“Only that you’re not what I expected,” she said in a low tone. “I’m sensing a love and understanding of children.”
“True,” he said. “Young people have been my life’s work.” Some of the recruits in his charge had been barely old enough to shave; he’d found working with middle-schoolers more rewarding than he would have guessed when he started out.
“The way you acted at Breakfast with Santa made me suspect you hate children. Or don’t like them much, at any rate.”
“I’m not good at playing Santa Claus.”
He was surprised when she squeezed his arm.
“Also, you were in pain at the time. I’m sorry for misjudging you, Tom.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said.
She dropped her hand. “I’d like it if you stayed for dinner. I cooked a pork loin before Mitchell left, and I could make hot sandwiches.”
He wasn’t expecting the invitation. He took a moment to adjust to the fact that she had offered it. Maybe she was trying to make amends for misjudging him, but that didn’t matter. At least she wanted him around.
“Hey,” he said, “I’d like that. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
She stood, and he caught a whiff of her hair. Strawberry-scented shampoo. “No trouble. Actually, I don’t want to eat alone. With Mitchell gone it’s too depressing.”
“I’m happy to help you out,” he said wryly, and she smiled.
“Come on, let’s assemble the ingredients for the sauce,” she said, and she led the way into the kitchen.
SHE FIXED SANDWICHES fit for royalty. Together, they assembled apples, maple syrup and dried fruit, and he oversaw its simmering on the stove. She poured the concoction over the pork, which she piled on crusty rolls spread with grainy mustard. She served these creations with élan—pretty quilted place mats, candlelight, soft music on the CD player.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asked. He’d eaten two sandwiches and was considering polishing off a third.
“I took a class in the early days of my marriage,” she said, shrugging.
“Oh?”
“I wanted to be the best wife ever.” She got up and started to clear the table.
He sauntered to the sink with his empty plate. “I’ll bet you were.”
“My ex-husband wouldn’t agree.”
“Let’s establish right here and now that the man is an idiot,” he said, catching her hand.
“He is?” she said.
They were standing so close that he could see the vein throbbing in her temple.
“He is, for leaving you,” he said. He removed the dish she was holding from her other hand and drew her into his arms. A soulful tune was playing on the stereo, something about love you forever, leave me never, and Tom thought that if he’d been lucky enough to be married to a woman like Beth, he would have hung on to her for dear life.
She seemed pensive, but she willingly let him dance her in a swooping circle around the kitchen floor, effortlessly following his lead. He held her slightly away and smiled down at her. “Never mind the cooking. Where’d you learn how to dance like this?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” He nestled his arm into the hollow of her waist, liking the way her temple barely grazed his cheek. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, drew it deep into his lungs. If he pulled her an inch closer, their bodies would touch. How would she react when that happened? He felt his palms start to sweat, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. He was as edgy as a teenager on his first date.
When they swirled past the door that led to the hallway, her bedroom came into view. It contained a bed, neatly made. He imagined Beth lying amid the nest of shell-pink sheets, her hair tumbled around her face. Around his face.
He wanted to kiss her. To capture her lips with his and indulge himself with a passionate blending of lips and teeth and tongue in a delectable prelude to—
And she would push him away. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t ready for a relationship, and perhaps she never would be.
She seemed to melt into his embrace, and he heard her sigh. Surprised, he gazed into her eyes and noticed something he would never have expected. Her eyes were half-lidded, drowsy, gleaming with—what?
“Beth?” he said, unsure of her and of himself.
“Mmm?”
“I meant that about your husband.”
“Could we please talk about something else?”
“Like what?” He could have suggested a few things, but he didn’t want to push this.
Her lips parted; her head tilted back slightly. Those thick lashes didn’t hide the expression in the depths of her eyes. Her mouth was soft and full, lush and inviting. Now—now he could kiss her. Would she mind? He decided to take the chance.
He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, gently at first, then more urgently. He heard her breath catch in her throat and felt the slight shudder of her body as she swayed against him.
He slid his hands upward and threaded them through her hair, angling her head so that he had better access. She was a responsive woman, Beth McCormick. He longed to free her from the restrictions she had imposed on herself so that she would feel what he felt and want what he wanted.
Tom rocked her to him, fitting his hardness to her curves. He murmured her name, and she pressed even closer. Her head angled, exposing her throat so that he could bestow a string of hot hungry kisses along the sensitive skin below her ear. Electricity hummed beneath the skin where his lips moved.
“Tom? Oh, Tom, I didn’t mean for this to happen. “
“Let’s stop pretending that there’s no attraction, Beth.” She might not have been with anyone for a long time, but she certainly remembered how to torment a man. He touched her breasts, cupped their lush curves with his hands, slid his thigh between hers.
“I want—you,” she said haltingly, her eyes enormous, her cheeks flushed. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”
“This isn’t one of those casual encounters,” he said, making himself speak slowly and carefully. “It’s more than that.”
Tom saw her wavering, saw doubt in her eyes, and then acceptance and assent. He could have laughed with pure exuberance at the winning of her, but he didn’t get the chance because the telephone rang.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Beth lay in bed, watching the play of light and shadow across her ceiling, and contemplated the possibility that wishing on the lights of the town Christmas tree the night before had really worked. After all, Tom Collyer had kissed her, and that had been her wish. Kissing definitely had not been all he had in mind, either. She had been in the mood for more herself.
Last night when the phone rang, Beth had been sure it was Mitchell calling, even though it was almost ten o’clock. She’d broken away from Tom and grabbed the phone, only to recognize Zelma Harrison’s strident voice on the other end. She had decided she didn’t want the cornices she’d ordered after all, Zelma said, and she hoped Beth wouldn’t mind.
It had been a rush order because Zelma had needed the window treatments before Christmas; there was money due on them, and now she wanted her deposit back. Beth had been forced to let Tom cool his heels and presumably other parts of his anatomy for almost twenty minutes while she negotiated with Zelma, and by the time she’d finished, he was cleaning up the kitchen and she was having second thoughts about the wisdom of making love.
Beth had handled the situation gracefully, saying that she’d had a wonderful evening but needed to call Richie to make sure everything was going all right with Mitchell’s visit. Even though Tom had kissed her on the cheek before he left, she wouldn’t be surprised now if he disappeared for good, though you couldn’t actually avoid anyone in Farish. They’d run into each other at the Supersave, exchanging polite but wary smiles. She’d hear about him every now and then from Leanne, who would refrain from telling her if Tom was seeing this woman or that, and Beth would speculate now and then about
whether he was involved with someone. She might get a glimmer of what was going on from mentionings in Muffy’s “Here ’n’ There” column in the Farish Tribune. Eventually, she would read a detailed write-up on the newspaper’s society page, complete with a picture of Tom’s fiancée. Beth had no doubt there would be such a person eventually. Tom was a prize catch.
The house was too empty and quiet, so after going out to pick up the newspaper from the driveway and skimming the headlines, she called Mitchell.
“Hi, Mom,” he said when Richie put him on. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast.”
“That’s great,” she said, trying for enthusiasm. She wondered if Starla ever made them in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head and, sometimes in the winter, a snowman, as she did.
“Guess what? Ava can crawl! She just started, Starla says. Starla says—”
“Are you drinking your milk?”
“Uh-huh. Starla buys the chocolate kind already mixed at the store. I like it real lots.”
Beth refused to comment; she herself never bought chocolate milk in the carton because it was expensive and of dubious nutritional value. “I hope you’re saying your prayers at night,” she told him.
“Sometimes I forget. Daddy doesn’t remind me.”
“Oh.”
“I have to hang up, Mom. We’re going to a company Christmas party this afternoon. Dad says I don’t have to dress up. He put my blue suit back in the duffel and said I can wear my old jeans, the ones I really like.”
“Those have a hole in the knee.” She’d only packed them because Mitchell had insisted they were the most comfortable ones he owned.
“It doesn’t matter. I can wear my Shrek T-shirt, too, if I want. I spilled chocolate milk on it yesterday, but Starla says the stain hardly shows.”
“Great,” Beth muttered. It was a matter of pride to her that her son was always well groomed, but that apparently didn’t matter to his father.
“Well, ’bye, Mom. Talk to you soon.”
“I love you, Mitchell.”
“Me, too.”
Beth heard Starla laughing in the background as they hung up. At least Mitchell was having a good time. Still, she would never allow Mitchell to go out wearing those old jeans and a stained shirt, and to a company party, no less.
WINTER, WHEN IT ARRIVED in this part of Texas, galloped in on a wind that cut through the warmest clothes and brought an ache to the bones, especially those injured in long-ago rodeos. Tom ignored the chill’s effect on his collarbone—broken in Wichita, 1987—and his right ankle—Tucson, 1989—and drove out to the Holcomb Ranch early in the afternoon to borrow Divver’s cordless drill, which he needed for putting up shelves in the closet he had converted to a laundry room.
He and Divver had been best buddies since first grade, when they’d discovered a mutual interest in spitting contests. They’d expanded their circle to include Johnny Snead that same year, mostly because Johnny’s mother always included an extra moon pie in his lunch, which Johnny was inclined to trade for almost anything, even liverwurst.
Divver, then and now, was simple, uncomplicated and good-hearted. When the two of them were boys, Divver had been a red-haired kid bearing a striking resemblance to Raggedy Andy. He’d grown into a short, stocky man with a perpetual squint from years of working outside in the sun. He was the founding architect of the ATTAIN program, and Tom admired him more than almost anyone he knew.
Tom found Divver filing papers in his office in the former bunkhouse, where the two of them and Johnny had occasionally spent the night together when they were kids. With a roof over their heads and the fireplace for warmth, the abandoned bunkhouse had rated a notch above camping out. Those had been good times.
Divver rose when Tom’s shadow fell across his desk, and he clomped around it to greet him, his footsteps ringing out on the old unfinished wood floor.
“Came to borrow that drill,” Tom said, flinging his Stetson onto the antlers of the deer’s head hanging above the smoke-blackened mantel. Beneath it, a fat rattlesnake hide sporting a bullet hole was tacked to the wall.
“Yeah, you can take the drill. It’s in the equipment shed.” Divver angled his chin back over his shoulder.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, always.”
“It’s not about work.”
“What?” Divver pretended to be surprised.
“It’s about a woman.”
Divver narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Who am I, Dr. Phil?”
Tom only shrugged.
“Hell, Tom, aren’t you past that kind of thing after what happened with Nikki?”
“It’s nothing like that.” He preferred to believe that people around here had forgotten about that sad episode in his life.
“What’s on your mind, Tom?”
“I want to pick your brain a bit about someone I’ve had my eye on.”
“Muffy? There’s nothing I can help you with there, man.” From the way he waggled his eyebrows, though, Tom knew Divver thought Muffy Ledbetter was hot.
“Not Muffy. It’s Beth McCormick.”
Divver began to chuckle. “You devil you. She’s a secondary virgin.”
“A what?”
“Beth’s been married and has a son, but whatever sexuality she had was sealed away after her husband walked out on her.”
“Yeah, well, don’t be too sure of that.” Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that the conversation hadn’t swerved in this direction. “What have you heard about the guy who left her?”
“My impression is that Richie McCormick is likable enough, just stupid. Personality a little bland, enjoyed the ladies. Spoiled rotten by his parents, who are nice folks. I met them once in the feed store, and it was clear that they doted on Richie. Kind of reminded me of the way the Sneads were with Johnny.”
Tom pictured the Sneads in his mind: two fondly indulgent gray-haired people who’d had to wait until their forties before their only child was born. As far as they were concerned, Johnny could do no wrong. In Tom’s view, that was the main reason Johnny, who up until the Nikki Situation had been his best friend other than Divver, had ignored the speed limit and crashed a stolen car into a bridge abutment at the age of twenty-one.
“So this Richie ran off with Starla Mullins?”
Divver nodded, more serious now. “Judging from the scuttlebutt I heard, Richie broke Beth’s heart. Lost his job, had to find one somewhere else. Haven’t heard much about him since he left. His parents live over in Stickneyville. They visit Beth and her son now and then. Why don’t you ask Leanne about Beth, anyway? She’s one of her best friends.”
“Nah,” Tom said. “These women, they grab ahold of a thing, it takes on a life of its own and grows. I don’t want my sister to get the idea that I’m more interested in Beth than I really am.”
“Or me, either, right?” Divver grinned widely.
“You got it. Now, how about that drill?”
“First let’s take a look at the saddle I bought yesterday over to Austin.”
Tom followed Divver out of the bunkhouse, aware that he hadn’t fooled the guy but sure that his confidences were safe with this boyhood friend of his. Having a good buddy close by was one of the advantages of living in Farish again.
LACKING EXTRA SPACE in her house, Beth kept shipments and supplies in her garage, and she’d stored Zelma Harrison’s cornices there. Late in the afternoon, she decided to refresh her memory about the colors in the medallion print that Zelma had chosen. Someone else might be able to use them.
She marched out to the garage, wrapping her light cardigan around her as she eyed the lowering sky. Weather forecasters were predicting rain tonight, with possible ice if the temperature dropped below freezing.
The cornices, shrouded in brown paper, were propped against Richie’s old workbench. When she pulled the paper away, she noted that there was more blue in the print than she’d remembered, and she thought of Tom’s living room. The print was sedate and would
perhaps complement his Oriental rug.
He had said he’d call. When he still hadn’t phoned by three o’clock, she consulted the phone directory for his number. She told herself that she’d be doing Tom a favor; these were custom cornices, and if they fit his living room windows, he could have them at cost. She reasoned that Tom was planning to phone anyway, and she was better off talking with him at her convenience. However, even as she punched in his number, she admitted that the real reason she was contacting Tom Collyer was none of the above.
“Hello?” His voice was muffled and muzzy with sleep.
“Tom, it’s Beth.” She did her best to infuse her tone with businesslike efficiency, but failed.
A slight pause. What if she had interrupted something important—a date with another woman, perhaps? Her mouth went dry, her palms damp. She clenched and unclenched her fingers and wished he’d say something.
“Beth, what a nice surprise! Sorry, I was waking from a nap when the phone rang. It takes me a few minutes to get up to speed.”
“Oh, we’ll hang up if this is an inconvenient time,” she began, but he stopped her.
“It’s not, and I’m glad to hear from you. I was remembering our junket to the auction a little while ago when I was arranging books in my new bookcase.”
“Tom, I have something else that might work for you. Those cornices that Zelma refused could be just the thing for your living room windows. Want to take a quick measurement?”
A rustle, a clearing of the throat. “Sure. Let me get my tape measure. It’s across the room.”
She imagined him sliding out of bed. Richie had always slept in the nude at naptime and any other time. The image of Tom wearing nothing flashed into her mind and burned itself into the back of her eyelids.
“Got the tape,” he declared. “What measurements do you need?”
She went to the sink, drew a glass of water from the tap. “Length and width.” He had two windows in his living room, twins with a view of the front yard.
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