Playing Jacks

ii. Life is Like a Grindstone

ii. Life is like a grindstone (whether it grinds us down or polishes us up depends on us.)

The neighbors stare at Sophie, standing on the curb in the sweltering sun. She reads the neat block lettering on the mailbox, just to be certain it’s the right place.  Before her, the white house sprawls over its lawn with deep, wrap around porches and shuttered windows- the picture perfect Georgia mansion for a law partner and aspiring politician.  Staring at it, Sophie swallows thickly.

Maybe I’ll just stand in the hot sun on the hot concrete, she thinks- utterly failing at her attempts to bolster her courage. Maybe I’ll just melt.

Instead, she squares her shoulders and steels herself against the possible rejection she’ll face at that door.  It doesn’t matter that she’s never met the man.  This is her only viable solution.  Well, this or capitulation.

Looking down at herself, Sophie considers the airy peasant blouse and jeans.  Perhaps she should get another hotel room, take her hair out of this ponytail, primp . . . return in something a little more appropriate for shameless begging.

Abruptly grateful for a reason to retreat, she turns to leave- only to bump into someone.

“Whoa there, little lady.  Are you lost?”

Sophie’s breath caught.  For a moment, all she can manage is a gaping stare.  “James?” She tries tentatively, though she doesn’t need the confirmation.  The man in front of her is Bryce’s duplicate.  Thicker, definitely, his pale eyes creased with years of humor and his voice infinitely kinder, he grins the same crooked grin that charmed Sophie into stupidity.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m James.  Can I help you?”

She takes a deep breath. “Actually, I’d rather you forgot you saw me.  I’ll come back tomorrow dressed a little more appropriately . . .”

A woman, significantly smaller than James, eases onto the porch and crosses her arms under her breasts to watch the exchange.  James’ eyes lift and Sophie recognizes that some silent communication passes between them before he returns to her. “Never you mind about all that.  What seems to be the problem?”

“I could use a little help,” Sophie begins meekly.

James nods, with a strained smile.

“My name is Sophie,” and she has to stop.  A shattered breath betrays her nerves, but James waits, his eyes narrowing in his study. Finally, she says the words that may condemn her. “I’m your brother’s wife.”

The effect is instantaneous.  James lifts his eyes to the woman on the porch, his shock painted across his features.  “His wife?” He repeats. Choked, he looks back to Sophie.  Eyes wide and mouth open, he blatantly examines the woman standing before him. “You’re the accountant?” He asks and when Sophie nods, his face turns a blistering purple. “Would you care to explain how my brother came to marry a woman young enough to date one of my boys?”

Shamed, Sophie’s cheeks flush into the color of a sunburn and her eyes drop to the hem of her shirt, where her fingers fidget. “Uhm, well . . .”

“Enough,” the woman behind her barks.  She bounces down the stairs, her blonde hair billowing behind her. “Sophie, why don’t you come inside?” She offers, opening a hand to the waiting door.  Glaring at her husband, she adds, “If we’re to suffer the Spanish Inquisition, we can at least suffer it in the comfort of air conditioning.”

“It’s a legitimate question,” James grumbles, a mite disconcerted, but he shuffles up the stairs behind the women and settles into the routines of his homecoming.  After dropping his keys, he disappears into another part of the house altogether.