“What’s going on here?” a gruff male voice asks.
Oh God. No. Just no on every level of no.
Big Poppy.
I refuse to look up. Instead, I close my eyes as more tears drip from under my lids. Nothing could be more embarrassing than my current state, and the fact I recognize the rugged voice somewhere behind me takes this humiliation to a new stratosphere.
“Scotia?” The tenderness in his questioning tone brings heavier tears as my body continues to tremble with chills and panic. I’m afraid to move, and there’s no way I can lift my head and walk as if something isn’t trickling down my leg, giving away the fact I’m only human, a female, and nearing fifty.
“Please go away,” I whisper, my voice quaking. That ninny Shelly still hasn’t moved to retrieve any paper towels, and I’m trying to remember if I have napkins in the glove box. Can I even reach the compartment? I sense motion behind me, hear some shuffling, and then a wad of rough paper towel swipes up my leg to the back of my knee.
Oh God, could this get any worse?
“You don’t need to . . . Just hand it . . . I can . . .”
More swiping. More scratching on my skin.
“Can you move?” he asks.
“I need my purse,” I mutter. I need more than a change of feminine products, but it’s at least a start until I can get home. I’ll need to call Naomi and hope she isn’t working, as Beverly doesn’t drive. “And the glove compartment.”
“What’s in the glove box?” he asks, but I can’t speak. As if mentioning my unmentionables would be more undignified than my current position. However, I keep a spare pair of underwear in the compartment.
“Just something . . .” My voice croaks. A hand rests on my lower back, and instead of flinching, I absorb his comfort. I could use a hot pad and a warm soak in a tub, which is out of the question. What I really need is a stiff drink and the past ten minutes of my life erased.
“I’ll get it, darlin’.” His deep voice is close behind me, and while I don’t care for the endearment, the term is rather sweet and soothing coming from him. I slip to the side enough to press my body against the open driver’s door, but he’s too large to reach around me and across the front seat.
“Stay right here,” he says. I almost snap, where do you think I’ll go, but I don’t. I bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep myself in check.
Big Poppy rounds my sensible crossover SUV and opens the passenger door for my purse and to access the glove compartment. I don’t look directly at him but watch his thick fingers find what I need and hold the fabric off the tip of his finger for a second. Thin. Red. Lacy. It’s not the most practical pair for my situation, and I’d forgotten which one was in the compartment. Mama always said never to leave home without a spare pair of underwear. What can I say? I like pretty panties and matching bras. I needed to feel sexy somehow when my husband wasn’t interested in me, but sexiness is the last thing on my mind. Big Poppy crumples the pair into his fist and slips it into his pants pocket before shutting the passenger door and rounding my SUV again.
“Okay, darlin’,” he says again as if warning me of something. The alert becomes clear when I’m suddenly tucked underneath a thick arm and curled into his chest.
“What are you doing?” I snap without much sass. I’m in no state to be arguing. He ignores my irritation anyway and my arms wrap around his waist, instantly hanging onto him. I still can’t look him in the face. In fact, I don’t want to meet anyone’s gaze, especially that twit Shelly, who remains near my open driver’s door. My eyes close as if no one can see me as Big Poppy guides me through the waiting area and suddenly it hits me.
I’m in the most embarrassing position of my life and this man is being kind to me.
Eventually, we stop before a restroom door.
“I’ll wait here,” he says, pressing open the door and nudging me forward.
“I’m going to call my sister.” There’s no way I’m waiting out the time for an oil change. I can come back for my car later, tomorrow, or never, as I won’t be able to show my face in this garage again. And I will never be able to look at Big Poppy again.
“I said, I’ll wait here.” His voice roughens, emphasizing he wants no argument from me, and a new shiver ripples up my spine. I step into the restroom and clean up as best as I can. My skirt is ruined in the back, so I remove my cardigan to wrap the material around my waist. The drooping sweater isn’t enough of a disguise, but I could at least get home without exposing myself to more attention. My hands tremble as I wash up, having disposed of everything, including my previous underwear. I left my coat in my car, but I won’t return for it. I call my sister instead, explaining my situation. Thankfully, she can come pick me up.
“Just come to the bathroom because I’m not stepping out of here.” I’d rather sleep on the nasty tile floor than ever walk out of this room to witnesses.
As I click off the phone with Naomi, a soft knock sounds on the door, and then it opens a crack. Apparently, I forgot to lock it.
“Scotia, you doing okay?” His deep voice startles me.
“Yes. You may go now.” I don’t know why I say such a thing in such a tone. After dismissing him, I lean against the sink with my back to the door. My eyes flick to the mirror where I see only a partial reflection of him.
“I can drive you home,” he kindly suggests.
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you have an appointment.” I straighten my back and hold my head up. Mask in place, Scotia.
“I’m here to have my car winterized, but I can come back another day.”
“I don’t want to put you out.” I fluff my hair as though what happened is no big deal. As if I’m not uncomfortably standing in a public bathroom with a sweater around my waist covering the large stain. As if the most humiliating moment of my life hadn’t just occurred before this man.
“Dammit, darlin’. I’m trying to help.”
“Well, I don’t want your help,” I bark, although I clearly was in a position of need a few minutes ago, and he did assist me to the restroom. I shift so I get a better glimpse of him reflected in the mirror. His thick hand holds the edge of the door. His broad bicep on display. His brows furrow beneath the shaggy droop of unruly hair.
“I called my sister. Naomi’s coming for me.” I lean forward and pretend to check my lipstick. Mask in place, Scotia. I can hardly focus on my mouth and ignore my trembling finger as I swipe at the corners.
Big Poppy huffs. He knows my sister, although she doesn’t know much about him. During the entire ride back to Green Valley after our night at The Fugitive, I grilled her about her association with him. I wanted to know everything, and she offered nothing more than he was the owner of the bar, motel, and gas station, and best friend to her husband’s older brother, Todd. I had already learned he lived in a bus, but I questioned why he didn’t have a room in his own motel. Not that a person wants to live in a motel room any more than a school bus, but—
“Scotia,” he growls.
“Thank you. That is all.” It was really sweet of you to help me, I should add, but I don’t say the rest of my thoughts. I don’t offer him the kindness he deserves after being kind to me. I have dismissed him again. Mask in place, Scotia. I’ve never had to work so hard to keep myself under control. I’m so embarrassed by all that has happened, which means it’s best to pretend nothing happened. I cannot regulate what my body does. It’s happened before. It would most likely happen again in another month.
Yay for peri-menopause, says no one ever.
The door to the restroom closes, signaling Big Poppy’s finished with me, and I slump against the sink, covering my face with a hand. Internally, I scold myself. Mask in place, Scotia!
Then I stand taller, forcing myself to look into my own eyes, and return the invisible shield I always wear to stay in disguise. Mask in place, Scotia.
Over the years, the pep talk has been the same. You’ve got this. You know how to pretend nothing happened. Nothin
g hurts you. No one can see what’s inside you.
The façade falls back into place. I’ve had decades of practice keeping everyone out, but there’s a crack in my protective covering. A sliver I plan to seal shut as soon as I forget about Chester Chesterfield and Big Poppy, and the kindness they’ve each shown me. I also need to rid thoughts of how similar the two of them look despite one in a tux and the other in flannel. Their striking appearance is only the surface level. The chip in my mask is from the kind actions displayed despite a trimmed beard or an unruly one. It’s the man beneath the beard—whoever he may be—who has me flustered and regretting, perhaps for the first time, that I hadn’t been a little kinder in return.
Chapter 7
Mrs. Pickle
[Chet]
Getting what I’d seen a few days ago out of my head was difficult. Scotia trembling as she was, red running down the inside of her leg, and tears in her voice. My first thought upon recognizing her was she was dying, but then I immediately realized that was ridiculous.
When she used her sharp tongue with me when all I was trying to do was help her, I wanted to strangle her myself.
Days later, I’m still pissed.
Once again, I am reminded of that woman on the sidewalk, tearing down others. I recall her disgruntled words about my bus-home a week ago. And now, I can add her ungraciousness to the list. Her attitude sucks. She’s judgmental and unappreciative.
And once again, I’m wondering why I care.
I know her type. Hennessy Miller was like that. Henny. A beauty queen in my eyes. The girl of my dreams. We were sweethearts once upon a time. Only I wasn’t good enough for her daddy’s approval—a kid in foster care, a guy who was trailer trash, a man without means—doesn’t make the cut for a princess. I set out to prove my worth, and I did.
I want to marry you.
I built this home for you.
Thoughts of Henny peak like the mountaintop as I pull up to Harper House—the house she didn’t want after she told me she didn’t want me.
I should have burned this place to the ground, but the idea makes my blood run cold. Instead, I call to mind the new purpose of this home and the unfortunate tragedy that started its purpose.
I shove open the door of my Dodge Charger, telling myself I’m just in a sour mood. Again. I haven’t seen Scotia for months, and now, I’ve seen her twice in one week. I need her to stop haunting me. She isn’t the person I thought she was. She isn’t the person I experienced back in March in a hotel room. And she’s too similar to another woman who broke me.
As I enter the playroom of Harper House, I find my pissy mood isn’t over.
“And then . . .” A tender, feminine voice drifts to the edge of the room, the tone shifting as she transfers to another character. I’m dumbstruck for thirty seconds. I don’t even hear what she reads. Instead, I see red.
“We weren’t expecting you today,” Maura says with surprise, sneaking up next to me. I had business at my office in Knoxville. Her comment snaps me out of my focus on the woman reading to the boys. “She’s good, right?”
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Maura’s blue eyes blink as she glances up at me. I’ve never used such a rough tone or direct language with her. She knows I appreciate her. I couldn’t do what I’ve done without her, and I’d never want to lose her, but this is just too much.
“She’s—” I don’t let her finish before I step fully into the room. Dewey turns his head to greet me.
“Uncle Chet!” he calls out and waves his hand for me to come closer. He smiles under his dark-rimmed glasses, eager for me to share this moment with him, but I want another story.
“What are you doing here?” I growl at her, staring at the woman who looked down her nose at me for the last time.
“I—” Her voice squeaks as she looks up, noticing my presence for the first time. The boys shift. Louie goes up on his knees, drawing closer to where she sits in a chair holding a book. Our current tenant, Malik, the boy who doesn’t speak, crawls on his knees behind the furniture, disappearing from view.
“I asked you a question,” I bellow louder. Louie covers his ears.
“You’re frightening the children,” she states as though I’m the monster. As if I’m the bad guy for giving them a home and trying to keep them safe from women who will take advantage of their kindness one day. I’m the bad guy providing them with a haven of warm shelter and education with the hope they’ll grow to be smart and generous without being a fool like me.
“You’re frightening the children,” I snap back at her, although that isn’t the scene before me. Louie tucks himself under her protective arm, and Dewey stares daggers at me. Hugh comes out of the adjoining study room.
“What’s going on, Uncle Chet?”
“Chet?” she questions, her brows creasing, her mind processing.
Hugh looks from me to Scotia. “Do you know Uncle Chet?” he questions, and Louie’s little head looks up at her with all the love of a child enthralled by beauty and tenderness. Her hand absentmindedly strokes up and down his spine, and the motion annoys me.
“You aren’t allowed to touch him.” There are guidelines to being a volunteer here.
“Hey,” Hugh interjects with all his fourteen-year-old masculinity.
“I beg your pardon,” she defends, stilling her hand on Louie’s back and tightening her hold on him.
I had a comeback for those words in that tone one night, but this isn’t the same scene. This is the home of boys put in my care, and I will not let her tarnish them with her snide comments, hurtful words, and demeaning sneers. She’s all salt, brine and vinegar, and she will not be like that here.
My heart hammers. Blood pumps. My ears fill with thumping sounds.
“She’s been vetted and approved,” Maura states at my side, and I turn on her, a woman I trust with everything. My home. The lives of my boys. The future of the foster kids we’ve taken in.
“How could you let her in here?” I glare at the woman I consider a devoted friend and partner. Maura stares back at me as though I’ve lost my mind, and I suppose I have a bit.
“She volunteered and went through the necessary requirements.” Trained. Certified. Qualified. It was a process. It took time. I know the channels.
How did I not know Scotia Simmons was a volunteer here?
“Why?” I turn on Scotia. “Why here? Are you stalking me?” Does she want Chester Chesterfield so badly that she was willing to pry into him until she dug so deep, she learned his history? His pathetic rags-to-riches sob story. I own this house as the one good deed I’ve done in my life, but it’s furnished with heartache from the tragedy that started it. Does she know about Harper and Davis? Will she judge them too? How deep did she shovel? Does she want dick that badly? Or maybe it’s the money?
I’m spiraling out of control with my thoughts and my anger.
Before she can answer, I speak again. “You are not welcome here.”
“Chet!” Maura shrieks beside me, and I turn on her.
“I do not approve of this. Of all the things, over all the years, this is the one thing I’m saying no to.”
I turn back to Scotia. “Get out.”
She stares at me, mouth agape, and I prepare myself for the venom this woman can spew. I’ve heard it on the street, heard it in my bar, and heard it in my own house.
“Don’t speak,” I warn her. Her lips clamp shut. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you cannot be here. Do not return.” My body vibrates with the threat to her and fear for the boys. She’ll expose them. She’ll use them for some nefarious advantage I can’t put my finger on, and she’ll hurt their innocent hearts.
Holding my ground, I watch as she turns to Louie under her arm. “It’s okay, darling.” Her soft voice reminds me of Harper speaking to her child. Louie was only a baby when his mother passed. Scotia gives him another squeeze and leans forward to kiss his forehead.
The audacity. She can’t touch him. She shouldn’t o
ffer him affection. She can’t be kind to him.
My blood races faster. My heart pounds triple time.
She closes the book on her lap and slowly stands, setting it on the cushion. Leaning around the chair, she holds out a hand for Malik. “It’s okay, precious. He won’t hurt you. He’s a good man.”
Her words slam into me like a Mack truck.
She can’t mean what she says. She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know any of my many sides. However, she’s completely correct. I’d never harm any of the children coming through our doors. My mission has always been to offer safety and unconditional love.
I continue to watch as Scotia reaches for the poor kid I’ve frightened enough he’s hiding, and I realize I’ve set us back with my outburst. He’ll never approach me. He might never open up to anyone. He might even run away from here.
Dammit. My shoulders fall. I didn’t intend to scare the kid.
“Okay, precious,” she whispers in defeat. Her own shoulders sag when he doesn’t respond to her.
He only trusts Mrs. Pickle, I want to yell at her.
My eyes narrow as Scotia stands and glares at me with the glare of all glares. I already know she can be salty and vitriolic, but I’ve also seen her vulnerable and sweet. There’s so much more to her than her briny tongue, and I’m slow to recognize what’s been happening before me.
She’d been reading to the boys.
Boys who look heartsick and puzzled on her behalf.
She used endearments, soft touches, and encouragement.
He’s a good man.
No, she cannot mean it. She’s after something, but I don’t know what it is, and she can’t have it. Not with them.
“Chester,” she sneers my name, her recognition of me clear. “Or should I call you Chet?”
She hasn’t earned the right to call me by the nickname, and she hasn’t learned we are one and the same but very different. Chet Chester Chesterfield Big Poppy—I am a complex man.
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 6