Who Loves Ya, Baby?

by Gemma Bruce

  At least Christine and Ian were making a stab at being sociable. Christine had blossomed during her marriage and she was looking radiant today. At least Reynolds and Marian had accepted Ian. In their minds, he was a real estate developer, when in actuality he’d spent every penny he had to buy the derelict hotel. It was amazing what you could manage not to see if your way of life depended on it.

  His collar suddenly felt too tight and his suit coat too confining. He wanted to rip them off. Rip everything off and roll naked with Julie in the spray of the sea.

  “Penny for your thoughts, dear,” said his mother and motioned him toward a place on the sofa. “And stop fidgeting with your tie.”

  Cas automatically dropped the hand he didn’t know was pulling at his collar. Ian shot him an understanding look and turned back to listen to Reynolds give advice on screening the inn’s clientele.

  Cas listened, nursing an untouched glass of Glenlivet until Larue announced lunch. They took their places, Cas leading Melanie in on his arm.

  She gave him a sour look and whispered, “Is this a reality show?”

  “A reality check,” he whispered back and elicited the first genuine, if brief, smile he’d seen from his sister in a long time. Reynolds sat down at the head of the table, Marian at the foot. The rest of them sat spread out inbetween, just far enough to make passing the serving bowls a circus act.

  Dinner was the same as always. Interminably slow, with terminally mundane food and conversation. Until dessert.

  Then his father said, “I suppose that girl is back because she inherited everything?”

  Christine and Ian looked at their plates. Mel snorted and covered her mouth with her napkin, and Cas braced himself for the inevitable postprandial tirade against the Excelsiors.

  “Dear,” said Marian, smiling sweetly at Reynolds. She rang the silver bell at her elbow. When Larue appeared, she said, “We’ll have coffee in the parlor,” and stood up.

  “Well, at least now we can get rid of those damn chickens,” said Reynolds, ignoring her. “Selling out, most likely. Take the money and run; just like her kind.”

  Cas clenched his teeth and pushed his chair back.

  Melanie sighed loudly.

  “Melanie,” Marian warned her from the doorway.

  Melanie slouched back in her chair and said, “Well, I like her.”

  Reynolds and Marian zeroed in on her, while Cas, Ian and Christine froze halfway to their feet.

  “You may go to your room,” said Reynolds.

  “Dad,” said Christine, and Ian put his hand on her arm.

  “Lucky me,” said Melanie. She threw her napkin on her plate and stalked past him to the door. “At least she’s alive.” She lifted her chin, turned on her heel, and left the room.

  Good for you, thought Cas when his initial shock had subsided. And after only seeing Julie at the restaurant.

  As soon as coffee was passed around and they were sitting uncomfortably around the fireplace, Reynolds took up his train of thought again.

  “Call Maude Clemmons and tell her to take them away. Do not go to that house again. You know you have no sense when it comes to that girl.”

  Marian chimed in. “It will be so nice not to have those smelly birds around anymore. One couldn’t even open the windows in the summer for the awful ... you know. I didn’t dare have a party for wondering what people must think.”

  Cas stood up.

  “Cas,” said Christine urgently.

  “Her name is Julie. Julie Excelsior, not ‘that girl.’ Surely you haven’t forgotten that little bit of information.”

  “Charles Allyson Reynolds, you forget yourself,” roared his father.

  Cas tried to quell the nausea brought on by the mushy peas, the overcooked roast beef, and his disgust. He turned to his mother. “Thanks for dinner, I have to go.”

  “She’ll make a fool of you,” his father called after him. “Just like she did fifteen years ago.”

  Cas stopped in the doorway. “No,” he said. “You made a fool of me fifteen years ago. And I let you.”

  He closed the door behind him, gently, to prove to himself that he was under control.

  Julie closed the door to Wes’s closet and leaned against it. It still smelled like Wes and she was surprised at how familiar it was after all these years, a combination of Old Spice, orange lollipops, and more.

  She absently unwrapped the lollipop she’d found in one of Wes’s shirt pockets. The wrapper came away clean so it couldn’t be very old. And her eyes misted over, thinking of Wes alone with his lollipops, and no one to share them with. Except Maude, she thought. She’d found some pretty interesting toys in one of the drawers of the bureau and a few pieces of Victoria Secret’s underwear that were just Maude’s size.

  She smiled around the lollipop; let the tingle of the sweet-tart flavor take over her tongue and then her mind and she drifted away to happier times. She could see Wes standing at the door as she walked up the driveway, both hands behind his back. And when she’d put down her overnight case, he’d say pick one, and she would, though she always got orange because orange was their favorite and it was the only flavor he bought.

  Julie took the lollipop from her mouth and looked at it, holding it tight because Wes had held it. Who loves you? he’d say.

  And she would answer, “You do.”

  Julie jumped when she realized she’d said the words out loud. “You did.” She pushed away from the door. “And I’ll take care of your damn chickens just to show you I loved you back. But I’m not going to wallow in the past.”

  She loped down the stairs and picked up her shoulder bag. “Man the fort, Smitty. I’m taking myself out to dinner.”

  Cas stopped his truck at the end of the Reynolds Place driveway and loosened his tie. He could turn right, go home, and work on the boat. Or he could turn left and go to Julie’s and demand that she talk to him.

  But first he needed to be prepared. Just figure out how to get started. He didn’t want to take any chances of blowing it again. So-o-o. He’d knock on the door and when she answered, he’d say... . Hi, I came to fix your pipes. That didn’t sound right. Fix your leak. Not any better. I’m sorry I ran off. Better not to remind her of that. Listen, the sex was great. She might be offended. How about just “Hi” and hope she took it from there? What if she still refused to open the door? He’d have to yell at her from outside until she did.

  He pulled the tie over his head and tossed it onto the passenger seat. With his luck, someone would see his truck and interrupt them again and the whole mess would be indelibly printed on her mind. He could drive down to First Street, park in Tilda’s driveway, and climb the four blocks to Hillcrest Drive. Except that he was wearing dress shoes and he’d look like a tramp by the time he got to Julie’s. And someone was bound to see the truck at Tilda’s and start rumors that Terrence wouldn’t care for. Oh, hell.

  He heard a car engine and looked up to see a blue Volkswagen drive past and turn left onto Highland Avenue.

  “Shit,” said Cas and banged the steering wheel, feeling almost as relieved as he felt frustrated. He pulled out of the driveway and followed Julie down the hill. At Main Street, she turned right. Maybe she was going down to the Roadhouse. That would be good. Neutral territory. But he wasn’t dressed for the Roadhouse and he took enough grief from the regulars as it was. He could change clothes and come back.

  By then he would have thought of something to say that didn’t sound like a come-on or a turnoff. She pulled into the Roadhouse parking lot. He cut back at the yield sign and drove down Old Mill Road. He had a plan—sort of.

  Chapter 8

  Julie got out of the car and watched the green truck loop back and speed down Old Mill Road. She had been sure it was following her. She must be getting paranoid, and who wouldn’t be with the way her life was going.

  She looked skeptically at the door of the Roadhouse. Hell, she’d survived her first day in town. And it couldn’t be any worse than some of the n
eighborhood bars she’d frequented back in New York. It might even be fun. She went inside.

  The bar and grill smelled like sawdust, spilled beer, and too many men. A jukebox was playing Patsy Cline and the room was pretty dark except for the hanging lamp over the pool table in a far corner. There was a crowd at the bar, but a few empty stools dotted the line of black motorcycle jackets. She could deal with bikers.

  She headed toward them even as heads turned and a whistle or two drifted her way. She tugged at her T-shirt and stopped as she got a closer look at the back of the motorcycle jackets. All of them were new with bright red lettering. Julie shook her head and sat down at one of the empty stools.

  “Hi,” said the bartender, a skinny woman with magenta hair swept up into a beehive.

  “The Hellzapoppins?” asked Julie, grinning at the row of bikers.

  The bartender laughed. “A crate fell off a truck from a road show that was passing through town. The jackets were inside. Hell, we didn’t even have a gang before that. What can I get you?”

  “What d’you have on tap?” asked Julie.

  The bartender didn’t answer, but broke into a smile. Then she began to slowly nod her head. “Julie Excelsior, right? I’d know you anywhere. Ain’t that a kick.”

  In the pants, thought Julie and wondered who the hell she was.

  “Foster’s, Bass, and Michelob on tap. Bud, Heineken, Coors, and Amstel Light in bottles. I’m Tilda Green.”

  Julie followed her through the beer choices until she came to the name. Tilda Green. Tilda Green. Older than her. Cheerleader at Ex Falls High. Only then she didn’t have purple hair. Peroxided, Julie remembered. Skinny. She was still skinny. And the image of Tilda in her uniform popped into her head. Stick legs swallowed by a gold and blue felt skirt, the padded bra making her letter sweater jut straight out in front. She was voted Miss Most Likely to Succeed. Which at the time, Julie thought was a cruel joke, since Tilda lived in the adjacent trailer park. But then being poor if you were a Green wasn’t the same thing as being a poor Excelsior.

  “Foster’s,” said Julie and when Tilda’s smile wavered, she added, “It’s really good to see you, Tilda,” thinking, I am such a hypocrite. I could have spent an eternity without seeing you stuck behind this bar, serving half-soused wombats. If becoming a bartender in the only bar in town was success, Tilda could have it. And then another memory snagged on her mind. Tilda walking past her house toward the trailer park the week after the “rescue,” and tapping on Julie’s bedroom window. “Don’t let ’em get to you,” she said and went on her way.

  She smiled at Tilda and wondered how fast she could drink her beer and get out. Because she wasn’t up for any more walks down Memory Lane today.

  Tilda’s smile widened. “I’ll just get your Foster’s.”

  “Bet you don’t remember me.”

  Julie turned to face the man sitting on the stool next to her. He was wearing one of the Hellzapoppin jackets and had really greasy Elvis hair. “Bet you’re right,” said Julie.

  “Bet you don’t remember me, either,” said the man on the far side of the first.

  “Nope.”

  Tilda returned with Julie’s beer and leaned on the bar. “So are you staying long?”

  Julie turned her attention to Tilda. “I’m just here for—”

  A beefy hand landed on Julie’s back. “Julie Excelsior, huh. We all wondered where you disappeared to.”

  “Ancient history, bub,” said Julie, channeling one of her better undercover personas.

  “Name ain’t Bub. It’s Henley Baxter. Now do you remember me?”

  Julie stifled a shiver; she remembered him all right, but wished she didn’t. The Bully of Ex Falls High. She shook her head. “’Fraid not.” She picked up her beer and Tilda said, “Leave her alone, Henley. You’re not my favorite person this week.”

  Henley smiled. He was missing a right incisor. “I thought that was last week.”

  “Last week,” his companion echoed.

  “Every week,” said Tilda.

  Henley’s hand began to creep down Julie’s back. “Well, I remember you. And I remember you were real pop’lar with certain people.”

  She eased her shoulder away.

  “Hey, Tilda, three Buds over here.”

  Tilda moved away to get the beers.

  “They said you could be real friendly.” Henley moved in closer and Julie got a sickening whiff of hair oil and stale beer.

  “They must have meant someone else,” said Julie, leaning away from him.

  Henley followed her until she was sandwiched between him and the man on the other side of her.

  “Back off,” she said and nudged him away.

  “I can show you a good time.”

  The man next to her threw some bills on the bar and left. She was about to shift over to his seat when a huge, scruffy bear of a man sat down.

  “Hey, babe,” he said in a deep booming voice.

  Julie groaned. This had been a big mistake. She’d had enough. She turned on the newcomer. “Who are you calling babe, asshole?”

  The man’s head jerked toward her, his bushy eyebrows making two half circles above deep set eyes.

  “Me,” said Tilda as she hoisted herself over the bar and planted a kiss somewhere in his beard.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Julie, wondering if Tilda had actually found his mouth.

  “That’s okay,” the bear said in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a well. “I’m sure you’re a babe, too, but Tilda would kill me if I said so. Wouldn’t you, babykins?” He began to rumble and it took a second for Julie to realize he was laughing.

  “This is Terrence. My significant smoochums,” said Tilda, smiling at full wattage.

  “Hi, Terrence,” Julie said. The guy was the Yeti of the Adirondacks. He towered over Julie and most of the other men at the bar. His shoulder span was incredible and every thickset inch of him was brawn. This was someone Julie would never consider calling smoochums. If she was ever inclined to call anyone smoochums, which she wasn’t. “Nice to meet you,” she said, feeling an irrational surge of envy as Tilda and Terrence made goofy faces at each other. She took another sip of beer.

  “I’ll show you significant.” Henley leered at her and his fingers started crawling up her spine again.

  “In your dreams,” said Julie.

  She knew better than to incite a belligerent psycho like Henley, but she couldn’t help herself. She was on emotional overload. Seeing Tilda and Terrence hadn’t helped and being fondled by this jerk made her want to throw up.

  “C’mon, Julie. I bet you know how to have a real good time. I heard you used to.”

  Tilda slapped her hand down on the bar. “Henley, you ignoramus. If you don’t stop driving away my female customers, I’m gonna ban you from the bar.”

  Henley just smiled at her. His fingers reached Julie’s shoulder blade and began sneaking around to her front. Julie flicked her shoulder back and dislodged his hand.

  It also uncovered her midriff.

  “Would you look at that,” said Henley. “She’s got one of those navel rings.”

  His companion, a little toad if Julie had ever seen one, said, “Hey, a navel ring.”

  Henley flicked the ring with his finger before Julie could move away. “C’mon Julie, give it to me the way you used to give it to Cas Reynolds.”

  “That’s it, asshole.” Julie swung around; pulled back her fist and let it fly just as Henley was yanked backwards off the stool. Her fist connected to a jaw, but it wasn’t Henley’s. The impact cracked in the air and the wrong man went down, dragging Henley with him.

  Henley’s friend slid off his stool and jumped on top of the two men.

  Damn, thought Julie. My second day back and I’ve started a brawl. She shoved a five dollar bill across the bar. “I’m sorry,” she yelled to Tilda. “And apologize to the other guy for me.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” said Tilda, grinning at the men
on the floor.

  “You got a great right hook,” said Terrence and ducked as someone’s beer mug flew by him. “Hey, uncool.” Terrence hoisted himself off the bar stool. “Who the hell did that?”

  Julie ran for the door as applause burst out around her. Someone yelled, “Nice going, Cas. You just got decked by Barbie.”

  Julie froze.

  “Three cheers for the she-e-e-r ...” A body flew across the doorway, knocking Julie outside.

  She stood in the parking lot, her breath coming out in clouds, wondering if she could pick up Smitty, pack and get out of town before she got arrested. Then she thought of Cas, who had come to her rescue only to have her deck him. And God knew what was happening inside the bar now.

  The sound of splintering wood. Then a cheer.

  He’ll never want to see me again. I’ve humiliated him in public. She took a step toward her car. But he might be getting hurt. She took a step back. What could she do about it? She stepped toward the car. Run in, call out “Police!” and bust a few heads. She stepped back. Neither Tilda nor Cas would appreciate that.

  She couldn’t keep cha-cha-ing in the parking lot while all hell broke lose in the bar because of her. She started it, she’d finish it. She turned on her heel and pushed back through the door.

  The bar was bedlam. A knot of flailing blue jeans and work boots writhed in the center of the floor. An even larger group of spectators crowded around them, taking bets and egging the participants on. Across the room, Terrence had three men up against the wall, and Cas was hauling another to his feet.

  Julie pushed through the crowd and stood at the fringe of fighting men. “Hey,” she yelled. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

  Then she reached into the gaggle of fighters and pulled out the first body she could lay her hands on. It was Henley’s goon. She dragged him out of the pile, thunked him up against the nearest wall and twisted his arm behind him.

  “Ow,” he yelled and tried to wriggle free. “You’re hurting me. Le’ go.”