“What the hell is going on in here?” Doug’s bellow sliced into her private party. He ripped the radio’s cord from the wall to abruptly silence Jackson and Buffett.
Margie never glanced up from her magazine.
Infuriated by her dismissal, he marched to her and snatched the magazine from her hands. Now he had her attention. “What’s the matter with you? Reading this trash, listening to that garbage. Who told you to change the station on my radio?” He was flabbergasted by her shocking mutiny. He didn’t see it coming. He couldn’t imagine the day his Marge would defy him. Eric West, that’s who’s responsible for this. Damn him to hell.
Hurling the magazine into the trash can, he glowered at her as if she were a total stranger caught stealing money in his barn. If she were a young girl, he’d give her a good thrashing. But, Eric West was right about one thing. She’s a woman.
Shit! What was I thinking? The night Eric stood on my porch telling me how to handle my daughter—I should have told him then and there not only to not come back but never to see Marge again. But Marge wanted it so bad, and she never really asked for anything, so I let it go on. It’s gone too far. Now what?
Margie wasn’t having it. She grabbed the magazine from the trash and plugged the radio into the wall. “I’ll turn it down so it won’t bother you as much, but I’m listening to this music, Dad. I’m thirty-three, and I’ve listened to Johnny Cash for the last time.” She tucked the magazine under her arm. “I’m going to the cafeteria for some lunch. You want anything?”
She waited for a response. When none came, she pushed through the barn door with Gretchen Wilson screaming “Hell ya!” from the old, dusty radio.
On her way out the door, she bumped into Scott so hard that she almost knocked him to the ground. “Oh,” she yelped.
“Everyone’s always in such a big hurry around here.” He held on to her arms. “Will you be ready by seven to go dancing tonight?”
Searching for words, Margie dropped her gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, Scott. I can’t go with you tonight. I’m studying with Eric at his house.” Slowly she lifted her eyes to meet his.
He tried to hide the disappointment and the hurt, but he was failing miserably. “Oh ... no problem.” He forced a fake smile of poise. “I’ll catch ya another time, Marge.” He squeezed her arms gently. Dropping his chin, he pressed through the barn door.
Doug dropped down on the bale of straw. He’d lost his Marge. She was a goner, and he wasn’t quite sure what he was going do about it. He spit the last wad of tobacco to the ground.
Shuffling down the barn aisle with his shoulders drooped, Scott paused to assess the old codger feeling the same sense of loss he felt. He had seen the changes in Margie in these last weeks. Some might call it progress. To him, it seemed like she was slipping away from everything she knew and loved. He sank onto the bale next to Doug.
“I don’t like it, Scott. I tell ya, I don’t like it. I see the way she looks at that old man. It ain’t healthy. It ain’t normal.” Doug bawled while stuffing a fresh gob of snuff in his lip. He offered some to Scott.
His lip curling, Scott winced and backed away. “I don’t think you gotta worry about ol’ Eric West. I think he’s got himself a girlfriend.” Doug’s eyes brightened while he continued, “I see him coming and going from the nurse’s office all the time. He don’t strike me as being sick.”
“So, you think the reading lessons might be coming to a end?”
Scott wanted the old Margie back in the worst sort of way. She hadn’t been going to the dances. She was too busy studying her reading or writing, or whatever the hell she was studying. She was spending her time in some La-La Land fantasy that he couldn’t comprehend.
What he could understand was how he felt about her. Most men found her unattractive. Not him. She had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He fell in love with those eyes the first time he’d looked into them. They were filled with kindness and compassion. He was most certain that there was a passion inside that woman that was waiting to claw its way to the surface.
Enough was enough. It was time for a reality check. It was time to put some distance between her and the so-called “beautiful people” that were trying to pervert her. No time like the present, and even less to waste.
He reached down and scooped a stone from the floor. “They’ll be ending real soon,” he told Doug.
Margie leaned against the counter while waiting for her turn to order.
As it always was after morning workouts, the cafeteria was packed. At a corner table, old weathered retired jockeys smoked cigarettes and rubbed their arthritic knees while watching several exercise boys playing a game of pool near the door. The jukebox moaned an old Johnny Cash tune in the background.
Seriously? Margie rolled her eyes at yet another old country tune. Halfway through the disgusted roll they fell upon Eric and Jen huddled over their cups of coffee at a corner table. Hmmm.
“Hey, Margie, how’ve you been?” Ava’s voice took her by surprise.
“Fine. Yourself?” She kept her eyes locked on Eric and Jen while wondering what the relationship might be.
Noting Margie’s interest, Ava was more than happy to bring her up-to-date. “Oh, I see Jen Fleming’s trying to get her hooks into Eric West.” Margie’s eyes rotated toward her. Ava leaned in a little closer to lay it on thick. “Ya know, I was talking with Michael, and he was telling me how much Eric adores you.”
Margie’s chin drew back in disbelief. “He did?”
“Don’t be so surprised. Men are attracted to younger women—especially those who need their help. It makes them feel desirable.”
Margie’s forehead wrinkled in doubt. “I don’t know ...”
“Absolutely, Eric has already proven it to you. Think about it … the way he defended you against Dan Quaide the other day. Something tells me it’s not the first time he’s come to your defense.” Affirming, assuring, and convincing, she kept her green eyes firmly on hers.
Margie swiped a lock of hair behind her ear. Her mind took her back to the evening on the porch when her father told Eric never to come back to the farm. He could have called it quits on the reading lessons, but he didn’t. He’d made arrangements to meet her elsewhere. Ava definitely had a point. Eric was older, more settled, and less impressed by beautiful woman.
Hmmm. She was mystified by this new concept. Why didn’t I see it before? Hey, it is possible. She looked through narrowed eyes while cocking her chin. “Are you serious?”
Ava smiled confidently. “As a heart attack. It makes them feel important ... heroic.” She hitched her chin toward the cozy corner table. “But I’d watch ol’ Jen Fleming if I were you. She’s been trying to get a grip on Eric since ... well, since forever.”
Margie measured Jen Fleming. She was lovely, not as beautiful as Ava, but lovely none-the-less. “I can’t compete with that.”
Ava took in Margie’s homely face, mousey brown hair. Her fashion sense was a toss-up between bad, very bad, and What-the-hell-are-you-wearing? She’ll be a challenge. Ava loved a challenge. Most of all, she loved to make bullets.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, sweetie. Come to my house around four. I’ll teach you the ropes.”
Fourteen
With her eyes full of wonderment, Margie entered Ava’s bedroom. It was like entering the Emerald City. She’d never seen a room quite like it.
The soft, amber glow glimmered over the queen-size bed that was covered by a black satin comforter. Climbing almost to the ceiling, the bed posts were draped with sheer black fabric that flowed over the bed to cascade down to the floor. Huge black satin pillows were tossed near the headboard. Smaller red pillows were scattered here and there. Lying leisurely among the pillows, a large, white Persian cat stared at her with sapphire eyes. Its rhinestone collar twinkled in the soft glow.
> “Pretty kitty, what’s its name?” Stymied by the sensual surroundings, Margie swallowed hard.
“Stella,” Ava replied.
Margie’s eyes were drawn to the black lacquer vanity with a large round gilded mirror against the wall. Perfume bottles, brushes, jewelry, and make-up cases cluttered the lovely vanity. A leopard-skin stool was positioned in front of the mirror.
She breathed in deep to take in the scent of the black cherry candles burning on the night stand, window sill, and vanity. The flickering candlelight danced across the walls.
The bedroom was sensuous, and opulent, and beautiful, just like Ava. Margie couldn’t take her eyes off of the radiant redhead. Her tall, slender, curvaceous body was accentuated by a clingy silver silk nightgown. Her long locks swept across her delicate pale shoulders. How odd, Margie thought, for Ava to be dressed in a nightgown at four in the afternoon. Maybe not. While I lounge around in an old pair of sweats, Ava lounges in something sexy. Yep, that’s the difference between perfect and well …me.
Ava swirled a glass of chardonnay. It whipped around and around the bottom of the crystal goblet to sparkle in the candlelight.
No one drank wine at Margie’s house. It was always a can of Iron City or whatever beer her father could find on sale at the Brew Threw. Even Eric drank Rolling Rock, but Margie had no trouble picturing him with a glass of wine over dinner, or in front of the fireplace while reading a novel or the newspaper.
Margie was fascinated by Ava’s allure. It was little wonder why a man would want to make love to a woman like her. That nightgown and the room would seduce any warm-blooded man. Hell, even her cat is freaking sexy. Oh yeah, Ava has much to offer and so much to teach me if I’m going to be able to compete with a woman like Jen Fleming.
Considering where to start, Ava stood back to measure Margie from top to bottom. She opened a drawer and pulled out a container of large curlers and a curling iron, and placed them on the vanity.
Stella suddenly leapt onto the vanity. Purring, she slinked daintily amid the perfume bottles. Her long, fluffy tail lightly caressed the mirror.
Feeling antsy and in need of conversation, Margie ran her fingers over the cat’s velvety fur. “Are you still seeing that cop?”
Yep, there were no secrets at the racetrack. Everyone knew everyone’s business.
“Carl Lugowski?” Ava asked. “Uh, huh, I’m meeting him later for a drink. Why?”
Shrugging, Margie stroked the cat while eyeing all the beauty gadgets displayed like tiny make-up artists preparing for battle. “Just wondering.”
Ava took a whiff of the chardonnay before pressing the glass to her plump, red lips to savor the last sip. With one last sweeping glance of her blank canvas, she instructed, “Take off your clothes,” as casually as if she’d requested her to have a seat.
Margie’s eyes popped. Her mouth dropped. “What?”
Ava tossed her a red satin robe. “Put this on. If I’m going teach you the art of seduction, you’ve got to dress the part, sweetie.”
Kate was waiting.
She was going to have a talk with her father, and he was going to listen. To hell with her original Eliza Doolittle scenario. This isn’t Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison. It’s out of control. He needs to understand that he’s heading toward the tutor-slash-student-slash-romantic-infatuation fiasco at warp speed.
Lord knows, Kate had been on the receiving end of a good talking to from her father many times. “Sit in that chair, Lady Jane,” he would say, in that tone that signaled, “You are sooo busted.” A sermon would soon commence, which would inevitably end with confiscated car keys, extra barn duties, and the always popular, “You’re grounded for two weeks.” He never laid a hand on her. That was reserved for the boys.
Kate was in no position to ground her father or confiscate his car keys, but she was going to let him know what everyone at the track was thinking. Hell, not just thinking ... saying.
An arm reached around her to dip a finger into her homemade barbeque sauce. The theft of the sauce was followed by a quick peck on top of her head.
“Hi, Dad.” She smiled helplessly at his timing.
“Hi, baby.”
The time is now. No fooling around. Put it out there while the moment is fresh. “How’s the student coming along?” She brushed some of the sauce onto a chicken breast.
“She’s a quick study. I’m very proud of her.” Eric rummaged through the fridge.
“I see.”
Somewhere between deciding on a can of soda or a Rolling Rock, he came to a dead stop. “She said, with an arched look.” Opting for the beer, he closed the fridge and turned toward her. “Out with it. What’s on your mind?”
If her father was nothing else, he was perceptive—very perceptive. Not really sure if she could continue, she lifted a shoulder. She kept her eyes on the chicken breasts. “Nothing.”
“Good. Margie’s coming here tonight.”
Her reservations immediately vanished. “Dad, I like Margie, but she’s way too young—”
“Whoa, are you worried that I’m becoming involved with her?”
Kate turned to him. “Not you—her. I’ve see the way she looks at you. I think she’s mistaking your generosity for something more serious.”
Shaking his head, he sighed. Daughters, they worry about nothing. “I think you’re reading way too much into it.”
“Wake up, Dad. God, whatta man you are. Haven’t you noticed all the changes in Margie?” Her father’s flummoxed expression told her exactly what she had been suspecting. He’s clueless. Maybe he isn’t as perceptive as I thought—at least about women. “Her appearance, Dad. Her hair is combed. Hell, it’s clean. She’s experimenting with make-up.”
He waved his hand. “She’s expanding her horizons. That’s a good thing, Kate.”
Her “talk” wasn’t penetrating his thick skull. He wasn’t getting it. “Whatever, Dad, but I think you should have a little heart-to-heart with her.” She found herself looking at a totally, perplexed man.
Hokay, a change in the subject might be a good idea—before he has some sort of fatal brain freeze. She went back to schlepping the sauce over the chicken. “Anyway, I heard you’re taking Jen Fleming to the benefit dance.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I beat it out of Shane.”
“That’s loyalty for you.” He rolled his eyes and made a quick exit from the kitchen—and the talk.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen you stop by the nurse’s office,” she called after him, if for no other reason than to get in the last word.
Thank God for six o’clock. Before anyone else needed medical attention, or anymore paperwork called her name; Jen locked-up her office and hurried toward the parking lot.
She couldn’t wait to get home, strip out of her uniform, light candles, and sink nose deep in a fragrant frothy bubble bath. She would have plenty to fantasize about in her tub tonight—Eric. He had finally asked her to the benefit dance, and she had finally tasted the lips she’d been craving for well over a year. Oh yes, finally a foretaste of the closeness that I’ve been yearning for. The prospect of that intimacy is more likely now than ever before.
Progress.
Digging through her purse for her keys, Jen noticed that the back tire of her car was flat. She groaned. Her shoulders sagged.
“Damn it, these are new tires.” She bent down to inspect the damage—only to discover that both back tires had been slashed.
Standing, she noticed a note tucked in the windshield wiper. She opened it to a crudely scribbled message: STAY AWAY FROM ERIC.
What the hell?
“Uh, oh, what happened?” A kind soft-spoken voice startled her out of her funk. She turned to find Scott examining her flat tires with a concerned expression on his face. “Did ya run ov
er some nails or something?”
Her nostrils flaring, Jen held the note up for Scott to see. “I don’t think so.”
He took the note from her. His brows pinched together. “Uh, if you’ve got a spare, I can at least change one of the tires for you.” He handed the note back to her.
“I can call a service for the other, thank you, Scott.” She pressed the button on her key to open the trunk.
Scott snatched the spare from the trunk, a tire wrench, and the jack. He wasted no time pressing the wrench into the lug nuts and flipping it in circles to loosen them.
“Who would do such a thing?” Stressing-out, Jen stared at the note in her shaking hand while her cheeks flushed.
“What happened, Jen?”
Scott’s stomach twisted into a knot when he glanced over his shoulder at Ava West with her hands planted on her hips.
Jen whipped the note out for Ava to read. “They slashed my tires and left this awful note.”
Ava studied the note with her left brow arched high. Her green eyes turned suspiciously toward Scott, who was now hurriedly pushing the spare tire into place. “Interesting, this looks exactly like the paper that Eric and Margie O’Conner were using at the picnic table the other day.” She shoved the note in front of Scott’s face. “Doesn’t this look like the paper they use?”
The knot was churning into a wave of nausea. “No,” he said, “that’s not Margie’s paper. I’ll loosen the other tire to save time for your car service, Ms. Fleming.”
Ava whipped it back to re-examine the words on the crumbled note. “It’s poorly written … like someone who’s just learning to write.” She gave the paper back to Jen. “Don’t you think?”
Jen’s narrowed eyes scrutinized the letters before glancing at Scott, who had moved to the opposite side of the car to work on the other flat tire. “I totally agree,” she whispered for Ava’s ears only.
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