Down on Love by Jayne Denker Page B

sometimes.” Mrs. Preston winked at her.
    George didn’t know what to say. This was new—usually her praise (and criticism) came via e-mail and the comment feature on her blog, making it all pretty impersonal. Face to face? It felt kind of weird.
    Mrs. Preston put a hand on George’s arm. “You must give me some pointers sometime. I’m thinking of starting a blog of my own.”
    “Oh . . . really!” George tried to sound enthusiastic.
    “Mm, yes. My memoirs. It’s so much more . . . current, and modern, to blog about them instead of writing an autobiography. Don’t you think?”
    “Well . . . sure. That’s a great way to look at it.”
    “So may I pick your brain, dear? Once I’m up and running, I’ll link to your blog if you’ll link to mine. And I’ll give you a standing twenty percent discount in the store.”
    “Sounds good, Mrs. P.”
    Then Mrs. Preston turned to Casey, with her lecture face on. As an elder stateswoman of the town, a title automatically bestowed on anyone who’d won the longevity lottery, she possessed the divine right of judgment. “Nice to see you relaxing a bit for once, young man,” she said, then explained to George, “He works too, too hard, you know. So many plans, such ambition. He hardly ever leaves that farm of his to spend time with any—” Then a rather alarmingly eager light appeared in her eyes. “Ooh, is this a date? ”
    George and Casey tripped over one another to reassure the woman that no, in fact they were just taking Amelia for a walk, just going to the hardware store, bum sink, needs repairs, you know . . . but the woman didn’t seem to be listening very closely. Sure enough, Mrs. Preston nodded her head vaguely, as though she hadn’t heard them, but then gave them an exaggerated wink. She’d heard them fine; she just didn’t believe them. “Well, now. Don’t let me interrupt!” And she stepped aside and waved them on.
    “Just walk away,” Casey murmured to a stunned George. “Don’t even try.”
    George snickered and glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Preston, who was still watching them, even though she was now on her cell phone. “Well, she hasn’t changed a bit.”
    “Is it weird? Being back?”
    “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is definitely weird being back. Nothing’s changed, and everything’s changed. If that makes any sense.”
    “It makes total sense. I know exactly what you mean.”
    They crossed a side street, and George did a double take at the sight of a picture of a garden spray-painted on a brick wall. She glanced at Casey with a smile. “Banksy crossed the Atlantic when nobody was looking?”
    “What, the street art? Local version. We call him Marsdy.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Nobody knows—haven’t caught anybody in the act yet. And that’s some feat.”
    “Keeping a secret around here? You’re not kidding.” They hurried past a mime on the corner, avoiding catching the person’s eye so they didn’t have to stop and watch the invisible box thing. “When did you move back? Sera didn’t tell me—well, why would she, you know? But I didn’t—I mean . . .”
    “It’ll be two years in October.”
    “She hasn’t mentioned you in two years? Not that we talk very often, but . . .”
    “I’ve been keeping a low profile.”
    “‘Working hard on the farm?’” It seemed like everything came back to that.
    “Yeah.” Before she could ask for details, he went on, “And speaking of working, what was that Mrs. P said, about a blog . . . ?”
    “Girl’s gotta make a living.”
    “Well, aren’t you wired—” Casey paused as a cell phone chirped. “Yours?”
    George stopped walking and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Nope. You?”
    Casey was checking his. “Not me.”
    They stowed their phones and started walking again, but their path seemed to be blocked more frequently, and by individuals who were looking at them rather intently.
    George whispered, “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
    “When was the last time