Best Laid Plans

by Tinnean

  Nicholas said sweet things to her. He slid off her panties, unzipped his jeans, and eased into her.

  She expected it to hurt. After all, that was what all the women at church said, how painful their first times had been, but it was God’s will, just as painful childbirth was. But it wasn’t. It felt wonderful, maybe more so since now she didn’t have to worry about desiring having a woman touch her like this.

  He kissed her cheek when he dropped her off at Betty Jean’s house, where she was supposed to have spent the afternoon.

  And four weeks later she realized her period was late.

  Of course Daddy had been furious and would have beaten her, but Momma had shrieked he’d cause her to lose the baby, so he’d simply clenched his fists and demanded to know who the father was.

  Four weeks after Mary Margaret realized she was pregnant, she married Nicholas Burdett. She didn’t know how Daddy had accomplished that, but once Nicholas’s ring was on her finger, she was certain everything would work out okay.

  She loved him enough to make sure it did.

  ***

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER, Junior was born, a beautiful, fair-haired little boy. Mary Margaret looked forward to getting her figure back.

  But it seemed that all Nicholas had to do was look at her for her to become pregnant, because the baby hadn’t even started rolling over when she discovered she was pregnant again.

  And shortly after that baby was born, she was pregnant again.

  ***

  WITH JUNIOR CHANGED and in his playpen, Mary Margaret carried Little Mary to the kitchen, where she warmed up a bottle of formula. Her momma didn’t approve of breastfeeding, saying it was too white trashy, so even though her breasts had ached with all the milk they’d held, she’d diligently prepared formula for both her babies.

  She’d just put the bottle in a pan of warm water when she noticed the paper on the kitchen table. Had Nicholas left the grocery list there? She picked it up to place it on the refrigerator, then realized it wasn’t a list.

  Dear Mary Margaret,

  I’m leaving. I’m sorry to hurt you like this, but I never wanted to be a deacon. I never wanted to be a father. And the only woman I ever wanted to marry is January Stephens.

  I heard through the grapevine that she’s involved with someone and may even marry him, and I can’t let that happen.

  I’m going to see a lawyer about getting a divorce. I’ll make sure you and the kids have enough money to get by.

  I wish you all the best, and I hope you won’t hate me, but I have to do this.

  -Nicholas

  Nicholas couldn’t leave her. No one in her family had ever divorced. Daddy would never forgive her.

  Even worse, she wouldn’t have that protection against wanting another woman.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Nicholas’s cell phone, thankful that for once he’d gone against Daddy’s wishes and insisted he’d keep the device, but the call went right to voicemail.

  Little Mary began to fuss. Mary Margaret shook herself out of her reverie and took the bottle out of the pan. After testing a few drops against her wrist to make sure it wasn’t too hot, she walked back into the nursery, made herself comfortable on the rocker that had been in her momma’s family for six generations, and began to feed her daughter.

  Oh God, what was she going to do?

  Chapter 11

  “MA?”

  “Yeah, Denny?” Babe was almost finished with the packing.

  “I’m hungry.”

  It would be smart to eat something before they left. “Okay, let’s see what’s in the fridge.” Once they’d eaten, she’d clean up the kitchen and call for a cab to take them to the bus depot.

  They went into the big, airy kitchen, and she opened the refrigerator. Denny peeked under her arm to check out the contents.

  “Grilled cheese?” he suggested.

  “Sounds good to me, kiddo. Get out a frying pan?”

  While Denny did that, she took out the bread, butter, and block of Velveeta. She was the world’s worst cook, and sometimes she wondered how she managed to keep the little boy healthy, but this she could make.

  She’d just put the first sandwich into the frying pan when a voice came over the intercom, causing her to jump and drop the spatula.

  “Uh… this is Frank the guard. Is anyone there?” The intercom was connected to the guard shack at the main gates of the complex. If anyone wanted entry, the security guard was supposed to call to find out if they were allowed in. After the screw-up at Christmas, when three shitheads who belonged to Tad’s grandfather’s church somehow managed to get to the ranch uninvited, resulting in the sheriff’s department being called, whoever manned the guard shack made it a point to contact Mr. Jackson or Mr. Weber.

  Denny looked at her with big eyes. She put a finger to her lips. Babe had no intention of answering.

  “Someone better answer,” a female voice shrilled. “I know January Stephens lives there, and if she doesn’t get on the line in two seconds, I’m calling the sheriff.”

  Having the sheriff show up at the ranch was the last thing Babe needed. Reluctantly she pressed the button.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “It took you look enough to answer,” the woman cried, and Babe had to cup her ear. Didn’t anyone use their indoor voice anymore?

  “I was in the bathroom.”

  Denny put his hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles. Babe frowned at him, not really surprised when he just grinned. She pointed to the spatula on the floor, and he picked it up and put it in the sink.

  “Please give this man permission for me to enter.”

  “Um… no. You said you were looking for January, and she isn’t here.”

  “Why should I believe you?” The words were belligerent, but the voice was filled with tears, and Babe found herself wavering.

  “Why would I lie about her whereabouts?”

  “Because she’s your friend.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Look, if you don’t let me in, I swear I’m calling the sheriff’s department!”

  Babe sighed. “All right, Frank, let her in.” She hung up.

  The sandwich was starting to smoke, so she turned off the heat and flipped it over. Fortunately, it wasn’t too bad. She’d just scrape off the darker parts. She waited a minute, then used another spatula to take it from the pan and slide it onto a plate.

  “Okay, Denny. I want you to take this and hide in the closet.” She got a knife, scraped off the burned bits, then sliced the sandwich into four triangles and handed him the plate.

  He took it and disappeared down the hallway just as the front doorbell chimed.

  Babe sighed. She should have waited until they got to the bus depot to buy Denny a sandwich.

  ***

  AFTER LOOKING THROUGH the peephole to make sure she wasn’t letting herself in for even more trouble, Babe twisted the lock and opened the door.

  The very pregnant woman who stood there was actually little more than a girl. The dowdy dress she wore barely covered her knees in front but dropped to mid-calf in back. Her mousy brown hair was bedraggled, clutched in the fist of the baby propped on her hip. Holding on to her skirt was a toddler whose face was smeared with tears and snot.

  “Where is she?”

  “Good evening. My name is Babe. And you are…?”

  “Babe? That’s…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m Mary Margaret Burdett.”

  “Well, Mrs. Burdett…” At least, Babe hoped it was “Mrs.” “As I said, January Stephens isn’t here.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I have no clue why you’d think I would know.”

  “This is where she lives, isn’t it? This is where you live.”

  “Yes, but we’re not what you might call clo
se.”

  Mrs. Burdett seemed ready to burst into tears, and in spite of herself, Babe felt concern.

  “What’s she done?”

  “She and my husband have run off together!”

  “Jesus.”

  “Miz Babe! You’re not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain!”

  “Sorry.” The use of miss and miz down here drove her crazy. A young, unmarried woman would be miss, which made sense, kind of. After she married, or reached the age where she should have been married, she became miz. But then women of a certain age would revert back to miss. “Look, you look exhausted.” Babe hoped she wasn’t about to give birth. “Why don’t you come in the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

  “Tea? I’m supposed to stay away from caffeine.”

  “Sure. And you can tell me the whole story.” She gave a thought to having Denny come out of the closet, but then dismissed it. Mary Margaret Burdett might be a nice woman, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t talk at the wrong time. And the fewer people who were aware a little boy named Denny was with her, the better off they would both be.

  Chapter 12

  JOSH PULLED UP to the entrance of St. Mark’s emergency room and let everyone out before driving off to search for a parking space. It would give him some time to come to terms with what had happened earlier.

  Jackson shot? Who in hell would want to do that? For what purpose? Georgia wasn’t a particularly gay-friendly state, but a lot of people in Savannah knew Jackson and had used his construction company. This made no sense at all.

  Tommy had been so happy, and now this.

  Josh parked the truck and got out. He knew his musing was an attempt to keep this mind off whatever sort of condition Mopp was in.

  Josh walked into the emergency room waiting area to find Tad in his husband’s arms, weeping. Rush stroked Tad’s hair and murmured in his ear, looking grimmer than Josh had ever seen.

  Ah shit. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman at the front desk said. She really did look sorry. “As I told these people, Mr. Jackson was already deceased when he arrived here at St. Mark’s. He’s been taken to the morgue.”

  “We want to see him.” The lines around Miss Becca’s lips were white, and she held herself stiffly.

  “Of course.” The woman looked around and waved over a physician in blue scrubs and a white lab coat. “Dr. Richards, these people are here for Mr. Jackson.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ll have one of my people take you to the medical examiner’s office. Bobbi Jo?” He summoned a nurse also clad in blue scrubs. “Would you mind…?”

  “Sure thing, Doctor. Uh… I’m sorry.” The nurse smiled at Tom regretfully. “Just the immediate family is allowed.”

  They weren’t going to let him in to see his partner of the past nine years?

  “Josh.” Tom turned to him, and he slid an arm around his shoulders.

  “Sorry,” the nurse said again. “If he’s not family—”

  “He’s our uncle!” Miss Becca snapped at her.

  The nurse looked from Miss Becca to Tad to Tom. “There’s no resemblance.”

  “We all have blond hair and blue eyes.”

  “That’s true. But he’s kind of short.”

  “He’s the runt of the litter,” Josh informed her. He drew himself up to his full height and loomed. He was a big man, even bigger than Jack Jackson, and while he didn’t like throwing his weight around, he wasn’t going to let his best friend be treated like scum.

  The nurse backed away a step and sent a panicky glance toward the doctor.

  “It’s okay, Bobbi Jo. I can see the resemblance.” He glanced at Rush. “I suppose you’re related too?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Fine. Bobbi Jo, take them downstairs. But you can’t go.” He glared at Josh.

  “Fine.” He looked around. “Where’s Mopp?”

  “Who?” the doctor asked.

  “Billy Bob Bolt,” Tom said, starting to pull himself together. Josh knew from their younger years that from this point on, Tom would do his grieving in private. “A young man about five ten.”

  “Five nine, buddy,” Josh corrected. “He was with Jackson, and we understand the paramedics brought him here too.”

  “Ah, the head wound.”

  “Head wound?” Oh Jesus. The thought of that boy with his sweet smile and kind nature lying somewhere in this emergency room, bleeding and with his brains falling out, made Josh’s stomach turn over.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this with anyone other than family.”

  Josh could have argued he was family, but this wasn’t the place to start anything. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in bay two. As soon as we can get a bed for him, we’ll admit him overnight for observation.”

  “Tom, will you and the kids be okay?”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  Miss Becca looked around. “I know Jan’s unhappy with Mopp right now, but she should be here.”

  “Let me have your phone, Miss Becca. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Grandpa and Grandma need to know. And Mopp’s Momma and Daddy.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll call them too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Josh,” Miss Becca whispered. She gave him her cell phone and then surprised him with a hug.

  “If you’ll come with me?” the nurse said.

  “Yes, right.” And they hurried after her, heading to the morgue.

  “You can’t use that phone in the hospital,” the woman behind the desk said.

  Josh didn’t bother glaring at her. She was just doing her job, but she could have had a kinder attitude. And why wasn’t Miss January here? He should have been with Mopp, and instead he had to make this phone call. He stalked out to the parking lot, found Miss January’s number in the contact list, and hit dial.

  It kept ringing, and he thought it would go to voicemail, but then she picked up.

  “Ye-yes?” It was obvious she’d been crying. “Becca? That witch has to go. You won’t believe what she—”

  “It’s Josh Cooper. Jack is in the morgue. Miss Becca and the family have to ID him.”

  “Oh God. And… and Billy Bob?”

  “Mopp’s still in the ER. I’m pretty sure he’d like it if you were here when he regains consciousness.”

  “Oh, my.” Her voice was faint. “He’s… he’s unconscious?”

  “Yeah.” Josh thought he heard someone talking in the background but dismissed it as the television, since there were no men at the ranch at this point. “I’m gonna go find him. Get here soon, okay?” He hung up before she could say anything else, then looked through the contact list to find the number for Jackson’s parents. Once again he hit dial.

  “Rebecca.” A brisk, no-nonsense tenor came over the line. “After what happened at Christmas, I must say I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  “Who is this? Why are you calling from my granddaughter’s phone?”

  “You don’t know me—”

  “That’s obvious.”

  Josh sighed. “My name is Joshua Cooper.”

  “That explains nothing.”

  “No, I imagine it doesn’t. I’m a friend of Tom Weber’s.”

  “That queer? We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “Mr. Jackson—”

  “It’s Reverend Jackson.” The old man spoke so stiffly, Josh would have expected him to have a corncob up his butt.

  Yeah, well I don’t belong to your church. “Reverend Jackson, shut up and listen to me. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your son was shot earlier this evening. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and then Jack Jackson’s father said, �
�I have no sons.” And he hung up.

  Josh stared at the phone for a moment, then growled, “Son of a bitch.” He shut the phone, put it in his pocket, and returned to the emergency room.

  It took him a little while to find the bay where they’d taken Mopp. Every bay was occupied. Apparently there had been a multi-car pileup on the interstate, and paramedics were coming in with ambulances filled with the injured.

  Josh might be a big man, but he knew how to make himself inconspicuous. He kept out of the way and finally found Mopp behind the drawn curtain of bay two.

  The light in the bay was low, but Josh could make out the slow, even rise and fall of Mopp’s chest, and he could have done some weeping himself.

  Instead, he pulled a chair as close to the bed as he could get it and sat down.

  A square of gauze was taped to Mopp’s temple, its pristine whiteness marred by a circle of red in the center. He leaned over and gently kissed the floppy, light brown curls, then took Mopp’s hand in his.

  “Don’t die, sweet boy.” He stared at the chart on the wall, not really seeing it. “Please don’t die.”

  “He’s not going to die.”

  Josh jumped and turned in the chair to face another blue-clad doctor. Jesus, had he heard what Josh had called Mopp?

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Dr. Monroe.” He smiled and offered Josh his hand.

  Apparently he hadn’t heard Josh call Mopp sweet boy, and Josh let out a relieved breath.

  “I’m Josh Cooper. I’m… I’m Mopp’s uncle.” Josh had no objection to lying, not if it would get him some information.

  “Mr. Cooper. Dr. Richards asked me to come down and take a look at your nephew. I’m the resident neurologist. Mr. Bolt will be under my care while he’s with us at St. Mark’s.”

  A neurologist? Josh felt sick. “What can you tell me about his condition?”

  “He’s a very lucky young man. A few centimeters to the left, and that bullet could have killed him. As it is, he should regain consciousness soon. If you’ll step aside?” The doctor waited until Josh got out of the way, then checked Mopp’s heartrate, his pulse, and his pupils’ reaction to a small flashlight. “Okay, then.”