As we enter Mason’s Park, I give Brett the lowdown on what to expect. The pavilions offer booths with local dishes, drinks, games, and prizes. Children can watch puppet shows or last century’s craft demonstrations while licking something that drips onto their shirts. Women in period calico costumes churn butter and stitch quilts. In mock street gun battles, gray-uniformed Rebel soldiers fire at Yankees and carpetbaggers to remind us of our survivor roots.
Judith and Charlie commandeer the section with the ring toss and other carnival attractions. Colton seems absorbed in hanging stuffed animals from the rafters, while Max sets up wooden pins on a table against the back tent flap. The line of children waiting their turn at the booth stands five deep and growing. Brett and I wave as we amble past. I can tell he makes an effort to downplay his limp. So much for the dancing.
Brett’s VIP tickets include a buggy ride along the path around the lake. He chooses sunset for the cooler air and tucks the woolen blanket around me, keeping his hands discreetly out of my lap. He tells me about his parents and their farm, and how he learned to shoe horses and milk cows. His mother has been gone two decades, and his father died a few years ago. When Brett could afford it, he bought his dad a tractor. “My father never owned one before. He always had to rent from the neighbors.”
As we come around the last bend by the lakeshore, the strains of electric guitar waft across the water. The band is setting up on the stage by the dance floor. I gaze at the stage lights reflected on the lake and try not to appear wistful.
I feel a twinge of envy, not for the tractor, but for his opportunity to give his parent something he needed. “Your father would have been proud of you, I’m sure.”
“He owned the land to begin with, bought with his sweat. I simply stumbled, almost literally, into the petroleum underneath it.” He pulls the reins until the horse stops in front of the attendant, and then takes my hand to help me down from the buggy. My pulse quickens as we stroll toward the dance floor. The twinkle lights in the trees come on right as we sit at the table he reserved ringside.
“Are we too close to the band?” he asks.
“If you’re not sitting in front of the speakers, you won’t go deaf, at least not right away,” says a man’s voice behind us.
Mike Avery, dressed in long johns, a Hawaiian shirt, and khaki slacks, leans over the back of a folding chair. Brett invites him to join us. Mike pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. “I wasn’t sure you’d come this year.”
“My plans weren’t firmed up until yesterday.” I glance at Brett.
“Mike, what are you drinking?” Brett stands up. “I have a whole roll of drink tickets I need to use up.”
“Cold beer, thanks.”
He leaves to get our drinks, and Mike and I grow quiet. After a few moments, I compliment him on his colorful shirt, and he describes his ‘Elvis’ routine. “I always take requests from the audience, so be thinking about what you’d like to hear. You might end up with one of those fake orchid leis around your neck.”
“What I want to hear isn’t set to music.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do me a big favor, will you?”
“If I can.”
“Help me put together Jack’s last day. I know he contacted Brett and my father. What happened afterwards? I believe my father knows something, but I can’t ask him.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
I shake my head. “Brett has filled in a few details, but I need your help.”
“Is that why you’re here with him?” He toys with the sugar packets and rearranges the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “I thought you might come with your other friends.”
“He asked me yesterday.” Why do I need to explain my actions to Mike? It’s not like he has claims on me. “I want you to reopen the case. Or at least help me figure out what really happened.”
Brett reappears and sets three longneck Lone Stars and a bowl of unshelled peanuts on the table. Their roasted aroma tickles my nostrils. Mike rises from his seat, picks up his bottle, and salutes Brett with it. “Gotta start the music now.”
“Opening with ‘Jailhouse Rock’?” Brett grins. “I hear it’s your specialty.”
Mike climbs onto the stage, as couples stroll out to the dance floor, ready to burn some energy on boogie. I yearn for Brett to hold out his hand and lead me toward the center of the crowd. While we wait for the percussion to make the air throb, he rotates his chair around for a better view.
Mike changed the opener to “It’s Now or Never.” Several couples misstep from the first beat. Brett catches the rhythm and taps his fingers in fast quarter-time. At first it’s strange to do no more than watch others. I figure Brett’s dancing days must be over, so I bounce my foot and sway in my chair, trying not to be too obvious.
During the break, we enjoy a barbecue dinner with Brett’s other guests, Angelique and Raúl, a couple of history professors from UT, and Mr. Donatello and his wife. Before dessert, the band launches into the “Jailhouse Rock” number everyone expected earlier.
At the first strains of “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” Brett admits he can’t resist the chance to hold a lighthearted woman in his arms, and we ease our way onto the dance floor. He hopes he won’t embarrass himself, but I say his moves are easy to follow. The truth is he dances at attention, as if he never left the army.
By the end of the song, we slick each other with compliments and return to our table. Before we can take our seats again, Mike comes up and taps Brett on the shoulder. “Mind if I enjoy the next one?”
Brett looks at me and I nod, hoping his feelings aren’t bruised. He retreats to the sidelines and swigs his beer. He joins Raúl, and they share a loud guffaw at something Angelique says.
I smile up at Mike. “Aren’t you supposed to be singing?”
“They can handle this one without me.” He holds out his arms and I step nearer to him. Before the music starts, he lifts my left hand to his shoulder and puts his arm around my waist. I place my right hand in his, unsure what tune I’ll hear or how fast we’ll move.
For a moment I forget to wait for the downbeat. The feel of Mike’s muscles through his shirt and his arm around my back remind me of what I’ve been missing. Our touch fires a little spark of awakening, and I look up into Mike’s eyes. His expression tells me I’m a desirable woman, and I’m curious to know how his flesh would feel against mine. Music or not, I’m tired of life as a widow and ready for a change.
The bass and the piano begin in slow waltz time, and I press against him, resting my chin against his shoulder. He pulls me in tighter and bends his head down until his chin warms my cheek. The fresh aroma of Ivory soap should relax me, but I picture him pulling off his undershirt instead. I wonder if he senses the electric tingle that starts at my heels, travels up the backs of my legs, and spreads from my torso all the way to my collarbone. If I turn my head to the right, our lips will meet.
Couples crowd us on the dance floor, as the substitute Elvis croons, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” For both our sakes, I wish the song didn’t remind me of Jack and our wedding reception. Someone might as well dump a bucket of cold water on me.
I lean back “So, Mike, will you help me?”
He looks down at me and studies my face. “You can’t let this go, can you?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Nothing official.”
“That’s all I ask.”
The next number begins and he doesn’t release my hand. Jitterbugging to “Hound Dog” proves too much fun to abandon the floor. The memory of getting breathless from dancing with Jack resurfaces.
The Terpsichore muse must have tripped the gravity switch because Mike moves as nimbly as any accomplished dancer and manages to look graceful over every inch of his tall frame. While twirling and catching me, his eyes never leave my face.
The song ends. He leans forward to kiss the back of my hand and then returns to the stage with o
ne broad leap. When he faces the microphone, he looks anywhere but at me.
As I join Brett at the table, two faces on the other side of the seating area catch my eye. Harlene huddles with her son Skipper at the table Big Jack reserved and paid for long before his accident. With a sneer, Skipper lifts his beer bottle and tips it toward me.
I shudder. What a nasty gesture.
On stage, the Pioneer Festival chair takes the microphone from Mike and announces her gratitude to the committee by asking all of us to stand up. When she pulls out a long list to read off the names of sponsors, including Brett and both sides of my family, I excuse myself and head for the ladies room. Beyond the caterer’s area, I detour around the back of the building to catch Mike as he exits the stage.
I motion to him, and when he approaches, I grab him by the wrist and pull him into the shadow of a doorway. “Did you see who’s here?” I whisper. “Skipper!”
Mike’s face registers puzzlement. “What about it?”
“How did he get here?”
“Looks like he came with his mother. Maybe he used Big Jack’s ticket.”
“Do you know what he’s been doing since he got out of prison?”
“He reports to his parole office in Austin on a regular basis. I hear he’s living with his mother and looking for a job. I get updates.”
Mike’s calm demeanor doesn’t help my agitation. “I think he’s up to something criminal. I saw him on the loading dock behind the store the other day.”
“Was anyone with him?”
I shake my head.
“All by himself, he couldn’t be selling drugs at that moment, could he? Sally, you didn’t really witness anything.”
“There’s more.” I hesitate, because I don’t want Mike to think I am seeing a felon behind every bush. “He had to know Jack turned him in. You heard Jack’s testimony at his trial. After I saw Skipper last week, I realized he got released from prison a few days before Jack died.”
“And now you think, out of revenge, Skipper had something to do with Jack’s death?”
I clutch Mike’s shirt and my lip quivers. “It’s possible, isn’t it? Can’t you find out?”
As he puts his hands on my shoulders, tears trickle down my cheeks. I didn’t mean to cry ever, especially since Jack’s funeral. Why now?
“Sh-sh-sh,” he murmurs and presses my head against his chest. His hand feels warm on the back of my head, and I let him stroke my hair and brush it off my shoulders with his fingertips. “There, now,” he says.
Before I can stop myself, I tip my head back and, reaching my arms around Mike’s neck, pull his face down to mine. My lips find his, and the hunger I ignored grows. The spark I felt earlier flares into white heat. I lean into him against the doorframe, wanting each curve of my body to recede into his solid strength.
Even if I caught him by surprise, his reflexes match mine, and he wraps me in his arms and holds me, until we almost crush each other’s lungs. I struggle for breath as his lips travel down my neck, and I am just about to twine my fingers through his hair when high-pitched screams and trampling feet race toward us.
We freeze, not breathing, not daring to look at the children or the teenager who chases them. I pray the shadows conceal us enough to keep our innocence intact. A kiss is harmless enough.
After the intruders disappear around the corner, I step back and smooth my blouse. Mike might as well be a marble statue. I can’t see his face or hear his breathing. I shake out my hair. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have thrown myself at you like that.”
“My fault.” His loafers crunch on the gravel as he walks away.
I wait a few moments, and then turn in the opposite direction toward the ladies room. Even with the dim light overhead, the mirror reflects my glowing face. A few splashes of water cool my cheeks enough to reduce the blush, and I hope no one will notice I have been crying. Or passionately kissing someone.
I return to the table and ask Brett again to take a stroll over to the arcade. We find the Cromwells and Colton at the church booth. I gesture for Colton to come out from behind the counter and we step a few paces to one side. “Officer Avery is going to help me put together the missing pieces about Dad’s last day.”
I can’t bring myself to tell him I refuse to communicate with my father about his part in Jack’s final business effort. Better not to mention someone my son will never meet. For a moment, Colton stares at his shoes and then retreats to the booth.
A light breeze blows across the lake and I shiver. Brett weaves my arm through his, and I appreciate his thoughtful gesture. Putting his arm around me would be a bit much too soon, in front of my son. Especially tonight.
We have scarcely taken more than a few steps away from the booth when Mike calls my name. I turn around just in time to see Colton leap over the counter and crash into Mike, knocking him to the ground.
Judith screams and Charlie tries to pull Colton off Mike. Brett dashes to help Charlie, and they yank Colton upright and pin his arms behind him, as he keeps squirming and kicking.
Mike jumps to his feet and dusts off his shoulders. He glares at Colton. “What’s the matter with you?”
I try to move, but my feet might as well be staked to the path. “Colton, what’s wrong? Why did you knock Officer Avery down?”
My son’s body goes limp and he collapses to the ground, sobbing. I can’t understand his words, jumbled through his tears, and I don’t dare touch him or try to comfort him in any way. I stand there looking at him, as if through a glass window, unable to reach him.
Angelique breaks through the line of children and adults surrounding Colton. She bends over him and speaks in a low voice only he can hear. Holding him gently by the arm, she raises him up. She mouths to me that she will take him home to stay with her overnight. He allows her to lead him away from the glare of the lights and the heat of his actions.
“I’m so sorry, Mike,” I say. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“I can’t ignore an assault on an officer of the law, especially in front of all these witnesses. Bring Colton to the station tomorrow.”
“You want him to come there?”
When he nods, my words hiss like steam from a broken pipe. “I can’t believe you’re so insensitive. You know he’s having problems. Grieving out of control. How can you make such a demand? After everything he’s gone through, I expected you to be more understanding.” All our passion is cast aside, not to mention his kindness.
Mike turns and walks away.
No way can my father pay anyone enough to fix this damage.
CHAPTER TEN
With Colton taking a timeout to stay overnight with Angelique, my house seems roomier than usual the next morning. I wander through the silent spaces and wish Mondays didn’t trouble me. The whole week looms ahead like a flat, empty highway. Nothing I do makes much noise, and even if it did, there’s no one to hear me.
The truth about a watched pot also applies to the telephone. I linger in my kitchen and wonder why Judith hasn’t called to commiserate with me over last night’s debacle. When the phone finally rings, the caller brings a welcome surprise, a chance to revive my passion for landscaping and earn some money.
“Yes, I can start right away.” I grab a pencil. “What did you have in mind?”
The man rattles off a short list of commercial properties that need new designs and plantings. When I suggest a bid with preliminary sketches, he claims the board of directors will be happy to review my proposal and grant a decent allowance.
I ask him to name the properties specifically and jot them down, along with the addresses. “Are there sprinkler systems already in place?”
“If not, you can install them, can’t you? Just add it to your estimate.”
At the bottom of my note pad, I write his name and the property management company address. “I’ll need to get measurements, but I still require some rough idea of a budget. No one likes unexpected expenses, and you’ll have to sign the work
order.”
“Okay, put together a list and a timeline, and after our meeting I’ll send you a purchase order.”
We thank each other and hang up. I skim my notes again and tap my foot at the prospect of the thousands of dollars in gross billing, right in time for the next quarterly tax payment. Tapping gives way to gliding around my kitchen island, as I hum “Laughter in the Rain.” For the first time in months, I really do feel like laughing out loud.
The euphoria lasts a few moments longer, until I remember I have to take Colton to Mike’s office. How could I have been so rude to Mike? Resolving the events of last night will take more than apologies.
We stretch Mike Avery’s patience too thin, my family and I. How many times has he smoothed over Colton’s difficulties? What else did Nate Wallace ask of him?
Mike probably believes Jack really did commit suicide, but at least he agreed to take another look at the circumstances. Whether he includes Skipper in his inquiry remains to be seen.
Although Colton embarrassed me, I can’t blame Mike for his reaction. He isn’t the type to let emotions change his mind, but maybe by the time we arrive at the police station he’ll have regained his empathy and cut us both some slack. I just wonder what Mike said to Colton to set him off like that. Of course, he doesn’t know my son as well as I do, so I should cut Mike some slack, too.
My thoughts stall as I sit down, and I break my inertia by dialing Angelique’s number. Two rings, and she answers.
“How’s Colton?” I ask.
“Still in bed.” She flicks a lighter. “Why don’t you come over now? There’s something I want to share with you.”
“What can you tell me about Colton I don’t already know?” She enjoys his frequent company, but he hasn’t spent time at her house or taken art lessons from her like I did when I was his age.
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