by Peggy Webb
“Yes. I wanted you to see it. In the moonlight.”
I love this about Tuck—that he wants to share the things he treasures most with me. That he doesn’t apologize for not taking me to a fancy restaurant and some noisy place where the loud entertainment would make conversation impossible. That he chose the quiet panorama of a summer night where the water speaks of life, the stars speak of love and the moon speaks of eternity.
I can see why the news articles call him an authentic horse whisperer. If his deep, rich drawl has the same effect on horses it’s having on me, then he can get them to do anything he wants simply by speaking.
As I turn to watch the play of moonlight across his face, I marvel that wonder can be found in such simple pleasures—a man, a voice and a moon.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He takes the wineglass from my hand, then kisses my palm. “You’re welcome.”
He draws me into his arms, and suddenly, I’ve found more than wonder. I’ve discovered passion and need and an urgency that can’t be denied.
Tuck doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to ask permission, doesn’t ponder whether it’s too soon. He bares me to the moonlight, then covers my pale body like a sun-warmed blanket.
I’ll believe it when I see it.
—Angie
GLORIA HART just asked me to accompany her home.
Like Mom’s going to let me go on a road trip to California by myself. If I get off without Mom, I’ll guarantee you the world’s fixing to come to a screeching halt. St. Peter can forget about blowing his trumpet. If Mom stays in Mooreville, Mississippi, and lets me go a thousand miles away, the world will just stop.
I mean that. Last summer she wouldn’t even let me go to New York with the Drama Club. And she nearly died on the spot when I mentioned going to Paris with the French Club.
So you see my dilemma. When Gloria says, “I hope you’ll come, Angie,” I don’t start packing.
“Are you sure it’s okay with Mom?”
“You have her blessing.”
Then there must be a catch. I’m going out there to be an indentured servant. Or there’s some godawful little math and science camp she wants me to attend. I hate math and science. Oh, I make A’s in the subjects, but it’s only because I study my head off.
Or even worse. She and Dad are getting a divorce and she wants me out of the way until it’s all over.
“What about Dad? Is it okay with him?”
“He thought you’d like it. I invited him and your mom, too. They’re not coming for the entire two weeks, but I think they might fly out for a weekend.”
Gloria wouldn’t lie. So now I can breathe. I can start packing. Even better, I can tell Sally.
“That sounds great. Thank you, Gloria.”
As soon as she leaves I pick up the phone. “Sally, guess what?” When I tell her, you could hear her squeal all the way to the South Pacific. “You’ll have to watch after Jackson for me. Promise?”
The next thing is to tell Jackson. Of course, I want to do this in person, and I don’t want him to know how thrilled I am. Otherwise, he’s liable to get the idea I don’t care and start going out with that little twit, Nancy Wiggins. She thinks she owns the world just because she’s a cheerleader.
Wait till she hears about me going to California in an Italian sports car with America’s TV goddess.
Why can’t love be as easy to serve as barbecue?
—Jenny
WELL, here we are at the benefit for the Volunteer Fire Department. Finally.
I’m so tied up in knots I could scream. Ever since I tried to sneak up behind Rick’s restaurant and find out what was going on, he’s been treating me like he was some polite stranger. It seems like four years ago instead of only four days.
To top it all off, my husband’s running around acting so busy he hasn’t said boo to me, and Tuck’s so preoccupied being a perfect host he hasn’t had a chance to speak to Gloria. A temporary condition, I’m sure, considering he’s taken her out every night since they had that picnic on the hill.
Of course, Gloria didn’t share particulars, but she didn’t have to. I know a lovestruck woman when I see one.
The only person in my household who is acting normal is Angie. She’s jumping up and down with excitement about going to California with Gloria.
If things get any frostier in my bedroom, I’ll go, myself.
First, though, I have to serve this barbecue and keep smiling.
“May I help you?” I ask the woman who is swathed in chiffon scarves and a hat as big as Texas. I know practically everybody in Lee County, but I can’t recall ever seeing her. She must be from Itawamba County. Or maybe Pontotoc.
People come from everywhere for almost any event that involves seeing Tuck’s Farms. Plus, folks are lined up nearly to Tuck’s barns in front of the green-and-white striped awning to see the nation’s reigning TV goddess.
“I’ll take the meat but now the slaw.” The woman speaks in an accent I’ve never heard. She’s definitely not from Mississippi. “It gives me indigestion. I want bread but for God’s sake, leave off the beans. You don’t want to hear what that does to me. Suffice it to say, I could clear this gathering.”
“You’re not from here.”
I heap her plate with extra meat and bread, then motion for the rest of the line to go around her to the next server. Most people would, anyhow. At gatherings like this everybody understands that people often strike up lengthy conversations with long-lost friends and relatives. Sometimes even perfect strangers.
“No. I’m from New Jersey.” She holds out a blue-veined hand loaded with diamonds. “Sylvia Comstock.”
I say, “Jenny Miller,” and she acts like I’m her favorite, long-lost niece rediscovered after a two-year bout of amnesia in the snake-infested jungles of the Amazon.
“Rick’s wife?” I nod, wondering how she knows my husband. “Lulu didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
“Lulu, my mother-in-law?”
“Yes.” Sylvia chuckles. “I see she’s been keeping secrets again. Lulu and I have been friends for years. I’ve been in town for a few days, visiting.”
I’d like to say she only keeps secrets from me, but I don’t want to spoil her opinion of Lulu. So far, Sylvia’s the only one of Godzilla’s friends who didn’t act like she had nails for breakfast followed by a cup of TNT. Strange, though, I never heard her mention anyone named Sylvia.
“Do you come often?”
“No, dear. This is my first visit in twenty-five years. I lived abroad until my husband passed away last year.”
“If you’re staying a while, do stop by the house for a visit. I’d like Angie to meet you.”
“Unfortunately, I’m leaving early in the morning. But let me give you my number. I’m planning a surprise birthday party for Lulu in October, and your husband has promised to help get her to Trenton without arousing her suspicions.”
Sylvia whips out her pen and scrawls her number on a little piece of paper. Pink. The color of love. The color of embarrassment.
This note is an exact match to the one I found in Rick’s pants. If memory serves, so is the number.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yeah. Bug in my eye.” I’m so silly. I always cry when I’m overwhelmed with happiness.
“Yoohoo.” Nothing can spoil happiness quicker than Godzilla, and she’s heading this way. “There you are, Tootie. I thought I’d lost you.”
Tootie? Well, no wonder I’d never heard of her.
“You couldn’t lose me if you tried. Why didn’t you tell me you had such a sweet daughter-in-law, Puddin’?”
“Isn’t she a peach? Come on, Tootie, we’ve got to get you out of this sun before you have a heatstroke.”
I’ll bet Godzilla aka Puddin’ thinks I’m a peach—one with worms and black-spot blight.
Pulling another volunteer in to take my place, I race up the hill to tell Gloria my news.
CHAPTER 9
—Gloria
I’m wilting in this heat and a mosquito as big as my fist bit me on my back in a place I can’t scratch, even if I wanted to. Which I definitely do not. I always keep smiling when I have an audience, especially this one.
After being out of sight all morning, Tuck is leaning against the support pole at the front of my striped tent, watching. When the last of the crowd heads down the hill to the barbecue line, he finally heads my way.
“You’ve attracted quite a crowd.” He slides into the chair beside me, his smile easy, his body language relaxed. “And you make it look easy to handle them.”
“It is. I enjoy meeting people.” Kicking off my sandals, I wiggle my toes in the sweet-smelling grass. “This place makes it easy. It’s very relaxing. I’ll bet you spend as much time as you can in that hammock out back. And with a good book.”
“Are you psychic? I just read the latest Grisham book. In my hammock.”
“I’d love to try it sometime.”
“One of the few places we haven’t.” Tuck’s eyes crinkle as he hands me one of the cardboard fans spread across the table, compliments of Bougefala Baptist Church, complete with a picture of the agony in the garden.
I’m feeling a bit of agony, myself. The agony of desire. The agony of wanting something I can’t have. The agony of indecision. Go or stay? California or Mississippi?
“You don’t have a hammock in Hollywood?”
“I do, but I don’t have this view. It’s amazing.”
“Then perhaps you’ll stay.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Yes.” He lifts my right hand, turns it over and circles his thumb on the palm. “Would you like to go inside? Out of the heat?”
“Yes.” Out of the heat? No. I’m a volcano, and I want him to dive right into the hot lava.
He puts the back soon sign on the table, then slides his arm around my waist as we hurry toward his house.
“Miss Hart!”
I turn and flashbulbs explode in my face. Reporters rush forward to record Gloria Hart en deshabille with the famous owner and trainer of thoroughbred horses.
I’m certain that’s what the headlines will say. Tuck’s arm is around me, my hair is mussed up from the humidity and looks like I just tumbled out of bed, and my sandals are under the table where I ran off and left them.
The reporters start firing questions. “How did you two meet?” “Are you staying in Mississippi?” “What about your romance with your co-star in Love in the Fast Lane?” “Is it over?” “Mr. Tucker, how does it feel to be cozy with America’s sex goddess?”
“No comment.” His reply is as terse as his face. “Gloria, do you want to leave? I can get you out of here.”
“I can handle this.”
Tuck turns and walks away. But not before I see his face. Clearly, he’s seeing me through the lens of his past: I’m a mistake he can’t bear repeating.
I can handle this. Four little words. And I can never take them back.
I wonder what would have happened if I’d said, yes, take me away. I will never know.
Smiling, my stomach clenching with regret, I turn to deflect the reporters’ questions.
How did Love in the Afternoon turn to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?
—Jenny
I TRIED to talk Gloria out of moving up her departure date, but after what happened with the reporters at Tuck’s place this afternoon, she says there’s no reason for her to linger.
She and Angie will be leaving tomorrow. While they’ve gone to Wal-Mart for a few travel toiletries, I’m in my daughter’s room packing things I know she’ll need but will go off and leave behind if I don’t personally put them in her suitcase. Her hairbrush. Her toothbrush. I know you can pick these things up anywhere, but still, I don’t want Gloria to have to make umpteen stops just because Angie’s careless.
Her diary. Ever since she was a little girl, Angie has always recorded the major events of her life. I pull the book out of her desk and stand there, tempted. I know it’s wrong to read another person’s diary, but when she’s your own daughter and you’re worried that she’s doing no telling what, including having unprotected sex, wouldn’t you sneak a peek?
“Jenny?”
Oh my gosh, Rick’s home. In the middle of the afternoon. In spite of the fact that we were both at the barbecue earlier and he knows I didn’t have time to make pies.
“In here.”
“Hey. What’re you doing?”
How’d he get to Angie’s room so fast? And why do I feel guilty just because I’m still holding my daughter’s diary? Which I absolutely did not intend to read.
“Just packing a few things for Angie.” I toss the diary toward her suitcase, and, thank goodness, he never notices what it is. I can tell you one thing—it wouldn’t have passed without comment. “What are you doing home?”
“I just thought I’d leave my assistant in charge for a while and spend some time with my family.” My hopes rise up there with kites. “This is Angie’s last day home.”
Naturally he’d want to spend time with his daughter. I’m about to say, It’s not as if she’s going to Outer Mongolia, when my better self takes over. For once.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him, and he says, “Yeah?”
His smile is that little crooked grin I’ve loved since I was thirteen and started noticing such things. But maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s opportunity.
Sidling up to him in what I know is nothing as hot as Jillian Rockwell’s sexy slither but what I hope is a bit seductive, I put my hand on his shoulder and run my fingers down his arm.
“What do you say? Want to have some fun?”
“Where’s Angie? And Gloria?”
“Gone. To Wal-Mart. And the movies. They won’t be back for a while.”
He puts both hands on my shoulders and walks me backward to our bedroom. This is getting good. If I were dressed in my black nightgown instead of sweaty shorts and a T-shirt, it would be even better.
Just inside the doorway I stand on tiptoe and plant one of those big, want-to-eat-you-up kisses on my husband. He tries to back me to the bed, but I want to make a big production. I want the ending to this long dry spell to be something he’ll remember when we’re ninety-five. I want him to look at me from our side-by-side rocking chairs in the nursing home and say, Do you remember that day you did the striptease in the middle of the afternoon and we ended up making love on the floor? In broad daylight?
Sidestepping, I slither out of my shorts, inventing moves I’ll bet Gypsy Rose Lee never thought of. Rick swaggers toward the dresser to take off his watch, while I search behind my back for the hook to my bra. Maybe I’ll fling it onto the bedpost. Maybe I’ll toss it over the lampshade. Heck, the way I’m feeling, maybe I’ll send it flying to the moon.
“I was wondering where this was.”
My bra hits the floor with a dull thud. Rick’s holding up the pink note with Sylvia’s telephone number.
“I thought I’d lost it. Where’d you find it, Jenny?”
“Sylvia gave it to me? At the barbecue?”
Standing there like he’s glued to the floor, it takes my smart husband all of six seconds to put two and two together.
“You found my note.” This is not even a question, and I just nod my head. “And you thought I was having an affair.”
I’ve suddenly developed a burning interest in finding out if my bra landed near my feet or over by the bed.
“And now that you’ve figured out I’m not cheating, you want to make love.”
“All right. All right. I thought it. How could I not? You’re at the restaurant all the time.”
“Why would I ever come home, Jenny? You’re too busy organizing the world to pay attention to anybody else. Even your own daughter.”
“Leave Angie out of this.”
Rick stalks to his closet and pulls down his suitca
se, and I think I’ve died. Standing up. Rigor mortis has set in and they’ll have to break my bones to get me in the casket.
“The fact is, Jenny, I’d have to tattoo Red Tag Sale on my butt to get you to notice me.”
“Where are you going?” I’m still rooted to the spot, the living dead, waiting for undertakers to carry me out.
“I have some thinking to do.”
“Don’t go. Not on Angie’s last day.” Finally I find my feet. Racing over I clutch his arm. “Rick, don’t go. Please.
“You’re right. I misjudged you, I’ve been busy, I don’t pay attention.” I slump down onto the mattress. “But it can’t be all my fault, Rick. Sometimes I feel like the only reason you have me around is to cook your infernal pies.”
Rick sags down beside me, and for a while we sit there, two tired old mules trying to carry a load that has suddenly grown too heavy for us.
When he touches my knee, I think that if we can just get past this moment, we’ll be all right. If we can just hold each other and say I’m sorry, I really do trust you and in spite of what it looked like the night you caught me in the bushes behind the restaurant, I have never, ever stopped loving you, we can move forward. Not the same. Never the same. But stronger, somehow, like seasoned oaks that survived Katrina and put down deeper roots against another storm.
He touches my knee, and I think the worst is over. But then he pulls his hand back as if I have some serious disease and might contaminate him.
“What are we going to do, Jenny girl?”
I’ve cheered Rick through starting his own business, fending off Godzilla’s protests that he was meant for greater things, worrying about financing Angie’s college education and thinning hair. I’ve held his hand through flu, knee-replacement surgery and dandruff.
But I’ve lost my megaphone and I’m fresh out of pom-poms. I don’t know the answer to his latest question. If I did I’d bottle me and sell myself for a million dollars. The magic pill that fixes everything.
“I don’t know,” I tell my husband, and it sounds like bells tolling for a broken marriage.
CHAPTER 10