Chapter 27 – The Reporter And The Barefoot Rebel Girl
Tuesday, July 8, 1969 – 2pm.
At twenty-two and just weeks after getting his journalism degree, Mark Tammerly still can't believe he has a real newspaper column, even if the newspaper in question has a total readership smaller than the population of some small countries.
But hell, even Mike Royko had to start somewhere, so why not him?
Thus motivated, Mark pushes aside his iced coffee and empty cobbler plate, takes a small notebook and a fancy pen from his shirt pocket, and begins to write the first draft of tomorrow's column:
Musings From Rebel Creek
by Mark Tammerly
Fair warning, dear readers, the column you are about to read is not the column I originally set out to write.
That column, as directed by my editor, was to involve finding and describing the five top tourist attractions in Rebel Creek, a task I happily accepted.
There was only one problem.
Rebel Creek doesn't have five tourist attractions, which I discovered during my first-ever walk around town.
Or even tourists, as one long-time regular here at Evvie's Place – an elderly gent everyone calls Speedy – was quick to point out.
"You oughtta just write about this here cafe," he told me, and despite my initial skepticism, I soon realized he was right.
So what changed my mind, you ask?
I fell in love.
Oh, not with a sweetheart, as one might expect, but with a place, this place, and I've yet to meet two of the three lovely ladies who draw their livelihood from it.
"Call me Lacy," a girl's voice says, so close he can feel her breath on his ear. "Callin' me a lady won't get you an extra piece of Ma's cherry cobbler."
The girl slides into the booth next to Mark, none-too-gently nudging him with her hip to scoot him over.
Then she reaches out and snatches the pen right out of his hand.
"Cool pen. What kind is it?"
"It's a Cross."
"Maybe where you come from," Lacy teases. "Here in West Texas we still call it a pen."
"Very funny," Mark mutters, grinning in spite of himself.
She leans in to read his notes again, the Irish Spring-and-strawberries scent of her intoxicating him even as her wind-blown blonde hair brushes softly over his left forearm.
"I'd be your sweetheart," she says finally, "'cept there's already Riley, an' Grandpa's friend Hawkeye, who's too old for me anyway, an' I ain't that kinda girl no matter what folks say."
Lacy shifts in the booth to face him, drawing her knees up to her chin and resting both bare feet firmly against his thigh.
Okay, Mark thinks, trying not to stare at how much leg her current pose is showing him, this is a first even for me.
"Read my toes," she says, wiggling them to get his attention where it belongs.
He gazes down at her warm, naked feet, not quite sure what she wants him to see.
"What am I missing here," he asks, feeling a bit disconcerted.
"Look closer." Her grin at his expense is wicked. "They won't bite."
"Said the spider to the fly," Mark mutters, and Lacy curls her toes into the faded black denim of his jeans.
"Read my damn toes, or so help me I'm gonna kiss you right here in front of God an' everybody."
He almost calls her bluff, but her earlier words – I ain't that kinda girl – stop him. So instead he squints down at her feet and tries to decipher the tiny black marks decorating her nails.
"Lubbo?"
"Yeah, lubbo. Now read the other ones."
But the second five toes – marked ckA-J – baffle him, and his raised eyebrow elicits an indulgent smile from her.
"Line 'em up together," she suggests, so he does.
"Holy shit!"
The oath is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Lacy looks at him with feigned innocence and a raised eyebrow of her own.
"What'd I do?"
"Well, first off, you do realize I write for the Gazette, right? Not the damn Avalanche-Journal."
"Course I do," she retorts, her feet still resting comfortably on his upper leg. "Your uncle hired you."
"How'd you know he's my uncle?"
"'Cause this is Rebel Creek. We know all kinds of shit."
Now he's curious. "Like what, may I ask?"
"Like that you graduated in the top third of your class at Medill, you have a sister my age who's gonna be a junior this year like me, and you don't wear socks with your loafers."
Mark grins at her. "Okay, I'm impressed by your vast store of knowledge," - here Lacy rolls her eyes - "but why'd you paint your toenails with the name of my competion?"
She shrugs. "Not sure. Mainly 'cause I was bein' a brat over Ma tellin' me to wear sandals."
"So much for that," he says, gently tugging on one of her toes. "But something tells me there was more to your defiance than just your mom's footwear edict."
Lacy scoffs in mock disgust. "There you go again, talkin' all fancy like a city boy. But if you really must know, Mark Tammerly, the other reason I did my nails this way wasn't to tick you off, it was to fuck with the guy I thought they'd send, the fat, bald one slobberin' all over his smelly-ass cigar."
"That would be my uncle," Mark says, delighted by the happy giggle this earns him. "But hey, sorry to disappoint you."
Her smile is warm and friendly. "You didn't, trust me. An' if you want me to fetch my sandals from Peg's truck for a picture, I'll do it."
"Don't you dare," he says with an answering smile, right before they both hear shouting from the kitchen and Lacy gives him a tense, apologetic look.
"Don't go nowhere," she tells him, then she's out of the booth and gone, and in that moment Mark feels as if, for better or worse, he has just made his first real friend in Rebel Creek.
She might need help, he thinks, and it is this, more than anything, that leads him to disregard her order to stay put.