Drive Me Wild

by Julie Ortolon

  If only she’d let Janet make that call, then Brent would have said no, and this whole fiasco would be over. At least, she thought he’d have said no. He’d always despised the popular crowd back in high school.

  On the other hand, maybe his returning was for the best. Once this weekend was over, the little fantasy that flickered deep inside her heart would finally and effectively be snuffed out. Sure, Brent had been her friend when they were kids; he’d even given her her first kiss—a chaste little peck that had nearly made her swoon—but Brent Michael Zartlich was not, definitely not, going to come roaring back into town someday to sweep her off her feet and declare his all-consuming love for her.

  Things like that did not happen to women like her. They happened to famous women, stunning, exotic, romantic women. While Laura might have a hopelessly romantic heart, she was neither stunning nor exotic, and it was high time she accepted that fact.

  “Laura Beth,” a tight voice said from behind her, “I’d like a word with you.”

  Greg. Her shoulders slumped for a fraction of a second before she turned to face her sometimes boyfriend. “Hello, Greg. Are you enjoying the art show?”

  “Well, yes, I…” he started to answer, then squared his shoulders unexpectedly. “I’d enjoy it a lot more if you weren’t about to make a laughingstock out of yourself in front of the whole town.”

  “Greg…” She stared at him, amazed by his boldness. “What are you talking about? We already discussed this remember? I agreed to be one of the contestants to help raise money for the Homes Tour.”

  “I know what you said, but, well…” His hazel eyes blinked with agitation behind gold-rimmed glasses.

  “I just don’t like the idea of you competing with other women to go out with some—some pretty boy.”

  She hid a smile at that accusation, since Greg, with his fair coloring and baby-smooth cheeks, was far closer to being “pretty” than Brent would ever be. In fact when Greg Smith had moved to Beason’s Ferry as the town’s new pharmacist five years ago, she’d found him very handsome in a shy sort of way. In some ways, she still did.

  Greg straightened in a rare show of determination. “Laura Beth, I insist you withdraw from this—this spectacle.”

  Her amusement faded at his direct order. “I can’t,” she said. Reaching the front of the line for the concession stand, she turned her attention to Jim Bob Johnson, who ran the booth for the Optimist Club.

  “Hey there, LB.” Jim Bob gave a big wink as he rolled his toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth. “How are you today?”

  “Just fine, JB, and yourself?” she asked.

  “Fine and dandy.” He straightened the red ball cap on his head. “So what can I get for you today? A sausage wrap? Chop’ beef on a bun?”

  The aroma of meat smoking on the pit behind him made her mouth water. “Make that one wrap, two chop’ beefs, a roasted ear of corn, two Cokes, and a large lemonade.”

  “Whew-ee. You sure must be hungry.” Jim Bob grinned.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Greg reach for his wallet. “I’ve got it,” she insisted, with money already in hand.

  Greg’s face fell. “That’s the third time this week you’ve refused to let me buy your lunch. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to avoid me.”

  Rather than address that sensitive issue, she glanced down at her slender figure clad in beige slacks and a cream silk blouse. “You think all that’s for me?”

  Two red blotches appeared on Greg’s cheeks, and she felt instantly guilty. He was such a nice man, the last thing she wanted to do was hurt his feelings. Sooner or later, though, she had to tell him her feelings for him had cooled. The moment the food came, Greg gathered it up, leaving the drinks for her to carry.

  “So you’ll withdraw your name?” he asked as she led the way toward the art booths with him close on her heels.

  “Greg, I can’t.” She wove in and out of the crowd, smiling at friends and neighbors. “It’s entirely too late to withdraw, even if I wanted to.”

  “Dag-nabbit, Laura Beth, you can’t do this. We’re practically engaged!”

  “Since when?” She stopped in her tracks, and he nearly plowed into her.

  “Oh, I know we agreed to think about it for a while, but everyone knows we’ll tie the knot eventually.”

  Guilt nettled at her conscience. Six months ago, when Greg had proposed, she’d tried to say no. She really had. Only the word no seemed to have slipped from her vocabulary. In the end, she’d agreed to think it over and let him know. She’d assumed six months of silence was answer enough. Apparently she was wrong.

  Shaking her head, she continued on to a booth that sold hand-painted T-shirts, where she delivered the sausage wrap. Fetching lunch was not something the festival volunteers usually did, but so many of the artisans manned the booths by themselves that Laura couldn’t help herself. “Here’s the wrap and the change you needed.”

  “Gee, thanks!” The Houston woman looked surprised that Laura had actually returned with her money. “You are so sweet.”

  Blushing at the compliment, Laura hurried on to the next booth, where a couple from the Hill Country sold wooden cutouts of cows and chickens and pigs. While she gave them their sandwiches and soft drinks, she thought over Greg’s proposal. If she had any sense at all, she’d marry the man. He was considerate and responsible and attractive. What more could a woman ask for? He was everything she’d dreamed of having all those lonely nights while she was growing up. Except he wasn’t Brent.

  Brent, however, was a dream. Greg was real.

  Unfortunately, every time she pictured herself as Mrs. Greg Smith, she felt as if she were suffocating. How could she explain that to him without squashing his male ego? Turning back to him, she took the roasted ear of com, which was still in its warm husk. “Greg, when this weekend is over, I really think we need to talk.”

  “I’d like that, Laura Beth.” His face softened with a smile. “You know I always enjoy talking to you.”

  She stared at him, seriously tempted to bean him with the ear of corn. Couldn’t he sense that she wanted to break up?

  “After all,” he said, stepping closer to touch her arm, “we haven’t had much time together lately, what with you working on the Homes Tour, and me so busy with … well … you know.”

  She shook her head when he couldn’t come up with an excuse for his own lack of time. Truth was, he never did anything. He worked. He watched TV. He played golf. That was it: Greg Smith’s life in a nutshell. Not that there was anything much to do in Beason’s Ferry, which was why so many of her classmates had gone off to Austin and Houston and never come back.

  Continuing down the grassy aisle, she wondered what her life would have been like if she’d attended a big university rather than commuting to Blinn College in the neighboring town of Brenham. A sense of melancholy stole over her, as it always did when she imagined life outside her own small world. So many times, even after meeting Greg, she’d wanted to ask: Is this it? Is there nothing more to life than this? Brushing off the depressing thought, Laura neared a booth at the end of the row that was filled with bright, colorful paintings.

  “My savior!” the artist exclaimed at her approach. Melody Piper was a regular artist at the Homes Tour, and Laura considered her a friend. The woman’s vibrant orange hair was as vivid as her artwork, and clashed brilliantly with her pink tie-dyed T-shirt, purple leggings, and army boots. Silver dragon charms and crystals hung about her neck and dangled from her ears. “I thought I’d expire from hunger before you returned.”

  Smiling at Melody’s exuberance, Laura handed over the ear of corn. “As usual, the options were limited for vegetarians.”

  “Anything. I’m famished,” Melody said as Greg came to an abrupt halt. His eyes riveted on the woman’s shocking attire. Lowering her voice, Melody asked, “Have you had a chance to think about my offer?”

  Laura glanced toward Greg. The last thing she wanted to talk about in
front of him was the possibility of her becoming Melody’s housemate in Houston. She hadn’t even had time to think the idea over. Not seriously, anyway. Giving Melody a warning look, she asked, “How’s the show going?”

  “Fabulous!” Melody said, picking up on her message. More crystals and dragons flashed as she waved a hand toward a blank spot in her booth. “I sold the big monstrosity, which means now I have to rearrange my entire display to fill in the hole.” She turned to Laura with a speculative gleam in her eye. “I don’t suppose you’d care to help me.”

  “I’d love to, really, but I can’t.” Laura gestured toward the nineteenth-century opera house that overlooked the square like a grand old diva. “I have to go help the drama students set up for our Dating Game show.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Melody grinned. “I’ll bet ya five bucks that news guy picks you.”

  Greg drew up sharply. “Laura Beth would never throw good money away on some frivolous wager.”

  A slow smile spread over Melody’s face as she turned to the bristling pharmacist. “Wanna bet?”

  “Melody,” Laura quickly interjected, “I don’t believe you’ve met Greg, my … friend.”

  Curiosity sparkled in Melody’s eyes. “So this is Greg.” She extended her hand in a limp-wristed fashion. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  The blotches in Greg’s cheeks went crimson. He hesitated, then took the beringed hand, looking uncertain about whether he should kiss it or shake it. “Good to meet you,” he mumbled.

  “So, Sir Gregory,” Melody cozied up to him, “how’d you like to save a damsel in distress?”

  “Yes, of course.” Laura leapt on the idea while Greg looked patently horrified. “That would be perfect. Greg can help you rearrange your booth while I go help the students.”

  “But—” He turned to Laura with pleading eyes.

  “Good luck with the rest of the show,” she called out to Melody with a parting wave.

  “You, too,” Melody called back. “And if Brent Michaels picks you, you owe me five bucks.”

  As Laura crossed the street, she breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she had slipped free of Greg, she turned her attention to a much bigger problem: getting through the next few hours without making a fool of herself.

  —

  Stepping out of the Boudreau Bed and Breakfast, Brent took in the scene before him. Visitors from across the state crowded the streets as they funneled into the historic town. Many of the cars slowed to a crawl as the passengers caught their first glimpse of the fully restored homes.

  Across the street stood the Homes Tour’s crown jewel: a turn-of-the-century mansion elaborately painted in burgundy, green, and gold. Amid the towering live oaks and blooming azaleas, the town daughters strolled in Southern Belle costumes that had been handed down from mother to daughter to sister to friend since the Homes Tour began more than fifty years ago. Pedestrians lined up, fanning themselves with walking tour pamphlets as they waited for their turn to get inside.

  A wry smile tugged his lips. For most of his growing-up years, he’d felt just like those tourists: standing outside, longing for his turn to be welcomed across the threshold. Only the threshold he’d wanted to cross was an invisible ring around the whole damned town. As an illegitimate kid being raised by an alcoholic grandmother and two hell-raising uncles on the outskirts of town, he hadn’t been accepted into Beason’s Ferry society. Why should he be, when his own mother hadn’t even wanted him enough to bother sticking around?

  “Oh, look! It’s him!” One of the “Southern Belles” pointed in his direction.

  With parasols twirling, she and her two companions waved. “Hello, Mr. Michaels.” Coming to the waist-high fence that enclosed the front lawn, one of them called across the street, “I’m Susie Kirckendall. I bet you don’t remember, but my mom, Carol Sawyer, went to school with you.”

  Yeah, he remembered. Carol had been one of the bolder ones who’d enjoyed flirting with the boy who’d been declared off-limits for respectable girls; although he figured she’d have run home screaming if he’d ever acted on her invitation. Pushing aside the unpleasant memory, he waved back to the three teenagers and watched them fall into fits of giggles.

  How ironic, he thought as he moved on down the street, that now, when it no longer mattered, the cream of Beason’s Ferry welcomed him with open arms. They’d even hung a banner across the main street into town that read “Welcome Home Brent Michaels” in big red letters.

  All right, so it didn’t say Brent Zartlich, but he refused to let that bother him.

  It shouldn’t bother him.

  He was the one who’d dropped his last name in favor of an altered form of his middle name. Still, the subtle connotation was there, that they welcomed him only because they no longer considered him one of those white trash Zartlichs.

  Changing his name, however, didn’t sever his relations. He debated going out to the house at some point during the weekend to say hello to “the family.” Not that his two remaining uncles constituted much of one. Whatever he decided, he was just glad he didn’t have to worry about running into them in town. On a Saturday afternoon they’d either be sleeping off hangovers or working on new ones. His grandmother had died of lung cancer years ago. Brent had been working as a news intern in New Mexico at the time.

  A twinge of guilt pricked him for not coming home for the funeral, but money had still been tight back then.

  He shook off the regret as he reached the corner. The familiar scent of barbecue cooking on the courthouse lawn stirred old hungers that had nothing to do with food. The lively strains of fiddle music underscored the hum of pedestrian traffic. He realized they’d set up a bandstand on the south lawn. People filled the tables ringing the dance floor, like an outdoor honky-tonk. Apparently the Homes Tours had gained popularity in the past fourteen years.

  Taking in the whole square, he realized other things had changed as well. Fischer’s Hardware was now an antique shop, as was the old feed store. The five-and-dime had a colorful display of handicrafts in the front window, and the pharmacy had added an espresso bar. An espresso bar in Beason’s Ferry!

  “So there you are,” a crisp, no-nonsense voice said from behind him. He turned to find Miss Miller, his old high school English teacher. His body instantly stiffened, as if he’d just been caught cutting class. She gave him a reproachful glare. “And here I just walked all the way over to the B and B to fetch you.”

  “My apologies, Miss Miller.” He tried out one of the ratings-winning smiles that had landed him an income in the six figures. “I would never dream of inconveniencing you. Although it is a lovely day for a walk.”

  She snorted as if to say she’d have none of his fancy talk; he was in trouble, and that’s all there was to it. Fourteen years, and the woman hadn’t changed a bit. She still wore her hair in a neat cap of hair-sprayed curls about her angular face, although the color seemed to be more gray than blond now. Bifocals obscured a pair of piercing blue eyes he swore could see through walls and read boys’ minds. In deference to the warm weather she wore a cotton shirtwaist dress that accentuated her overly thin figure.

  Through the top half of her glasses, she took in his khaki slacks, polo shirt, Italian leather belt, and loafers. He knew he looked every inch the successful business executive relaxing at the country club. He’d worked to perfect the look and had practiced it until he wore it with ease. He’d forgotten, however, that fashion in small towns tended to run fifty years behind the times. In Beason’s Ferry, aging farmers wore khaki, and then only to work in their fields.

  “I suppose this will have to do.” Miss Miller pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “You haven’t time to change. We’ll need to get you backstage at the opera house before the show begins.”

  He glanced at his Rolex. “I’ve got a good seventeen minutes. Plenty of time.”

  With a snort, she turned and led the way down the crowded sidewalk.

  He fell in step beside her. “I see qu
ite a few things have changed around here.”

  She followed the direction of his gaze to the newly painted storefronts. “Yes, I’d say a great many things have changed, in appearance anyway, since Laura Beth formed her Beautification Committee.”

  “Oh?” He raised a brow. Laura forming a committee didn’t surprise him. Her getting the credit did. Back in school, she’d belonged to a dozen different clubs. Only while she did all the grunt work, girls like Janet and Tracy stole all the glory.

  “Speaking of Laura,” he said offhandedly, “she is one of the bachelorettes I’ll have to choose from, isn’t she?”

  Miss Miller gave him a quelling stare as they reached the corner. “You know perfectly well I can’t reveal the names of the entrants.”

  “You’re right,” he conceded as they started across the street. He never could flirt, talk, or wheedle his way past Miss Miller on anything. Her unwillingness to bend was what he’d always admired about her. If she hadn’t pushed him to study harder and aim higher, he’d probably be driving a gravel truck like his uncles.

  He wondered what she’d say if he told her the pen and pencil set she’d given him at graduation had sat on his desk in every newsroom where he’d worked. The memory of the day she’d given it to him still tugged at something deep inside him.

  Reaching the stage door, he hesitated. How did a man thank a woman for changing his life? “Miss Miller?”

  She turned with a puzzled frown.

  “I, uh…” He didn’t know how to say it now any more than he had back then. “…just wanted to thank you for keeping the dogs at bay these past few months.”

  For a moment, he thought she’d seen past his hasty recovery and might actually smile. Instead, she gave a nod. “An apt phrase. If I hadn’t taken over, those girls would have pestered you day and night.”

  “So,” he gave her a teasing wink, “who besides Janet and Laura will be on that stage?”