Title: Small Town Talk
Rating: T
Summary: Zoe tries to deal with Bluebell's gossiping and nosiness. Wade has an idea.
Disclaimer: Although their scene together in the finale could have been something out of my imagination, I still don't own them.
Let's give them something to talk about,
A little mystery figure out.
- Bonnie Raitt, Something To Talk About
Zoe Hart is not used to small towns.
In New York, you could walk down the street in nothing but stilettos and your underwear, and all anyone would think was that you were trying to be the next Lady Gaga. A flood of tourists would overtake you and they'd take pictures and think you were Lady Gaga, because who knows what she actually looks like, anyway?
No one watched what Zoe did in New York, unless she was with one of her mom's celebrity clients, and then she had the exhilarating experience of dodging paparazzi and ducking into exclusive clubs. Her picture may have ended up in a few magazines, but she was always on the fringe of the frame, and it wasn't her wild side they were trying to catch—not that Zoe Hart has much of a wild side, anyway.
New York is filled with thousands of lonely, crazy, ambitious people all hoping to force their dreams out of their heads and into reality. Those people don't have the time or the patience to care about one doctor in a tsunami of oncoming foot-traffic.
Bluebell is another beast entirely. The first time Zoe realizes it is when a little old lady she doesn't know walks straight up to her and says, "I hope you put a tight leash on that Kinsella boy."
Zoe stops walking, her Pierre Hardy heels digging into the clay road because God forbid Bluebell pave anything. She peers down at the old lady, wondering how one face can have so many wrinkles. "I'm sorry?"
"That Wade Kinsella. You've got to keep an eye on him!"
With that, the lady scuttles away, and Zoe chews her lip as she stares at the old woman's hunched figure. The only part Zoe understands about the warning is that it concerns one of the four people she knows in this town. It also concerns the person whose lap she crawled into on that first, rough day in Bluebell. She doesn't think Mrs. Wrinkles has any idea about that, and she can only conclude that heat-induced confusion or possibly even dementia has overtaken the kindly southern lady.
Then she spots George sitting outside of the Rammer Jammer, and the strange encounter slips from her mind. She walks over, avoiding George's gaze and moving slowly—meandering really. Once she gets to his table, she makes a show like she just saw him.
"Oh, hey," Zoe says. George looks up from his scrambled eggs and grits and smiles.
"Hey, stranger," he says, his Southern accent softer than some in this town (particularly his fiancée). "How's it going?"
She sidles up next to him, feels her smile get wide and flirtatious even as she resists the desire to smack herself on the forehead.
"It's going," she says. "Brick is still freezing me out, and I haven't convinced anyone to come see me. But at least all the dirty looks stopped after I placed at the gumbo contest."
"That was some mighty fine cooking," George says, taking another bite of his grits and then wiping his mouth with a thin paper napkin. "So fine I'd say you didn't make it yourself."
Zoe swings her hip out to the side, places her hand on the crook of it and tries to look scandalized. "Hey! I'll have you know that was my great, great grandmother's secret gumbo recipe."
"Your great, great grandmomma must have spent time in the South then," George said, but his eyes and his smile are knowing.
"Maybe she did," Zoe says. Her stance relaxes and her voice dips lower. "Obviously the women in my family have an affinity for men from the South." He looks at her, opens his mouth like he's uncertain, and she quickly adds, "My mom's affair."
"Right," George says, and his eyes crinkle around the edges. "I'm real sorry about your trouble, Zoe. It's too bad you didn't get a chance to know Dr. Harley. He was a great man."
"So I've heard," she says.
He scoops up the rest of his eggs and places his grits bowl on top of his plate. "I'd ask you to join me, but I've got to get back to the office. You take care of yourself, Zoe Hart."
"And if you need someone to take care of you, you know where my office is," Zoe replies.
She can't help watching him as he goes, can't help admitting that it's a nice view. She remembers how her peril at the teeth of an alligator interrupted his run, and she knows he must have a nice, firm—
"I do believe you're droolin', Miss Hart."
"Doctor," she corrects automatically, a snippy habit she picked up the day she finally, finally graduated from medical school. She turns toward her neighbor. Wade is in plaid, which she's starting to think is the only pattern he owns, and he's got a tray of dishes in his hands. As she watches, he picks up George's plate and bowl and dumps them at the top of the tray.
"You know, I think you've got what's medically referred to as the hots for our dear lawyer."
"I don't have the hots," Zoe says, frowning at him. "Who even says that anymore?"
He sets the tray down and wipes his hands on a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. "You know it's a hopeless case, right? He and Lemon been together since we were kids."
"Well, it's a good thing I have no intention of going after him," Zoe answers. "Or anyone in this town, for that matter. I'm only here for a year, and then I'm going back to the city."
"Right, that fellowship you been working for your whole life," he says. "I remember you sayin' somethin' about that."
"Right before you assaulted me with your lips."
He makes a shushing sound through his straight, even teeth. "Careful, doc. Don't want anyone 'round here gettin' the wrong idea."
She shakes her head, but his warning calls to mind the strange lady on the street. She knows small towns move slower and the people in them have time to be nosier. Still, she doesn't think anyone can really gather anything from this little exchange with Wade. "Whatever. If you'll excuse me, I have some people to save."
He grins full-out now, the same one he gave her that first night, when she told him he could charm the pants off any girl in town but her. "Sure you do. Well, Dr. Hart, I wish you the best'a luck."
He picks up the dishes and carts them off. Zoe watches him for a moment, admitting that he looks pretty perfect in those faded jeans. Then she shakes herself and walks back to her practice.
She's working up a good pout later at the Rammer Jammer when Wade strides up from the back and sets a glass down in front of her. It's filled to the brim with an electric blue liquid that kind of looks like his eyes when he stares at the hot Alabama sun.
"Trust me, doc, you need it," Wade says.
Normally Zoe would question him. Normally she would demand a list of the contents, the proof of the alcohol and a calorie count of each component. Now she just picks up the drink and sucks a third of it down this stupid little twisty straw she can't imagine even the Rammer Jammer taking seriously. The mixture tastes like it looks—sugary and artificial, with a bite of pure electricity.
"Now tell me your troubles," Wade says, spreading his hands out wide like she's come to worship at the altar of his backwoods bar.
"I will when I get my voice back," Zoe says hoarsely. She thunks the glass down on the bar again. "This town sucks."
He makes a little whistling sound through his teeth. "Careful, doc. There are ears everywhere."
She looks around and she realizes there aren't just ears but eyes—eyes everywhere, their black little pupils pointed straight in her direction. Everyone looks away to talk amongst themselves when they catch her perusing them, and she only now realizes how silent the bar had been when she walked in.
"Great," she says, and takes another huge gulp of her drink. "Now everyone's really going to hate me."
"You know, I think we could give them something better to talk about."
He waggles his eyebrows at her and she grabs the stupid twisty straw and throws it at him. He catches it and tosses it back, and she ducks. The little straw soars across the bar and meets its grave amid the abandoned beer bottles on the other side of the room. His grin mirrors hers.
"That's not funny," she says.
"It would be funnier if it wasn't true," Wade agrees.
"I'm serious," she says. "What's it take to fit into this town? I've been in the parade—"
"You ruined the parade."
"—I've made the gumbo—"
"We both know you didn't make the gumbo."
"—I've delivered a baby at an engagement party—"
"That one's all you."
"And still nobody came to see me today. They're rather wait an hour for Brick than take a chance on me."
"Well, everyone's talkin' about you," he offers, and she stares at him. "If it helps."
"It doesn't," she says. "Are they really?"
"Well, yeah," The church social smile spreads out over his face. "You ain't never been in a small town, have you, doc?"
"You're always surprised by things that really aren't surprising."
"Listen up, because this is your first lesson," He holds up a finger, and she's distracted by his hands. They're tan, and his fingers are nice and long. No dirt under the nails either, which she would have expected. "Small towns talk. Especially when some tiny thing in designer duds swooshes in here and turns out to be the illegitimate daughter of a well-respected man. Girl, they're gonna follow you around like flies."
For a while, she just stares at him. Finally she says, "How do I make this stop?"
"Leave town," he answers. She bundles up her napkin and throws it at him. He catches it and drops it behind the bar. "Otherwise, you're plum out of luck. You'll just have to roll with it."
"Whatever," she says finally, and takes another deep swallow of her drink. "They'll lose interest soon. I can't be that fascinating."
"Whatever you say, Dr. Hart."
Next chapter: Wade's idea! Reviews are lovely.