by Liz Talley
Luckily, on about picture forty-three, the door opened, signaling the first patron. Nellie wanted to shout an amen because she felt a mean neck cramp coming on.
“Bubba?” Nellie’s head shot up at Rita’s incredulous voice.
Sure enough, lingering in front of the check-out desk and looking about as comfortable as an ass-load of clowns in a Yugo was Big Bubba Malone, the only man to never set foot in the Howard County Library.
Stovepipe legs clad in Dickies work pants were stuffed into lace-up construction boots caked with red clay. Bubba’s head sprouted from massive cement truck shoulders covered in a plaid shirt converted to sleeveless by careless scissors. Furry red beard, bulbous nose and dainty ears graced the bowling ball that Bubba placed a beat-up Longhorns cap on daily. He made Larry the Cable Guy look like George Clooney.
“Hey, gals.” He swiped the ball cap off his head, nearly blinding them with his sweating pate. “Uh, Miss Nellie, I seen you over at the grocery store and I said to myself, ‘Dang, that gal’s looking mighty good these days.’”
No. Oh, no. Nellie felt a load of rocks drop into the pit of her stomach. She could also feel her cheeks beginning to glow.
“And I said, heck, I need to just go on and ask Nellie to go over to the stockyards with me in Fort Worth to see them cattle run.” Bubba stopped and swiped a massive paw over his sweating brow before continuing. “Any of y’all ever seen them cattle runnin’?”
Both Rita and Cathy shook their heads. Their eyes were riveted to the sight of Bubba sweating and squirming on the hundred-fifty-year-old cypress floor. Nellie thought they looked like her aunt Clarice the first time she watched popcorn pop in the microwave—amazed and hungry.
“Well, anyhow, how ’bout it, Nellie? Want to go with me and see them cows haul ass through downtown FortWorth?”
Bubba Malone asking her out. Dear God. Nellie prayed she stood on a trapdoor that would open and allow her to whoosh through the floor. Or perhaps the tower of books on the cart could shift and collapse, rendering her unconscious. And for heaven’s sake, why weren’t there earthquakes in Texas? She could use one right now.
But nothing moved. No one came to her rescue.
Everyone just stood still as Oak Stand at midnight.
“Well, Bubba, that sounds, um, nice, but I’m allergic to cows.” Okay, she’d just told a whopper of a lie. She knew it, Rita knew it and Cathy was probably too tired from two-o’clock feedings to clue in.
“Really?” Cathy tore her eyes from poor Bubba to Nellie. “You can be allergic to cows?”
Nellie coughed. “It’s called ‘bovine intolerance.’ It’s hereditary.”
“Really?” Cathy said. “Hmm.”
Bubba said nothing, just shifted from one leg to the other.
“How about we just go for an ice cream sometime?” Nellie asked. God, why did she always have to be so nice? But, really, Bubba might be a scary mountain of a redneck, but he was okay. He drank Budweiser like it was mother’s milk, chewed Red Man by the box and scored a thirteen on the ACT, but Nellie couldn’t shoot him down in front of Rita, the biggest gossip in Howard County, who just happened to be going to Bible study that day. She knew how it felt to be on the short end of the stick.
“So you’re allergic to cows but not their milk?” Cathy bobbed her head back and forth from Bubba to Nellie.
“Uh, yeah, it’s, um, something in their dander.” Nellie turned her hands over in that vague “I don’t know” manner. She darted a quick look at the plaster ceiling above her head, pretty sure the wrath of God was about to smite her down right there in the library. In the past week she’d not only had illicit sex in the swimming pool of Nevada’s answer to Hugh Jackman, but was now lying through her teeth about having a disease she’d made up. Bovine Intolerance—well, at least it sounded like a disease.
“Uh, yeah, I like ice cream. I guess we could go over to the Dairy Barn sometime. When ya wanna go?”
Nellie really didn’t want to set up an ice cream social with Bubba Malone in front of her two co-workers. “How about I walk you out and we can talk about it?”
Nellie scooted from around the desk, and Bubba stepped back toward the door. Nellie wasn’t sure if he was being gentlemanly or just checking out her butt. She was kind of sure it was the latter when she turned to wait on him and caught the general direction of his eyes.
And he didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish.
“You want to go tonight or maybe tomorrow?” Nellie asked. “I could just meet you there.”
“Well, tonight’s my poker night. Tomorrow I’m goin’ bass fishin’ with Talton, but I guess I could clean up and meet you that night.” Bubba hooked his ball cap over the fat roll on the back of his neck and settled it onto his bald head.
Nellie stepped onto the wide-planked porch of the library. The porch wrapped around the antebellum house, boasting cheerful red rockers that creaked on the worn painted floors. The surrounding oaks cast shifting shadows on the freshly painted railing, while Boston ferns swayed from chains, rocking to and fro in the late May breeze.
The town square sat just off to her right. She could glimpse the fountain pouring water over the walls surrounding the statue of her great-great-grandfather Rufus Tucker. She’d stood on that porch hundreds of times. First as a toddler clutching the hand of Grandmother Tucker as they climbed up the stairs with her storybooks, soon after as a long-limbed, berry-brown girl holding stacks of Nancy Drew books, and finally as a librarian juggling file folders and a briefcase.
But she never thought she’d be standing on the porch arranging a date with Bubba Malone.
“Okay, Bubba, I’ll meet you on Friday, say, at seven?”
“Yep. That’ll work.”
“Um, Bubba. You know, I’m not really looking to get into a relationship or anything. Um, this is just a friend thing, huh?” Nellie felt awkward asking, but she didn’t want to leave Bubba with any misconceptions. Just a friendly ice cream on Friday night. Not a date.
Bubba looked like a worm crossing hot pavement. “Sure, I mean, yeah, we’re friends. We’ve always been friends.”
She nodded.
“It’s just I saw you and you looked so pretty,” he continued. “And, I mean, I always liked you. You’re so smart and nice. I just thought to myself, ‘That Nellie, well, she’s always been a gem in the rough. Now she’s shinin’ like a new diamond.’ I had to take a shot.”
An awkward pause hung over them for a moment before Bubba cleared his throat. “Hey, Nellie, you remember that time you told those Godwin kids off who were makin’ fun of me and my momma?”
A smile curved her lips. Bubba was good at shifting topics too. “Yeah, those kids were plum rotten, weren’t they?”
“Never seen such a sweet girl get so mad. Man, you was like a wet hen, all ruffed up and ready to peck their eyes out.” He laughed and it sounded like pieces of rusty metal rubbing together. “I always did like you, Nellie. You’re good people.”
“So are you, Bubba,” she said, punching him on his massive arm. “I’ll see you Friday night at seven sharp. Don’t be late. You know us librarians, we don’t take to dawdlers.”
Bubba delivered a sloppy salute and stomped off the porch toward his gargantuan pickup truck with the dual exhaust pipes that roared when the engine was cranked. She knew. She’d once dropped a dozen eggs onto the pavement outside the grocery store when he fired up and bellowed out of the parking lot.
Nellie walked back into the library. Rita leaned over the counter, her eyes ablaze. “Well, I’ll be. Who’d a thunk old Bubba had it in him? How’d you get out of that one?”
“Well, I guess I didn’t. We’re going for ice cream tomorrow night.”
“Really?” Cathy arched her pencil-thin eyebrows. “You and Bubba? That’s like eating saltines with filet mignon.”
“Which one am I?” she asked, picking up the stack of books she’d set down along with her purse and starting for the small office at the back of the library.
The last thing she heard was Cathy giggle at something Rita said. Nellie didn’t want to know what it was.
She entered the office and shoved the books onto the folding chair in the corner. Her office could really use a makeover too—every nook and cranny was stuffed with books, papers and files. The desk squatted in the middle, battle-scarred and weary but still serviceable. The mustard-yellow walls had dings and scratches. The space would have been grim if not for the framed Georgia O’Keeffe pictures, cheerful potted houseplants, and obnoxious pencil cup sporting an uptight librarian on it that said Librarians have tight buns.
Kate had a twisted sense of humor.
Nellie slid behind her desk and switched on her computer. Being out of town for even a few days had put her behind. She had tons of summaries to prepare for the database, not to mention several dozen book reviews to read. Cathy wanted a list of possible acquisitions before the next board meeting, and she also needed to get a compilation of genealogical resources available to present to the Senior Citizens’ Center next Friday. Nellie would be swamped for several days.
The hours flew by as quickly as her fingers flew over the keyboard, entering the required information in the database. Before she knew it, Cathy knocked on her door and told her to grab lunch.
Because she’d forgotten her lunch, Nellie strolled home. She had an hour so she took her time and meandered through the small garden in the center of the town square. Her house towered on the corner of the square, overseeing town operations just the way her great-grand-father Joseph Tucker intended it to. Birds sang, the fountain gurgled, and Bernie the weenie dog barked a greeting as she passed his fenced-in yard. By the time Nellie reached the walk of the stately colonial she’d called home since she was in diapers, she’d forgotten just how much she hated men.
Until she saw the brooding hunk sitting on her porch swing, just as comfortable as if he’d been born lord of the manor. What was he doing here and how did he know she’d come home for lunch?
“Afternoon, Nellie.”
“Hello, Brent. I guess you’ve taken to making yourself at home on my porch.” She pulled her keys from her pocket.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind too much.”
“I guess I don’t,” she said, climbing the stairs to the door. She could feel Brent’s eyes on her and she didn’t like it. It felt foreign, and she’d rather he didn’t visually undress her as if she was one of those girls at the gentlemen’s bars he frequented.
“It’s weird. I still think about it being your grandmother’s porch. She made some good lemonade.”
Nellie just grunted an affirmative. She stuck the key into the dead bolt. Hearing it click, she swung the beveled glass door wide, allowing her cat Beau to slide out and curve around her legs. She could already see his stray hairs clinging to her white pants but didn’t care.
She scooped Beau up and deposited him on the top of the porch railing. “Did you need something, Brent?”
Brent Hamilton, all-state quarterback and Oak Stand’s answer to Tom Cruise, flashed his best blinding smile and lowered his lids to sultry. He slowly stood up, allowing the porch swing to bump against the back of his knees. He took a few steps toward Nellie, and she caught a whiff of his spicy aftershave. “Why? You asking for something, Nellie?”
Lord, was this how he flirted? And she thought she was pathetic. She folded her arms and shot him her best no-nonsense glare. “No. You’re the one standing on my porch. Not the other way around.”
Something cruel flashed in Brent’s Nordic eyes. “You a lesbo or something, Nellie? I mean, there’s been rumors and all.”
She flinched at his words. Lesbian? Just because she didn’t spread her legs for every man in Oak Stand? Nellie wanted to throw something at Brent. Beau would probably work. He’d scratch those perfectly tanned cheeks. But who hurled a cat at a man? Part of her wanted to slink inside and close the door, hurt and embarrassed, typical Nellie. But she did neither.
Instead, she allowed her lips to curve upward then she casually caught her lower lip with her teeth. She raked Brent with her eyes, not once but twice. Then she reached out and laid her hand flat on his muscled chest. “Why? You want to watch, Brent?”
She had never seen Brent Hamilton at a loss for words, but damned if he didn’t look shocked. His eyes shifted from conniving to confused. Poor Brent. She’d rocked his delicate sensibilities.
Nellie allowed a low laugh to escape and she walked her fingers up to his shoulder. “Just kidding, Brent. I don’t do girls, anyway. And if I did, I wouldn’t let you watch.”
She pressed one finger into the cleft in Brent’s chin before stepping away. She threw him a sunny smile.
His only response was to blink.
“You never did tell me why you’re on my porch,” she said, grabbing the doorknob and turning expectantly toward the man still gathering his wits.
“Uh, yeah, Bob McEvoy told me you were looking for a contractor. I saw you heading this way and thought I would come by and offer my services.” Brent still looked shell-shocked. She wondered if anyone had ever provoked the town hero before.
“I plan on remodeling my kitchen. I put in a couple of calls this morning, so I could go ahead and get the quote process rolling. You want to give me an estimate?”
He nodded his head. “Look, I’ll just give you a call and we’ll set up a consult. I gotta get going anyway.” He seemed to be in a big rush all of a sudden. Self-satisfaction burgeoned inside Nellie. She’d turned the tables on someone. She’d made a man so uncomfortable he wanted to slink off her porch like a whipped pup.
“Sure,” she drawled with a hint of come-hither in her voice. “You just give me a call anytime.”
Nellie couldn’t say Brent actually scrambled off her porch, but he sure didn’t waste much time hustling toward the truck parked just around the corner. It had Hamilton Construction written on the side of it, along with his phone number. She could jot the number down, but she was almost certain Mr. Football would be calling her. His eyes may have gone all befuddled, but they’d definitely shown interest. Brent would be back.
She picked Beau up and nestled him in the crook of her arm. His lawn-mower purr cranked up and she dropped a kiss on his heart-shaped nose. “Well, Beau, I’ve gone two years without a date and darned if two men didn’t pop up today. Too bad neither is the one I want. Too damn bad.”
She dropped the cat back onto the gray boards of the roomy porch and checked the antique mailbox beside the front door. Nothing but the electric bill, a tanning bed flyer, and a brochure advertising a free weekend in Las Vegas.
She wanted to laugh, but the pain flashed so hard and fast she couldn’t even smile at the irony.
“Get Wild In Vegas.” Big, bold letters, flashing signs, bright lights.
Been there. Done that.
Nellie crumpled the brochure into a giant multicolored ball just the perfect size to fling into the wastebasket.
“Screw men,” she said as she stomped into her house. They could all go to hell.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Homemade, flaky crust” my butt. I caught her buying those pie crusts from the grocery store. She ain’t foolin’ nobody. See, just goes to show you, you can’t tell with some people. They put on a flag-waving, God-fearin’, homemade pie-making show, but underneath they’re just like the rest of the world. Frauds!
—Grandmother Tucker after she lost the pie contest to Lula Mae Bradford, her archrival.
JUST AS JACK crossed the Oak Stand city limits sign—population 3249—he felt the tire go flat.
Not the best introduction to Nellie’s hometown. Scratch that, his new hometown. One he’d hadn’t even laid eyes on before putting his Vegas house on the market, settling the nightclub deal with O’Shea, and purchasing a run-down farm he’d only glimpsed on an Internet site. It had taken him almost a month to get his affairs in order. And now he was in Oak Stand. The least the town could do was offer him a lukewarm welcome.That was obviously not in t
he cards, Jack thought as he angled his new Ford F-250 to the side of the road in front of a ramshackle building called The Bait Shack.
The truck rolled to a stop and Jack thumped the steering wheel with his head. He was exhausted, hungry and cranky. Two days driving across the arid southwest in the blistering sun made for a giant headache.
The only bright spot in his trip was the gleaming new truck he drove. A fiery red beauty, it purred over the highway, eating the miles, cradling his body in plush leather seats, and providing him song after song on the satellite radio. The only thing it couldn’t do was reinflate its own tire.
He slipped from the truck, noting the door to the bait shop opening at the same time. He walked around to the passenger side and, sure enough, the tire was flat. It caused his fine-looking truck to tip like a drunken sailor on shore leave.
“Man, that’s some truck.” Jack heard the voice from behind him. “You got a flat or somethin’?”
Jack wanted to turn around and say, “Nah, I just over-inflated the other three for the hell of it…”
Of course, he wasn’t quite sure of the size of the fellow behind him, so he didn’t. They grew them big in Texas. He wasn’t going to risk a black eye.
Jack turned around. “Looks like it.”
The man staring back at him was skinny as a beanpole, blacker than tar and gap-toothed to boot. A friendly smile lit his grizzled face. “Reckon we’d better get to changin’ it then.”
Jack raised his eyebrows at the stranger’s words. For one, the man didn’t even ask if he could lend a hand. Jack had experienced his share of kind strangers, but this one seemed pragmatic in his approach. He was going to help; that’s what he was supposed to do. Second, he was about seventy, perhaps even eighty, yet there he was, shuffling around behind the truck, wiping his brow with a worn bandanna.
“Woo, sure is hot,” the man commented. “We’re in for a rough summer, I do believe.”