Read Plain Jane for Free Online Page B

pocket, tore off a piece, spit on it, and started toward him. “Here, let me just—”
    He dropped his trouser leg. “No! You are not going to stick that on me,” he said, backing up a couple of feet.
    â€œIt’ll stop the bleeding.” She continued toward him.
    â€œIt’ll stop by itself, thank you anyway,” he said, holding up his hands to stay her.
    Jane repocketed the tissue. “Okay, if that’s what you want. But you’d better not sue me.”
    â€œI’m not going to sue you, for God’s sake. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
    â€œI don’t know. I only know the old Mike Sorenson, the one who smoked pot under the bleachers at the homecoming game and who—”
    â€œNever mind,” he cut in. “I guess I’ll just have to prove to you that I’ve changed.”
    â€œAnd just how do you intend to do that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ll think on it,” he said, hobbling along behind her.
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    Jane could think of a couple of ways he could show her how he’d changed, but she wasn’t about to offer any suggestions. She was still an old-fashioned girl and preferred the man to do the asking. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t hope. Admittedly, after today’s luncheon, she had been hoping that something might spark between them. But as soon as he opened the front door and caught her playing with Olive, her hope died. After that, she figured there was nothing to lose, so she just acted her normal self.
    Past experience had shown Jane that her “normal” self wasn’t what most men were looking for. But was Mike Sorenson like most men?
    Jane grinned as she continued on to the well. If nothing else, she had finally made him notice her where before—in high school—she doubted he’d even known she existed.
    That was then, this is now, she thought smugly.

2
    The well sat in the corner of the backyard, a good three hundred feet away from Jane’s perennial garden. Jane smiled as Mike trudged behind her through the dry twigs and crackly leaves. She wondered how this learned colleague of hers could be so interested in something as nebulous as ghosts.
    â€œHere it is,” she said, waving him past her. The well had become the focal point of her backyard, not because of the ghostly legend but because it was so Snow Whitish in design, a real storybook wishing well with a waist-high stone wall and a wooden, V-shaped roof that dripped with ivy.
    Mike’s expression was eager as he made for the well. She watched him rub his hands together, touch the stone rim, then close his eyes.
    Olive howled. Olive never howled.
    The fine hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stood on end at the mournful sound. “Olive, what’s the matter with you, girl?” She leaned down and rubbed the dog’s neck to soothe her.
    â€œWhat’s all this stuff clogging up the hole?” Mike asked, looking over the edge.
    â€œRocks. I didn’t want history to repeat itself, so I had the guy at the nursery dump a couple of loads of rock into it.” Olive inched closer to Jane’s leg and howled again. “Honest to God, I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Jane said, staring down at the spaniel, who was looking up at her as if she was trying to tell her something important.
    â€œDogs have a sixth sense, you know. She either senses or sees something,” Mike said, excitement ringing in his voice.
    Jane offered up an indulgent smile. She had never bought into the ghost theory though she’d gone along with it, even encouraged it from time to time when the occasion called for it. All in fun, of course. She glanced down at Olive. A sixth sense? No, she didn’t buy into that theory either. More than likely Olive’s howl was due to detecting a particularly strong scent—a rabbit or a squirrel, something other than a dog.
    Minutes passed during