The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  “Curious. Keep his options open. Maybe his new agent spooked him in some way. Or he thought he’d get something from me he couldn’t get from him.” Bruno barreled out of the parking lot, taking the exit heading for US 301.

  Beck reached for the radio, but Bruno stopped her. “Please. Silence.” He peered at her with a visual apology. “Just for a while.”

  About an hour in, he turned on the radio and seemed to let go of his tension. His shoulders relaxed, and he no longer gripped the wheel as if for dear life.

  When they arrived home, Bruno parked in the garage-barn, then padlocked it closed.

  Beck gathered Beetle’s things and started for the house, then paused, turning back to Bruno, who stood by the garage, arms akimbo.

  “I know it’s part of the job, but this one . . .” He shook his head, finally, slowly smiling. “Maybe my dad was right. I’m nothing.”

  “Is that what you truly believe?”

  “No, I don’t know. I knew starting out on my own would be difficult, but I wasn’t prepared for zero clients in almost two years.” The soft Florida breeze tugged at the hem of his pullover. “Remember that kid’s story where he thinks he’s brave and ferocious, and when he faces his bullies, they go running? But it’s really because his dad is standing behind him?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s about a lion or something. Was it the Lion King?”

  “I can’t remember, but maybe I’m that kid. I thought I was the one drawing in all the clients, but really it was Kevin and the might of Watershed.”

  “I wish I could contradict you with some lofty you-can-do-it platitude, but I can tell you if you don’t believe in yourself, no one will believe in you.”

  “Mom used to tell me, ‘If you go around saying you can’t, don’t be surprised when you fail.’”

  “Bruno.” Beck closed the distance between them, standing close enough to smell the clean scent of his shirt. “For what it’s worth, you don’t want a guy like him.”

  “You mean a guy whose potential worth will be in the, oh, twenty-five million range?” He swung around, arms wide. “Forget the money, he’ll be a legend, a player younger guys want to emulate. He’s a poster boy for any agent. Why wouldn’t I want a guy like him?”

  “He’s a player.”

  “No kidding. One of the best in the country.”

  “No, a player-player. He may have a fancy name and lots of amazing stats, but he’s trouble. I’ve seen it with the rich ones, the talented ones, the guys who have it all.”

  “Where? On the streets of New York? You chase the rich guys down dark alleys, Beck? Are they your main offenders?”

  “As a matter of fact—Ah, forget it.” She turned for the house.

  “Wait, Beck.” His touched her with a gentle hand. “I shouldn’t have let this get to me.”

  “Tell you what . . . Ten bucks he fails his first drug test.”

  Bruno smiled, shaking his head. “He’s already passed his drug tests. And if he’s using, he knows how to clean out his system.”

  “Sure, but once he starts having some success—”

  “He is successful.”

  “In the NFL. Trust me, he won’t last.”

  “Are you that good?”

  “Ten bucks.” She set Beetle on the ground and stuck out her hand. “He’ll be in trouble his first year.”

  “Deal. And since he’s not my client, I won’t mind if I lose. But I won’t.” He winked at her as he clapped his hand into hers.

  She wouldn’t mind losing either. Not to him. Why didn’t she remember him?

  “Sorry for my attitude on the way home. It just gets me every time I lose—”

  “You’re somebody, Bruno. To your mom, to your friends, to Calvin. To me.”

  “To you?” He stirred the air with his intimate tone.

  “Y-yes.” Beck stepped back. “I know what a nothing looks like, and you’re far from it.” His nearness made her yearn. “When I found Beetle he was in the care of a Park Avenue junkie whose parents are as rich as the dickens. He could’ve done anything he wanted, gone anywhere. But he chose to waste his life running drugs for a lowlife dealer in Alphabet City. That’s how I know about rich guys, about the G-Ros of the world. They’re the nothings, Bruno. Not men like you who give up your career for integrity. Or to take care of their mothers.”

  “Beck—” In one motion, his arm was about her waist and he pulled her to him.

  “Bruno, wait.” She flattened her palm against his chest.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ve been waiting. For eighteen years.”

  His confession made her laugh. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been pining for me since a teen kiss at a music festival.”

  “I didn’t know until now.” He ran his hand down her arm and intertwined their fingers. She gasped when he kissed her forehead.

  “Bruno.” She set Beetle on the ground and averted her gaze. “I’m pregnant with another man’s baby, a situation that is sticky and complicated, with decisions looming. Besides all that, I’m leaving in three weeks, going back to my life and job in New York.”

  “Today is just filled with bad news for old Bruno.” He touched her chin, gently drawing her attention. “I don’t care. I’ll take what I can get in the next three weeks. You’re the best thing that’s come into my life in a long time.”

  “Bruno, please.” She lowered his hand. “Stop, take a breath. Think about what you’re saying.” If he realized the impracticality of his implications, then she wouldn’t have to tell him. She couldn’t be another disappointment in a long line. “We’re not kids making innocent summer memories.”

  “No, I guess we’re not.” He released her and stepped away. “What was I thinking? It’s January.”

  “Exactly.” There, let him down gently.

  He faced the house. “We made a lot of memories at the memory house. Remember?” He glanced over at her. “No, I guess you don’t. But memories or not, it’s true, you can’t go back again.”

  “Say, I have a friend at home who does metal work. I can get him to make me a plaque for the front. The Memory House. Who started the nickname? Me or you?”

  “Miss Everleigh. She called it her memory house. It fits, doesn’t it? The memory house on Memory Lane. The place where we had some darn good times.”

  “I want this baby to have those kind of moments in her life. Running around outside, chasing her cousins, chasing fireflies and the ice-cream truck. Going to ballgames and family picnics.”

  “You’re just not sure you’re the one to give them to her?”

  Beck shook her head. “No, I’m not, and part of it breaks my heart. But I’ve always been honest with myself.”

  “Except for what you said to your father.”

  “I don’t know what I said to him, so no, I guess not.”

  “It’ll come to you,” Bruno said. “Beck, do you ever wonder why you forgot?”

  “What do you mean?” At the base of the oak by the back porch, Beetle barked at a squirrel.

  “I don’t know, but not remembering is a whole lot different than forgetting. Did you forget, or do you just not remember?”

  “You’re raising more questions than I have answers.”

  His hands slipped into hers. If she exhaled, she could tip sideways and rest her head against his chest. Wouldn’t that feel good? To drop her burdens someplace strong and steady. On someone with a tender heart. Just for now. Tomorrow, next week, in three weeks she’d have to walk her journey alone, but for now—

  “Beck?” Their eyes met when she looked up, and there was no resisting. He’d kissed her with his heart long before his velvet lips covered hers.

  His arm encircled her as he bent toward her. He kissed her without hesitation, taking her with a husky passion.

  She surrendered to the moment, resting in his embrace, locked in the sensation of being known and wanted.

  Then at her feet, Beetle barked and snarled.

  Bruno broke away with a la
ugh. “I think he’s jealous.”

  “He knows he’s my number one.” She stooped to pick him up but kept her right hand on Bruno’s waist. She wasn’t quite ready to let go.

  “The second was better than the first.”

  “The second?”

  “Kiss. Way better than the awkward first,” he said. “And just as memorable.”

  “Bruno, should we start something we can’t finish?”

  “Who says we can’t finish?”

  “Me. You. Us. This whole crazy situation.”

  “You’re right. Let’s just slow down and see where things go.”

  “O-kay.” She swirled with a blip of disappointment despite his perfect answer. Of course they had to go slow. See where things headed. But oh, what if he’d refused? What if he fought for her? “I’d better go.” Beck motioned to the house. “I need to eat and take a nap.”

  “I’ll call you later. Maybe we can have dinner.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” She turned to go, but a strong hand came around her waist and turned her around.

  Bruno kissed her again and again, his physical affection fighting for her in a way words could not.

  “Beck, I think I—”

  “Bruno.” She kissed him, drinking in the word she’d never let him say aloud. Love. It was too soon, too impossible.

  In mid-embrace, as their affection tumbled to greater depths, Beetle Boo had enough. With a guttural growl, he lunged at Bruno, snapping at his shirt pocket, and with a quick shake of his head, ripped it clean away. The dark-red square dangled from his teeth.

  “Beetle!” Beck covered her laugh. “B-bad dog.” But she didn’t mean a word of it. “Bruno, I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

  “I’ll take that,” Bruno said, yanking the square from the dog’s grip. “This was my only Sports Equity shirt.”

  “Please, let me buy you a new one. Two new ones.”

  He sighed and smoothed his fingers over the logo. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe Beetle’s right. I have no business starting my own agency.” He peered at Beck. “Or kissing you. I can’t support myself, let alone a wife and kid.” He scanned the blue afternoon sky. “You think God sees me? That He’ll call my name from the clouds?”

  Beck grabbed him by the collar. “You listen to me, you’re going to have a great sports agency, and when you do, you’re going to go on national television and tell everyone I told you so.”

  He cut her off with another kiss. Slowly Beetle slipped from her grasp as she raised her arms around Bruno, the sensation of the moment more than the best wine.

  “Can I tell you I’m falling in—”

  “Good night, Bruno.” Beck brushed her hand over his chest, patting where the pocket had been.

  He ran his hand over hers. “Night, Beck.”

  Inside, she set Beetle down and stared out the kitchen window as Bruno got into his car and drove away.

  When she’d devoured a quick snack and climbed the stairs for a nap, she saw his face and marveled how his kiss felt like her very first time.

  chapter seventeen

  Everleigh

  She parked Dad’s old DeSoto under a string of bare white bulbs on the Callahan Car lot and stepped out, straightening her new skirt and fluffing her hair.

  Everleigh had no plans to trade Daddy’s reliable DeSoto until she walked out of LuEllen’s weeks ago as a bobbed platinum blonde with red lips and tweezed eyebrows.

  She felt like a new woman until she climbed into the old DeSoto—God bless its Firedome, hemi, eight-cylinder engine. It was a tome to her widowhood as well as Mama’s, and perhaps now was the season for change.

  She broke down when LuEllen turned her to see herself in the mirror.

  “There you are, Everleigh Louise Novak Applegate. Your youth has not expired.”

  And she suddenly craved . . . life.

  She started slow. First with updating her wardrobe and beauty products. After the dresses and shoes, slacks and blouses were hung in her closet, the products organized in the bathroom, Everleigh took a good look at the old car.

  But letting go was harder than she imagined. So tonight when she left Reed’s, she gave herself permission to just look. If she found something she liked for the right price, she’d try to make a deal.

  Confession? She was a bit nervous. She’d never negotiated for a car before. Daddy had always bought the family cars from Harold Callahan, so of course that was her first stop.

  “Harold will give you a good deal,” he always said.

  Walking across the lot, Everleigh was immediately drawn to the shiny line of Studebakers, especially the red one with a white convertible top. Goodness if she didn’t fall a little bit in love.

  Moving for a closer inspection, she ran her gloved hand over the butter-soft white leather seats. Wouldn’t she feel rich in this machine, in this symbol of change?

  Then she braved a look at the price tag and gasped. She patted the gleaming red door.

  “It was nice knowing you.”

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” A salesman hurried toward her, swinging on his jacket, buttoning the top button of his white shirt.

  “Can you loan me $2,600?”

  His grin lit his pale-blue eyes. “That can be arranged. Is your husband with you? I’d be more than happy to talk details with him.”

  Everleigh leveled her gaze at him. “You’ll be dealing with me.”

  “I see.” The man offered his hand with a slight bow. “Glenn Harmon, at your service.”

  “Everleigh Applegate.” She couldn’t say for sure, but it seemed blondes did have more fun. No man had bowed toward her when she was a dull-headed brunette.

  “So you like the new Lark?” He walked around the car. “She’s a beaut. Drives like silk. Can you handle a manual shift?”

  “See that DeSoto over there? I drive it every day. Three on the tree. I have truckers’ arms.”

  Beyond the dealership’s main showroom, a row of salesmen gathered, watching with pie-eating grins and their arms folded.

  Ignore them. If they thought a woman didn’t know how to negotiate a car deal, they had another thing coming. Yes, she was new to the game, but she’d done her research, talked to Mr. Murdoch next door as well as her banker, who kindly gave her a letter of credit.

  She’d resisted the urge to call Don. But she’d not heard from him since Valentine’s Day, and calling him seemed like a ruse to get his attention.

  Never mind the fact that a woman in 1960 should be able to negotiate her own car deal. And if Don wanted to communicate with her, he knew where she lived.

  “I take it you want to trade in the DeSoto.” Glenn walked toward the steady old machine sitting under the lot lights, looking like a relic from another time.

  In fact, Daddy used to say, “Wrap a scarf around the hood ornament and stick a pipe in the grill, and Grandpa Novak would be back from the grave.”

  “If the trade is fair, yes.” She followed Glenn, holding her cards close.

  When she arrived, she’d been more than willing to walk away from a deal. But with each passing heartbeat, she wanted the Lark more and more.

  She’d drain the savings account if need be. Never mind Mama had announced at dinner that Dutch Borland inspected the leak in the roof and said the whole thing needed to be replaced.

  Bless it all, ever since the night out with Don, she’d changed. She was tired of being practical. Tired of hiding. Even from herself.

  You see me, Rhett? I’m making a move.

  He never would have wanted Everleigh to hole up and quit living. He’d tell her to get out there, make the most of things.

  Glenn opened and closed the DeSoto’s doors. Inspected the interior. Kicked the tires.

  “What does that do?” she said, chasing him around the vehicle, her new red pumps clacking against the concrete.

  “Tests the quality.”

  “They are top of the line, I assure you. Who drives around on cheap tires?”

  “You
could’ve swapped them before bringing the car in.”

  “Why would I spend money on tires just to trade it in?” Everleigh retrieved the DeSoto’s documents from the glove box, as well as the banker’s credit letter. “You’ll see the purchase date and price, the mileage, the maintenance. I took the car to Wayne’s Classic Auto for regular oil changes and tune-ups. The belts and plugs aren’t a year old.” Glenn reviewed the papers with hmms and uh-huhs. “The carburetor is only two years old. The seats are clean, with no tears or scuffs. Of course, there’s the regular wear and tear, but she’s in pristine condition, I assure you.”

  Listing the old car’s qualities stirred a bit of sentiment. The sweet old thing deserved her loyalty. It started every morning, rain or shine, hot or cold. The old girl hauled Mama and Everleigh all over Waco and to Austin twice a year.

  “Mrs. Applegate,” Glenn said, making notes on the DeSoto’s documentation. “Let me see what I can do.” He winked at her. “You’ll look mighty fine wrapped up in that Studebaker.”

  She caught her smile. Steady now. “We’ll see. Depends on the deal you offer. I suppose you’re looking to make a sale this week too.”

  “Every day.” Glenn walked off and huddled with the men under the lights, showing them the papers, pointing at Everleigh, then toward the Studebaker.

  The tall man in the middle scanned the DeSoto’s documents while another went inside and came out with a book, flipping pages. After an eternity, Glenn returned.

  “I can give you a trade-in of fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars? For an entire, well-maintained DeSoto?”

  “She is ten years old, Mrs. Applegate. We’ll have to put some work into it. Resale markup isn’t that much.”

  “I saw an ad in the paper for one older than mine going for one twenty-five.”

  “You’re welcome to sell it on your own.”

  “Then I won’t have a trade-in deal.” Why did she get her hopes up? She had no idea what she was doing.

  “The good news is we can give you a bit of a discount on the Studebaker.” Glenn started for the convertible.

  “How much?” Everleigh walked beside him, desperately rejecting any and all excitement.

  He took the sign from the window—$2650—and wrote over it with a big black marker, turning the six into a five. “Twenty-five fifty with the trade-in. I assume you’ll want to pay on time.”