Only Good Yankee

by Jeff Abbott

  My face felt hot. I’m allowed to pick on Mirabeau, but I don’t like it when other folks do. “I love it here. This is where I grew up.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I admire you for wanting to help your family. You always were a bit too noble for your own good. It’s just—it seems a step backward.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Lorna rose and began striding around the room. She paused at the coffee table. “First of all, darling, don’t tell me you’re reading”—she paused to peer down at the newspaper and magazines on the coffee table—“The Star’s Royal Family special edition and Southern Living?”

  “Those are my sister’s,” I protested. I wasn’t about to admit I flipped through tabloids for stories on my favorite royal, Fergie. I like big-boned redheads in bikinis. “Anyhow, Southern Living has some good articles on refinishing furniture.”

  “That you are even thinking of refinishing furniture shows how much you’ve slid, Jordan,” Lorna opined. “I recall you were always one for cultural events, darling. What’s on the bill this season at the Mirabeau Lyric Opera, the Mirabeau Symphony, and the Mirabeau Avant-Garde Playhouse? Rossini? Beethoven? Ionesco?”

  “There’s no need to be nasty,” I snapped. She sat down next to me, that enigmatic smile still on her face.

  “No nastiness intended. I’m sorry if I offended. I think Mirabeau is delightful. But my God, Jordan, your presence here just seems impossible.”

  “Why? This is where I came from, Lorna. I’d already spent most of my life here when you and I met.”

  “But it didn’t seem like you were small-town. Oh, yes, you had that charming drawl to your voice, but you were so at-home in Boston. You seemed so at-home … with me.”

  I didn’t have an answer for her.

  She shrugged. “God, I guess I’m lucky that I didn’t find you in overalls, out picking cotton, and singing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’” She smiled at me, her warm rich smile, and patted my hand. “Oh, well, you can take the boy out of the country but not the country out of the boy. Being at home obviously agrees with you, Tex. You just look wonderful.”

  “I am the exact same person I was up in Boston. And I wish you wouldn’t call me Tex. It really, really makes you sound like a Yankee.”

  Having scored a point against me, she grinned again. “Oh, okay. I certainly don’t want to sound like a Yankee. But you do look great.” Her gray eyes took on a wicked amusement. Leaning back against the couch, she examined my backside. “Still have a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. I suppose you’re running your ridiculous five miles per day.” She giggled. “Are you still limber? I hope you haven’t already read those books I brought you. I threw out my back on page thirty-six.”

  I rolled my eyes. Standard Lorna, shifting a discussion of what had been between us to merciless teasing to patting my fanny. She’d been the most aggressive, intimidating, rousing, lusty woman I’d ever known.

  I wasn’t about to let her work her spell on me. “Why don’t I get some guacamole and chips to go with the beer?” I offered, escaping into the kitchen.

  “Can I help?” Lorna asked.

  “Just make yourself comfortable.” I could hear her humming to herself as she examined more of the family photos. As I mashed avocados I found my mind drifting back to our first meeting. In many ways, Lorna was the type of girl you might meet in a bar—but of course we hadn’t. I wasn’t into guzzling Chardonnay while surrounded by ferns.

  We’d met at an art exhibit at a posh gallery in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, on Newbury Street. Brooks-Jellicoe, the textbook publisher I worked for, was publishing a volume on modern American art, and one of the artists featured was Fauve. Yes, that was his name: Fauve. One name, like Madonna or Cher or Liberace. Anyhow, Fauve was quite the respected creator of slabs of rock covered with paint. I think they were supposed to represent anger or angst or Angola—I forget which. The art-books editor, Robert Goldstein, was a good friend and asked if I wanted to accompany him to this exhibit. I’ve always liked music more than art, but Robert said there’d be cute women and free food. Editors love free food (and some of us like cute women, too).

  The exhibit was crowded, people divided into chattering clumps animatedly debating art and music and who Fauve was sleeping with. I noticed how many folks were keeping their backs to the paintings. After I’d seen a couple, I didn’t find that such a bad idea. They were ugly and didn’t have a lick of artistic merit. Plus I didn’t want anything interfering with my digestion of all that free food I’d consumed.

  I saw Lorna before she saw me. She stood nearby, staring perplexedly at an expanse of craggy granite mounted on the wall. The rises in the stone were painted pink and the valleys were a mix of blues and purples.

  I’ll never forget what she was wearing: charcoal-colored suit pants, a tight white blouse with French cuffs, and an orange-colored blazer with a huge silver pin on it. Her look was cool, reserved, and a little provocative at the same time. Her thick dark hair was corded into a braid, thankfully with no bow on it. She stared at the picture and I stared at her, ignoring my friend Robert’s lamentations about the New England Patriots and their losing ways.

  I didn’t see the heavyset lug until he was practically on top of Lorna, nearly knocking her over in a bear hug. She wrenched free, whirling. “God, Bertil, you scared the crap out of me!”

  The man she called Bertil was big, around six foot four, with a thick burr of blond hair and a vacant look in his watery blue eyes. He placatingly placed his mitts on Lorna’s shoulders.

  “Sorry, Lorna. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He was either Swedish or drunk. Or both.

  “I see you’re using Absolut as this evening’s cologne,” Lorna observed. “Now goodbye.”

  “Wait, wait, Lorna, don’t go—” Bertil lurched, obviously having partaken too much of the grape. He seized Lorna’s arm and spun her back.

  “Do you want to lose one of your meatballs?” she snapped. I had started to move forward to help her when another hulking type, this one a dark, thick-necked fellow, intervened, pulling Lorna and the Swede apart.

  “Let her go, Bertil,” the dark man rumbled.

  “Oh, great, a male model to the rescue. I’m safe as long as you don’t get hit in the face,” Lorna said. She stepped back from both men. “Why don’t you both just leave me alone? Go spend the evening learning how to spell.”

  He ignored her, determined to be a paladin. “This guy bothering you, Lorna?” He puffed up his chest, pushing it within an inch of the infuriated Swede. “Maybe I should make sure he behaves like a gentleman.”

  “You be a gentleman yourself, Trevor,” Lorna demanded. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Yeah, Trevor, she doesn’t need you.” Bertil gave Trevor’s chest a little jab with his finger.

  “Listen here, butthead, I don’t—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Control yourself!” The star of the exhibit, Fauve himself, intervened. He was a tall, thin willow of a man, wearing a ridiculous-looking copy of the small-lapeled gray suit the Beatles favored back in the Sixties. A curve of hair hung artistically in his face, showing his great sensitivity and a gentle nature. Fauve put a protective arm around Lorna, his hand perilously close to her right buttock, and flexed his fingers, as though ready to squeeze.

  “Gentlemen, really, no need to fight. Ms. Wiercinski is my special guest this evening, so I do hope that you won’t resort to fisticuffs over her.”

  “Go sculpt, Fauve,” Lorna blurted, pushing his hand away. I didn’t see it at the time, but I can imagine the glint that appeared in her eye. “They weren’t fighting over me. They were discussing which of them hates your rock piles more.”

  “What!” Bertil exclaimed, his jaw dropping. (I later learned Bertil was a corporate art buyer whose boss was a close friend and admirer of Fauve’s.)

  “Lorna!” Trevor’s face turned pale. (I later found out that Trevor was an aspiring painter who was panting to get under Fauve’s wing.) />
  She whirled, leaving her would-be protectors squabbling. In her haste to flee them, she barreled right into me.

  Her eyes locked with mine, but she lowered her gaze and pushed past me. “Excuse me.” I followed her, the din of Trevor and Bertil’s protestations fading with Fauve’s outraged cries over their deplorable lack of taste.

  I caught up with her as she left the gallery, venturing into the cold March air of Boston. “So much for culture!” she yelled at the night sky.

  “Ma’am?” I called to her. “Are you okay?”

  She paused and regarded me with her gray eyes. “Look, buddy, I don’t need any more guardians tonight.”

  “I don’t believe you do.” I smiled. “You handled the Three Artistic Stooges in rare style.”

  She took a step toward me. “I take it you’re not from Boston. Style usually has just one syllable.”

  Being teased about my accent always rankled me, but from her it didn’t seem too bad. “No, not originally. I’m from Texas.”

  “So why didn’t you leap to my defense? Aren’t cowboys supposed to be chivalrous?”

  “Only to womenfolk that need our help. You obviously didn’t, ma’am.” I turned ma’am into two syllables—and she laughed.

  I tried not to waver on my feet, a sure sign of nervousness. This girl made me feel timid, but I rallied my courage for those unforgettable gray eyes. “I’m fed up with spray-painted rocks. Wanna get some coffee or maybe a drink?”

  She considered me for a moment, measuring me on the internal ruler that women must in these dangerous times. “I don’t usually go out with men I don’t know.”

  I offered my hand. “Jordan Poteet.” I never ever went by Jordy up north—I thought it sounded too hick.

  She didn’t laugh but she looked amused. “What a perfectly fantastic name. Definitely American. Unlike Bertil, Trevor, or Fauve.” She took my hand and shook it, holding it a moment longer than necessary, as if taking my pulse. “I’m Lorna Wiercinski. Mispronounce it twice and die. It’s not as American as your name, but hey, this is Boston, the great unmelted pot.” She pointed down the block. “There’s a pub on the corner. I know the owner, so if you give me trouble, he’ll kick the shit out of you. We could have an Irish coffee.”

  Odd invitation, but I didn’t mind. I offered her my arm. Judging by her expression, it might have been leprous.

  “God help me. Just how much of a Southern gentleman are you?” She laughed, finally placing her hand on my forearm.

  “Not nearly enough for my own good,” I answered.

  It was the strangest date of my life. We each drank three Irish coffees, sinfully rich with cream and whiskey, then after two hours of laughing and talking she asked me back to her apartment. It was an upscale condo not far from the gallery. I’d wondered if we’d end up in bed, but she wanted to play poker. With me and her neighbor, Mrs. Perkins. She’d suggested it. I’d agreed—a little too stunned to argue. And she’d gone down the hall to fetch Mrs. Perkins.

  “She’ll be right over,” Lorna said, pouring us each a whiskey. “As soon as she gets her money and puts in her teeth.”

  “I hope she doesn’t get them confused. Hate to have her ante up her molars.”

  She laughed. “I’ll see your bicuspids and raise you an incisor.”

  As it turned out, the poker game was fun, and although I kept wondering what Lorna’s bed felt like, I didn’t get to sample it. Mrs. Perkins claimed she was on a fixed income (considering the neighborhood, her fixed income was most likely a trust fund), so I had to let her win her money back and we played into the wee hours. When the amiable Mrs. Perkins won the stunning total of twenty dollars, she toddled off and Lorna called me a cab.

  “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” I prayed this funny, smart girl would say yes.

  “Yes, I would,” she answered, almost shyly. “You see, you passed tests number one and two. First, you didn’t presume you’d sleep here, and second, Mrs. Perkins liked you. She let you win at first so the game’d go on longer. Yes, I think dinner is a real possibility.” Our good-night kiss was brief but sweet, one of those you hold in your memory like a treasure. And so it began—three years’ worth of wonderful remembrances.

  We discussed marriage once or twice, but Lorna was gun-shy, her own mother having been divorced three times. Said mother was somewhere in Toronto with a much younger man who didn’t believe in matrimony. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in Boston and Lorna seemed firmly planted in her native soil. So the topic was dropped and we just enjoyed each other. My return to Texas to care for my mother was a bucket of ice water in Lorna’s face. I asked her to accompany me. She said no—she couldn’t do that. And I left. So much for us. It hurt, but I hadn’t looked back.

  Lost in my memory, I hardly noticed her hand close over mine as I finished stirring the avocado and spices. Lorna’s voice was low: “You haven’t called—or written—in months.”

  I bit my upper lip. “I don’t think you’re here because I haven’t stayed in touch. Which I’m sorry for. I guess I just thought it would be better if we broke cleanly.” I took the dip and a big bowl of tostadas into the living room. Lorna followed me.

  “So you’re not coming back to Boston? Ever? Babe, what happens when your mother dies? Do you plan to stay here forever?”

  Leave it to Lorna to ask all the tough questions in the first five minutes. “I don’t know. I’ll worry about that when it happens.”

  “Spare me, Jordan. That’s never been how your mind works.” Her voice was serious now, and her tongue kept darting out to moisten her lips. Nervous. “I didn’t want to ask you such a difficult question, but I think I deserve to know.”

  “It’s more complicated than just Mama’s illness, Lorna. A lot has happened since I came back.”

  She sat down and scooped up guacamole on the corner of a chip. “So talk. Tell me.”

  So I recounted it all, starting with Beta Harcher’s murder and my discovery that my daddy wasn’t my daddy after all—and trying to have a relationship with my actual father. I’ll give Lorna credit. She stayed quiet throughout the story. When I was done, she took my hand.

  “My God, baby, I can’t believe it I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m surviving. But I don’t plan on leaving town right when … Mama dies. That may not be for a long time anyhow, Lorna. And I have Bob Don to consider—and Candace, too.”

  “As soon as I laid eyes on her, I could see you marrying that Scarlett clone and playing the gentleman planter on her money.”

  “So you know about Candace’s money?” A chip halted halfway to my mouth. “Is this part of your land-acquisition deal with Intraglobal, finding out who’s got what where?”

  She looked startled, then shook her head, dark curls jiggling around her face. “I’m not surprised you know about the land deal. I suppose word gets around in such a small town.” She opened her briefcase and began to shuffle papers. “Perhaps it’s best we simply put our former relationship on hold for the moment. It really doesn’t matter. I’m not here to lure you back to New England. The truth is I’m here to offer you a reasonable purchase price for your land.”

  Her shift in gears was so abrupt I was taken aback. Not like Lorna. She’d already observed how I’d changed; perhaps she had changed as well. Fine, we’d talk business. Surely that would be less stressful than the earlier topic: us. “I know. Intraglobal Development wants to build condominiums, right?”

  “An entire resort condominium community, Jordan,” Lorna amended for me. “Designed for residents who desire a higher standard of living—”

  “That should narrow down the candidates,” I interjected, but she pressed on.

  “—and those from Austin and Houston who seek a comfortable weekend getaway on the shores of the Colorado.” She began to spread out maps; architectural drawings that included a golf course, pool, tennis courts, and clubhouse; construction schedules; and environmental-impact statements. She told m
e in more detail than I cared to hear exactly what the development plans were.

  It still seemed ludicrous and impossible: Lorna Wiercinski, who had shared my bed and my heart and my sense of humor for three years, was here. I listened to her overrehearsed presentation, nodding over her figures, blinking at her studies for the potential market (the target demographic audience in the cities was excellent, in her estimation), smiling at her own excitement about the project, and wondering what kind of money they’d offer. I hadn’t yet decided on a course of action. In any case, I’d hear both sides before parting with the title to my riverside acres. I’d promised that much to Miss Twyla.

  “So that’s basically it—a condominium resort community that will both provide a solid growth pattern for Bonaparte County and not interfere with the river’s ecosystem.”

  “Lorna, I’m amazed. You actually parroted your company spiel instead of slapping your offer for my land on the table and telling me I had five seconds to make up my mind. Does your boss have you on morphine?”

  She smiled a smile several wattages below normal and shrugged. “I know; it’s so much more restrained than the real me. I’ve got to do it that way. Greg says I’m too blunt otherwise. Scare people off.”

  “This would be Greg Callahan?”

  “Yes. I take it you’ve heard about him.”

  I opted not to share Nina Hernandez’s less-than-charitable characterization of Lorna’s colleague. “Yeah, his name’s getting around town.”

  Lorna huffed. “I warned him to stay away from the local women.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Greg’s a bit of a ladies’ man. He doesn‘t have your studly height, but he has a hell of a lot more charm.” Her voice lowered slightly to a tone I was ever so familiar with and I wondered just how much charm this Greg had.

  “Charm’s a passing commodity, unlike height,” I said with a smile.

  She examined me with mock gravity. “It seems to have passed you right by, if I may say so.”

  “You stopped long enough to look.”

  “Looking’s free,” she replied, scooping up more guacamole. “You can’t find something worth having without doing a little window-shopping.”