Sorry, Pop.
Without you here to remind me, some things are easy to forget.
I’m back on track, though.
And, my bed’s made, just the way you taught me.
21
Jo
I reached for the door knob and paused. I was so excited about my new relationship status that I feared I’d make a complete fool of myself in front of my parents. Batting my eyes at Tyson, hanging on his every word, and saying things that made no sense whatsoever while my parents looked at me like I was a lunatic was not the way I wanted to spend the evening. Knowing me, it was more than likely the way it would go.
After inhaling an inaudible breath of courage, I looked at Tyson. “Ready?”
“Almost.” He kissed me gently, leaned away, and brushed the wrinkles from his shirt. “I am now.”
I pushed against the handle and peered inside. “We’re here.”
My father stood just inside the door. He was obviously either prepared to open it, or he was spying on us.
Spying was my guess.
“John Watson.” He extended his hand toward Tyson. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Tyson. I’m uhhm, Tyson.” Tyson babbled. “Tyson Neese.” He shook my father’s hand. “Are you the John Watson, by chance?”
“Depends.” My father chuckled. “You’re not the tax collector, are you?”
“John Watson who threw for fourteen thousand and thirty-three career yards?” Tyson asked. “John Watson who was named Scholastic Coach’s All-American in 1970? John Watson who gave up a career of football to work on his father’s farm? John Watson who inspired me to…”
Tyson wiped his brow, and then looked my father over as if sizing him up. “You are, aren’t you? You’re John Watson.”
Apparently, Tyson knew more of my father’s football accolades than I did. Filled with a smug pride, my heart swelled at the thought of Tyson knowing my father.
Knowing and admiring him.
My father’s eyes darted to my mother, and then to me. Fearing admitting who he was would lead to contradicting my request of no football talk, his eyes locked on mine and paused.
I nodded in approval, hoping the discussion that followed didn’t lead to something that upset Tyson.
I’d never seen my father blush, but his face was as red as a ruby. He gave Tyson a fake look of confusion and raised his index finger to his lip as if pondering his response. “Fourteen thousand and thirty-three yards rings a distant bell. If memory serves me correctly, I took my parent’s farm over when I graduated high school. Hell, you might be standin’ on that sacred ground as we speak.” He put his hands on his hips and smiled. “I suppose I’m the John Watson, yes.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Tyson said. “You were an inspiration to my father, and to me.”
My father patted him on the shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, Tyson. Did you bring your appetite?”
Tyson nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good,” my father said, winking at me as he spoke. “Because we’re having my favorite meal.”
“I can’t wait.” Tyson gleamed. “I still can’t believe it’s you. You inspired my father to be a quarterback, and he inspired me with tales of your high school days. My father loved the sport, but never made it past second string. I made a pretty good showing in passing yards when I was in school. Game’s much different today than it was when you played, though. Back then, it was a rushing man’s game. Today, it’s all about winning.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more.” My father looked at my mother. “How close are we to eatin’?”
“It’s ready now.”
My father patted Tyson’s shoulder. “We’ve only got two dinner table rules. No feedin’ the dog table scraps, and no discussing sports.”
Feeding the dog was a rule I was aware of. Abolishing discussions of sports was something I wished would have happened long before Tyson came for dinner. I gave my father a lingering look. “I keep forgetting that second rule. You know how I love talking about football.”
With his arm draped over Tyson’s shoulder, he turned toward my mother. “This is my wife, Jackie.”
Tyson extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Tyson.”
“So, it’s ready?” my father asked.
“It’s ready if we’re ready,” my mother responded.
My brother cleared his throat. “I’m Jarod, the often-forgotten brother.”
My father turned around, bringing Tyson with him. “This is my son, Jarod. Hard to remember if he’s here or not. He’s never on time.”
Tyson shook his hand. “Get yourself another Cobra, and you’ll never be late.”
Jarod grinned. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“I’ll show you mine when we’re done eating.”
“Jo says it’s got a supercharger.”
“She’s right,” Tyson said. “I put a Kenne Bell two-point-eight Mammoth on it. Liquid cooled.”
Jarod’s eyes widened. “How many ponies is she pushing?”
“A thousand fifty on e85,” Tyson said, beaming with pride as he spoke. “About nine hundred on 93 octane.”
“Jesus jumped up Christ,” my father coughed. “That thing’s got a thousand horsepower?”
Tyson nodded. “It sure does.”
While the men walked to the dining room together, I stepped to my mother’s side. “Tyson and I are officially exclusive,” I whispered.
“What does that mean?” my mother whispered in return. “Official?”
I searched my mind for a term she’d understand. She was two generations behind me, at least. Only recently did she give way to the cell phone craze.
“We’re going steady,” I said.
She gasped a breath. “I’m so happy for you. He seems like such a nice man.”
“He’s slow to come out of his shell, but he is really nice.”
She let the men make it all the way to the dining room, and then stepped in front of me. “You’d be slow to come out of your shell, too, if you’d been through what he’s been through. You give him all the room he needs, Josephine. Men need time and space to figure things out. Don’t crowd him. Now, or ever, for that matter. All of what’s good comes from waiting.”
I was giddy with excitement about Tyson and I being official. If my mother recommended it, I was all for doing it. If anyone knew how to make a marriage last, it was her.
I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”
She dusted her hands against her dress and gestured toward the kitchen. “You can help me with the food, Josephine. Let’s make Tyson feel like this home is just as much his as it is ours, shall we?”
I was so happy I could have screamed, but I smiled instead. “Tell me if I’m doing anything dumb, will you?”
“Just smile and nod at everything he says,” my mother offered. “I’ve been doing it with your father for almost fifty years, and it works wonders.”
If that’s all I had to do to keep Tyson happy, I’d look like one of those bobblehead dolls with a painted-on grin.
22
Tyson
During the time I’d lived with Shawn, I felt like an outsider, a nuisance, and a burden. Although I was sure the feelings I harbored were at least partially due to my delicate state of mind, I experienced them as if they were accurate and true.
At the end of my senior year, I legally inherited my father’s home and his belongings. I then began spending time in my childhood home, but soon found out I was uncomfortable living there. For the following year I continued to stay with Shawn, feeling awkward in my home without my father being present.
Strangely, I felt welcomed in Jo’s parents’ home the instant I walked inside.
I glanced around the dinner table, making note of each person in attendance. I pierced the last morsel of steak, dragged it through the remaining potatoes, and lifted the fork to my mouth.
“Ma’am, the food was second to none,” I sai
d.
“Thank you,” Jackie said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
She was roughly sixty-five years old by my calculations, but she looked – and acted – many years younger. She was tall and thin, like Jo, and had shoulder-length snow-colored hair that she wore straight. I imagined the frosty-white strands were darker in her youth, like her daughter’s.
Her floral pattern dress with embroidered pockets sewn onto the front indicated an age that her appearance otherwise kept hidden.
“Best damned steak in Texas,” John said. “No one fries a steak that can compare.”
“My father cooked a darned good chicken-fried steak. His wasn’t better than this. It was just different. I’d call them equal.”
He mopped his plate clean with half a dinner roll and raised it to his mouth. “Sounds like he was a fine cook.”
I chewed the last bite, and then responded. “He was.”
“Well, Jackie can rustle up a thing or two that are worth eatin’. He poked the gravy-soaked roll into his mouth. “Make Sundays a regular engagement, and you can judge for yourself.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear,” Jackie said.
He swallowed. “It wasn’t full.”
“It was close enough.”
He shifted his eyes from her to me. “Could have fit two of those rolls in there, but she’d have complained that I was eatin’ too much bread. She’s got me on a diet.”
“I don’t have you on anything,” she snapped. “You, my dear, said you wanted to lose ten pounds.”
John gestured toward the kitchen with his eyes. “Might be lookin’ to lose more than that after we eat that peach cobbler she baked.”
“You made cobbler?” Jo asked, her tone filled with excitement.
“I sure did. I’ll whip some fresh cream to serve with it.” Jackie looked at me with apologetic eyes. “We’ll have to use store-bought ice cream. The handle’s been broken on the ice cream maker for years. John refuses to replace it.”
I wiped my hands on my napkin. “I like to think I can fix anything. I can have a look at it if you’d like. Homemade ice cream sounds pretty good.”
“That thing’s is a hundred years old. It belonged to John’s parents,” Jackie explained. “We need to get a new one.”
“We’re not getting a new one,” John bellowed. “I’ll take that SOB to the city and get someone to fix it.”
I wondered, in considering the tale of John’s past, if he had the same sentimental attachments to the ice cream maker that I had to my car.
John’s story was unique. In his day, he was as good of a quarterback as had ever existed. At the end of his senior year, his father fell ill, suffering from occasional high spikes in his blood pressure.
Although every college in the nation wanted him to play football for them, he opted to forfeit his college education – and a possible career in professional sports – to tend to his family’s farm while his father recovered. He vowed to return to the sport as soon as his father was in better health.
His father died soon thereafter. John never returned to the sport. According to Texas football folklore, his mother lived for another decade, dying on the tenth anniversary of her late husband’s death.
If one chose to believe Texas legend, she died of a broken heart.
I looked at Jarod, and then at John. “If you’d like, we can look at it. Maybe see if we can fix it.”
John smiled and gave a sharp nod. “Alrighty.”
I pushed myself away from the table and glanced at Jackie. “Ma’am, if you’ll excuse me--”
“Absolutely,” she said. “But, don’t waste any time on that old thing. You’ll want the cobbler while it’s still warm.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I offered Jo a smile and followed John and Jarod to the overstuffed – but very tidy – garage.
Jarod was a typical Texan. Wearing boots, tight-fitting Wrangler jeans, and a button-down long-sleeved shirt, his belt was fitted with a buckle large enough to catch the attention of passersby at one hundred yards.
He was lean and lanky with closely-cropped hair that he wore just long enough to comb. Like his mother, he appeared much younger than his thirty-five years.
John may have been striving to lose ten pounds, but he didn’t look overweight in appearance. Still a barrel-chested man with massive biceps, he lacked the beer belly that most men his age had obtained much earlier in life.
He wore his gray hair in a crew cut. The photos I’d seen of him in his athletic years bore such a resemblance that recognizing him came easily.
He removed a dusty the tarp from the ice cream maker and set it aside. “Here she is. Made many a bowl of ice cream with this thing. Hell, my parents made me ice cream with this SOB when I was a kid.” He looked at Jarod. “Remember your thirteenth birthday? You demanded we make blueberry ice cream. Worst tastin’ shit I’ve ever eaten. Looked like hell, too.”
Jarod laughed. “It did taste pretty bad.”
“Don’t think there’s much you’ll be able to do to fix it,” John said, pushing the wooden bucketed contraption aside. “Worm gears are messed up.”
I bent down and looked the churn over. After just a moment of trying to get it to work, I realized the threads on the handle’s shaft were worn to a point that repair – short of re-threading the shaft – would be impossible.
“It’s not the gears. The shaft’s worn smooth,” I said. “I can probably re-thread it if it’s not stainless steel.”
John laughed. “It might look shiny, but my guess is that shaft’s carbon steel. They didn’t use much stainless back then. Hell, that thing’s a hundred years old. That thing’s so worn out that someone’s gotta sit on top of it to hold down the churn while someone else cranks their arm off. Tastes like heaven when you’re done, though.”
I stood and turned toward the open garage door. “If it’s cold-rolled carbon steel, we might be in luck.”
“Be in luck if someone had a tap and die set,” John mumbled.
“I’ve got one in my car.”
“Who in the hell keeps a tap and die set in their car?”
“A thousand horsepower tends to break bolts off from time to time.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I keep one for such occasions.”
“Well, hot damn!” He rubbed his palms together briskly. “Run out there and get that SOB.”
After retrieving the tap and die set, I re-threaded the entire shaft one size smaller. After removing the die, I wiped the newly cut threads clean. “All we need is a nut and washer, and we should be good for another hundred years.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” John said flippantly. “What size nut? I’ve got a bolt bin full of options.”
“Three-quarter inch. Sixteen threads per inch,” I said.
He turned toward the far wall and returned in an instant. He extended his arm in my direction, holding his clenched fist even with my chest. It was the same way my father used to give me special coins, and small trinkets.
I placed my open hand beneath his. He dropped a nut and washer into my palm.
“See if that works,” he said.
A few seconds later, the nut was in place and tightened. I stood, placed my hands on my hips, and admired my work. “Give it a try.”
John bent down and cranked the handle. As the paddles began to spin, he clapped his hands together. “Hot damn. We’re back in business.” He alternated glances between Jarod and me. “Jackie’s gonna have a conniption fit.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Hell, we used this contraption to make ice cream after we got married, right on this very farm.” He picked up the churn and admired it. After a moment, his eyes went into a glassy-eyed stare. “That was a mighty long time ago,” he murmured.
I gestured toward the door. “Let’s take it inside and see what she has to say.”
Clutching the wooden bucket, John looked up and met my gaze. His eyes were welled with tears. He swallowed heavily, and then
cleared his throat. “Thank you, Son.”
A lump rose in my throat, all but blocking my ability to breathe. I hadn’t heard those words in eighteen years. After a lengthy struggle, I stepped to John’s side and patted him on the back. “Let’s see if we can get some made before the cobbler gets cold.”
Still holding the bucket in his arms, he looked at me and grinned. “You crank, I’ll sit.”
I smiled in return. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
23
Jo
Wearing nothing more than my panties and bra, I was on my back in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Tyson was lying beside me, in his boxer shorts. We weren’t engaged in sex, nor had we been. At any other time in my life, I would have viewed the chaste situation as a complete and utter failure.
On that night, however, I saw the celibate moments we shared as progress.
“You have no idea of how much that meant to my father to get the ice cream maker going again,” I said.
“I imagine it’s the same feeling I had when I got the Cobra running. When I drive it, I feel close to my father. Your dad will probably have the same feelings when he makes ice cream.”
I tilted my head to the side. “You’re probably right. His mom and dad made him ice cream with that rickety thing. They were pretty frugal. My father is, too. It’s probably at least part of the reason he hasn’t replaced it.”
I never had a chance to meet my grandparents, but I’d heard plenty of stories about them and their meager way of living life. They farmed the land they owned, making use of everything the land produced.
The farmland had three oil wells on it. My great-grandparents had farmed the land for their entire lives, never relying on the earnings from the oil as a means of income. They believed a hard day’s work was a necessary element of living a fruitful and rich life.
My grandparents believed the same thing.
My father had no knowledge of the amount of money produced by the oil wells. It was his belief that the farm provided the income required to keep his parent’s heads above water.
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 15