by Jodi Thomas
“I’m not riding back with that smell.”
“I’ll get wet,” he repeated.
Randi patted his shoulder. “You’ll dry.” Then, without warning, she shoved him into the rain.
Micah stumbled off the porch, laughing. He told himself he wasn’t attracted to her or any woman, but it felt great to have someone touch him. Just touch him. Not friendly handshakes or polite hugs, but an honest touch.
He dug around in the flower beds until he found the garden hose rolled up neatly beside a rosebush. He did his best to avoid stepping on any of the rosebushes. Everyone in town knew how the sisters loved their roses.
Turning the water on full force, he dragged the hose to his car and pulled out the mats. He hardly noticed the rain. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d been so alive. Maybe it was the excitement of this morning, or the way Randi talked to him, or maybe it was just time to start living again. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It just felt good.
By the time he got the hose rolled back up in the mud beside the rosebush, Randi stood on the porch ready to go. He motioned for her to climb in and was surprised at how she walked slowly to the car and turned her face to the rain, as if it didn’t bother her at all.
When she closed her door, he said, “You really do like the rain.”
Randi shrugged. “I’ve been rained on a lot. It doesn’t scare me anymore.”
They drove back to the bar in silence. He thought about what she’d said, and what she hadn’t said.
The parking lot was dark when they got to the bar. The sisters’ van was the only one out front. Micah didn’t want this strange time to end, but had no idea what to say. He knew he wasn’t likely to see Randi again after tonight.
“You want to come in for breakfast?” She lifted the doorknob. “I always eat when the night’s over, then I can sleep until noon without waking up starving.”
He hadn’t had a bite since before the committee meeting that morning. “I’d love to, if you don’t mind? But I warn you, I’m starving.”
“I asked, didn’t I? I think I can fill you up.”
They walked to the back door. She reached above the frame. “Frankie kept locking himself out and we didn’t want to leave the door unlocked, so he installed a latch above the door. Lights flash in the kitchen and my office when this back door swings.” She led him down a hallway lined with boxes and mops to a tiny kitchen.
“Of course, I lock it when I head upstairs for the night. We figure only a tall drunk could reach the latch, providing they knew about it.”
He wondered if she often told her secrets so easily. Looking around the kitchen he tried to understand her. The kitchen appeared to have been added to the bar in the fifties. Nothing had been updated. The counters were red linoleum, stained and worn through in a few places. Pots and knives hung on the wall behind a stove. The refrigerator clanked out a steady beat. The place was spotless.
“Frankie used to serve hot appetizers years ago, but it got to be too much trouble.” She pulled a string on a bare light swinging from the center of the low ceiling. “I keep it open so when I’m stuck here I won’t starve.” She winked. “A girl can’t live on bar nuts alone.”
The cleanliness of the place surprised him. There was a wildness about this woman, but there was also an order.
“If you want to dry off, there’s a stack of towels by the back door.” She combed her hair with her fingers and twisted it into a wild knot behind her head. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Any way but scrambled,” he answered thinking of the thousand church breakfasts he’d eaten with scrambled eggs. He heard her banging around the kitchen while he dried his hair in the hallway between the back door and the kitchen. Using paper towels, he wiped mud off his shoes then washed his hands in a big sink that looked as if it would only be used to clean mops. The Rogers sisters’ rosebush had torn a two-inch rip in his trousers at the knee, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Since he had no comb, he raked a hand through his hair, hoping he wouldn’t frighten her.
Then he laughed. The woman owned the roughest bar for thirty miles around. Probably nothing frightened her. In all likelihood she told him about the back door’s latch because she wasn’t the least afraid of him.
When he walked back into the kitchen, the smell of steak and onions grilling drifted across the room. She motioned for him to sit before turning back to the stove.
Micah tried not to stare but couldn’t help himself. The lean woman in tight jeans and a rain-dampened Western shirt that stopped an inch above her waist was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered. She moved with an easy grace, but everything he knew about her told him she must be made of rawhide.
“How do you know the sisters?” She didn’t turn around.
“Maybe I grew up here and they were my teachers?” he offered.
“Nope,” she answered as if being tested. “I grew up here and they were my teachers. You’re definitely a transplant.”
“That obvious?”
She grinned over her shoulder and pointed with a spatula. “It’s the shoes.” When he didn’t answer she added, “No man from West Texas wears shoes with tassels. Those are for the big cities like Dallas and Houston. And while I’m at it, any self-respecting working man lets the mud on his shoes dry, then stomps it off.”
“Anything else?”
She set two plates filled with eggs and steak on the table. “In my line of work I’ve learned to read people. You’re not married, but you were. Divorced, maybe with a kid, grade school probably. You see him often.”
“Widowed. One child, seven.”
“Sorry.” She met his eyes. “I’m the same. My husband was killed in an oil-rig accident a few years back.”
“Cancer took my wife.” He wanted to change the subject. “How’d you guess so much about me?”
She opened two beers without asking if he wanted one and sat down across from him. “Wedding band you didn’t try to hide. Socks that don’t match. No woman would let you out of the house like that.”
Micah stared at his socks. They looked like a matched pair to him. But, one might be more gray than black now that he studied them.
“And I sat on a coloring book in the back seat of your car so either you’ve got a kid, or you’re not quite as bright as I thought you might be. A boy, I’d guess, since girls usually don’t color Spider-Man.”
He smiled. “I made it too easy, Sherlock.” He cut into his steak. “Now for the big question: why did you invite me in? I could be a serial rapist for all you know.”
She laughed. “Not with those shoes.” She took a bite, then added, “I knew you were safe, first because you were a friend of the Rogers sisters. They’re not the types to hang around with dangerous men. Second, you turn red every time I get within waltzing distance. That doesn’t sound like a trait a rapist would have. You’re safe all right, Micah Parker. Safe as a crosswalk.”
Micah wished he could think of a funny comeback, but he was too busy eating. She’d cooked what he was sure must be the world’s best steak.
Randi picked at her food. Every time he raised his gaze from his plate, she watched him. He always turned away first. He didn’t want to think about what else she’d be able to guess about him.
After finishing his steak, Micah started on hers. She moved her plate toward him without comment. He stopped to take a drink of the longneck, then made himself slow down as he ate the rest of her breakfast. She probably thought he was homeless by the way he consumed food.
“I’m on a committee with the Rogers sisters. Though, I knew who they were. Everyone does.”
“The committee that got interrupted by a flying drill bit this morning?” She leaned closer.
Micah nodded. Clifton Creek didn’t need a paper. News spread faster than butter on lava.
“I heard a few of the oil guys talking about it, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. When the sisters came in, they wanted to talk about everything but what
frightened them.” She wrinkled her forehead. “One of the oilmen said there’d been a little interest in the Altman property as a drill site, but no oilman would send a drill bit as his calling card.”
Micah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What kind of interest?”
Randi shrugged. “Just rumors. The men in the bar are always talking about where to drill next. Most of it’s speculation and guessing. Since the old house sets on a rise, it would be the prime spot to drill if anyone decided to test for oil below.” She studied him. “You think someone was trying to tell the committee something this morning? Or trying to hurt one of you?”
“It could have been an accident. Kids may have found the bit and thought it would be great for shattering windows.” He stacked the empty plates and stood. “Maybe they didn’t take the time to notice people were sitting at a table on the other side of the glass.”
She followed, sipping her beer as he scraped the dishes. “Maybe someone wanted to stop the committee. I don’t know who else serves on the panel with you, but the Rogers sisters must have been frightened half to death. They’re tough old birds, but I’m not sure they’ll be interested in going back into that house. To tell the truth I’m surprised it didn’t fall down around the committee this morning.”
Micah dried his hands. “It bothers me to think that someone could have been hurt. Really hurt.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “It could’ve been you.” Her words were soft against his ear.
He took a long breath and for once in his life decided not to think, but to act. In half a turn his body brushed against hers and he lowered his mouth toward her lips.
She slowly molded against him, as smooth flowing as liquid passion. Then, when they were so close their breaths mingled, she smiled. A smile that told him she could read his thoughts.
“I think it’s time we call it a night,” she said as she stepped away.
She walked across the kitchen. “You know,” she said in that low voice of hers, “I was wrong about you, Mr. Parker. You’re not safe.”
He didn’t know if he should apologize or try again. It seemed a lifetime since he’d known the rules—if he’d ever known them.
He thought it best to say good-night. “Thanks for the steak.”
“Anytime,” she answered. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” The look she gave him said so much more.
“Nice to meet you,” he echoed, thinking she was a blast of fresh air in the cellar he’d been living in for years.
CHAPTER TEN
Lora Whitman folded her napkin and tried to give at least the appearance of paying attention to her mother. She should have pretended sleep longer and cut the time at the breakfast table in half. Working for her father was easy compared to having to live with her mother. Luckily, the house was big enough for Lora to have her own wing on the third floor with a study, a bedroom and a small workout area. Her mother rarely ventured into her rooms, claiming the stairs were too much for her.
“I can’t imagine how frightened you were, dear. I told everyone how you just couldn’t face talking about the accident yesterday. Not even to me.” Isadore Whitman finished her coffee. “Of course, you were so worried about that Professor Dickerson from the college who had a heart attack that you rode with the first car leaving for Wichita Falls to check on her.” Isadore stopped long enough to spread her lipstick just wider than her lip line. Her own private answer to BOTOX.
Trying to keep her voice calm, Lora corrected, “First, Mother, it wasn’t an accident. A ten-pound drill bit almost the size of a football isn’t something that just flies into a window. Second, Sidney Dickerson didn’t have a heart attack. We feared she had, but the hospital checked her out.”
Lora knew she was wasting her time. Isadore lived in a fairy-tale world. Oh, not with giants and dragons, but the kind of make-believe with parties and parades. In Isadore’s fairyland, streets could be named Candy Lane just because she bought the only house on the block and daughters grew up and married well. And never came back home to live.
“Morning, ladies.” Calvin Whitman’s booming voice entered the room a few seconds before he did. A large man, he leaned back a little more each year to accommodate his ever-expanding belly.
He patted Lora’s shoulder as he passed. “How’s my little girl feeling today?”
Lora nodded her hello. She’d always be her daddy’s little girl. Unlike Isadore, he hadn’t wanted to give her up to marriage and seemed happy to have her back home. In fact, Calvin would be happy if nothing ever changed in his world but next year’s Cadillac colors.
“I’m fine.” Lora stood. “I thought I’d go in early and see what landed on my desk yesterday while I was out.” She was never sure if she truly helped her father’s business, or as the boss he simply found work for her. In either case, she didn’t complain. Her ex-husband had served her with papers, cleaned out all their accounts and packed her things so fast she hadn’t been able to give notice. She was lucky to find work, period.
“This early?” Isadore glanced at the clock. “Don’t even think about work yet, Lora.”
Calvin helped himself to breakfast laid out in silver dishes along the sideboard. He rattled one of the lids and peeped in as if fearing what might be inside.
Isadore glared at him with disgust but spoke to her daughter. “Aren’t you going to have more than coffee, Lora? I know the magazines say you can never be too thin, but you’ve lost so much weight since the divorce. You look like a coat hanger. If you get any thinner, you’ll never catch another man.”
To Lora’s dismay her father joined the assault.
“That’s right, hon.” Calvin didn’t look up from his food. “Men like their barbecue and their women with just the right combination of meat and fat.”
Though Isadore slapped at his arm, he didn’t bother apologizing.
Lora thought of telling her mother that she planned to get a doughnut on the way to work, but didn’t want to hear the lecture. Isadore had set out the same breakfast for her family all her married life. Lora could go down the neat little silver servers and tell what was in them without opening the lids. Eggs, always in the first. Ham, if a serving fork rested beside the second dish. Bacon if there were tongs. Toast, if butter and jam were on the table. Muffins if only butter sat out. On weekends, pancakes, or if company was there, Belgian waffles. Always served with fruit Isadore bought frozen and never bothered to let thaw before serving.
“I really have work to catch up on.” Lora put her coffee cup on the silver tray closest to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.
Calvin set his plate at the far end of the table. “Let her go, dear,” he mumbled, giving equal support to his girls. “It’s a fact, she’s got work waiting.” He turned his attention to Lora. “I signed on as one of the rodeo sponsors yesterday. Told them you’d give the new president a hand. Real nice fellow running the show this year. Talk is he’s planning to run for the state senate next year, so being in charge of the rodeo will get him in front of the public.”
Lora wasn’t surprised. Her father had always been an easy touch for any fund-raiser. He seemed to believe a marketing degree made her an expert in the field.
In the six months she’d been home, she’d talked him into giving Cadillac Cash instead of real money. Some charity would auction off a thousand dollars in Cadillac Cash or have it as their special door prize. The clubs wrote thanking him for the donation, which the business wrote off. He honored the “cash” on any new car. Everyone won and at worst the dealership sold a new car for a few hundred less than they’d planned.
“Is he single, by any chance?” Isadore asked.
“I have to run.” Lora moved fast, knowing that if she didn’t, Isadore would snare her in meaningless conversation. Her father had already opened his paper. At least he could read while he pretended to listen.
“But—” was all Isadore got out.
Lora grabbed her case at the foot of the stairs and hurried through the sid
e door leading to the garage. She climbed into her Audi, adjusted her seat from where her mother had played with it the day before, and backed out of the driveway as if she were auditioning for a part in a chase film.
At the café near the downtown square, Lora ordered her usual chocolate-covered cinnamon roll and black coffee before she spotted the reverend at the counter, with a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he read the paper. Yesterday, he’d been all calm and strong. This morning he looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all.
She hesitated. He hadn’t seen her. She could grab her food and run. But, to her surprise, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to touch base, make sure he was okay, learn any news. She slid onto the swivel stool next to him and motioned for Polly to bring her order to the counter.
Polly turned away, but her head wobbled back and forth as it always did when she talked to herself about all the extra work she had to do. If friendliness determined tips, Polly would be working for pennies.
“Morning, Preacher.” Lora returned his smile as he glanced up from his paper. “How’s today treating you?” His eyes didn’t seem so sad when he smiled. He blinked as if she’d caught him deep in thought. Studious. That was the word for him.
“Morning, Miss Whitman. How are the battle scars?”
She twisted on the stool and showed him the huge Band-Aids covering her knees. “They hardly show under my hose.”
He glanced down, then looked away.
“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and straightened.
“For what?”
“Guess I shouldn’t be showing my legs to a preacher.”
He lost his grin. “Guess not,” he answered. “After all, we’re not men. Not quite human.”
If she could have, Lora would have pulled Micah Parker to her and hugged him. She’d never heard someone sound so miserable in her life. She hadn’t thought of it before, but he was right about the way people think of men in the church. Ministers weren’t like other people.
Polly delivered Lora’s breakfast with a thud. “It’s still hot from the fryer, so be careful.”