Lois Lane Tells All

by Karen Hawkins

  “On your way somewhere, Miss Susan?”

  She grinned at Ray Dobbins, who put down his ever-present crossword, but didn’t rise from the overstuffed lobby couch that he constantly occupied. The old man was a relic of a time gone by when every large building had a doorman. The bright orange ‘Security’ written on the tag hanging from Ray’s blue blazer was a mere courtesy title; everyone in town knew the man was nearly blind and couldn’t work up a run to save a life, even his own. Just walking across the lobby to the fountain to get a drink left the man wheezing like a slit tire. Still, he was an institution and she couldn’t imagine the building without him.

  “Yup,” she said. “I’m interviewing the mayor.”

  “Give ’em hell. Charlie Harkins is a crook.”

  She pushed open the heavy door and grinned. “So I’ve heard. Back in a few!”

  Ray waved and returned to his crossword as she went outside in the sunshine and hurried toward City Hall. This would be a good article; she could feel it. All she had to do was fight Mark for the proper amount of column space; lately he’d become almost miserly in allocating it, preferring to hold it for ads. Her smile faded. Truly, the man needed a lesson in newspaper management. Perhaps she’d take the time to give him one. After a few more of those hot kisses, of course.

  Her smile back in place, she raced up the steps to City Hall, her notebook already opened to a blank page.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Bob,

  My mother is trying to set me up with her new husband’s cousin’s stepsister, who is a stone-cold fox.

  My problem is this—the first time I do something to make this gal mad, she’ll tell her sister, who’ll repeat it to my stepfather, who’ll blab it to my mother, and all hell will break loose.

  I’d rather not have to watch my p’s and q’s quite so close, if you know what I mean.

  What should I do?

  Signed,

  Don’t Tell

  Dear Don’t,

  Take my advice and resist your mother’s matchmaking or you’ll come up the loser.

  Tell your mother “no” and, when you find a pair, go get your own girl.

  Signed,

  Bob

  The Glory Examiner

  June 26, section B2

  Susan climbed out of her ’98 Jeep Cherokee and rolled her neck, wincing when it popped a half dozen times. “What a day,” she muttered. She’d been on edge and she knew the reason—the hot kiss she’d shared with her boss two days ago had her restless and lusting like an unfulfilled high schooler.

  She leaned into the Jeep and collected the bags of groceries that sat on the floorboard and used her hip to close the door.

  “Hey, Collins!” came a deep voice behind her. “Need some help?”

  Susan looked across the hood to see her neighbor, Ethan Markham, leaning against the picket fence that separated their properties. His house was very similar to hers, a low craftsman style with a wide porch framed with solid pillars and heavy wood trim around the doors and windows. The difference was that Ethan’s house was … not run-down, exactly, but the paint needed updating, the flagstone walk could use a good pressure washing, and the shrubs were badly in need of a trim.

  Of course, Ethan was relatively new to the house. He’d inherited it from his elderly aunt, but the house had sat vacant for years before he’d settled down and moved in. Now he was slowly, carefully updating every part of the house. And from what she’d seen, he was doing an amazing job.

  Susan put the groceries on the Jeep hood and sauntered over to the low fence. Ethan’s front door was propped open, and two sawhorses had been placed on the front lawn. “Whatcha working on today?”

  “The downstairs bathroom. I’m going to completely gut it, put in slate tile, new fixtures, a double vanity, and a steam shower.”

  “Wow! Fancy, aren’t you?”

  Ethan flashed her a grin. “Got to keep up with the Joneses. You’ve raised the bar for the whole neighborhood with the work you’ve done on your place.”

  Susan leaned against the fence and eyed her own house, deep satisfaction lifting her spirits. “I’ve done a few things.”

  Ethan’s blue eyes crinkled as he laughed. “You should be on HGTV.”

  “I TiVo every show.”

  “You’re good with your power tools, I’ll give you that. When you get done with your house, feel free to help me with mine.”

  “Deal.” Grinning, she eyed his house. “It’s a shame you planted pansies up your walk. The boys will give you a hard time about that.”

  The “boys” were her poker buds. Come rain or shine, work or no, she always had poker night. It was her special time, filled with her best friends, most of whom were men.

  Until Mark’s older sister, Roxie, had come back to town, Susan hadn’t really socialized with many of the town’s women. Oh, she knew most of them and got along with them. But none of them liked to fish, and she did. Before he took a turn for the worse, she and her dad used to fish a lot. Now she had the biggest, fastest bass boat in town and she loved it.

  She also loved football, hot wings, and icy beer, but put her in a mall and she felt like a giraffe at a hat-hanging party: she simply didn’t fit in.

  Her two nods to her femininity were her shoe collection and her biweekly pedi, and then she got in and out with as little chitchat as possible.

  She sometimes wondered if she’d have felt differently if her mother had bothered to stick around after her twelfth birthday, but she’d never know. For now, at least she had her shoes. Those reassured her that no matter how many fish she caught, how many football nights she hosted for the town’s bachelor force, or how few dates she’d been on in the last few years, she was, indeed, female.

  “Sweetheart,” Ethan drawled, breaking into her thoughts, “you should learn your flowers. They’re not pansies, they’re impatiens.”

  “The guys will love it that you know the name of those flowers.”

  “I didn’t want to do this, but if you force me … I’ll maintain my status by mentioning how I got to watch you wash your Jeep in those cutoff jean shorts of yours.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You weren’t home when I washed the Jeep.”

  “I came in just as you finished. Noah Baxter and I enjoyed your final gyrations.”

  “Noah Baxter is married.”

  Ethan’s grin faded. “He and Tiffany are taking a break.”

  “No! They’ve only been married two years, at most.”

  “It happens.”

  Susan knew that from her own experience. At twelve, she’d watched her own parents’ marriage crumble, her father becoming more and more self-destructive until her mother had stormed out, bags packed. Susan had refused to go with her mom; the thought of leaving Dad alone seemed heartless. Mom had been a strong woman and had continued her life, though she’d continually pressed Susan to join her.

  Then, three years after she’d left, Mom had been killed in a car accident. Susan had mourned, but she hadn’t been as devastated as she’d expected. Mom had moved on, and so had Susan.

  She smiled at Ethan now. “I’d better get those groceries inside. I have ice cream.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “If you forget you ever saw me in those jean shorts.” He didn’t answer right away, so she added softly, “Double Dutch chocolate.”

  He chuckled. “You win.”

  She enjoyed having Ethan for a next-door neighbor. He was handy with tools and frequently helped her with some of her more complicated home improvement projects. Better yet, he was a terrific poker player and was amazingly easy on the eyes.

  Seriously, the man looked like a twenty-something Hugh Jackman with his black hair and blue, blue eyes. He maintained a sexy scruff, too, a bad-boy look that Susan couldn’t imagine Mark ever trying—which was a pity. She was sure it would be devastating on him.

  She fought back a sigh at the image. She had enough trouble keeping her hands off of her boss as it was. It
was a good thing he didn’t know how to work it, or she’d be really gone.

  Meanwhile, easygoing and available Ethan had never caught her interest. He was fun to hang out with, but despite his Greek God physique, she had absolutely no desire to throw her arms around him and kiss him the way she had Mark.

  She really needed to work on her taste in men. Maybe she should watch more Lifetime and less HGTV.

  She pushed herself from the fence. “I’d better get inside. It’s getting late and Dad’s probably waiting on dinner.”

  “Your dad’s not home, Suse.”

  “He left?”

  “A few hours ago on his bike. I guess it was two o’clock.”

  “Oh.” She forced a smile. “I won’t need to fix dinner right away, then. Did he … did he say where he was going?”

  “I asked, but he just waved and left.”

  She managed a carefree shrug. “He’s that way.”

  Ethan looked at if he might say something more—something serious and sympathetic—so she flashed a fast smile. “Let me know if you need help setting the tile for the steam shower. I know a few tricks there.”

  She grabbed her bags and carried them up the flagstone path to her house, turning her attention to her neat and tidy home. It was all hers. She’d scrimped and saved and had worked hours of overtime to come up with the down payment. Now, every day when she came home, her soul grinned as she walked up this path, even when she was worried.

  There’s nothing to worry about, she told herself. Dad will be fine. He’s always fine.

  They said God took care of children, fools, and drunks. She knew from firsthand experience that at least part of that saying was true.

  She paused on the front step, admiring how the flowers she’d planted around the front stoop were blooming in a gorgeous array of crimson, yellow, and purple. The sight warmed her, and some of her trepidation eased.

  She climbed onto the wide porch, where several welcoming rocking chairs waited, and walked inside. In the living room, her eyes were drawn to the empty easy chair by the fireplace. Where the couch and love seat were comfy plump, well made, and obviously new, the chair was a product of days gone by. Of a muted yellow-and-brown plaid, the seat sagged, the arms were threadbare, and the recliner part had long since broken, which was why an equally ancient ottoman was pulled to the front of it. Around the chair were scattered papers covered in scrawling drawings, stacks of Popular Science, Scientific American, and Discover magazine.

  She set her groceries on the front hall table and went to the chair to collect a few fallen magazines that littered the space. She stacked them neatly around the sagging chair and was turning back for her groceries when she noticed the edge of a beer can sticking out from under the chair skirt. She sighed and fished it out, then another and another. Soon, she had a stack of eight beer cans.

  She carried them to the kitchen and placed them in the recycling bin. Not a drop dripped from any of them. “Sucked them dry, didn’t you, Dad?”

  Collecting her groceries, she put them away, then grabbed an empty laundry basket from the table by the laundry room door and went up the broad, wooden stairs to the second floor.

  The farthest room from the landing was her bedroom, the largest one in the house. The oak floor shone, and a large four-poster king-size bed dominated one wall. The windows were large, almost to the floor, and covered with plantation shutters that reduced the sun’s glare. The bed was covered in a muslin coverlet trimmed with white scalloped lace, while a pile of lavender, sky blue, and sage striped pillows sat against the high headboard. A puffy chair covered in sky blue muslin sat to one side with a friendly ottoman pulled before it. Against the other wall was an antique dresser that matched the huge bed, and across from it, a lovely vanity and mirror.

  The walls were painted a soothing sage green, which set off the cream trim and made the dark oak flooring gleam in contrast. It was a beautiful bedroom, one worthy of any decorating magazine. She paused by the vanity, noting that her assortment of antique bottles that lined the polished surface was crooked and she automatically straightened each of them.

  Two of the bottles had belonged to her mother. The attic was full of things that had belonged to Mom, but Susan kept only these two items in sight. Some things were better left in the past. She and Dad had made their own way in life, and there was no sense in wishing things had been otherwise.

  Susan turned from the vanity and paused by the picture on the wall leading to the bathroom. It was an old black-and-white print of Phyllis Coates, the actress who’d played Lois Lane in the original TV series Adventures of Superman. Of all the actresses who’d ever played the intrepid Lois Lane, Susan thought Coates was the best.

  “I bet your Clark Kent didn’t try to prove you wrong every chance he got,” Susan murmured. The real Clark Kent had a bigger-than-life crush on Lois Lane and did whatever he could to assist her, even when he shouldn’t.

  Though I’d probably find it annoying if someone did that for me. She opened her closet door, where her laundry bag hung from a hook against the far wall. Like the house, her closet was organized from top to bottom. All of her jeans and a few slacks for special occasions were neatly hung, arranged by color and length; her shirts, the same way.

  But what would have surprised her friends was that the entire left wall was covered from ceiling to floor with shoes. Five pairs were her usual sneakers and boat shoes, but the rest were an assortment of the sexiest, finest, most decadent shoes she could find.

  With a smile, she ran a finger across a pair of red open-toe sling-back heels. They were made of gorgeous Italian leather with engraved silver buckles across the toes. Just touching them gave her a feeling of satisfaction.

  She took the pair out of the closet, tossed the laundry basket on the bed, kicked off her comfy trail shoes, and slipped her feet into the four-inch heels. Crossing the floor to look in the mirror, she admired how the red pumps made her feet look elegant and sexy. They’d look even better if her toenails were a lovely shade of red to match the leather. Perhaps she’d get that at this weekend’s pedi.

  She walked around the room for a few moments, pleased at the way the shoes made her hips sway with feminine sensuality. She should wear these to the office one day. She tried to imagine Mark’s reaction as she strutted in, her do-me red Italian stilettos tapping across the floor.

  She made a last turn about the room, then reluctantly replaced the shoes in her closet. Boy, would her poker buds laugh to see her playing dress up! She smiled wryly trailing her finger over a few favorites before she turned off the closet light. “Get to work, Collins. You’ve got laundry to do and dinner to fix.” She emptied her laundry bag into the basket, then went to her dad’s room for his dirty clothes.

  Only one of his shirts had made it into the hamper; the rest littered the floor around it. Susan grabbed them all and headed down to the laundry room off the kitchen, eyeing her new granite countertops with pleasure. She was almost finished redoing the house, meticulously creating an elegant and comfortable space. Next up was her garage, and she had big plans for that. When she was done, she’d have the car-fixing/fly-tying/poker-playing center of her dreams.

  After loading the washer, she returned to the kitchen and began fixing dinner, baking pork chops, mashing potatoes, and frying apples in butter and brown sugar. She was just finishing when she heard a bicycle creak to a halt outside.

  Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she hurried out to the garage. “Dad!”

  Her father climbed off his rattley old bike, staggering a bit. In a trice, she was down the two steps into the garage and had his arm.

  He grinned and let the bike drop to the garage floor with a crash. “I’m fine.” He patted her hand. “Just lost m’footing on this slick floor’s all.”

  The slurred words and familiar smell of beer made her heart sink. “It’s a bit early for the Bigger Jigger, isn’t it?” It was a waste of her breath to even say it, but she did it because she wanted him to listen to
her, because she couldn’t stop hoping that one day he would change. At least a little.

  “I jus’ stopped by to have a beer or two with m’friends. There was no harm in it at all. Besides, Bob broke his own record for sales at the hardware store. We had to celebrate that.” He grinned at her, his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot, his hair mussed.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and ruffled his hair. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “I’m hoping you’re going to feed me.”

  “The pork chops are almost done.”

  He brightened instantly. “With fried apples?”

  She nodded, gave him a final hug, and hurried into the kitchen.

  He came to wash his hands at the sink. “I’ll set the table.”

  “Thanks, that would be nice.”

  “It’s the least I can do, seeing as how you did all the cooking.” He collected two plates and the correct silverware and made a show of lining everything up properly. “How was your day? The new boss still giving you fits?”

  In more ways than you know. “He’s been strangely calm these last two days. We haven’t had a single argument.” Just a lot of heated glances.

  Dad poured them both ice water and placed it by their plates before he sat down. “Working on any good stories?”

  “The biggest one is on the budget cuts to the local animal shelter. I’m also writing a follow-up piece on the Methodist Church singing contest.”

  “Those should keep you busy for a while.”

  “You’d think.” She put the last of the food on the table and took a seat beside him, and filled their plates, watching from under her lashes as Dad pretended to eat.

  He was beginning to look far older than his years, his skin gray, his nose bright red, his hair a faded version of her own red and shot through with threads of silver.