Page 52 of Meet Cute Reboot
Luke
I’m staring at the text Cassie sent me last night, and I have questions. Why was she thinking about my neighborhood meeting, and possibly about me at 3:12 in the morning? She’s never been one to sleep a lot, but that’s late, even for her. Loud storms passed through last night, but they were gone by two. The most reasonable explanation is that she was awake thinking about me. I can hope.
I told her to meet at the United Methodist Church at seven thirty. It’s pushing eight. Maybe she took a siesta and forgot to set her alarm.
This church is Cassie’s cup of tea. It’s a simple one-story building with a steep pitch, a welcoming porch, and black shutters against white siding. The sanctuary is bright with tan carpet and walls, white trim, and a fresh coat of white paint on the pews. Behind the altar, arched molding creates a large-gridded window, each faux pane painted a medium-toned gray. The straight-back pine pews are original to the building, and they feel like it.
I shift my weight and stretch my left leg to reinvigorate the blood-flow to my foot. Meeting-goers sparsely populate the front half of the church, while I hold down the back of the sanctuary.
I’m new to the neighborhood, and this is the third meeting I’ve attended. I know people by the names scribbled on their tags. Since I’m in the back, I can’t make out the name of the gentleman who’s speaking at the podium. I think he said his name is Ed, but it could have been Ned. Or Ted. Or Red. I don’t know.
I’m bored.
Ed (we’ll go with that) is talking about exterior paint. We’ve paid big bucks for our houses, and we don’t want the neighborhood going down the tubes, plus we have to keep the Charleston Historical Foundation happy. That means if you have peeling paint, Ed is going to call you out about it. If the offender is not at tonight’s meeting, Ed is going to make a motion to send out a notification of noncompliance through the mail.
The door to the sanctuary closes softly. Anticipation replaces my boredom. I look over and Cassie raises her eyebrows at me. She clutches her purse and sits across the aisle.
I walk over and crouch so she can hear. “We can move up. I was just hanging back to wait for you.”
“I’m fine here,” Cassie whispers.
I measure the space between her knees and the next pew with my eyes. I think I can fit. She half-stands while I sidle past. A few disgruntled noises escape her throat. The space is a little tighter than I thought.
I sit, leaving two feet of pine bench between us. “Are you nervous?” I ask in a hushed tone.
When we were dating, Cassie told me about her high school speech class. She left crying after her first speech because she got stage fright and couldn’t finish. The rest of the class was astruggle against her nerves and her fear that she’d blank out in front of everyone again.
Cassie shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“I can do the talking if you want.”
She glares at me.
“Or not.”
We listen to Ed talk for a few more minutes. When he’s done, an elderly lady replaces him and goes on a ten-minute rant about her raccoon problem. They’ve been digging through her trash, knocking the cans over, and spreading litter across her yard. A few people chime in that they have the same problem. The group unanimously agrees to use the maintenance fund to hire a pest control expert to humanely catch the trash pandas.
When she returns to her seat, silence falls over the room.
I tap Cassie’s arm. “I think it’s our turn.”
Without a word, she plops her purse into my lap and walks to the front. I trail behind her and find a seat behind Ed. Or Ned. Or Ted.
I’d planned to brief her, give her an idea of who she’s dealing with—a roomful of people who are used to throwing money around to get their way and who are very opinionated about insignificant details.
Cassie’s serene expression is a good start. If she wins them over with her charm, they might be open to the idea of allowing random groups of strangers into their neighborhood to fawn over their mansions. Maybe they’ll even have a few ghost stories to share.
Cassie begins her spiel by acknowledging me and thanking everyone for a chance to speak. She introduces herself as the owner of Old Towne Ghost Tours and expresses her interest in Charleston’s history. She rattles off several historical facts, including the city’s founding year, 1670, and its importance during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars as a trade center.
No wonder she didn’t want me to speak for her. She must have been up all night writing and rehearsing this speech.
While she’s pitching her idea to begin hosting ghost tours along our street, I have no choice but to gaze at her. I enjoy the perfect way her lips form words, the softness she projects while maintaining an air of authority. My eyes trace the ruffles on her orange blouse. The fabric falls in gentle rolls along her neckline and the bottoms of her sleeves.
She meets my eyes and blinks rapidly. I look down, grab the Bible from the slot on the back of the pew, and start flipping through it.
After completing her sales pitch, she rounds the podium and hands everyone a business card.
“I’d love to hear your stories,” she says. “You can send them to my email on the card. I’m interested in any local ghost stories you’ve heard as well as general historical facts about your homes and neighborhood.”