Vegas Two-Step

by Liz Talley

  Her friend sighed, “Okay, and a double fudge brownie sundae.”

  Nellie threw her head back against the headrest, ignoring the tears dripping from her chin. “With extra whipped cream?”

  “Damn straight.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Spit in one hand and cry in the other and see which one fills up the fastest.

  —Grandmother Tucker when Nellie didn’t get invited to Clay Peterson’s sixth grade dance.

  THE MOMENT Nellie arrived in Oak Stand, she called in sick. Selfish, true, but she couldn’t face shelving romance books or making nice with snobby little cheerleaders. Give it a couple days, she told herself. So she did. She hadn’t been off the phone with her supervisor Cathy ten minutes before she tossed the suitcase full of outrageously priced clothes on her bed, pulled out her ugliest old shirt and shorts and headed to the side yard for some therapeutic gardening to heal her heart.

  And two days later, the damned thing still hadn’t stopped hurting.Nellie tilted her bowl and watched the ice cream pool in the bottom. Then she flipped through the channels on her old TV.

  Nothing on.

  She sighed and swirled the melted clump of chocolate cherry blast. She really should go put in another load of laundry, but she couldn’t summon the energy to get off the couch. She’d felt this way for two whole days. Depressed. Angry. Sad. And every other emotion in between.

  She tucked her stocking feet under her. She’d finally settled on her favorite station. On the screen, a girl and her mother schemed to kill the head cheerleader who had stolen the jock boyfriend. Oh, please, Nellie thought, clicking the TV off. Was a guy really worth it?

  At that thought, she threw the remote against the wall. It landed with a satisfying clatter on the worn wood floor beside the overgrown houseplant Nellie had tried to kill twice since her grandmother’s death.

  “Screw men,” she called out to the empty house. She sounded angry, but all she really wanted to do was crawl under her quilt. She supposed this was how someone got over a broken heart.

  But then again, she was tired of feeling sorry for herself, of wearing old ratty clothes and eating enough transfats to clog her arteries for life. So she’d finally pulled one of her new outfits from the suitcase, tried to fix herself up, and had ventured out to the grocery store to get some healthier alternatives to ice cream and cookies. She had survived.

  And tomorrow she would return to work and show Oak Stand the new Nellie. Because she wasn’t going back to frumpy clothes, frizzy brown hair and stubby fingernails.

  Tomorrow morning she’d sashay down the square, confident and classy, and then waltz into the library ready to take control of her destiny.

  Except she wasn’t confident or classy. She was screwed up. Thanks to being Elle for five days. And thanks to Jack.

  She felt a stab of pain in her chest at the thought of Jack, but she tried to shrug it off. She needed to stop thinking about her broken heart and find the damned under-eye concealer she’d paid a small fortune for. Then she’d be fine.

  Brokenhearted… Nellie laughed. Ha. Ha. Joke’s on her. She’d come away as broken as that little heart tattoo on her shoulder but with way more tears than the single one leaking from its crack.

  The first night after her gardening adventure, Nellie had hopped into the shower and scrubbed the damned tattoo off. It had taken her a good hard attack with the loofah but finally no trace remained. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to erase Jack.

  Ignoring the remote on the floor, she uncurled and padded toward the kitchen. En route, she trailed her finger in the dust on her great-aunt Sophie’s antique sideboard and then again on her great-grandmother’s polished piano. The floorboards creaked and the fluorescent light hummed when she flipped the switch. Her kitchen materialized out of the darkness, a relic from the sixties, a temple to her late Grandmother Tucker. Nellie dumped the bowl into the large farmhouse sink, not caring that it fell from the stack already there, chipping the edge. It was an ugly bowl purchased with green stamps back in the seventies.

  Nellie turned and looked at the kitchen she’d grown up in. The tired linoleum sported cracks around the ancient oven, the tiled countertops were avocado-green, and the lighting cast a pall that made everything look sickly. Though it was familiar, cozy even, with the red teapot and hand-embroidered kitchen towels, she was calling a contractor tomorrow. If she wanted to change, it meant reassessing all facets of her life. No more living by her grandmother’s rules.

  That meant a new kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, gleaming granite countertops and ceramic floors. Nellie imagined the double ovens mounted beside the six-burner stove. And an espresso machine. There might not be a Starbucks in tiny Oak Stand, but Nellie would be damned if she couldn’t make her own lattes.

  She felt better. A project. That was what she needed to take her mind off Vegas.

  She reached for the light switch just as the phone jangled on the wall.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, girl. Just thought I’d call. How’s the asshole of the world?”

  Kate. She’d been calling Oak Stand the “asshole of the world” for as long as Nellie could remember, or at least since she’d learned the naughty word. It always offended Nellie, because even though Oak Stand was small-town backward at times, it was a great little place—a Texas Norman Rockwell painting. Just because Kate had chosen to see it in a rearview mirror didn’t mean everyone felt that way.

  “Same as always,” she sighed, plopping down on the same straight-backed chair she’d sat in as a teenager. Grandma Tucker had never allowed her a phone in her room, so all conversations took place in the kitchen. It had taken the fun out of gossiping, cussing and talking about cute boys.

  “So what did you do today? Watch grass grow?”

  Nellie smiled because it was close to the truth. She had finished pulling up the dandelions and nut grass that had covered all her beds. “Not quite, but I did see Brent Hamilton at the grocery store.”

  Kate snorted. A hulking football player and no Einstein, Brent had been Kate’s first. She’d been nuts for the rippling abs and chiseled jaw of the all-district quarterback. Nellie had never found Brent to be much of a conversationalist, but then again, Kate hadn’t used him to practice social chitchat…

  “Yeah, he nearly ran into a display of Cheerios when he saw me.” Nellie laughed. “I decided to try out the halter top thing with the crop pants. I even put on the cute wedges even though they kind of hurt my feet.”

  “Figures. He always loved a hot bod, and since he’s never seen yours, I’m betting he salivated like a Pavlovian dog.”

  “Yeah, he looked long and hard. I have to say there’s something thrilling about that kind of power. Very weird, but addictive.”

  “Ah…you are learning, my child,” Kate said, using her “Confucius says” accent. “So? You okay?”

  “I think so. I’m heading back to work tomorrow. Look, I know I was a mess, but it was what it was. A fling destined to end badly. You know me. I don’t do things lightly. I wasn’t going to be able to be all cool about it, shake hands as though spending that time with him and making love to him was no big deal.”

  “I know, but, Nellie, you gotta realize the world’s not like Oak Stand. People don’t grow up and marry their high school sweetheart, stay in the same small town, do the same things they’ve always done. And they don’t say ‘making love.’ It just doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Nellie frowned. “Why not? Because I’ve got to tell you, Kate, that whole sex and the single girl thing just ain’t happening for me. I can’t go to clubs, drink martinis and pick up single guys for a fun night of sex. I’m just not wired that way. See? Look what happened. The first guy I pick up in a club, I fall in love.”

  Kate sighed. It sounded sad, resigned. “Yeah. I know, Nellie. You can’t change a leopard’s spots, but I think we did a hell of a job rearranging them. And, little leopard, you’ve stretched your legs and sharpened your claws. I hope one day you can look
back and not regret it.”

  “Me, too,” Nellie murmured. “But, hey, I do like my new image, Kate. I tried the straightening iron and actually got my hair looking pretty good. My hand is getting steadier with the eyeliner, and I painted my toenails bright pink to match the outfit I’m wearing tomorrow.”

  Her friend laughed. “I’ve created a fashion diva. Just promise me no more discount chain outlet stores. Use the catalogues I sent home with you.”

  “Will do, sister.” Nellie threw in a little half salute for good measure even though Kate couldn’t see her.

  “Well, I got to run. Billie hooked up with one of those coaches at he-who-must-not-be-named’s house and now we’ve got to go to some UNLV basketball recruiting thingy. Ciao!”

  Nellie placed the phone in the cradle.

  She hit the lights and padded up the stairs to her bedroom. Her suitcase still lay open on the floor, spilling out her new clothes in a waterfall of colors and textures. Nellie started pulling them out, sorting and stacking. Lord, she’d spent a bloody fortune on herself this past week, but it was worth it.

  She hung a pair of white linen pants over the overstuffed bedside chair, placing a curve-hugging magenta blouse atop it. She’d wear the beaded sandals with it, sans the knee-highs. Forget the rule book. Nellie Hughes—Oak Stand rebel.

  She tugged off her ratty robe, turned out the light and slipped into bed. She felt as though she didn’t even belong to herself, had left herself back in Vegas. The person now lying in the bed was one of those doubles the aliens made when they took the real person up into their spaceship to do weird experiments on them. She was a duplicate—a duplicate who looked better than the original but was still a hollow mold.

  Jack Darby had done a number on her.

  Stupid cheerleaders.

  JACK HATED green-bean casserole, so why his mother made it for dinner was beyond him.

  It could be he was just grumpy as an old bear dragged from hibernation, because usually her oversight wouldn’t have bothered him.It was just that he seldom went home. And when he did, she always fixed his favorites.

  But green-bean casserole with that nasty gray muck on it? Nowhere near his favorite.

  “Don’t you like the dinner, Jack?” his mother asked, taking a sip of her overpriced chardonnay. “You haven’t eaten very much.”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” he said, scooting the green-bean casserole around, camouflaging his lack of interest in the dish just as he had when he’d been a boy.

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re the one who doesn’t like green beans. Sorry, Jackie, I forgot. I am getting old.”

  Now he felt like a first-class jerk.

  “It’s all right, Mom. It’s good.” Jack flashed his trademark make-’em-melt smile. Except he forgot it didn’t work on the woman who’d once wiped his bottom.

  His father, forever in his own world, set down his fork. “Who doesn’t like green beans? Jack?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not my favorite, but it’s not a big deal.”

  His mom lifted a shoulder in a feeble shrug. “Well, I do try. You know, I try to please everyone. Of course, no one cares about me. About what pleases me anymore.”

  Lila Darby looked at his father. Pointedly. Jack knew she hadn’t accepted the fact the ranch would be in Texas. She would miss her garden club, tennis with friends, and the Historic Society, where she chaired some project or other. She hated the thought her brother would continue running the dairy—the dairy her father had established in the small town of Downey Mills over fifty years ago. Lila was certain Downey Mills couldn’t run without her at the helm.

  Jack rubbed his face. Here we go. His mother, the drama queen, was the perpetual tragic figure in every family quarrel from green beans to his sister’s teen pregnancy. She loved being the victim, and right now with his father chomping at the bit over the fruition of his dream and with Jack rudely shoving off the date she’d “arranged” for him, Lila Darby played Desdemona to the hilt.

  “Now, Lila,” his father started, “no one is criticizing supper. This is a fine dinner, honey.”

  Jack wiped his mouth and pushed his chair back. “I’ve gotta run. I told Charlie I’d stop over and look at a couple of mares he’s been holding for us. Thanks for dinner, Mom.”

  He didn’t ask to be dismissed. Hell, he was a full-grown man, no matter how his mother wanted to treat him.

  “But what about dessert? I made a cheesecake. It’s got caramel-banana sauce. You love cheesecake, darling.” Lila kept speaking as he disappeared through the dining room door.

  Jack heard her complaining about his lack of manners all the way out to his car. Lila didn’t mince words. She called through the open screen window at him, tempering her fussing with an offer to wrap him up a piece for later.

  He didn’t answer. Just hopped into the roadster and took satisfaction in the roar that drowned out his adoring, yet annoying, mother.

  Women.

  He was sick of them.

  All of them.

  And he was a liar.

  Because there was one who haunted him, whispering over his shoulder, reminding him he’d had some peace with her. Elle. Or Nellie. Or whatever the hell her name was. She’d filled the void and made him think love was possible.

  Right before she ripped his heart out, stomped on it and then waltzed out the door, giving him no chance to defend himself.

  Women.

  Dust boiled up around his car as he tore down the dirt driveway of his parents’ farmhouse. His foot hit extra heavy on the accelerator, causing the car to fishtail as he reached the pavement of the main road. The peel of the tires announced his anger to the world.

  Good. He was pissed because she’d ruined him.

  Ruined him for women like Therese Montoya, who had slunk into the country club bar wearing sexual promise like a Hermès scarf, fabulous and worth every single penny. He’d stared at his mother’s pick from across the table, watching her eyes issue invitations in the flickering candlelight. He’d studied the way her hands cupped the goblet of Pinot, the huskiness in her low laughter, the sinful plumpness of her lips. And felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Hell. Before Elle and before this strange stage he was going through, he’d have had Therese buck naked underneath him before the ink was dry on the check. Instead, he’d dropped her off with an offhand “I’m bushed” comment before promising to call her another time. She’d pursed her lips and given him the “when hell freezes over” look. It hadn’t mattered because Jack wouldn’t call.

  He shifted the stick, allowing the car to surge forward and hug the curves of the road he’d driven since he’d gotten his license sixteen years before. The needle climbed past ninety, but he didn’t slow. His car was made to eat the road, tame it, power over the miles of asphalt like an emperor bending subjects to his will.

  He passed the turn to Charlie’s ranch. He was in no mood for company. He needed to think.

  The road stretched before him, a blank page to work out the tangle of his life. To figure out how he’d get back to normal.

  But he knew the answer. He wouldn’t. Until he found Nellie. The real Nellie.

  It started in Texas. It would end in Texas.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It’ll feel better when it quits hurtin’.

  —Grandmother Tucker to Nellie when she stubbed her toe on the top step of the porch.

  WHEN NELLIE WALTZED into the library wearing her clingy pink shirt, linen cropped pants and heeled sandals that clacked when she walked across the wood floor, Rita Frasier dropped the scanner. The flabbergasted look on her face might have been worth it if Nellie hadn’t seen the invoice for the new scanner. Who would’ve thought one measly piece of equipment could cost as much as Rhode Island?

  “Holy cow! What did you do in Vegas?”She wanted to flippantly say something like, screwed the finest man west of the Rio Grande, but that seemed a little crass.

  Plus it was Friday. Rita always went to Bible study luncheon on Fr
iday, and she would be damned if she would have the whole Oak Stand Baptist Church gossiping about her.

  “I got a makeover,” said Nellie, dumping her new purse on the counter and setting down a stack of books she’d meant to bring in before she left for Vegas.

  “You look incredible.” Rita’s eyes swept her form from her razored caramel layers to her bada-bing cherry pink toes. “I mean, you don’t even look like yourself. I heard Angela Hill saying something about seeing you at the grocery and how great you looked, but I thought she just meant rested or something. You look awesome.”

  Nellie couldn’t stop the warm glow of pleasure that rose in her cheeks. She didn’t have time to reply before Cathy came plowing into the office behind a cart laden with what looked like every reference book in the library.

  “Oh Lordy, I’m so tired I could—” Cathy yawned and glanced at Nellie. “What happened to you?”

  Nellie shrugged. “I got a makeover.”

  Cathy rubbed her weary brown eyes. “Damn it. Just what I need. Nellie going all babe-a-licious on me when I still got twenty-five pounds of baby weight sagging around my middle. Great. Now I’ll have to stand six feet away from you.”

  Normally, Nellie would have thought Cathy was kidding, but the woman glared at her as if Nellie’s blow-drying her hair that morning was some kind of plot to make Cathy look like a heavy milk cow. Nellie could do nothing but shrug. “You look good, Cathy. How’s the baby?”

  She knew when to change the subject. She’d had plenty of practice with her eagle-eyed grandmother.

  Cathy forgot all about her puffy middle and the towering stacks of books and whipped out a brag book. “He’s the sweetest thing you ever saw. See, this is his first bath. And here’s Paul feeding him a bottle.”

  Nellie angled her head so that she could see the brag book, which she was certain contained about a hundred photos of little Logan Reed Brown who, according to his mother, was the cutest baby to ever be born in Oak Stand. Ever.