Karen Templeton - Fortune's Cinderella

“So what do y’all do for fun?” she asked.

“Fun?”

It was almost totally dark by now. And cold. Cold enough that they leaned into each other for warmth. And comfort. The pain in her leg and foot had settled into a dull but constant ache. As had the fear, which was almost like a third person in the space.

“It’s not a trick question, you know.”

“More than you might think,” Scott muttered, then parried, “What do you do for … fun?”

“I asked you first.”

He blew out a heavy sigh, his breath warm in her hair. “Okay … we … go to a lot of charity events.” His accent was pure Southern-privileged, his voice pure man, all low and rumbly. A delicious, and deadly, combination. “Dinners, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Excruciatingly.”

“For pity’s sake—I said fun , Scott. Or do you need me to define the word?”

“How would you define it?”

“Well … fun is something that makes you feel good. Makes you happy. Makes you glad to simply be alive.”

“Such as?”

She thought. “Goin’ to the state fair and eating your weight in fried food. And cotton candy. Tossing burgers on the grill on a summer night, sittin’ around and chewing the fat with friends. Driving to nowhere with the top down, stopping wherever you feel like it. Sittin’ on the steps and watching fireflies. What?”

“Apparently your definition of fun doesn’t include the word exciting .”

“Does yours?”

“Good point.”

“I said, it just has to make you feel good.”

“So … is that your life? In a nutshell? Going to the fair and chowing down on burgers and watching fireflies?”

After a long moment, she said, “I said that’s how I define fun. I didn’t necessarily say that was my life. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just … I’m kind of … focused on other things right now.” When he got real quiet, she said, “What are you thinking about?”

“That I’ve never been to a state fair.”

“Get out.”

“It’s true. But also … that I can’t remember the last time I felt good about doing something that didn’t involve improving the bottom line.”

“And that is too sad for words.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making money, Christina. FortuneSouth provides jobs for thousands of people—”

“Oh, don’t go getting defensive. I never said there was anything wrong with making money. But you have to admit there’s something off about only getting your jollies from work.”

Another pause. Then: “I don’t only get my jollies from work.”

“Lord, I can practically hear your brows waggling. And that doesn’t count,” she said when he laughed.

“It doesn’t?”

“Not that it can’t be fun—don’t get me wrong. But it’s so … trite.”

Scott barked out a laugh. “Point to you.”

“Thank you.”

She felt him shift beside her. “You remind me a little of my youngest sister. Wendy.”

“The one your parents sent out here because she was about to drive ’em up a wall?”

“The very one.”

“Is Wendy your favorite?”

“Yes. But don’t you dare tell her that. Or anyone else.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Christina thought a moment, then said, “I’m very flattered, then.”

Scott chuckled. “So tell me about your family.”

Yeah, he would ask that. “Not a whole lot to tell. My father jumped ship when I was a toddler, never to be seen again, and my mother … we’re not real close.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. But I do have a dog … ohmigosh!”

“What?”

“I can’t believe I forgot! I have a dog . And I have no idea if he’s okay—”

Feeling her eyes burn, Christina pressed a hand to her mouth. Not being dead yet, she figured she was ahead of the game, but suddenly not having any idea how her baby was made her sick to her stomach.

“What’s his name?” Scott said gently.

She lowered her hand. “G-gumbo. ’Cause when God made him he tossed whatever parts He had on hand into a bowl, and Gumbo was the result. Although he gets called Dumbo a lot, too,” she said on a shaky little laugh. “Dog’s dumber than a load of bricks, I swear. But he’s mine, and I love him, and—”

The tears came whether she wanted them to or not. The shock came when Scott slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her head to his chest. Not saying anything, just holding her close.

So. Unfair.

Then her stomach rumbled. “How long do you suppose we’ve been here?”

“I have no idea. It’s been dark for a while, though.”

She listened. “Rain’s stopped.”

“Yep. In fact, there must be a full moon.”

Christina blinked, noticed the silvery light here and there delineating the scene. “Oh, yeah.” She sighed. “I’d kill for a burger and fries right now.”

Another of those low chuckles preceded, “You and me both.”

“While we have the light … there’s a refrigerated case, if you can get to it, with food, such as it is. And water and stuff.”

“Be right back.”

He disappeared; for several minutes she heard scuffling, some cursing. Then a surprised, “I’ll be damned. I found my phone. Although … crap. No service. But … hold on …”

A minute later he returned with a couple of sandwiches, two bottles of water and that little box. “The case was pretty banged up,” he said, sitting beside her again. “But still cold. I have no idea what I got, though.”

“Ask me if I care,” she said, grabbing one of the sandwiches and ripping off the cellophane. “So what’s in the box?”

“Heaven. Or so I’m told.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. After she started working at Red, Wendy discovered she had a talent for making desserts. So she gave all of us a sampling of some of her creations.” He turned on his phone, the feeble light illuminating the contents of the box enough for Christina to see several kinds of cookies, some sort of bar thing and a Napoleon-like pastry. “Help yourself, I’m not big on sweets. But you’d better believe I wouldn’t tell Wendy that.”

The sandwich gone, Christina hesitated, then selected something that melted in her mouth. Butter and chocolate and caramel and maybe some kind of liqueur? It was the fanciest thing she’d ever tasted in her life, given that, for her, a “splurge” was buying real Oreos instead of the Walmart fakeouts. Which she wasn’t about to tell Scott .

“That was amazing” was all she said, then closed the lid on the box.

“Please. I mean it. Take what you want.”

Like she’d ever been able to do that in her entire life. “No, it’s okay. I’m good.”

Their meal done, they sat in silence for a little while, digesting what had happened to them—well, at least that’s what Christina was doing—as well as their food. Outside, the wind had picked up enough to whistle through the jagged orifices left in the wake of the destruction. Close by, something periodically scraped against the wall on the far side of what used to be the snack bar.

Scott cleared his throat. “I think we need to keep talking—”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Absolutely.” Then she yawned. “If I can stay awake. I think the adrenaline’s gone.”

“You comfortable?”

“I’ve been better. Been worse, too.”

He pulled her close again. “Lay your head on my chest.”

“I couldn’t—”

“One, you already have. And two, I cannot tell you how little I’m in the mood for arguments right now. And I’m cold, too. So just do it, dammit.”