by Nora Roberts
“He was with someone else,” Caroline said weakly. “Just before curtain I saw him—in the dressing room. He was with someone else.”
“That’s nonsense. And if it isn’t, you have no one but yourself to blame. The way you’ve been acting lately—walking around like a ghost, canceling interviews, refusing to attend parties. After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay the debt. How do you expect me to deal with the press, with the speculation, with the mess you’ve left me in?”
“I don’t know.” It helped to close her eyes, to close them and shut it all away. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it anymore.”
No, Caroline thought, opening her eyes again. She just couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t be what everyone else wanted her to be. Not now. Not ever again. Was she selfish, ungrateful, spoiled—all those hateful words her mother had hurled at her? It didn’t seem to matter now. All that mattered was that she was here.
Ten miles away, Tucker Longstreet streaked into the heart of Innocence, kicking up dust and scaring the spit out of Jed Larsson’s fat beagle Nuisance, who’d been resting his bones on the pad of concrete beneath the striped awning of the dry goods store.
Caroline Waverly would have understood the dog’s distress when he opened one eye to see the shiny red car barreling straight for him and skidding to a stop a bare eighteen inches from his resting place.
With a yipe, the dog gained his feet and took himself off to safer ground.
Tucker chuckled and called to Nuisance with a click and a whistle, but the dog kept moving. Nuisance hated that red car with a passion so great he never even ventured near enough to pee on its tires.
Tucker dumped his keys in his pocket. He fully intended to get Della’s rice and Cokes and toilet water, then head back to stretch out on the hammock again—where he figured a smart man belonged on a hot, airless afternoon. But he spotted his sister’s car, tilted across two parking spaces in front of the Chat ’N Chew.
It occurred to him that the drive had made him thirsty, and he could do with a tall glass of lemonade. And possibly a hunk of chilled huckleberry pie.
Later, he’d spend a lot of time regretting that small detour.
The Longstreets owned the Chat ’N Chew, just as they owed the Wash & Dry Laundromat, the Innocence Boarding House, the Feed and Grain, the Hunters’ Friend Gun Shop, and a dozen or so rental properties. The Longstreets were wise enough—or lazy enough—to have managers for their businesses. Dwayne took a mild interest in the rental houses, cruising along to each on the first of the month to collect checks or listen to excuses, and note down a list of needed repairs.
But Tucker kept the books, whether he wanted to or not. Once when he’d bitched about it long enough, Josie had taken them over. She’d screwed them up so royally, it had taken Tucker days to set them to rights again.
He didn’t mind so much, really. Bookkeeping was something you could do in the cool of the evening, with a cold drink at your elbow. His head for figures made it an annoying chore rather than a difficult one.
The Chat ’N Chew was one of Tucker’s favorite places. The diner had one of those big, wide-pane windows that was forever dotted with posters announcing bake sales, school plays, and auctions.
Inside, the floor was made of linoleum tiles, yellowed with age and dusted with brown flecks that looked like fly spots. The booths were rugged red vinyl, an improvement over the ripped and tattered brown that Tucker had replaced just six months before. The red was already fading to orange.
Over the years, people had carved messages into the laminated tabletops. Sort of a Chat ’N Chew tradition. Initials were a big favorite, along with hearts and stick figures, but occasionally someone was inspired to hack in HEY! or UP YOURS! Or in the case of one grumpy individual, EAT SHIT AND DIE.
Earleen Renfrew, who managed the establishment, had been so put out by that suggestion, Tucker had been forced to borrow an electric buffer from the hardware store and smudge out the offending words.
Each booth had its own individual juke where you could turn the knob and flip over selections—still three for a quarter. Because Earleen favored country tunes, so did the juke, but Tucker had managed to sneak in a few cuts of rock or R & B from the fifties.
The big counter was lined with a dozen stools, all topped with the same fading red vinyl. A clear three-tiered dome held that day’s offering of pies. Tucker’s gaze lighted on the huckleberry with pure delight.
Exchanging waves and “heys” with a scattering of customers, he made his way through the grease- and smoke-tinged air to where his sister perched at the counter. Deep in discussion with Earleen, Josie gave her brother an absent pat on the arm and kept talking.
“And so I said to her, Justine, if you’re going to marry a man like Will Shiver, all you’ve got to do to stay happy is buy yourself a padlock for his fly and make sure you’re the only one with a key. He may wet himself now and again, but that’s all he’s going to do.”
Earleen gave an appreciative cackle and wiped a few wet rings from the counter. “Why she’d want to marry a no-account like Will’s beyond me.”
“Honey, he’s a regular tiger in bed.” Josie winked slyly. “So they say. Hey, Tucker.” She turned to give her brother a smacking kiss before wriggling her fingers in front of his face. “I just got my nails done. Hotshot Red. What do you think?”
Dutifully he examined her long scarlet nails. “Looks to me like you’ve just finished scratching somebody’s eyes out. Gimme a lemonade and some of that huckleberry, with French vanilla on top, Earleen.”
Rather pleased with Tucker’s description of her nails, Josie ran them through her artfully tangled mane of black hair. “Justine would’ve liked to scratch mine out.” Grinning, she picked up her Diet Coke and sipped through the straw. “She was over at the beauty parlor getting her roots done and flapping her hand around to show everybody this eensy speck of glass she called a diamond. Will probably won it knocking down bottles at the fair.”
Tucker’s golden eyes twinkled. “Jealous, Josie?”
She stiffened up, bottom lip poking out, then her face cleared as she tossed back her head and hooted. “If I’d wanted him, I’d’ve had him. But outside of bed he just about bored me senseless.” She stirred what was left of her soda with the straw and sent a quick flirtatious look over her shoulder at two boys lounging in a booth. They puffed up quickly, sucking in beer guts. “We’ve got this burden, you and I do, Tuck. About being damn near irresistible to the opposite sex.”
After smiling at Earleen, he dug into his pie. “Yeah, it’s our cross to bear.”
Josie drummed her newly painted nails on the counter for the pleasure of hearing them click. The restlessness that had driven her to marry and divorce twice within five years had been flaring up for weeks. Nearly time to move on, she thought. A few months back in Innocence made her yearn for the excitement of anywhere else. And a few months anywhere else made her yearn for the quiet aimlessness of her hometown.
Someone had popped a quarter in a juke and Randy Travis was crooning about the miseries of love. Josie drummed her fingers in time and scowled at Tucker as he shoveled in huckleberries and ice cream.
“I don’t see how you can eat like that in the middle of the day.”
Tucker scooped up more pie. “I just open my mouth and swallow.”
“And never gain a goddamn ounce. I have to watch every blessed thing I eat or my hips’ll be as wide as Mamie Gantrey’s.” She stuck a finger in Tucker’s ice cream and scooped up a lick. “What’re you doing in town besides stuffing your face?”
“Errands for Della. Passed a car turning into the McNair place.”
“Hmmm.” Josie might have given that piece of news more attention, but Burke Truesdale strolled in. She wriggled straighter in her chair, crossing long, smooth legs, and sent him a honey-dripping smile. “Hi there, Burke.”
“Josie.” He came over to give Tucker a thump on the back. “Tuck. What’re you two up to?”
; “Just passing the time,” Josie said. Burke was six feet of solid muscle with a linebacker’s shoulders, and a square-jawed face softened by puppy-dog eyes. Although he was Dwayne’s contemporary, he was closer to Tucker in friendship, and he was one of the few men Josie had wanted and done without.
Burke rested one hip on a stool, his heavy ring of keys jangling. His sheriff’s badge winked dully in the sunlight. “Too hot to do anything else.” He muttered a thanks to Earleen when she set an iced tea in front of him. Burke guzzled it down without taking a breath.
Josie licked her top lip as she watched his Adam’s apple bob.
“Miss Edith’s kin’s moving into the house,” Burke announced as he set the glass aside. “Miss Caroline Waverly, some kind of fancy musician from Philadelphia.” Earleen had refilled his glass, and this time he sipped slowly. “She called down to have the phone and power hooked up.”
“How long’s she staying?” Earleen always had her eyes and ears open for news. As proprietress of the Chat ’N Chew, it was her right and her duty.
“Didn’t say. Miss Edith wasn’t one to talk about her family overmuch, but I do remember hearing she had a granddaughter who traveled around with an orchestra or something.”
“Must pay well,” Tucker mused. “I saw her car turn into the lane fifteen minutes ago. She was driving a brand new BMW.”
Burke waited until Earleen had moved away. “Tuck, I need to talk to you about Dwayne.”
Though his face remained passive and friendly, Tucker’s shield slid into place. “What about?”
“He got juiced up again last night, had a pushy-shovy going over at McGreedy’s. I put him up in a cell for the night.”
Now there was a change, a darkening of the eyes, a grimness around the mouth. “You charge him with anything?”
“Come on, Tuck.” More hurt than offended, Burke shifted his feet. “He was raising hell and too drunk to drive. I figured he could use a place to sleep it off. Last time I drove him home in the middle of the night, Miss Della was spitting mad.”
“Yeah.” Tucker relaxed. There were friends, there was family, and there was Burke, who was a combination of both. “Where’s he now?”
“Over at the jail, nursing a hangover. I figured since you’re here, you could haul him home. We can get his car back later on.”
“Much obliged.” His quiet words masked the raw disappointment in his gut. Dwayne had been on the wagon nearly two weeks this time. Once he’d fallen, Tucker knew, it would be a long, slippery climb back on. Tucker stood, pulling out his wallet. When the door slammed open behind him, rattling glasses on the back shelves, he glanced around. He saw Edda Lou Hatinger and knew he was in trouble.
“Belly-crawling bastard,” she spat out, and launched herself at him. If Burke hadn’t retained the same reflexes that had made him a star receiver in high school, Tucker might have had his face sheared off.
“Hey, hey,” Burke said helplessly while Edda Lou fought like a bobcat.
“You think you can toss me off just like that?”
“Edda Lou.” From experience, Tucker kept his voice low and calm. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Her small teeth bared in a snarl. “I’m going to hurt you, you fucking weasel.”
With reluctance, Burke slipped into his sheriff’s mode. “Girl, you pull yourself together or I’ll have to take you over to the jail. Your daddy wouldn’t be happy about that either.
She hissed through her teeth. “I won’t lay a hand on the son of a bitch.” When Burke’s grip loosened, she slipped free, dusting herself off.
“If you want to talk about this—” Tucker began.
“We’re going to talk about it, all right. Here and now.” She swung in a circle while customers either stared or pretended not to. Colorful plastic bracelets clicked on her arms. Perspiration gave a sheen to her face and neck. “Y’all listen up, you hear? I got something to say to Mr. Bigshot Longstreet.”
“Edda Lou—” Tucker took a chance and touched her arm. She swung out backhanded and knocked his teeth together.
“No.” Wiping his mouth, he waved Burke away. “Let her get it out.”
“I’ll get it out, all right. You said you loved me.”
“I never did that.” That Tucker could be sure of. Even in the throes of passion he was careful with words. Especially in the throes of passion.
“You made me think you did,” she shouted at him. The powdery spray she was wearing was overwhelmed by the hot sweat of temper and combined in a sickly-sweet aroma that reminded Tucker of something freshly dead. “You wheedled your way into bed with me. You said I was the woman you’d been waiting for. You said …” Tears began to mix with the sweat on her face, turning her mascara into wet clumps under her eyes. “You said we were going to get married.”
“Oh no.” Tucker’s temper, which he preferred not to have riled, began to stir. “That was your idea, honey. And I told you flat out it wasn’t going to happen.”
“What’s a girl to think when you come whistling up, bringing flowers and buying fancy wine? You said you cared about me more than anybody else.”
“I did care.” And he had. He always did.
“You don’t care about nothing or nobody, only Tucker Longstreet.” She pushed her face into his, spit flying. Seeing her like this, all the sweetness and flutters gone, he wondered how he could have cared. And he hated the fact that some of the boys who’d been lounging over their sodas were elbowing each other’s ribs and chuckling.
“Then you’re better off without me, aren’t you?” He dropped two bills on the counter.
“You think you’re going to get off that easy?” Her hand clamped like iron on his arm. He could feel her muscles quiver. “You think you can toss me off like you did all the others?” She’d be damned if he would—not when she’d hinted marriage to all her girlfriends. Not when she’d gone all the way into Greenville to moon over the wedding gowns. She knew—she knew half the town would already be smirking about it. “You’ve got an obligation to me. You made promises.”
“Name one.” His temper building, he pried a clutching hand from his arm.
“I’m pregnant.” It burst out of her on a flood of desperation. She had the satisfaction of hearing a mutter pass from booth to booth, and of watching Tucker pale.
“What did you say?”
Her lips curved then, in a hard, merciless smile. “You heard me, Tuck. Now you’d better decide what you’re going to do about it.”
Tossing up her head, she spun around and stormed out. Tucker waited for his stomach to slide back down from his throat.
“Oops,” Josie said, grinning broadly at the goggle eyed diners. But her hand went down to take her brother’s. “Ten bucks says she’s lying.”
Still reeling, Tucker stared at her. “What?”
“I say she’s no more pregnant than you are. Oldest female trick in the book, Tucker. Don’t get your dick caught in it.”
He needed to think, and he wanted to be alone to do it. “You get Dwayne over at the jail, will you? And pick up Della’s stuff.”
“Why don’t we—”
But he was already walking out. Josie sighed, thinking the shit was going to hit the fan. He hadn’t told her what Della wanted.
chapter 2
Dwayne Longstreet sat on the rock-iron bunk in one of the town’s two jail cells and moaned like a wounded dog. The three aspirin he’d downed had yet to take effect, and the army of chain saws buzzing inside his head were getting mighty close to the brain.
He took his head out of his hands long enough to slurp down more of the coffee Burke had left him, then clamped it tight again, afraid it would fall off. Half hoping it would.
As always, during the first hour after waking from a toot, Dwayne despised himself. He hated knowing that he’d strolled, smiling, into the same ugly trap again.
Not the drinking. No, Dwayne liked drinking. He liked that first hot taste of whiskey when it hit the tongue,
slid down the throat, settled into the belly like a long, slow kiss from a pretty woman. He liked the friendly rush that spread into his head after the second drink.
Hell, he fucking loved it.
He didn’t even mind getting drunk. No, there was something to be said about that floating time after you’d knocked back five or six. When everything looked fine and funny. When you forgot your life had turned ugly on you—that you’d lost the wife and kids you’d never wanted much in the first place to some fucking shoe salesman, that you were stuck in a dusty pisshole of a town because there was no place else to go.
Yeah, he liked that floaty, forgetful time just fine.
He didn’t particularly care for what happened after that. When your hand kept reaching for the bottle without warning the rest of you what was coming. When you stopped tasting and kept on swallowing just because the whiskey was there and so were you.
He didn’t like the fact that sometimes the drink turned him nasty, so he wanted to pick a fight, any fight. God knew he wasn’t a mean-tempered man. That was his father. But sometimes, just sometimes, the whiskey turned him into Beau, and he was sorry for it.
What scared him was that there were times when he couldn’t quite remember if he’d turned nasty or just passed out quietly. Whenever that happened, he was more than likely going to wake up in the cell with a hangover fit to kill.
Gingerly, knowing that the movement could change the busy loggers in his head into a swarm of angry bees, he got to his feet. The sun streaming through the bars at the window all but blinded him. Dwayne shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand as he groped his way out of the cell. Burke never locked him in.
Dwayne fumbled his way into the bathroom and whizzed out what felt like a gallon of the Wild Turkey that had filtered through his kidneys. Wishing miserably for his own bed, he splashed cold water in his face until his eyes stopped burning.
He hissed through his teeth when the door slammed in the outer office, and whimpered just a little when Josie cheerfully called his name.