“It’s all in the accessories,” he said. “I’ll do the other one when we stop.”
“You bought earrings for me?”
“Had to. I was afraid you’d show up wearing lug nuts.”
Suddenly, she had her own fashion stylist, and it wasn’t April. She wondered if he saw the connection. His contradictions added to her fascination. A man with such over-the-top masculinity shouldn’t love beautiful things so much. He should only love sweaty things. She hated when people refused to fit into pigeonholes. It made life murky.
“Unfortunately, those aren’t real stones,” he said. “My shopping options were limited.”
Real or not, she loved them.
Nita Garrison’s stately home sat on a shady street two blocks from the downtown area. Built of the same tan crab orchard stone as the bank and the Catholic church, it had a low, hipped roof and a formidable, Italianate facade. Stone pediments topped nine large, double-hung windows—four on the ground floor and five above, with the one in the middle wider than the rest. The grounds were almost too well maintained, with severely delineated beds of ruthlessly trimmed shrubbery.
Blue pulled up in front. “Cozy as a penitentiary.”
“I stopped by earlier, but she wasn’t home.” His arm brushed the back of her neck and his opposite thumb grazed her cheek as he slipped the other earring in her lobe. She shivered. It felt more intimate than sex. She forced herself to break the spell. “I’ll share if you want to wear them for part of the evening.”
Instead of returning her volley, he rubbed the earring and her lobe gently between his fingers. “Very nice.”
She was about to expire from lust when he let her go. He opened the door and stepped out, then leaned down to peer back in at her. “This car had better be sitting here when I come out.”
She tugged on the purple earring. “I wasn’t going to strand you. Just a quick spin around the block to keep from getting bored.”
“Or not.” He shot her with the old index finger pistol.
She leaned back in the comfortable seat and watched him walk up the path to the front door. A curtain fluttered in a corner window. He pressed the bell and waited. When no one answered, he pressed it again. Still nothing. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. She frowned. Nita Garrison wouldn’t take well to that. Had he forgotten Blue’s arrest four days ago?
He came back down the front steps, but her relief was short-lived because, instead of giving up, he took off around the side of the house. Just because Nita was elderly and female, he thought he could badger her. She’d probably already summoned her private police force. Garrison wasn’t Chicago. Garrison was the stuff of Yankee nightmares, a small southern town with its own set of rules. Dean would end up in jail, and Blue would never get her dinner. She was struck by an equally alarming thought. They’d impound his beautiful car.
She jumped out. If she didn’t stop him, the Vanquish would end up in one of those police auctions. He was so used to his famous name unlocking every door that he thought he was invincible. He’d completely underestimated this woman’s authority.
She followed a brick path around the side of the house and found him peering in a window. “Don’t do that!”
“She’s in there,” he said. “I can smell the brimstone.”
“Clearly, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Tough. I want to talk to her.” He took off around the corner. Gritting her teeth, she headed after him.
A square patch of manicured grass and a row of rigidly clipped shrubs grew in front of the garage, which was made of the same tan stone as the house. Not a flower in sight, just an empty concrete birdbath. Ignoring her protests, he walked up a set of four steps to the back door, which sat under a short overhang supported by the same carved brackets that ornamented the eaves. As he turned the knob and pushed open the door, Blue started hissing like a wet cat. “Nita Garrison’s going to call the police on you! Give me your wallet before you’re arrested.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you want with my wallet?”
“Dinner.”
“That’s cold, even for you.” He poked his head inside. A dog gave a low, creaky bark, then fell silent. “Mrs. Garrison! It’s Dean Robillard. You left your back door unlocked.” And he walked right in.
Blue stared at the open door, then slumped down on the back step. Not even the Garrison Police Department could arrest her if she didn’t go inside, could they? She propped her elbows on her knees, ready to wait him out.
A querulous female voice shattered the evening quiet. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”
“I know this is a small town, Mrs. Garrison,” Dean said from inside, “but you should really keep your doors locked.”
Instead of retreating, her voice grew louder and shriller. Once again, Blue detected a trace of Brooklyn. “You heard me. Get out!”
“As soon as we talk.”
“I’m not talking to you. What are you doing out there, girl?”
Blue whipped around to see Mrs. Garrison looming over her in the doorway. She wore full makeup, a big platinum wig, wide-leg blue jersey slacks, and a matching boatneck tunic she’d accessorized with gold pendants. This evening, her heavy ankles spilled over a pair of worn magenta slippers.
Blue got right to the point. “What I’m not doing is breaking and entering.”
“She’s afraid of you,” Dean said from someplace inside. “I’m not.”
Mrs. Garrison propped both hands on her cane and regarded Blue as if she were a cockroach. Blue reluctantly came to her feet. “I am not afraid of you,” she said, “but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and all I saw in that jail was a vending machine, and—Never mind.”
Mrs. Garrison gave a contemptuous snort and shuffled toward Dean. “You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Hotshot.”
Blue peeked inside. “Not his fault. He’s taken one too many hits to the head.” Giving in to her curiosity, she crossed the threshold.
Unlike the stark exterior, the inside of the house was cluttered and unkempt. Stacks of newspapers sat by the back door, and the gold-flecked ceramic floor tiles could have used a good scrubbing. Mail lay scattered across the French provincial table, which also held an empty cereal bowl, a coffee mug, and a banana peel. Although the house wasn’t scary filthy, it had a musty smell and a sour, untended look. A very old, overfed black Lab with a grizzled muzzle lay sprawled in the corner where some of the seams on the gold-striped wallpaper had begun to curl. The gilded kitchen chairs and small crystal chandelier gave the kitchen a gaudy Las Vegas ambience.
Nita raised her cane. “I’m calling the cops.”
Blue couldn’t take it any longer. “A word of warning, Mrs. Garrison. Dean seems like a nice guy on the surface, but the brutal truth is, there’s not a player in the NFL who isn’t half animal. He just hides it better than most of them.”
“Do you really think you can scare me?” Nita sneered. “I grew up on the streets, sweetie.”
“I’m merely pointing out the reality of the situation. You’ve upset him, and that’s not good.”
“This is my town. He can’t do a thing to me.”
“That’s what you think.” Blue stepped past Dean, who’d crouched down to pet the ancient black Lab. “Football players are a law unto themselves. I know you’re used to having the local police force in your back pocket—and that was a nasty trick you pulled last week—but the minute Dean starts signing autographs and flashing a fistful of game day tickets, those cops won’t remember your name.”
Blue had to hand it to the old bat. Instead of backing off, she smirked at Dean. “You think that’ll work, do you?”
Dean shrugged and rose. “I like cops, so I might stop at the station for a visit. But, frankly, I’m more interested in what my lawyer says about this little boycott of yours.”
“Lawyers.” She spat out the word, then started in on Blue again, which was beyond unfair, since Blue was trying to mediate. “Are you r
eady to apologize for the way you spoke to me last week?”
“Are you ready to apologize to Riley?”
“For telling the truth? I don’t believe in coddling children. People like you want to solve every little problem for them so they never learn how to take care of themselves.”
“That particular child just lost her mother,” Dean said with deceptive mildness.
“Since when has life been fair?” Her mean eyes narrowed, further crinkling her blue frosted eye shadow. “It’s better they understand how things are when they’re young. When I was her age, I spent my nights sleeping on the fire escape to get away from my stepfather.” She bumped the table with her hip, and the coffee mug rolled to the floor, followed by a stack of junk mail. Nita made a vague gesture toward the mess. “Nobody in this town is willing to do housework anymore. Now all the black girls go off to college.”
Dean rubbed his ear. “That damned Abe Lincoln.”
Blue reined in a smile.
Nita looked him up and down. “You’re a real wise guy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The practiced way she took him in suggested she’d assessed more than her fair share of good-looking men. At the same time, there was nothing coquettish in her manner. “Do you dance?”
“I don’t think we’re getting on well enough for that.”
Her lips thinned. “I taught at Arthur Murray in Manhattan for many years. Ballroom dancing. I was quite beautiful.” She gazed at Blue, her distaste making it clear that Blue wasn’t. “You’re wasting your time mooning over him. You’re too plain.”
Dean lifted an eyebrow. “She’s not—”
“That’s what he likes about me,” Blue said. “I don’t steal his limelight.”
Dean sighed.
“You’re a fool,” Nita sneered. “I’ve known men like him all my life. In the end, they always picked women like me—like I used to be. Big boobs, blond hair, and long legs.”
Nita had hit the nail on the head, but Blue wouldn’t give up without a fight. “Unless they’re into cross-dressing. Then, it’s all about the woman with the prettiest lingerie.”
“You’ll let me know when you’re done?” Dean said.
“Who are you, anyway?” The old woman lobbed the question at Blue like a stink bomb.
“I’m a portrait painter. Dogs and children.”
“Really?” Her eyes flickered with interest. “Well, then. Maybe I’ll hire you to paint Tango.” She tilted her head toward the ancient dog. “Yes, I think I will. You can start tomorrow.”
“She already has a job, Mrs. Garrison,” Dean said. “She works for me.”
“You’ve been telling everybody in town that she’s your fiancée.”
“She is. And I know she’ll be the first to say that I’m a full-time job.”
“Rubbish. You’re just leading her on so she’ll keep sleeping with you. The minute you get bored with her, you’ll dump her.”
He didn’t like that. “Out of respect for your age, Mrs. Garrison, I’m going to let that pass. Now you have twenty-four hours to call off your dogs.”
Ignoring him, she turned back to Blue. “I want you here at one o’clock tomorrow to start painting Tango’s portrait. Once you show up, I’ll tell the men to get back to work.”
“Blackmail is supposed to be a little more subtle,” Blue said.
“I’m too old to be subtle. I know what I want, and I make sure I get it.”
“You don’t understand, Mrs. Garrison,” Dean said. “What you’re going to get is a lot of trouble for yourself.” He grabbed Blue’s elbow and steered her out the door.
When they got back to the car, Dean didn’t say much beyond ordering Blue never to go near Mrs. Garrison again. Since Blue hated orders, she was tempted to argue with him on principle, but she had no intention of letting the old woman inflict more torment on her. Besides, she wanted to enjoy the evening.
They pulled up in front of a one-story blue shingled building with a yellow sign over the front entrance that said BARN GRILL. “I thought this place would be a real barn,” she said as they walked toward the door.
“I did, too, the first time I came here. Then I found out it was the current owner’s idea of a joke. In the eighties, it was Walt’s Bar and Grill, but the native tongue of Tennessee shortened it.”
“To Barn Grill. I’ve got it.”
The sound of Tim McGraw singing “Don’t Take the Girl” drifted through the door as they stepped into an entry area with dark brown latticework walls and an aquarium that had a Day-Glo orange castle sitting on a bed of fluorescent blue rocks. The roomy restaurant was divided into two sections, with a bar at the front. Beneath a pair of fake Tiffany lampshades, a bartender who looked like Chris Rock filled a pair of beer mugs. He called out a greeting as he spotted Dean. The bar patrons turned on their stools and immediately sprang to life.
“Hey, Boo, where you been all weekend?”
“That is a fabulous shirt.”
“We’ve been talkin’ about next season, and—”
“Charlie thinks you should go to the run-and-shoot.”
They acted as though they’d known him forever, although Dean had told her he’d only eaten here twice. The instant intimacy people showed toward him made her glad she wasn’t famous.
“Ordinarily, I’d love to talk sports with you boys, but tonight I promised my fiancée I wouldn’t.” Dean draped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s our anniversary, and you know how sentimental the ladies get.”
“What anniversary is that?” the Chris Rock lookalike asked.
“Six full months since my little darlin’ hunted me down and drug me home.”
The men laughed. Dean steered her past the bar and into the rear section of the restaurant. “I drug you home?” she said. “Since when did you give up your Yankee citizenship?”
“Since I became a southern landowner. Automatically made me bilingual.”
A half wall topped with more brown latticework and a row of straw Chianti bottles divided the restaurant from the bar. He shepherded her to a vacant table and held out a chair. “Those ol’ boys at the bar? One’s a county judge, the big man’s the high school principal, and the bald guy’s an openly gay hairdresser. I love the South.”
“It’s a good place to be an oddball, I’ll grant you that.” She reached across the red vinyl tablecloth for the cracker basket and grabbed a packet of saltines. “I’m surprised they’ll serve you. Nita Garrison must have slipped up.”
“We’re outside the town limits, and this is one property she doesn’t own. There also seems to be a general ‘what she don’t know won’t hurt her’ attitude.”
“Are you really going to sic your lawyer on her?”
“I’m not sure. The good news is, I’ll win. The bad news is, it’ll take months.”
“I’m not painting Tango.”
“Damn right you aren’t.”
She discarded the stale saltine. Even though it was Monday night, three-quarters of the tables were full, and most of the occupants were studying her. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. “This seems like a big crowd for a Monday.”
“No place else to go. On Monday nights it’s either the Barn Grill or Bible study at Second Baptist. Or maybe Tuesday is Second Baptist. The Bible study schedule in this town is more complicated than the Stars’ offensive line stunts.”
“You like it here, don’t you? Not just the farm. Small town life.”
“It’s different.”
The waitress appeared with the menus. Her thin, sour face immediately twisted into a simpy smile for Dean. “My name’s Marie, and I’ll be your server tonight.”
Blue wished somebody would pass a law that made it illegal for a person who worked in a place with Tabasco bottles on the table to introduce herself.
“Real nice to meet you, Marie,” Redneck Dean drawled. “What’s good tonight?”
Marie ignored Blue to recite the specials just for him. Dean settled on the
barbecue chicken with a side salad. Blue chose the fried catfish, along with something called “dirty potatoes,” which proved to be a concoction of mashed potatoes, sour cream, and mushrooms smothered in gravy. While she lapped it up, Dean ate his chicken without the skin, added only a small pat of butter to his baked potato, and refused dessert, all the time chatting amiably with the assorted townspeople who interrupted his meal. He introduced her to everyone as his fiancée. When they finally had a moment alone, she addressed him over a big, gooey serving of mud pie. “How are you going to explain our broken engagement after I leave?”
“I’m not. As far as this town’s concerned, I’m staying engaged until there’s a good reason for me not to be engaged.”
“Which will be the minute a breathtakingly gorgeous, incredibly stacked, and marginally intelligent twenty-year-old catches your eye.”
He stared at her dessert. “Where are you putting all that food?”
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast. No funny stuff, Dean. I mean it. You can’t break off our engagement by giving me a fatal disease or saying you caught me with another man. Or a woman,” she added quickly. “Promise me.”
“Just out of purely salacious curiosity, have you ever been with a woman?”
“Stop screwing around. I want your word.”
“Okay, I’ll say you dumped me.”
“Like anybody’s going to believe that.” She scooped up another bite of mud pie. “So has it ever happened to you?”
“What? Being dumped? Sure.”
“When?”
“Sometime. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Never. I’ll bet you’ve never once been dumped.”
“Sure I have. I’m pretty sure.” He sipped his beer and thought it over. “I remember. Annabelle dumped me.”
“Your agent’s wife? I thought you said you never dated her.”
“I didn’t. She said I was immature, which I’ll admit was true at the time, and she refused to date me.”
“I don’t see how that constitutes being dumped.”
“Hey, work with me here.”
She grinned, and he smiled back, and something inside her melted, right along with the last bite of mud pie. She quickly excused herself and headed for the ladies’ room.
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