“You’d have to be forty years younger, Jinx,” the man sitting next to him said.
“Or fifty,” called someone at the next table.
“Don’t pay these ol’ coots any mind, darlin’.” Chance tightened his arm minutely, but she didn’t think anybody who was watching them – which was just about everyone in the cafeteria by now – missed that little display of possessive machismo. “They’re just jealous.”
“You got that right, son.” Jinx leaned back and picked up his Styrofoam coffee cup. “You’re the young lady who’s settin’ up the museum, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” She subtly dug her elbow into Chance’s hard side. The rascal just grinned at her. “I hope you’ll visit it when we have everything set up.”
“I’ll do that. Might drop by sooner too. I got some old stuff gatherin’ dust at my place that belongs in the museum.”
“Now, Jinx,” a man across the table said, “they aren’t puttin’ together a wax museum. They got no need of you standin’ there like one of them figures in Madame What’s-her-name’s place.”
As others joined in the teasing, which Jinx took in stride and returned with quick wit, Chance guided Emily around Zach’s chair. “Let’s make our getaway while we can.”
A middle-aged woman with big poufy brunette hair smiled at her as they walked by. “You hang on to him, hon. That one’s a catch.”
A woman about Emily’s age, sitting at the same table, sent a dagger-look at Chance, then caught Emily’s eye. “He might be a catch, but he throws all of us back.”
Chance’s fingers flexed at her side, but he made sure she kept walking. As if she was going to stop and discuss him with a former date. When they got to the back end of the serving line, she asked, “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” But he didn’t look fine.
“So was she a one or two dater?” she murmured, watching two little boys jostle each other for a place in line.
“One. Actually more like a quarter of a date.”
She glanced up, biting back a smile. “That bad, huh?”
He met her gaze, and a second later his lip twitched and a hint of amusement crept into his eyes. Turning his back to the rest of those in line, he said in a quiet falsetto, “I want to go someplace fancy, like the French restaurant in Fort Worth they talked about on that cookin’ show I saw last week.”
He changed back to his normal voice. “We’re not going to Fort Worth on a date.” He glanced over his shoulder and moved backward a few steps, returning to the falsetto with an added whine. “But I deserve a special night out. I was Miss Tumbleweed.”
Emily giggled. “Miss Tumbleweed?”
“A festival attempt that only lasted a couple of years. It never got rolling.”
Laughing, she pictured the big round, prickly weeds that sometimes tumbled across the highway or rolled along in the wind until they were trapped by barbed wire fences or the sides of buildings. “I can see why.”
He switched to his imitation of the beauty queen. “And y’all have so much money, the price of a weekend in Fort Worth would be just a drop in a little ol’ bucket. Just how rich are you, anyway?”
“A weekend? My, my, she did have high expectations.”
“Oh yeah.” He was back to his regular, deep musical tone. “I won’t even tell you what she promised in exchange.”
“I can imagine.” Emily moved forward as he turned around to face the line.
“I hope not.”
When she looked at him, her smile faded. He was serious. “That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say she’d learned some things while stripping in Vegas.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. “You went out with a stripper?” she whispered.
A dull flush spread up his neck and into his face. “I didn’t know it until we were driving toward Sweetwater. I thought she was still nice Mary Smith who was a couple of years younger than me. When she said she’d gone to school in Las Vegas, I thought she meant the University of Nevada. It never crossed my mind that she meant exotic dancing school.”
“Is there such a thing?” Emily tucked her arm through his because . . . well, because Miss Tumbleweed was staring holes in them.
He shrugged. “Guess I should have figured something had changed when she insisted I call her Jasmine.”
Emily laughed and squeezed his arm. “At least she didn’t change it to Candy.”
He chuckled and gently drew her in front of him as they neared the front of the line. “I don’t know. Maybe that would have been better. I might have put two and two together and saved myself some major embarrassment that night and for the next two weeks.”
“Did she bad-mouth you?”
“Plenty. For some reason she didn’t like me turning around halfway to Sweetwater and taking her home. But I was more humiliated because everybody in town learned I’d gone out with her. Seems I was the only dumb cluck around who didn’t know what she’d been doing.”
“I bet you were teased a lot, especially by Will.”
“I was, but not so much by him. He ribbed me a little when I told him what happened, but he didn’t rub it in. He’s slogged through the dating swamp as much as I have.”
“Dating swamp. That’s an interesting analogy.” She watched a teenager as he piled his plate with pancakes and sausage. He’d come to the shelter with his parents the day after the fire, looking for food and clothes. Was he getting enough to eat? Was he back in school? Were they able to rebuild?
“Sometimes you get bit by mosquitoes. Other times you’re attacked by alligators.”
“What am I? A mosquito or an alligator?”
He leaned down next to her ear and whispered, “A beautiful, golden butterfly brushing your wings against my skin.”
Emily sighed softly at his words, and sweet contentment filled her soul. She skimmed the crowd – rich, poor, old, young, and everything in between. In a tradition as old as time, they broke bread together, talked and listened, laughed and consoled, and wiped away an occasional tear.
They were the haves and have-nots. Those the disaster had bypassed and those who had lost everything. They were family, friends, community. They were Callahan Crossing.
She stepped up to the counter and smiled at Will as he waited, ready to load up her plate. While Chance teased his brother about his fancy apron, she silently thanked the Lord for this town and these people, for their kind hearts and caring souls. She thanked him for the privilege of getting to know them, to care for them, especially Chance Callahan.
Pancakes and poetic prose. Sweet.
17
The three weeks following the pancake supper had raced by in a blur. Chance had never had several projects going at the same time, and he’d been as busy as a one-eyed cat watching three mice.
The insurance checks came through for four of his clients, and the building permits were approved for two. On the first house, the plumbing lines had been set in place and the slab foundation poured last week. His crew started on the framing when the cement was thoroughly dried. Chance would begin excavation on the second house tomorrow. It also was a slab foundation, so it was more backhoe work than anything and wouldn’t take too long. Then he’d have another crew busy there.
The permit for the third house should come through by the end of the week. That was the last one he would try to work on right now. The other houses would have to wait until he could shift some of his crew to the job.
Emily had been busy too, spending long hours at the Bradley-Tucker House. They were getting the inventory done, though wading through the garages was taking longer than she’d hoped. After they put the ad in the paper, several people had offered other things for the museum, so his mom and Emily had been visiting folks and checking out potential items.
She’d also been designing displays on the computer. They were beginning to move some things into the museum, so she could start setting up the exhibits.
On Saturday evening, instead of going out, Emily brought ov
er the fixings for a green salad and lasagna, along with some chocolate chip oatmeal cookies she’d baked earlier. At her insistence, Chance lazed in his recliner while she put together the lasagna. Enjoying the sound of her working in his kitchen, rummaging through drawers and cabinets as she looked for pans and a bowl, he indulged in a little daydreaming about hearing those sounds every day for the rest of his life.
After sharing a delicious meal, he politely escorted her to the living room and pointed to the recliner. “It’s your turn to sit and relax. I’ll do the dishes.”
She grinned and settled in the chair, wiggling around a little to get comfortable. “Such chivalry. I’m so stuffed, I’ll probably fall asleep.”
“Snooze away, milady.” Dropping a light kiss on the top of her head, he wandered back into the kitchen, estimating that it might take ten minutes to clean up. She had already washed most of the things she’d used preparing the meal.
He took his time transferring the leftover salad and lasagna into plastic containers and the buttered French bread into a plastic bag. He rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then wiped down the table and countertops. Done in nine minutes flat.
Tiptoeing into the living room, he peeked around the lamp on the end table to see if she had fallen asleep.
Her eyes popped open, and she smiled at him. “Done already?”
“Yep.” He held out a plate of cookies. “But I brought dessert. Do you want some ice cream too?”
“No, thanks. I’ll do good to manage one cookie.”
“Ah, more for me.” He set the plate on the coffee table. When she folded down the recliner footrest, he held out his hand, helping her out of the chair. He grabbed a couple of cookies and plopped on the couch, pulling her down beside him. Laughing, she snuggled close.
“You want one of these?” When he held out a cookie, she shook her head, then rested it against his shoulder. He took a bite. “This is really good.”
“Grandma Rose’s recipe. She taught me how to make them when I was a kid.”
“She said you were a good cook. Now I know why.”
Emily nodded. “I learned from the best.” They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. She brushed her fingertip around a purple diamond on his light gray shirtsleeve. “I’m going to Dallas on Thursday,” she said quietly.
“To see your mom?”
“We’re planning to have lunch on Friday. But that’s not the main reason I’m going to Dallas.” She straightened enough to look up at him. “I have a job interview on Friday for the assistant curator position at the McGovern Historical Museum.”
Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and Chance’s heart dropped into his boots. “A job interview.” His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never heard of the McGovern.” Not that he paid much attention to the museums in Dallas. Or anywhere else.
“It hasn’t opened yet. It’s going to be one of the finest historical museums in the state. I’d be getting in on the ground floor.”
He nodded, desperately trying to hide his disappointment. “It sounds like what you’ve been waiting for.”
“It’s a fantastic opportunity.”
“You’ll impress them.”
“I hope so.”
He hoped she did too, for her sake. But he couldn’t be happy about it.
It was mid-March, almost two months since they first met, and she was still bent on chasing her career. He knew she cared for him. She simply didn’t care enough to settle down with him in Callahan Crossing.
He might as well be chasing an eagle’s shadow.
At noon on Tuesday, Chance went to Irene’s Boot Stop to grab something to eat. He joined some of the regulars at a big square table in the back corner. Digging into his chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy, he listened to the conversation.
“Spotted another FEMA trailer rolling in this morning,” the bank president said. “I reckon that’s about the last one.”
“Must be,” said an elderly farmer who was semiretired and a widower. He came to town for a meal and to shoot the breeze almost every day. “They’ve been hauling them in for the past three weeks. What I want to know is why it took ’em a full month after the fire to get started.”
“Red tape. Forms to fill out, verify, and get approved.” One of the men who worked at Hunter’s Sporting Goods dipped a French fry in ketchup, waving it slightly in emphasis. “It all takes time.”
“Too much time, to my way of thinking.” The local insurance agent poured about three teaspoons of sugar into his glass of iced tea. “Some of my clients had their insurance checks last week, but they didn’t have a trailer yet. Any of them come to see you, Chance?”
“I’ve been talking to several folks.” Chance laid his fork on the plate and wiped a dab of gravy from his lip with a white paper napkin. “Trouble is if the house they lost was old, the insurance money won’t come close to covering the cost of a new one.”
“That’s when they come see me,” the banker said with a smile. “We can give most folks a loan.” His smile faded. “Of course, there are always some who just can’t qualify no matter how hard we try to make it work.”
“Don’t they get money from the Fire Victims Fund? I heard it was about ten thousand for each family.” The sporting goods guy took a bite of his hamburger.
“A little over eight thousand.” The banker salted his plate of liver and onions. Chance cringed, both at the thought of eating liver and what all that cholesterol and salt would do to the middle-aged man’s blood pressure.
“They’re free to use it in whatever way they need,” said Chance. “Some are trying to hang on to it to help rebuild, but that has to be hard when they need to replace even basic necessities. All the donations have helped, but they don’t cover everything for everybody.”
Jenna and Nate had opened up the new Mission a few weeks back, so people who needed to use the food bank had access to fresh things as well as canned and packaged goods. The building was big enough to house the clothing donations that continued to come in. His sister had rented another building to hold all the household donations, everything from furniture and appliances to linens and kitchenware. By moving all the supplies, they’d freed up the space in the churches that had been acting as distribution centers.
The farmer sadly shook his head. “It’s going to take years to regain what we’ve lost.”
“There was a reporter on TV last night who’d gone to Austin to interview an expert at the University of Texas.” The banker cut off a bite of liver and scooped up some grilled onion along with it. “He said we couldn’t ever recover. According to the reporter, experts at some other universities agreed.”
“I think they’re wrong.” Chance took a drink of ice-cold Dr Pepper. “Cleanup of the town is about two-thirds completed, and the county, state, and prison crews are still hard at work. With the city council covering the cost of tearing down the dilapidated buildings, whether or not they were damaged in the fire, the town will look better than it did before. At least it will when things are rebuilt.”
His mama had been mighty pleased with that decision. The Historical Society wouldn’t be out any money getting rid of the old museum.
Irene stopped by with the coffeepot to refill a couple of cups. “I heard that several churches in West Texas and some from farther afield are still raising money specifically to build homes. They plan to send workers in to help build them too. ’Course, most churches can’t handle building a house by themselves, so several are teaming together.”
Chance smiled at Irene as she paused in her coffee refill rounds, then he looked back at the others. “I also know the people of Callahan Crossing. They won’t sit by and wait for a helping hand, though they won’t turn down help when it comes. In the meantime, they’ll pick themselves up by their bootstraps as best they can and forge on.”
“I hope you’re right, son.” The farmer laid his silverware on the empty plate. “I sure would hate to see this
town dry up and blow away.”
Irene laughed as she picked up the plate. “We’re too ornery to let that happen.”
After Chance returned to the office, he settled back in to work for a while, using his CAD software to modify a floor plan, and tried not to think about Emily running off to Dallas. He had to focus on his business and hope and pray she had a change of heart.
Half an hour later, he realized it had grown dark, more like dusk than the middle of the afternoon. He saved his work on the computer, walked over to the door, and stepped outside. A large, dark, low-lying cloud was almost over the town. The bird that had been serenading him from the tree outside his office had flown. The hot air was eerily still.
The cloud and sky turned a dark green, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
Tornado weather.
Chance jerked the door closed behind him and sprinted to his pickup. Emily was at the museum with those big windows all across the front. The storerooms each had an outside wall. The only safe place was the basement, and she’d never go down there alone.
“Keep her safe, Lord. Please, keep everybody safe.” He jumped in the truck and started it, not taking the time to put on the seat belt. Shifting into reverse, he glanced up and down the empty street and backed out.
Everybody else had the good sense to stay inside and seek shelter. He gunned the engine, driving like a madman down the three blocks from his office to Main Street. He barely slowed for the stop sign on Main, whipped around the corner, and skidded to a halt halfway down the block beside Emily’s van, barely noticing when the pickup bounced against the curb.
He turned off the ignition and grabbed a flashlight out of the glove compartment. Lightning streaked across the sinister green sky, and thunder instantly boomed. Suddenly, golf-ball-sized hail pounded the truck and the street. He bailed out, wincing as hail pummeled his head and back as he ran to the front door of the museum.
The second he opened the door and dashed in, the tornado siren at the fire station blasted. The long, steady wail brought back memories from the day of the fire, but Chance blocked them out. “Emily! Where are you?”
Emily's Chance (v5) Page 16