Small Town Girl

by Rice, Patricia

  As fine as that hand felt, she wasn’t being pushed anywhere. “You know Dolly?” she asked, stalling. He ignored the question and shut the door after them. “What if she laughs? Will she charge us for coming here and laughing?”

  “She doesn’t get paid if she doesn’t take the case. Move it.”

  She scampered out of his way before he could smack her rear, and she would be compelled to take him out. RJ used to do that. She wasn’t going anywhere she didn’t want to go these days. Fortunately for Flint, she wanted to return to the dining room.

  “Ms. Dubois, forgive the delay,” she said, entering the café. “We lost track of time.”

  The movie-star lawyer rose gracefully from the counter stool and held out her hand to shake Jo’s. “Ms. Sanderson. Mr. Clinton said some fine things about your work. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jo bit back a surprised He did? and backed up against the counter so Flint could step forward. E.D. Dubois was tall and carried her height off with impeccable elegance. Jo hadn’t run across too many sophisticated women, and she was a little giddy at being addressed like someone of importance by one.

  She fought the urge to put on her apron and take the lawyer’s order. She was a client now, not a waitress.

  “You come highly recommended, Ms. DuBois,” Flint said smoothly, as if he hadn’t been knocked reeling at realizing he’d hired a woman. “Would you rather take a booth? As you can see, the place is under renovation and my office won’t hold us.”

  “I’m fine right here.” She settled at the counter where she’d spread out the contract and a legal pad. “My mother was arrested at a sit-in at a counter like this back in the sixties. I like making myself at home where her clients weren’t wanted.”

  Joella laughed and refilled the lawyer’s glass of unsweetened tea. “I like you already, Ms. DuBois. I get that feeling every time I step into one of those expensive boutiques in the city. I can’t afford them any more than my mama could, but I like making them think I can.”

  “Please, call me Elise. Are you by any chance any relation to Carl Sanderson, the singer? I understand he’s from North Carolina.”

  “My daddy’s name is Carl. He sings over in Europe, but I can’t imagine anyone our age has heard of him.” Jo had never really known her dad as more than a story her mother used to tell. Seventies rock singers led wild lives, and she was the product of one of them. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because my mother is a fan of classic rock, and your father rivaled Eric Clapton in his day. If you’re his daughter, you come by your talent naturally.”

  That wasn’t anything her mother hadn’t already said, in the same breath that she dismissed the music business as a pipe dream and scorned Jo for following it instead of getting an education. Knowing that the lawyer recognized the name of the man who’d abandoned his family stirred no interest. She had more immediate concerns. “Tell me I can cut Randy’s throat, and I’m listening.”

  Elise tapped the contract against the table and looked her in the eye. “Since RJ and Flint filed the copyright on these songs, you do realize that it’s not a matter of them proving their innocence, but of you proving they lied about ownership?”

  Jo hadn’t realized any such thing. Flint had told her she needed proof the songs were hers, but proving Randy lied? Another hurdle she couldn’t jump. She nodded anyway.

  “Well, if I understand what you have here, Ms. Sanderson,” Elise waved the contract, “with that proof, you’ll be able to buy one of those expensive boutiques when we’re done.”

  The lawyer turned on the stool and looked at Flint. “And since you share the copyright, you’d better have a good lawyer to save your ass.”

  Eleven

  As his father’s white Expedition rolled up the gravel drive to his cabin on Saturday morning, Flint tried to swallow the lump of fear in his throat. Although the terror of still another lawsuit haunted his nightmares, his heart was elsewhere right now. Money was nothing if he couldn’t have his kids. Melinda had ruled their lives when he’d been on the road trying to earn a living. And she’d resented any interference in their upbringing when he was at home. For the sake of peace, he’d neglected them most of their lives.

  That had to change.

  The SUV parked next to his Chevy extended cab. Flint’s sports cars had gone at auction. He’d bought the used Chevy with his advance on RJ’s contract, thinking he needed something sturdy for the mountains and something safe for his boys.

  Although looking at them standing beside his parents’ vehicle, Flint couldn’t believed they’d fit the truck in another year. How had they grown from cheerful toddlers willing to tumble around the living room with him to these tall, sullen pre-teens who wouldn’t come near him unless they had their grandparents in tow?

  He walked out on the porch to greet them. He’d wanted to look respectable, but if he was taking them rock climbing, he couldn’t drag out the designer duds. He’d changed more often than a nervous girl on her first date, only to settle on his usual jeans. Nothing would impress his sons if this adventure included ropes he couldn’t grip.

  “Hey, Adam, John, how’dya like that highway coming up?” he called.

  “They played Nintendo all the way up and didn’t see a damned thing.” Flint’s father stepped up first, holding out his hand. “How are you, son?”

  Floyd Clinton had aged considerably since the mild heart attack he’d suffered last winter. His father had never been as tall as his sons, but he seemed to have shrunk even more lately. Flint crushed his hand and noticed the lack of strength in his father’s grip. Flint feared his problems had added to his parent’s anxieties, and guilt gnawed at him.

  “Doin’ good, Dad. Coming with us this afternoon?”

  Floyd chuckled. “Not likely. Got a beer and a TV? There’s a tournament today.”

  “Now, Floyd.” Garbed in an impeccable watermelon-colored pants suit with matching sandals and scarf on her straw hat, Martha Clinton traversed the flagstone walk carrying a straw bag overflowing with refrigerator containers. “You know you need exercise. We’ll stroll around town and catch up with old times this afternoon.”

  Flint tried to keep his attention on his parents, but he could scarcely tear his gaze from his sons. They were growing tall and weedy like he had at that age. Adam was getting acne. He remembered the painful shyness he’d suffered learning a new school and a new body at the same time. His heart ached in sympathy.

  And then there was Johnnie. The boy took after Melinda’s family, plump and on the short side. He’d just started wearing glasses and resented them. The friendly little puppy had turned into a taciturn Goth since Melinda’s death.

  “New earring, John?” Flint asked as his mother’s nattering retreated to a low hum. He stepped down to clap both boys on the shoulders and urge them toward the house.

  “Yeah.” John almost brightened at his noticing, then remembered his cool and shrugged. “Took yours out,” he commented flatly, glancing at Flint’s ear.

  “It was a diamond. I sold it.” Cheerfully, he ushered his family into the big open front room. “Come in, wind down, I’ll show you your rooms.”

  “Oh, we can’t stay the night,” his mother hastily corrected. “We have church tomorrow, and I promised to fix a casserole for the church supper.”

  “We have churches up here,” Flint said, gritting his teeth to stay smiling. “Looks as if you have enough casseroles in that bag to feed an army. Let’s play it by ear, shall we?”

  Watching the slumped shoulders of his sons as they trailed upstairs to the bedroom he’d prepared for them, Flint fought stage fright and wished today could be as easy as walking into a spotlight with his guitar.

  He fully intended to expend as much energy on his kids as he once had on his career. He may have given up on Melinda, music, and the band, but he wouldn’t give up on his sons.

  ***

  Joella looked up the instant Flint walked through the Stardust’s door. She could feel the vibrat
ions of a storm rumbling in advance of his entrance.

  She’d come to know him so well this past week and a half that she could even hear the thunder behind the glint in his eyes as he introduced his family. He was on the verge of explosion. Or implosion. Her boss tended to keep things all bottled up.

  Like last night, after the lawyer left. She’d thought the walls would disintegrate from the force of his fury. But Flint had kept it so controlled she’d been afraid to laugh and tell him she couldn’t produce the kind of evidence lawyers needed.

  His money was safe from her, although it sure was fun taking a ride on the fast-talking lady’s dream train. Just taking Randy down would be worth every penny of the lawyer’s fee. She’d spent the night chewing on ways to produce evidence and still hadn’t a clue. Scribbled envelopes weren’t proof.

  “My heavens,” she exclaimed, reaching to shake his parents’ hands. But her gaze went past the adults to the boys. “You guys are the spittin’ image of your dad. I better keep you away from the girls at church. We won’t get any prayin’ done.”

  They shuffled their feet, reddened, and sent her surreptitious looks. She remembered that awkward age—not hers, but the boys in her class who hadn’t matured as quickly as she had. She shot Flint a laughing glance, but he was too wired to notice. The man needed someone to run a little interference for him.

  “Why don’t y’all find a table, and I’ll serve up some of this fine soup Flint is thinking about adding to the menu.”

  Actually, she’d thrown it together this morning in anticipation of a moment like this. Their usual lunch fare was hamburgers and grilled cheese. From the way Flint had described his yuppie parents, she didn’t think they’d appreciate grease.

  “Oh, I brought my vegetable soup and broccoli casserole for lunch,” Martha Clinton said. “We just wanted to see where Flint works.”

  Flint’s mother wasn’t admiring the newly painted blue-green walls or gray paneling as she said it. She was studying Joella with undisguised suspicion.

  “Well, I can’t give y’all doughnuts until you’ve eaten. So sit right down and have a bite.” Jo pointed out a booth she’d saved with a Reserved sign just like in a fancy restaurant.

  “Johnnie is on a diet and can’t have doughnuts,” Mrs. Clinton was saying as Jo led them to the table while the plump kid whined, “Aw, Nana, I can, too.”

  All right, she saw how this family worked. Jo winked at Flint. “Why don’t you show your boys the back room while I take care of things out here?”

  A slow grin creased the sides of his angular face as he glanced over their lunchtime audience to his kids, who were looking around with curiosity instead of following their grandparents.

  The Buzzards had played last night. Flint had told them to leave the equipment as long as the tables got moved back. If his sons were like the teenagers she knew, Jo figured they’d be far more interested in drums than grandparents.

  “I owe you one,” he murmured, grabbing the opportunity to steer his sons from the room like a proper dad.

  Jo juggled Mrs. Clinton’s protests, the grill, and the lunch crowd’s curiosity as if she were hostessing a backyard barbecue. After she whispered the identity of Flint’s parents to several regulars, recognition set in, and a steady line of locals stopped to reintroduce themselves. Flint’s parents didn’t have time to worry about the boys after that.

  “Hey, Jo.” Dave from the Chamber came in to pick up his lunch and waved her over. “The headliner for the festival just quit on us. We’re in deep shit unless we can get someone fast. You think Flint could give us some suggestions?”

  Oh crap. The festival was less than two months off. Even Flint couldn’t work miracles.

  “It’s kind of late for him to help,” she said slowly, thinking faster.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said in resignation. “Just our luck that the only group we could line up called it quits. If we don’t make money, we may have to call it quits.” He handed her a ten and picked up his order. “We’ll just have to put you out there on that stage, Jo.”

  “Like hell,” she said without animosity. “I’ll stick to singing from the pews.” It was an old argument, and Dave didn’t hang around to pursue it.

  The memory of her humiliating experience in Atlanta had burned away any lingering urge to show off her voice. She’d hoped songwriting would be an alternative, but Randy had cured her of that foolishness, too. Men were more interested in her looks than her brains, it seemed, probably because her brains didn’t add up to a pair of double D’s.

  She wouldn’t touch the MusicFest, but she was letting Flint and his talk of lawsuits raise her hopes—again. Someone ought to just shoot her.

  The sums the lawyer had talked about would more than make up for her mother’s expiring unemployment, and pay for insurance as well, if and when Joella found any evidence.

  She knew Flint was worried he’d lose the café. It kind of made working around him like walking on thin ice over hot coals. She hated to quit her job now though, just when things were getting interesting.

  The noisy clang of cymbals and drum rang out from the back room. Flint kept a guitar in his office, but Jo had never seen him play it. She waited to hear the famous bass riff she’d studied on the Barn Boys CD, but the clamor continued without it.

  Seeing Flint’s parents glance at their watches, Jo hurried over with some of Amy’s muffins and coffee. “Here you are. The muffins are fresh from my sister’s oven. Flint ordered this coffee special from Hawaii. You’ll have to tell us how you like it.”

  “We really must be going, dear—”

  “It’s not yet one,” Floyd interrupted his wife. “The soup was excellent, Miss Sanderson.”

  She was starting to see where Flint had learned his charm. She’d dismissed Floyd as a nonentity lurking in his demanding wife’s shadow, but apparently he was wise enough to choose his fights. He didn’t look like a strong man. His thinning hair had faded to a mouse brown. But he wasn’t bad looking, and his smile and the glint in his eye flashed some of Flint’s appeal.

  “I thank you, sir. Flint hasn’t been here two weeks yet, and he’s already started to turn the place around. You must be proud of him.”

  Martha maintained a stony silence. Floyd cleared his throat and sought a reply that wouldn’t offend either of them. “Flint has always gotten what he wanted.”

  “But maybe he hasn’t always got what he needs.” Hearing the shouts of the boys returning, Jo slipped away, leaving the parental figures to work that one out.

  She ought to be ashamed of herself, interfering in the life of a man far more experienced than she, but she smiled to herself as Flint emerged from the back looking a little less grim. Beside him, his young Goth chattered excitedly about drums, and his older boy aimed straight for the doughnut case as if he were at home.

  When Flint glanced her way, Jo winked. His sexy smile of appreciation would have to be her reward for suffering the torments of the damned ever since that dance the night they met. She’d been sleeping with the windows open to cool off her dreams.

  Flint had everything she’d ever wanted and would never have, including two parents who loved him, his own business, and a career in music. It was cold comfort watching the black sheep return to the family fold.

  ***

  Aching in every muscle, clenching and unclenching his hand to keep it from seizing up, Flint walked up Main Street from the lower parking lot feeling as old as his sons thought him. He’d thought he was in pretty good shape, but after spending an afternoon climbing mountains so his kids could rappel off a cliff, he might never walk straight again.

  The church bench hadn’t helped. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d graced the insides of a church, but he hadn’t remembered the pews as that hard.

  At least he’d introduced his mother to a woman of whom she’d approved. She’d extolled the virtues of church-going women like Sally for so long that Flint had developed a distinct distaste for the poor girl.
He hadn’t bothered mentioning that the only reason Joella hadn’t been in church was that she was covering his ass at the café. He had the feeling the icy absence of Jo’s name meant disapproval.

  Jo might be another glamour girl like Melinda, but that didn’t prevent him from looking forward to her outrageous attire and tart tongue. As much as he’d like to be immune to her looks, she added a little extra spice to his newly staid life. He was pretty damned sure he couldn’t run the place without her, not for a long while.

  His step halted as he passed the hardware store and spotted Myrtle. The pig was sporting a yellow straw bonnet on her purple head, neatly secured with a red bow, with her purple ears sticking through slits in the brim.

  Despite his objection to silly purple swine blocking the sidewalk, Flint grinned. The pig hat had all the earmarks of a Joella tale. Through the heavy draperies on the front window, he could tell the lights were on inside the café, so she must be here ahead of him.

  Eager to hear the hat story, he shoved open the door. Overall, it had been a decent weekend. The boys had relaxed around him out on the rocks. He’d taught them a thing or two about their video game. He’d promised them whitewater rafting next time they came, and they’d seemed interested. He needed to find some way to thank Jo for—

  “I can’t do this anymore!!” a soaring soprano screamed as only a soprano can. “I never want to see you again!”

  Flint winced, held the door to his shoulder like a shield, and waited for glass to shatter. When it didn’t, he peered around the edge. A chorus of a seventies disco song broke out instead of flying plates, and he nearly collapsed in relief. She was extrapolating again. He’d have to warn her about stealing other people’s music.

  He recognized the irony.

  His heartbeat returned to normal, forcing him to realize that the thought of Jo’s quitting had paralyzed him. He didn’t want to envision days on end in this place without Jo’s laughter to brighten the mood and her creative impulses and quick wit to lighten the day—even if she was turning the place into a tea shop.