would have put on the brakes, and how likely was it that he would have? Not very, and yet he’d managed to pull himself back into his shell and walk away before anything had gotten started.
Uncertainty seized her. What if he’d left because he didn’t want to get involved with her, and he’d thought she was about to make a suggestion that he’d have to turn down? Her cheeks burned in retrospective humiliation. Maybe she’d misread his expression; not being naive didn’t mean she couldn’t be mistaken. She’d never before inspired savage lust in a man, so what made her think something had suddenly changed and a man like Ben Jernigan would want her?
Sex, yes; men went for casual sex. But what about wanting her, the person, who had nothing special about her? Had he thought she’d be needy, demanding more than he could give, and that was why he’d bolted? She’d never done casual sex, because she couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable. Her instinct, always, was to protect herself and attract as little attention as possible.
She gathered both tea glasses and took them inside, washed them in the cold pan of dishwater she prepared every morning. The mundane chore gave her a little bit of distance, let her step back from what had and hadn’t happened with Ben. There was nothing she could do to change it. If he was interested, he’d come back. If he wasn’t interested, she’d have to accept that and move on.
The next morning Sela walked up the road to Carol’s house, for the morning ritual of listening to the nine a.m. radio broadcast. Sometimes she’d go early and have breakfast with them, which these days consisted of a cup of instant coffee and whatever they’d settled on that day, maybe an apple with peanut butter. Mostly, though, she’d skip breakfast. She wasn’t hungry early in the day, and she was always acutely aware that every bite they took today was a bite they wouldn’t have when winter came.
As soon as Sela walked in the door, Carol looked at her, eyebrows raised, and said, “Ben Jernigan walked by yesterday afternoon. Did you see him?”
“I did.” Helping herself to a cup and the instant coffee, she dipped, poured, and stirred. She still hadn’t told Carol about the night of the aurora, and didn’t intend to. She might have misled herself about what sitting with Ben could have indicated, but it was still a memory she cherished and didn’t want to share, or listen to Carol’s comments about Mr. Hot Body. “I was sitting on the porch.”
“I wonder where he was going,” Carol continued, her tone sly. “He came back by in just a little while.”
Sela ignored Carol’s insinuation that he’d been going to her house. Well, he had, but for a different reason. “He told me the Livingstons, the old couple over near Covemont, needed checking on. You know them, don’t you?”
“Sure. Jim and Mary Alice. How does he know them? I didn’t think he associated with anyone.”
“I don’t know. Anyway, Mary Alice is on a couple of medications and needs some help managing them and finding substitutions for when she runs out. I thought after the radio broadcast I’d go by their house and find out exactly what she’s taking, then talk to the Bouldins about it.” Pat and Helen Bouldin were the herbalist couple she’d met the day of the big cookout.
Carol looked disappointed that Sela didn’t have anything more interesting to say about Ben, but took up her ever-present notebook and made a dated entry about the Livingstons. That way nothing was forgotten or overlooked.
Olivia came down the stairs and made a face at the breakfast offering, which today was some instant oatmeal, two packets divided between three—or four—people, and dried prunes. She didn’t protest, though she took only one prune and very little oatmeal. Barb wasn’t eating much either, but the uneaten oatmeal wouldn’t be thrown away; they’d stir hot water into the leftovers for lunch. “We need some bread,” she announced. “Toast would be great.” Their ready-made bread supplies were gone, but they had the ingredients to bake bread, they just hadn’t done it—again, saving supplies for harder times.
“I’ll make some pan biscuits tomorrow morning,” Barb promised. “It won’t be long until we’ll have to keep a fire going, and we’ll have bread more often.” She smiled, looking inward. “I remember my mama baking bread in the cast-iron skillet, in the fireplace. I’ve done it a time or two myself.