The Arsonist
“And sure enough, people were heeling their shoes off and setting them in a line by the door, though that left a number of them, like Frankie, barefoot rather than sock-footed. The floor was cement, buffed and gleaming, cool under her feet.The vast open space of the barn was busy with people. It was a sort of pavilion, Frankie saw. There were wide doors slid open on three sides, so you had the sense of the outside everywhere around you, an outside that was groomed and manicured. “Now this is a l...awn,” she’d said as they drove up.“Told you so,” Bud said.The music was loud and scratchy, someone’s old tape or burned CD of Chuck Berry doing “Brown-Eyed Handsome Man.” She felt Bud’s hand—warm, authoritative—on her back, moving her into the crowd. It was the first time he’d touched her, and her body registered this, a kind of thrill along her spine that moved downward. She had the impulse to turn to him, to touch him back, but she kept walking, kept moving where he directed her, her breath just a little uneven.At the same time, she was looking around, taking things in.MoreLess
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