A Regular Joe. Jennifer Drew

“We’re not going to ask you to join in a bank heist or anything like that. We just need to hitch a ride is all. Don’t want Mattie to know we broke loose until after the fact. We’ve had all we can stand at that funny farm this week. We’re going fishing.”

      Pops raised his pointy chin, all but daring Joe to protest.

      He didn’t.

      “The poles are in the shed at Mattie’s house,” Pops informed Joe. “We already walked a mile. Can you give us a lift?”

      Joe finished counting the till, switched off the lights, then locked the door behind him. Although this wasn’t as good as losing himself in a kiss with Mattie, aiding and abetting the Roland Gang was the next best thing.

      “It’ll be crowded in my pickup. It only has one seat,” Joe commented as he lead the way.

      “Sardines don’t complain about cramped cans, so neither will I,” Pops said, hobbling at his swiftest pace. “You ask her out yet?”

      “No,” Joe grumbled as he scrunched himself against the driver’s side, giving the gang every inch of space the cab of the truck would allow.

      “You have our stamp of approval, so what are you waiting for?” Glen demanded.

      “Thanks, that means a lot coming from the nursing home escapees,” Joe shot back wryly.

      “Fine, pal, you keep pussyfooting around and you’ll end up like us, all alone and on the prowl,” Herman put in. “They don’t come better than Mattie. I watched her grow up. Hell, I helped raise her when her grandpa was in a bind with a job that took him out of town for a week at a time.”

      “So did I,” Ralph added proudly. “Me and Wilma, God rest her, were honorary aunt and uncle in the old days.”

      “Same went for me and Jean,” said Fred. “Even attended her high school and college graduation as part of her family. You don’t think Mattie is good enough for you, just because she’s a tomboy at heart? Is that the problem here?”

      “She’s better than I deserve,” Joe murmured.

      “Speak up, son,” Pops demanded. “The batteries on my hearing aids are fizzling out.”

      “I like Mattie just fine,” Joe all but yelled.

      “Sheesh, keep it down,” Glen groused. “We’re hard-of-hearing, not stone-deaf.”

      Joe pulled out from the alley and took the back streets to Mattie’s house. Amused—in an exasperated sort of way—he listened to the old coots give sales pitches about why he needed to see Mattie socially. If she had the slightest idea that the fearsome five were trying to play matchmaker, she’d probably pitch a fit.

      Joe, however, thought it was touching to observe their loyalty and devotion to Mattie. She might not have excessive material wealth to rank her among Fortune’s 500, but she was well respected and loved here in Fox Hollow. Her customers heaped glowing accolades on her. Her grandfather and honorary uncles adored her. Mattie had a wealth of friendship, while Joe had numerous acquaintances and associates, but few valued and trusted friends.

      Joe had come to Fox Hollow to regain his touch with reality, to wander among the real people in this world. In forty-eight hours he’d received a full dose of life. His own life had become an endless string of profit-loss spreadsheets, cabinets filled with files, corporate meetings and shallow social gatherings. But here in the timberland he felt himself coming alive, not merely existing.

      “You boys had supper yet?” Joe inquired.

      The question drew a round of scoffs, snorts, and a couple of colorful obscenities.

      “I told you on the phone that we were herded to the cafeteria for the slop-of-the-day special, topped off with glazed prunes for dessert. If you call that eating, then yeah, we already ate,” Pop grumbled. “You got any junk food at your apartment?”

      Joe grinned. “You bet your asses, boys. You provide the fishing poles, and I’ll bring along the junk food and dig a few worms for bait.”

      Pops beamed in approval, then leaned sideways to give Joe a high five. “You’re my kind of people, son.”

      “So, what time do you have to report to the home tonight?” Joe asked as he turned into the driveway.

      Glen grinned. “We already crammed our pillows and spare blankets under the bedspreads and switched off the lights to make it look as if we hit the sack early. We’ve got hours to burn before they call out the dogs and begin the search.”

      Joe chuckled while the old men squirmed restlessly in the cramped space of his truck. Ah yes, life here in Fox Hollow was interesting, to say the least.

      Briefly Joe wondered how Mattie would react when, and if, she discovered he’d acted as chauffeur and accomplice for the Roland Gang this evening. Then he decided Mattie should thank him for keeping an eye on these old coots. After all, if one of the men tripped and fell in the river, he had enough brawn and muscle to handle the rescue. He was actually doing Mattie a favor, now that he thought about it.

      4

      MATTIE SQUATTED ON HER HAUNCHES, then assembled the miniature deacon’s bench. Grabbing the nail gun, she secured the boards in place. While the whack-thump of the gun serenaded her, she reflected on the enjoyable hours she’d spent the previous Sunday, while she and Joe designed drop-leaf tables, storage chests, curio shelves and peg racks for the convalescent home. Using spare lumber from previous projects, leftover paint, and damaged merchandise from the store, she and Joe had created arts and crafts that depicted country life. They had worked side by side for hours on end, chatting about little or nothing, really. They’d just talked, discussed their projects, and got to know each other better.

      Joe hadn’t mentioned the Near-Kiss Incident and neither had she. She told herself it was for the best that they had been interrupted. But that incessant little voice kept repeating, You go, girl.

      For a full week now, Mattie had worked alongside Joe, who proved to be a dream employee. She had heard the razzing he’d taken from the macho types who happened into town to gawk and taunt the “girlie-man” who had hired on at Hobby Hut.

      For the most part Joe ignored the teasing, secure enough in his masculinity that he didn’t feel intimidated by the cowboys and sportsmen who frequented Watering Hole Tavern on the outskirts of town.

      Grimacing, Mattie rose from a crouch to work the kinks from her back and legs, then glanced at her watch. It was long past closing time at the store, and she had made good progress on the three projects for customers who purchased her landscape paintings and requested theme shelves to display their folk art and Americana knickknacks. Working with Emerald Pool Green, Footprint Cream and Longjohn Red, Mattie had added colorful, hand-painted designs to the shelves and benches.

      She’d managed to fill another lonely Saturday night, she thought glumly.

      Her social life stank.

      Mattie had offered to buy Joe’s supper after work, but he’d left the store at closing time, commenting that he’d already made plans for the evening. However, he promised he’d start bright and early Sunday on the projects for the nursing home. Mattie wondered if he’d grown tired of her company and lost interest in the kiss that never happened—and probably never would.

      Story of her life, actually, she thought as she unplugged the power tools, tapped the lids onto the paint cans, then swept up sawdust. She’d always been one of the guys during her high school and college days. She was the misfit female in woodwork classes who took her projects seriously. No one had been interested in dating a girl who showed the guys up in class through her skills with a saw, drill and can of paint.

      Same probably held true with Joe, she mused. Undoubtedly, he had decided to look elsewhere for a hot date. Women had been hovering around the store for a solid week, flirting outrageously, asking his opinions and making purchases, just so