He shook his head. Maybe the girl had a point. He might consider living in harsh conditions if it meant he could wake up to that panorama every morning.
As an afterthought, he reached for the doorknob, growling softly when it turned in his hand. “Fawn …” He swung the door open and stepped into her living room, scoping the walls for outlets. In the end, he scooted the loveseat away from the wall to access a plug behind it.
Surveying the room, he realized she needed a rocker for the baby, but then he smiled. He couldn’t picture Fawn in a rocking chair.
She had made the place homey since he’d dropped off the garage-sale furniture, though the temperature inside the house still made him sweat. An oval rug partially covered the worn hardwood floors, and one of his mother’s crocheted afghans rested on top of the loveseat where the stuffing fluffed through the upholstery. He could tell Fawn burned scented candles to mask the stale odor from the house being shut up so long.
The bedroom was just as plain. Fawn and Ruthie found a mattress at a garage sale, but with no frame or box springs, the bed rested right on the floor. Fawn covered it with a not-too-ratty quilt, but the pillow looked as flat as a pancake. She probably had to fold the thing into a ball just to get comfortable.
His chest tightened in shame as he realized he was snooping. He turned and tossed the end of the extension cord across the porch and closed the front door behind him, having no trouble maneuvering the cord beneath it. He cringed as a tiny mouse followed him outside.
Swinging down to the ground, he reached for a board, but just as he positioned it to make a cut, he noticed a cloud of dust approaching. He bent to make the quick slice, and then lay the board across the support beams to test the length. He turned in time to see Fawn’s maroon Chevy, his mother’s car, slow at the bend in the road.
His parents were crazy about her, a fact that surprised them as much as him. When she turned up pregnant with no roof over her head, Dodd Cunningham had asked them to take her in, but their decision had been swayed more by their animosity toward Neil Blaylock than their compassion for his daughter. They hadn’t expected to take to her like they did.
“Hey, Fawn.” He reached for a fistful of nails as she got out of the car.
“There’s really no need for this, Coach Pickett.” She walked toward him carrying a brown paper grocery sack and her snazzy handbag.
“There is.” He hammered two nails in place. Fawn must have been seven months along by now—maybe more—but other than her midsection, she didn’t look pregnant at all, and sometimes he imagined her pulling a volleyball out from under her shirt and laughing about the joke she had played on all of them. He looked at her. “How are things?”
“I think the air’s out on your mom’s car.”
He smiled but didn’t let her see. “Might be the Freon.”
“Oh, right. You mentioned that the other day.” She hesitated at the vacant steps, then scooted onto the porch on her bottom and swung her legs around. “You shouldn’t have torn off all the steps,” she said. “You could just replace the one.”
“And come back when the others give way?”
“I wouldn’t mind.” She went in the house, leaving the door wide open behind her.
He considered closing it, but the measly air conditioner wasn’t running anyway. She walked into the kitchen, tossed her purse on the table, and moved out of sight. What had she meant by I wouldn’t mind? His stomach tensed.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind either. At all.
But Fawn was one of his students—or had been—and it felt wrong to even toy with the idea. Besides, he had no business taking a shining to a single, pregnant girl. Especially a Blaylock. He scoffed at the possibility as he ran his hand over a board, snagging a splinter.
Fawn called from the house, “Want some iced coffee? It’s mocha.”
“Sure.” He pinched at the tiny sliver in his skin, but his fingers were too big and his fingernails too short.
“Splinter?” She squatted to hand him a glass.
“Yep.” He lifted the coffee to his lips and watched her over the curve of the plastic cup as she turned his palm back and forth. Her delicate hands were still cool from carrying the glasses, and her long fingernails tickled his palm.
He pulled away. “It’s nothing.”
“I’ve got tweezers.”
“So do I, back at the house.” He set his coffee on the porch and reached for another board. “By the way, Dad said the owner of your house is sending a couple window units.”
She gasped. “Air conditioners?”
“Yep.”
She leaned her head back and laughed softly. “Thank. You. God.”
She had fumbled her blonde hair into a mess on top of her head, but a few stray curls clung to the moist skin on the side of her neck.
JohnScott concentrated on the steps.
“I’ll install them as soon as they come in.”
“Yep,” she teased.
He ignored her. “So you’re taking some classes this semester.”
“Start tomorrow.”
“How many hours do you lack?”
“A million.” She paused, and JohnScott wondered if she considered him nosy. She shrugged as though she had nothing to lose by disclosing her plans, but she didn’t look at him. “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do. The baby and I can’t live off my feed-store salary.” Her bottom lip quivered once before tucking beneath her teeth. “But I’ve got a lot of options, right?”
Twenty questions popped into his head. How much money would she need? Could she stay in college with the baby? What options was she considering?
He nodded. “Yep.”
“Coach Pickett, stop saying yep.” She slapped her hands against the porch, and her blue eyes sparkled with teasing laughter.
He rose to his full height and lifted his chin in a challenge. “Only if you stop calling me Coach Pickett.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I forgot about that. I’m supposed to ignore your age and treat you as an equal.”
He stuck a nail between his teeth, preparing to cut the next board. “I’m not that old,” he said around the nail.
The squeal of the electric saw temporarily cut off the conversation, but she picked up again when it silenced. “If I’m twenty-one …”—she counted on her fingers—“you must be, what? Twenty-eight?”
“Seven.”
“That’s practically thirty.”
He enjoyed her taunts but wished he didn’t. “I see what you’re saying, Fawn. Thirty is fossilized.”
She raised her palms as though he’d stated a fact that couldn’t be debated. “Yep.”
He reached for his cup. “What year were you in my class?”
“Sophomore. Sixteen years old.”
That made him feel even worse, and he took a long drink to avoid looking at her. He remembered her in his class. Bubbly, happy, immature like all the others. “You changed sometime after that,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He lifted his cap and scratched his head, questioning why he had mentioned something so personal. “You sort of … stopped smiling as much.”
“Did I?”
JohnScott couldn’t read her expression.
She squinted at the clouds, wrinkled her nose, shrugged. “I think I got snottier my junior and senior years.”
His laugh came from deep in his lungs, releasing some of his tension. “Well, I didn’t want to say so.”
“I was awful, wasn’t I?”
“Of course you were awful. You were a teenager.”
She smiled as she stood to lean against a post and look out over the mesa. “You don’t seem that old anymore.”
At her words, his heart throbbed against his chest, and he almost fumbled his cup. But when he looked up at her, she stared absentminde
dly into the distance. She hadn’t meant anything by it.
He bent to grasp a hammer. “Maybe I feel old because I hang with Clyde so much.”
She crossed her arms then, and JohnScott realized he had made her uncomfortable again, like the other day at the feed store. He hadn’t intended to get in her face about Clyde, but her attitude about the ex-convict tugged at his sense of justice.
She swirled ice in the bottom of her cup. “Clyde Felton is old enough to be your dad.” She said it lightly, as though to keep the topic safe.
“Not quite. He’s only a few years past forty, so unless he did the hanky-panky at fifteen, it wouldn’t pan out right.”
“Not a pleasant thought.”
A drop of defensive adrenaline leaked into his veins. “Because it’s hanky-panky or because it’s Clyde?”
“Both.” She rotated slowly, scrutinizing the porch and deliberately turning her back on him.
JohnScott decided to give her a gentle nudge. “He’s old enough to be your father, though. You being such a spring chick and all.”
“Eww.”
The drop of adrenaline increased to a steady stream, and he tossed his hammer on the porch. “Has he done something to offend you?”
Her eyes widened. “Well, no. Not personally.”
“Has he ever been kind to you?” He knew the answer.
“I suppose so.”
“Then what’s the hang-up?”
“For goodness’ sake, Coach Pickett, he went to prison.”
“Well, he’s out now. And he repented.”
She stomped into the house and returned holding the end of the extension cord. “You don’t have to be so touchy about it.”
He stared up at her, frustrated with himself because he still found her attractive. “Clyde’s a friend of mine.”
Her expression softened, but only slightly. “I’m sorry, JohnScott. I’m just tired.”
When she shut the door behind her, JohnScott’s insides exploded, and he yanked the orange cord, gathering it into a swirl.
So disappointing.
Fawn was no longer the pious brat he had taught in high school. Now that she viewed herself as an inferior Christian, she had actually started becoming a better one. A humble one. A woman he considered worthy of admiration.
Yet every so often, the old Fawn showed up and stuck her little nose in the air, as though to keep herself from becoming too clean. And during those times, JohnScott regretted his parents’ attachment to her. He regretted his promise to keep an eye on her. And he regretted the way her smile made him feel.
Chapter Nine
The coach got on my nerves. As I drove into town late the next afternoon, I thought about his visit. I appreciated him fixing my steps, but I got the feeling he had assigned himself to watch over me when I didn’t need, or want, the attention. And he always seemed to be laughing at me.
I pattered into the Trapp Laundromat carrying a flimsy plastic basket full of secondhand maternity clothes Velma had scrounged. As I lifted the lid of a washer, I thought of the designer brands I used to wear. Closets full. I gripped a T-shirt by the shoulders, scrutinized it, then shoved it into the machine.
I missed the designers. When I left home, Mother had been gracious enough to send my wardrobe, but my Miss Me Jeans and Anthropologie dresses were currently stuffed in a closet, waiting for the day I got small again. I wiggled my toes in my sneakers. At least my Kate Spades still fit.
I kicked them off and settled into a blue plastic chair in the corner, easing my back pain. The soapy, clean scent of detergent cleansed my mood, and I settled down with my history textbook, but soon my attention wandered from the dull pages to a poster hanging on the bulletin board to my left. The homecoming street dance. Ruthie and Dodd would probably go. I would stay home.
Traffic passed the front windows. Mostly pickup trucks. A few SUVs. A delivery truck headed to the United grocery. But then my mother’s Audi crept by, stuck behind a slow-moving cattle trailer. My father sat behind the wheel, his eyes focused on the bumper in front of him, but Mother pointed at my Chevy and pursed her lips.
Wouldn’t they have been shocked if they could see me? Barefoot and pregnant. My dad had used that phrase to describe me, and at the time I found it offensive, but now I only snickered. He had been right after all.
About some things.
I ran my finger down the page and began reading again. He hadn’t been right about the church. He’d said they would cast me out with the other sinners, yet I had been there every time the doors opened. The members had limits to what they could overlook, but apparently I fell within the boundaries of grace. Or maybe my last name simply granted me special treatment. I wouldn’t be surprised.
The Laundromat door swung open, and the shrill blast from a train two blocks away disrupted the monotonous churning of the washer.
My mother.
She flashed a fake, almost desperate smile that sent a metallic taste to the roof of my mouth. “Fawn, honey.” Her gaze bounced from me to the old machines to the dirty floor, where powdered laundry soap gritted beneath her sequined sandals.
My tongue felt swollen and dry in my mouth. “Hello, Mother.”
She scrutinized the wall above my head. “Are you well?”
“Awesome.” My remark came out more sarcastic than I intended, but the irony of my mother asking about my welfare was just too much.
And yet I wanted her to care.
She stepped forward as though to sit next to me, but my legs were draped across the seat. Instead, she perched two seats down and peered at my feet.
She would view my behavior as rude—rebellious—and she really didn’t deserve that. After all, she hadn’t kicked me out of the house. She merely went along with it, so submissive she couldn’t stand up to her husband.
Not even for me.
Turning, I tucked my feet beneath my chair, and Mother managed to convey both approval and disgust with her lipstick smile.
“Are you still staying with Ansel and Velma Pickett?”
“No, I’ve got my own place.” If she’d socialized with the working class, she would’ve heard it by now.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “How can you—” She looked away, unable to hide the raw emotion. Something like jealousy. “Where?”
“It’s a small house up on the Caprock, half a mile past the scenic overlook. It’s not much, but it’s all right for the baby and me.” I peered at her, evaluating her mood and weighing my options. “You could come up sometime. To see the place.” I laughed, feeling exposed. “I make a mean iced mocha.”
She ran her fingertip along the edge of my book resting on the chair between us. “I … I know that house. I’ve been there.”
I held back a laugh. She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d stood on a washer and danced a schottische. Even though she had lived in Trapp her entire life, my mother never set foot in real estate less than a certain square footage.
“You’ve been in that house?”
She snatched at her purse. “Your father insisted I give you some cash. It’s not much, but it will help with rent and groceries.” And just like that, her stoic indifference fell into place.
“I’m not taking his money.” I couldn’t take it. My father made it clear there were expectations attached to anything I accepted from him.
“Fawn …” She dragged out my name, shredding my nerves as she pulled me through memories of arguments.
“He can’t even bear to look at me, Mom.”
Her shoulders dropped a half inch. “He’s not heartless, only disappointed.”
“He’s always disappointed.”
She almost leaned back in the blue chair but caught herself before her tanned shoulder made contact. “I know.”
Yes, she knew exactly what I meant. We may have never enjoyed the kind o
f mother-daughter relationship where we stayed up late and discussed girl problems, but we could empathize about my father without ever speaking a word.
“I ran into Lynda Turner,” I said. It was a low blow, and I knew it, but the endless list of forbidden topics had worn on me during our short separation. “Tell me what he did to that woman.”
My mother inspected the cuticle of a painted fingernail. “I don’t see how that matters.”
“Obviously it matters to Lynda.”
“Then ask her, not me.”
“I shouldn’t have to.” I leaned back so forcefully, the plastic popped, and I wondered if I had broken the blasted chair. My mother never really talked to me. When my pregnancy test came back positive, I thought we might finally have common ground, but no, she only pulled further away.
“Calm down,” she purred. “The fact is, your father dated Lynda Turner when we were young, but he broke up with her to date me.” She rubbed her cuticle again, adjusted her blouse, cleared her throat. “But I wouldn’t mention it to him if I were you.”
She left something out, I knew it. Her explanation sounded too simple, too clean, and way too forthcoming. I knew better than to think they had kept a simple love triangle a secret for so many years.
“How is Dad?” One little question with many layers. Is he well? Has he humbled himself at all? Has he hurt you lately?
“He’s fine.” Her face matched the plastic seating, hard and cold.
I noticed him on the sidewalk then, dragging his boots arrogantly as he spoke into his cell phone. Always the businessman. He kept his back to the window, head held high, laughing.
I cut my eyes back to my mother. “Nothing’s changed?”
Her gaze skittered to the sidewalk, and she lowered her voice. “He may never come back to church, but he apologized to the preacher.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
“It’s huge,” she snapped. “These things take time, Fawn.”
These things. Things like change. Like forgiveness. Like heartfelt repentance. I wondered if these things would happen in my lifetime. “Will he ever speak to me again, or is he just going to send cash through you?”
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