Justified

by Varina Denman

  As we sat down, I felt as though I were returning home after a long absence, even though I had never set foot in the house, and the Picketts had none of the characteristics that mattered to my biological family—money, status, power.

  The table had been set neatly with dark, octagonal plates, quite unlike Velma’s mismatched dinnerware, but I recognized her corn bread in a dented metal cake pan.

  “Velma, what makes your corn bread taste better than any other I’ve eaten?”

  “Well … it’s Mexican corn bread.”

  “Chili powder and processed cheese.” JohnScott grinned. “That coupled with the greasy fries makes for a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  I passed JohnScott the potatoes, and our hands touched, but I ignored the electric current it sent through my fingers. He had given me the distinct impression he viewed the kiss as a mistake, and we were returning to our previously scheduled friendship. And that seemed fine with me. I had made a big enough mess of my life without adding more gossip to the fire.

  “Now wait.” He stared down at the red platter in his hands. “We’re having Mexican corn bread and french fries. Is that culinarily acceptable?”

  “I think you mean culinary, Son.” Ansel sprinkled grated cheese over everything on his plate.

  “How on earth would you know?” JohnScott asked.

  Ansel pointed his thumb at Velma. “Rachael Ray. Channel eleven.”

  “You watch cooking shows?” I spoke with my mouth full.

  He set his fork down on the edge of his plate. “Now, sweetheart …”—he wagged a crooked finger at me—“I never said I watched it.”

  Velma waved her fork. “Ansel thinks she’s cute.”

  The old man blew air through his teeth, dislodging a tiny speck of food, which landed on his bottom lip. He wiped it slowly with a plaid cloth napkin. “I said her chicken-fried steak is cute.”

  “I can’t believe my dad watches Rachael Ray.” JohnScott smiled at me, but his eyes sobered. “Dad’s been taking some time off during the day.”

  “Aw … nothing to speak of.” Ansel moved food around with his fork, like a child in trouble at the dinner table. He speared a fry. “It helps to rest for a spell after lunch. Kinda nice how it’s been working out.” His lips trembled in a smile. “I get to spend a little time with ... Rachael.”

  If Velma had been standing in her kitchen—her usual post—she would have popped Ansel with a rolled-up dish towel. In lieu of her weapon of choice, she wadded her napkin and threw it across the table.

  Ansel shook with silent laughter, and JohnScott leaned toward her. “Mom, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “You’d think I still had one child left at home. His body’s wearing out, but his mind is getting younger all the time.”

  JohnScott watched his dad for a moment and then rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Would you consider hiring a teenager to take over some of the work?”

  Ansel’s chin jutted to the side. “No, we’re doing fine, JohnScott.”

  The fact that Ansel said no instead of naw and JohnScott instead of Son spoke loudly to me, and when I glanced at the coach, I could tell the verbiage didn’t go unnoticed by him either. The muscles in my neck tensed. I had never heard the Picketts disagree on anything except sports.

  Velma pushed her chair back and announced, “I brought Mississippi Mud.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Mexico. France. Now the Deep South?”

  “It’s just wrong.” JohnScott shook his head sadly.

  “We’re international chefs,” called Velma from the kitchen.

  As the coach removed plates from the table, Ansel leaned toward me. “The owner of your place contacted me again.”

  “Oh?”

  Ansel took a toothpick from a tiny glass in the middle of the table. “Said he might as well cover your rent from here on out. Place ain’t worth much anyhow.”

  The muscles along my spine relaxed without warning, pushing air from my lungs. “For how long?” I whispered.

  “Long as you’re out there, sounds like.”

  My hands lay in my lap, and the baby rested firmly against my arms as though he were nestled in my embrace. “Does this man know me, Ansel?”

  He picked his front teeth with the toothpick and then held it between his lips, moving it to the corner of his mouth, where it bounced as he talked. “He says he’s good for the utility payments, too.” He reached for his fork and cut into the gooey chocolate-and-marshmallow dessert as Velma and JohnScott slid into their chairs.

  I blinked. “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s a good man,” Velma said.

  I rubbed my palm across my stomach.

  “He says it’s because he’s a Christian.” Ansel’s fork clinked against his saucer as he set it down. “I take that to mean it’s the right thing to do.”

  The baby shifted, and a foot or a fist moved from my right side to my left. I shouldn’t have cared what the man’s motives were. He had provided me with a home for my baby. I ran a hand across my little man and laughed out loud.

  All three Picketts looked up from their dessert plates and smiled along with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Even though the Picketts’ down-home goodness made me as comfortable as a feather bed, I couldn’t relate to them. I felt insufficient, as though my arrogant roots had lifted me high above this sweet family, and I could only look down on them from my perch, not clearly seeing or hearing them. And definitely not feeling them.

  As Ansel and Velma hobbled down the road toward their house, I opened the door of the Chevy, and it moaned softly. “Thanks for dinner, Coach.”

  JohnScott gazed after his parents with his brow wrinkled, but when I spoke, he spun around. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home. I’ve got a paper to write.”

  “And leave me with all the dishes? You’ve got nerve.”

  “Oh …” My face warmed. “I could stay and help.”

  “If you insist.” He pushed my car door shut and climbed the three steps to his porch, firm and sturdy like the steps at my house. “You wash,” he said. “I’ll dry and put away.”

  “What if I don’t want to wash?”

  “You don’t know where to put away.” He started the hot water running and then reached into the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Dawn dish detergent.

  “You keep your soap in the refrigerator?”

  “I hid it from Mom. Otherwise she would stay and do the dishes. The woman’s a workaholic.”

  “You know what they say about that …”

  “What?” He opened a drawer and took out a cup towel.

  “It takes one to know one.” He spun the towel, winding it into a weapon, but I shook my head. “Don’t even think about it, JohnScott.”

  “Your water’s about to run over.”

  “I’m not turning around until you uncoil that towel.”

  He looked down at the terry cloth strung tightly between his fists, then to the sink behind me. “It’s going to make a mess on the floor.”

  “You can clean it up yourself. With that towel.”

  He relented, relaxing his shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never attack a pregnant woman.”

  “So, you admit you’d attack me if I wasn’t pregnant.”

  “Sure,” he said without hesitation. “You’re beginning to understand me.”

  Emptying ice from the glasses, I submerged them in bubbles, enjoying our light banter even though my pulse raced. I felt myself falling for him, like the crush I had on Leonardo DiCaprio in sixth grade. And like the actor, Coach Pickett lay out of reach. “I understand you a lot better than I did three weeks ago.”

  “Meaning?” He stood next to me, taking soapy glasses from my hands to rinse under the runn
ing water.

  “You’re worried about your parents.”

  His mood shifted. “Dad’s getting old fast. Mom’s a good bit younger, so she tends to him, but I don’t know what she’ll do when he needs more care.”

  “They seemed defensive when you mentioned it.”

  He laid the wet glasses on a wooden drain rack. “He doesn’t want to give up any control before he has to.”

  “That’s understandable. He can still do a lot on his own.”

  “How am I supposed to know what’s too much?”

  I rinsed a plate. “Maybe you’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad can still decide for himself.” I turned back to the sink to avoid the coach’s penetrating gaze.

  “You think I’m overreacting.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “You’re concerned about your dad, as you should be, but they don’t need you to make decisions for them yet.”

  He leaned his hip against the counter. “How do you know these things?”

  “I don’t know.” Looking into his eyes, I saw the compassion he held for his parents, and I wished I had a smidgen of it for my own. His eyebrows puckered, and he smiled, reminding me of the feel of his lips on mine.

  He cleared his throat loudly, and the plates clattered as he slid them into the cabinet. “You’re probably right.”

  The comfortable feeling I’d enjoyed all evening disintegrated as a brick wall fell between us. If we were going to maintain our friendship, we’d have to pick at that wall one brick at a time.

  “Thanks for helping with the dishes.” He folded the towel and hung it neatly on the handle of the oven.

  I followed him out the front door, but once we were on the deck, he gestured to the rocking chairs. “Can we sit and talk a few minutes?”

  I eased into the closest chair, getting a feel for its balance as I studied JohnScott and tried to get a feel for him, too. He sat down, leaned forward, and crossed his bare feet at the ankles.

  He laughed lightly, then paused and picked at something on the arm of the chair. He laughed again and finally looked at me. “I’m really sorry about Saturday night.”

  I sighed. “You said that. Several times. It never should have happened.”

  He stared at me then, and his eyes filled with something deeper than sadness. The expression made me antsy, and I wished he would look away.

  “I didn’t mean I’m sorry I kissed you. I’m just sorry I did it at such a bad time, when you were upset.” He leaned with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. He looked up at me hesitantly, then back down to his hands. “So you wish it hadn’t happened.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Since that night in the dark, I had thought of little except JohnScott Pickett—even to the point I hadn’t dwelt on my breakup with Tyler—but I couldn’t figure out what I thought about that kiss. If I told him I wished it hadn’t happened, I would have been lying, but if I said I was glad he did it, I would have been just as untruthful. I shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Exactly.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what to think about it either.”

  I inhaled a shallow breath, then released it slowly. “I thought you regretted it.”

  “No.” He smiled, and the lines on the side of his face made me tingle. “Oh no.” He leaned back in the rocker, relaxing into the wooden curves. “I only wish it weren’t so complicated. Imagine it. You …” His eyes pierced mine, conveying his understanding of the complexity of my situation, the baby, my parents, Tyler. “You with … me.” He shook his head, and in the droop of his eyes, I recognized the acknowledgment that both our lives would be dramatically affected if something happened between us. “You’re not ready for a relationship with me or anyone else. And I’m not sure I should even ask that of you. Now or ever.”

  I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a few moments, agreeing with everything he said, yet feeling a flame of hope had been snuffed out. “It’s over with Tyler.” I don’t know why I spoke those words right then, other than to reassure myself that JohnScott believed it. “I’m embarrassed I ever took him back.”

  He jerked his head and frowned at me. “Don’t be embarrassed about that. You felt you needed to give it another go.”

  “But … I think deep down inside, I knew he wouldn’t change … that he couldn’t change.” My chair gritted against the boards of the deck as I rocked, but I stilled my movements as my true motivations came into focus. “For some reason, I felt bound to him. I guess it’s because of the baby.”

  JohnScott moved one of his shoulders in a circle, a nervous shrug. “It’s not just that.” His gaze dropped to his knees, and I thought he blushed. “You and Tyler have a physical bond now because of … well … you know. But it’s a spiritual bond, too—which is even stronger—so it’s only natural you would feel that way. And for him to feel that way about you.” His voice tapered off.

  As warmth washed over my face, I turned away from him and pretended to inspect the herd of cattle grazing on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. His statement broke open the protective shell of my emotions, leaving me vulnerable and exposing one of my greatest fears. “Will I always feel bound to him?”

  He inhaled deeply and thoroughly, and when he exhaled, I sensed sadness for my past, regret for his own, and hope for both of us. He spoke softly. “When I was in college, there was this girl.” His gaze slid away from me, to the safety of the herd. “I wasn’t a Christian then, and I guess I didn’t have any reason to wait. Of course I knew I should respect her—and I did—but we were both consenting, and we thought we were in love.” His eyes grew distant. “I know I was.”

  A hundred questions leaped into my brain, but I held my breath, hurting for him, wanting to tell him we should talk about something else, yet yearning to hear whatever answers he had to offer me.

  He stretched his legs in front of him, breaking the awkward spell that had been cast. “For years I imagined myself still in love with her, and maybe I was a little bit. But then Dodd started talking to me about Jesus. And forgiveness.” He chuckled. “And we had a lot of late-night conversations about me and my sordid past.”

  I tsked. “Sordid?”

  “Yep.” He smiled, and his cheek wrinkles flashed briefly, but then he sobered. “Turns out those spiritual bonds are a lot harder to break than the emotional ones.” His eyebrows lifted sadly. “And I don’t know … Maybe they never completely go away. But that doesn’t mean either of us are bound to our past mistakes.” He shook his head. “God washes it away.”

  A lifetime of Sunday sermons echoed in my mind, and I heard our little congregation droning the hymn “God Shall Wipe Away All Tears,” but my heart couldn’t quite believe it. I shook my head. “I’ve been going to church all my life, sitting by my parents, reading the Scriptures, singing the songs, but only lately have I started to come close to God.”

  JohnScott tilted his head thoughtfully, and a corner of his mouth wrinkled in a hesitant smile. “Maybe we’re both starting off brand new.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tyler gripped the binoculars resting in his lap as he eased his truck into the scenic overlook on a curve a mile from Fawn’s shoddy house. The field glasses were powerful enough to see for miles, and Tyler needed to see far and clear because he had determined to set things straight with Fawn, get her to love him again. Even if it meant sitting on a cement picnic table day and night, he’d keep an eye on her.

  He let the pickup door shut behind him with a soft click.

  Tyler loved his truck—the one thing his father had given him before he died, and the only thing that didn’t come with strings attached. Tyler leaned against the bumper and crossed his arms. The morning air chilled his skin, but the warmth of the engine penetrated the back side of his Levi’s.

  Fawn liked him in jeans. She said
he filled them out like a man ought to. The girl had always been a pain in the neck, but she still had a way of getting him roused.

  He peered across the ravine as a light popped on at Fawn’s place. Right on time. Up before six. He’d gotten used to seeing that light every morning, and he’d enjoyed watching her, studying her, following her.

  But she’d better not hook up with JohnScott Pickett again. Tyler had wanted to shake her by the shoulders when he saw her driving that man’s truck. Her pale fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and Tyler could only imagine her slender thighs pressed against the seat cushion. She would smell like him. Like cheap cologne and sweat. Like the coach.

  Tyler shoved away from the truck and raised the binoculars. The house lay in darkness except for two windows, the kitchen and living room. He hated going in that junk of a house. The old place might topple at any minute, and it disgusted him—the lengths to which she would go to claim her independence. He didn’t blame her for putting distance between herself and her parents, but turning her back on Tyler irked him something fierce.

  He lowered the glasses to fiddle with the dials. Something was off, too blurry. When he brought them back to his eyes, he smiled. Fawn stood at the kitchen sink, the window positioned for a perfect view. She looked like she might be filling up a pitcher. Not surprising. Iced coffee, with all those fancy ingredients she added. He used to hate the way it made his truck smell. Girly and weak.

  And Tyler wasn’t weak. His father had seen to that. Work. Work. Work. “That’s how a man makes something of himself, Son.” The phrase had been drilled into Tyler’s brain, always with the token sign of affection tacked on to the end.

  But his father had gone and left him alone.

  Tyler gripped the fiberglass, fouling the adjustments, but then he calmed and corrected the focus to bring Fawn back into view.

  His dad’s last will and testament left everything to Tyler. Sort of. The house, the property, the business, all the money would be his, but even in death, his dad was forcing Tyler to work for the inheritance when rightfully it belonged to him already. There was nobody else. His mother had long since abandoned him in death. No brothers or sisters, thank God. No grandparents.