Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,35

the whispered gossip I used to hear.

“You could make a pile of easy cash,” she says. “Anyone would hire you guys for their wedding entertainment.”

This had never occurred to me, but now I realize she's absolutely right. Dylan doesn't need to make caramels. He could be making piles of money just playing that fiddle.

“Are you kidding?” Dylan yelps. “First of all, you have to hustle for every job, because wedding customers don’t repeat. And then you're responsible for the most important day in someone’s whole—” He checks his language. “—flipping life? Does that sound like a good job to you?”

“I would if I could play like you,” Debbie insists.

“Nah,” says Daphne Shipley. “That's too many details for Dylan. Too much responsibility.”

Dylan shrugs like his sister’s comment doesn't bother him. But I wonder if it does. He tucks his fiddle under his arm and follows Keith toward the food table.

“Dude, Debbie is right,” Keith says. “What if I got us a gig or two? Please?”

“Sure, man,” Dylan says absently. “Just not weddings.”

“Dylan is allergic to weddings!” Debbie calls out, and all the other girls laugh.

It takes a long time for Griffin’s fire to burn down to coals.

The party rolls on, although the partygoers are spread out. There are lights on in the cider house, where Zachariah has poured some samples and where Griffin cons some of his friends into taking a turn at the presses. I can hear the crank of the apple-washing machine from here.

In a little while, they’ll come out and light some fireworks in honor of Mr. Shipley.

Meanwhile, I have a marshmallow on the end of a stick, and I’m toasting it slowly. I like them brown but not blackened, and it takes a while.

It also happens that this spot is conducive to some excellent eavesdropping. I’ve learned that Debbie hates her job at the hair salon and is reconsidering her decision to go to beauty school next year. And that she’s so over Billie Eilish, whoever that is.

“So, did you hear about Dylan?” one of the girls asks. “He broke up with that piranha he was dating.”

I feign great interest in my marshmallow and move a half step closer.

“Yep. I did hear that,” Debbie says. “Supposedly she cheated on him. As if that makes any sense.”

“I know, right?” her friend says with a laugh. “Maybe he cheated first?”

”That boy has a short, little attention span,” Debbie mutters.

“True story. But he stayed interested in you for a while. Are you going to hit tonight? One last fun time?”

“Who says it would be the last time?” Debbie smirks. “That boy will be single forever. Nobody is surprised that the girlfriend lasted a hot second.”

The other girls snicker.

“There won’t be any fun with Dylan for me tonight, though,” she says. “I have to get the car back before my brother gets home and sees that it’s gone. But you guys gave me an evil idea.”

“Really? How evil?”

She slowly removes a perfectly toasted marshmallow from her stick and then smiles. “I'm out of here. But just watch, because Dylan's gonna disappear for a while and then come back looking…less satisfied than he expected.”

The girls let out a hoot. “Bitch!”

“Burn!”

“It’s just payback,” she insists. “The boy turned me down last month because of what’s-her-name—the cheater. Now he’ll realize that was a mistake.”

Leaving her friends to giggle and gossip, she carries the perfect marshmallow over to where Dylan and Keith are seated on a log. She leans over Dylan and says something I can’t hear.

As I watch, he opens his mouth, and she tucks that marshmallow inside. He chews, and I’m not imagining the sloppy smile on his face. Debbie leans over and whispers something in his ear. She cups his chin, giving it a stroke, and then abruptly stands up and walks away, her walk all hips and a hair toss, too.

“Oh, this could be good,” her friend says beside me.

Debbie leaves the fire pit, stopping to chat a moment with another acquaintance. But then? She moseys past the cider house. I lose her in the shadows for a moment, but catch the sheen of her hair again as she heads for the bunkhouse, which is quiet and dark tonight.

She doesn’t go inside. She walks around to the back, instead. A few moments later, she emerges on the far side. She walks quickly toward the long row of cars in the Shipley driveway, ducking onto the far side of them. Then she hoofs it down the drive, maybe toward her own car