returned to their chairs, the girl in blue casting a final glance at Greg.

He sat down and reached for my hand, looking mortified. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered. “I do not think something like this will happen.”

My girl. He'd said “my girl.”

Only for Charlotte's sake. He didn't mean it.

“It doesn't matter,” I heard myself say. As if either of us would believe that.

He didn't mean it.

“It does matter.”

In my peripheral vision I saw Charlotte hunch over her food with fierce concentration. “This is so good!” she said loudly.

Greg's eyes clouded as he tried to read my thoughts. Poor Greg. How the tables had turned from last night to this, no pun intended. I should not even think of my own embarrassment. If that half-dressed witch had treated him the way she treated me, I'd have wanted to strangle her.