THE BEST MAN IN TEXAS

by Kristine Rolofson

  * * *

  Chapter 9

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  Joe watched her back, whether Delia knew it or not. He gave dumb-ass Martin a warning look, which the man either didn't understand or deliberately ignored.

  "Delia, what the heck are you doing here?" He put his hands on the hips of his pressed khaki slacks and the veins in his pudgy neck throbbed above the collar of his yellow polo shirt. He was carrying about thirty extra pounds and his hair was turning gray on the sides. Joe figured he could take him in one well-placed punch.

  "I'm sure I already told you that was none of your business," Delia said, heading past him toward the kitchen door.

  "You're embarrassing yourself," Martin declared, working himself into a major snit. "Acting like a wanton woman on someone's porch? Surely you have more pride."

  Joe's hands clenched and he took one step forward. "That's enough, Drummond. Get—"

  "You're right," Delia said, cutting off Joe's protest. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "I should have waited for those nice hotels in Austin and San Antonio, like you and your girlfriend did."

  Martin flushed. "We were being discreet."

  "Oh, that's what you call it." Delia chuckled. "Whatever." She turned toward Joe, but her smile was cool and polite. "Good night. Thanks again for dinner. And for the movie."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," he assured her. Come hell or high water or the hysterics of his crazy sister.

  "Where's your car?" Martin wasn't ready to let her go. "I didn't see it in the driveway."

  "I walked," she said, and left. Just like that, she was gone and Joe fought the urge to run after her and tell her that Martin had been a fool to stop loving her. And that she was better off without him.

  "Walked?"

  "Yeah. She lives across the street now." Joe watched Martin's horrified expression as it dawned on him that his ex-wife was living in a trailer park. "In her uncle's trailer."

  "She can't do that," he muttered. "What will people think? She knew she could stay in the house until it sold and I gave her enough money—" Martin stopped when Julie reappeared in the living room, the baby against her shoulder.

  "Where's Mom? Out playing bingo?" Julie patted her daughter's back and walked over to her boyfriend, who looked nervous at the sight of the tiny child.

  "She's in the hospital, Jule," Joe said. "She wouldn't let me tell you, not that you were answering my calls anyway."

  Her eyes filled with tears. "What's the matter?"

  "A mild—very mild—heart attack. She's coming home tomorrow." He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. "She's okay."

  "Really?" She sank onto the couch and Martin looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn't used to family dramas.

  "Yeah. But she's going to have to rest. She can't take care of the kids full-time anymore." Joe decided the rest of the lecture could wait, because tears started running down Julie's cheeks. No one cried prettier than his sister, he thought, and Martin was a sucker for the sight of a beautiful woman weeping silently. He hurried over to her and sat beside her, his arm around her while he attempted to console her.

  "When did it happen?" Julie wiped her eyes with her hands.

  "Friday night."

  Julie wept harder.

  "There, there," the mayor said. "I'm sure your mother is going to be just fine."

  "We'll bring her home tomorrow morning." Joe said, watching Martin pull a folded handkerchief from his pants pocket and hand it to Julie, who sniffed prettily. He wondered if the caring boyfriend routine was an act or if Drummond really did care about Julie. He'd ended his marriage for her, but that didn't mean the guy was going to marry her, not a woman with two little kids.

  "I feel terrible," Julie muttered, kissing Libby's cheek. "I should have been here."

  "Yeah," Joe said. "You've got that right."

  "I'd better be going," Martin said.

  "Take her for a minute," Julie said, setting the baby in her boyfriend's arms before he could stand up.

  "I'm not good with—"

  "She's asleep, Martin. Just don't wake her up."

  "I'll try." Martin looked uncomfortable and chastised. Joe almost felt sorry for him.

  Julie wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. "Don't be mad at me, Joe."

  "Too late."

  She left the couch and led him around the corner, out of sight of Martin. "Please, Joe? I didn't mean to stay away for so long, but we were having such fun and—" His beautiful sister tossed her long hair over her shoulders and whispered, "I'd never been to Las Vegas before."

  "That's your excuse?"

  Julie shrugged. "It's the truth."

  "Don't give me that crap, Jule. Just tell me that you're using birth control so Mom doesn't end up taking care of three kids next time you run off."

  "Speaking of birth control, what were you doing undressing Martin's ex-wife tonight?"

  "Martin's ex-wife has been taking care of your kids, Julie. How's that make you feel?" They glared at each other for a long moment, until a wail from Libby broke the silence.

  "We'll talk later," Joe said. "Tell your boyfriend it's time to go home."

  "Julie, darling?" Martin appeared in the kitchen, the baby fussing in his arms. "I think she wants something, but I don't know what."

  "Give her to me," Julie said, turning to soothe her daughter. "Go home, Martin. Call me tomorrow."

  Martin fled as if he'd been released from prison.

  "He won't last long," Joe muttered, right after the door shut.

  "Maybe not," his sister said, patting the baby's back to quiet her. "But right now he might be in love with me. You don't even know what that feels like, being in love, Joe."

  He thought about protesting, thought about telling his sister to mind her own business, but she was right. He'd never fallen in love, not really. He'd experienced passion and lust, longing and maybe a crush or two—such as the one he'd had on Delia so many years ago—but the kind of love that made a person do crazy things?

  He'd seen love—it had caused his mother to stay with an abusive drunk until the day he died. It had made his brother, rejected by his girlfriend, drink too much and slam his car into a passing train. He'd watched his sister fall in love and get hurt—and pregnant—and he'd seen a couple of his friends crash to earth after meeting the so-called "perfect woman."

  Love hurt. And up until this week he didn't need the aggravation.

  And then he'd seen Delia on a bar stool, and all of his sensible resolutions went out the window.

  Love, huh? So this was what he'd been missing.

  * * *

  It was afternoon before Joe called her name and knocked on the door to the trailer. Delia had been sorting sheet music for hours, but the two cartons of songs were almost empty, their contents preserved in plastic page protectors. All she had to do now was decide what to do with them.

  "Come in," she called, and pushed aside a blue binder. "It's open."

  "Hi." Joe stepped inside, but he looked uncertain of his welcome.

  "Hi." How original. She was smiling at him as if he'd just unbuttoned her shirt again.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Sure. It's pretty hot today, but—"

  "I meant about last night. And Martin and Julie and the whole mess." He sat in the other kitchen chair across from her.

  "I'm fine. I was glad to get home, though." And relieved that Joe hadn't followed her home later. She'd had time to think, because she hadn't fallen asleep for hours. She would declare herself a sex-free zone, she would not fall in love with Joe just because he showed her a good time and a heck of a lot of passion. She was vulnerable—her friends had warned her about that. An article in this month's Redbook had advised women to experience life on their own for a year or two after a divorce.

  "Drummond shouldn't have talked to you that way. I would have hit him for you." He smiled, as if he was joking, but Delia wondered. He thought she needed protecting, which wasn't the case. Not now.

  "That's ridicu
lous. He's not a bad guy, you know. I mean, he has his good points."

  Joe's eyes narrowed. "Don't bother to list them for me."

  "Okay. On the other hand, he's always been a little too concerned with what people think. And I was as bored with him as he was with me." There. She'd said it, practically announced to the one man who made her blood bubble that she was boring.

  "He was sure pissed that you're living in a trailer."

  "I wish I'd seen his face." She couldn't help laughing.

  "It was almost as good as when Julie made him hold Libby." He looked over at her stack of sheet music. "What are you doing?"

  "Saving Uncle Gin's music. I didn't have the heart to throw it out."

  He turned one of the binders around and opened it to the first page. "'I've Got All Night to Love You But the Dog Needs Me More'?"

  "A personal favorite."

  Joe looked back down at the music. "By Horatio Guinness?"

  "You've heard of him?"

  "Yeah. He's part of Texas history, along with Willie and a lot of others who were in Austin back then. I thought he'd died a long time ago."

  "Uncle Gin gave away everything he ever earned with his music. He hated performing and he liked being left alone. He had a couple of hits with Willie Nelson, who bought this trailer for him."

  "No kidding?"

  "He lived off royalties from a few songs that actually got recorded."

  "Maybe you should see if a museum wants them."

  "Now you're kidding."

  "No. Someone might be happy to get the Guinness collection. Or you could try to publish them yourself." He flipped through a few more pages and read the titles out loud. "'Take Me Home and Take It Easy,' 'Suck Lemons and Die,' sounds a little hostile. 'Chili Loves Me More Than You So Leave My Beans Alone."'

  "Not exactly mainstream country."

  He laughed. "But original. Like his niece." He closed the book and smiled at her. "Have dinner with me tonight. An official second date."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "Because—" She stopped. Because you're J.C. Brown and I'm out of shape and feeling vulnerable. I have no sexual tricks up my, uh, sleeve and if we had sex I'd disappoint you, and I don't need another kick in the ego, thank you very much.

  "I'm not ready to start dating," she finished, and heard the lie in her own voice as much as Joe did.

  "What's the matter, Delia? Are you afraid of what people will say if you're seen in public with one of the no-good Browns?" From the hard expression in his eyes, she realized she hit some kind of nerve.

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it?"

  "Look, I'm just not ready for this," she said, fiddling with the stack of sheet music left to put in the last notebook. She couldn't tell him that it would be too damn easy to let him into her life, to let him into her bed and into her heart. And if it was just physical attraction, then once they'd gotten that out of their systems, what was left? Awkward goodbyes and empty promises to get together sometime soon? "I need to be by myself for a while."

  "By yourself," he repeated, sliding out of the chair. "Since when? Last night?"

  She didn't answer. It really was easier this way, she told herself. Joe looked at her for a long moment and then turned away.

  "Call me sometime," he said. "If you're ever in Austin and want to go to the movies."

  * * *

  Delia cleaned. She hung tropical print curtains and covered the old couch cushions, with yellow denim. She draped red chili pepper lights over the window above the tiny kitchen sink and hung a lime-green shower curtain in the bathroom.

  Betty and Hank walked over to say hello one morning. Joe's mother, pale but cheerful, thanked her for helping with the children. Hank beamed and handed her a bouquet of wildflowers and told her his uncle "went away." Well, Delia knew that. His truck hadn't been in the driveway for thirty-seven hours.

  She called Kelly and heard about the great man her friend had met—and, she learned, slept with—Saturday night. She called Carol and listened to her describe the merits of her cousin, an accountant in Austin who was recently divorced. She agreed with both of her friends that she needed to get a life, and that going out and having fun would cheer her up fast.

  Oh, yes, she'd said. Good idea. Sure, she'd told Kelly. We'll do something on the Fourth. Yes, she'd said, that would be fun. And what better way to illustrate her happiness with single life? She was happy, though no one believed her. She was supposed to have a broken heart, but what she had was the strange feeling that at some point in her life she'd taken a wrong turn. Maybe she'd been destined for Pecan Hollow all along. Maybe she should have finished college, but majored in art. She could have been one of those temperamental artists, well respected and profiled in Texas magazines. Instead she'd fallen in love with the first man who told her she was beautiful. She'd stepped right out of her mother's house and into someone else's and she'd foolishly believed she'd been guaranteed a happy ending.

  She didn't tell either of her friends about her brief flirtation with J.C. Brown. Neither one would have believed that the wild high school kid had turned into a college professor, rancher and family man. And neither one would believe her if she told them that she'd been half-naked with him the other night.

  They would think she was joking. Saint Delia and J.C. Brown?

  Never in a million lifetimes.

  * * *

  "My goodness," was all Georgia could say when she saw the inside of the trailer Thursday morning. Though it was overly bright and a bit too tropical for Georgia's taste, at least it wasn't filled with Browns. That had been a day she wouldn't soon forget.

  "I decided to brighten up the place, turn it into a studio."

  "A studio," Georgia echoed, walking into the living room. Yes. Delia's endless boxes of beads were on the shelves, along with her various jewelry books and thick collection of beading magazines. Delia's special magnifying lamps were stationed beside and above a corner work area, next to the television. The sofas, once a hideous brown, now made Georgia glad she'd kept her sunglasses on. "How nice. Why yellow?"

  "I needed color."

  "Yes," Georgia said, nodding politely. "I can see that." She could also see Julie Brown playing ball with her son across the road. "How is Betty Brown doing? I heard she was out of the hospital."

  "She came home Monday and is doing fine. I guess she just needed to be on the right medication." Delia handed her a cup of coffee and Georgia squeezed into the little booth and set the mug on the Formica table.

  "This is all very nice," she said. Too nice, she worried. Delia looked as if she was settling into this gaudy little trailer park, for goodness sake. "So, what have you been doing with yourself?"

  "I've met some of the neighbors." She took a sip of coffee. "At the Laundromat here."

  "You could do your laundry at my house. You certainly don't have to traipse down the road to use the public washing machines."

  "And I've been working on my jewelry." She looked pleased. "I'm going to call the stores and tell them I'm taking orders again."

  "Oh?"

  "And I've been organizing Uncle Gin's music into notebooks. He certainly wrote a lot of songs."

  "Have you heard any news on the house?"

  "You mean, if it's sold yet?"

  Georgia nodded.

  "I haven't called the real estate agent to ask."

  "But the money—" Georgia said. "I'm sure you don't want to live in a trailer for the rest of your life."

  Delia smiled. "It's not that bad, Mother. Think of the money I'm saving."

  "Yes, but—"

  "And since I don't know what I want to do with the rest of my life, this is as good a place as any to be."

  "Have you thought anymore about seeing a doctor?" She pulled the paper with the psychiatrist's name and phone number out of her pants pocket. "I heard that this man is very good."

  "I don't need a doctor." Her daughter looked as if she wanted to burst into gig
gles, something that Georgia did not think was appropriate under the circumstances.

  "Be serious, darling. You've had a lot of life changes in the last eight months. You've lost your husband—"

  "No big loss," Delia interjected. "Not anymore."

  "And your house."

  "It was never really mine."

  "Money."

  "I'm not destitute. Not yet." She waved her hand toward the shelves of beads she used to make jewelry and flowers. "I could make a business out of my beading. There are a couple of stores in San Marcos that said they'd take anything I would make. I'll become an artist." She laughed. "And this will be my studio."

  This was not the picture Georgia had painted of her daughter's future. She thought Delia would move in with her, they would share breakfasts and suppers and watch the news together. It would be great fun having her sweet-natured daughter as company. But she didn't recognize the woman seated across from her in Gin's trailer, now decorated like a South Pacific island or a Jimmy Buffett bar.

  "A cruise," Georgia said, saying the first thing that popped into her head. "I thought we could go on a cruise together. The ships leave out of Galveston, you know, and go all sorts of places. Wouldn't that be fun?"

  "You want to go on a cruise with your crazy, destitute, divorced daughter?"

  "Who else?" They both laughed. "We'd shop, go to the shows each night on the ship, take one of those rides in a raft—or maybe not. Maybe we'd be better off touring one of those Mexican ruins with the pyramids in the middle of the jungle."

  "Mother, I can't picture you in the jungle."

  "We'll have an adventure." She would brave snakes and mosquitoes and seasickness to see Delia happy and normal again. She'd heard that J.C. Brown had left town, thank goodness, so maybe now Delia would stop befriending riffraff and return to being sensible.

  "I'll think about it," Delia promised.

  "I imagine you could find a lot of interesting beads in Mexico." There. Now she would go home and arrange for someone to come to the house and paint Delia's bedroom yellow.

  Pale yellow.

  * * *