“After Raymond died so young, I couldn’t imagine loving anyone else, and when your mother and your aunt Sara were little, I was trying to keep afloat. Then you and Logan were such handfuls.”
“Logan was a handful. I was the model adolescent.” Darcy forced a teasing tone.
“Logan was wild. But, I worried—worry—about you even more than Logan.”
“Me? Why?” She lowered herself to the couch as her world shifted with another tremor.
“You work so hard not to be like your mother, you aren’t living. You go to work, date the most boring of men, and never do anything that scares you.”
The truth of her grandmother’s words settled on her chest like a bucketful of river mud. “Would you rather I slept around, experimented with drugs—”
“You’re getting defensive. You always do that when I even mention your mother. That’s why I worry about you. You’ll never have a worthwhile relationship unless you open up and trust someone.” Ada licked her finger and flipped the page, her eyes on the text.
“I have friends in Atlanta.” She did, didn’t she? Several had texted, and Alice, her replacement and a friend, had called several times. To ask about the job. Darcy pulled the old afghan over her lap and poked her fingers through the holes.
Was Ada right? Probably. She always ended up being right.
The book slapped shut. “I don’t suppose I could have a bowl of the banana pudding I smelled earlier? I’m old enough to have dessert before dinner.”
“Robbie took it. I mean, I made it for him.”
“Why is that, dear?”
“To . . . you know, thank him for helping you, checking on you . . . and stuff.”
“It’s not because you thought he was gay?”
“What? How in the world . . .”
Ada palmed the smart phone Logan had bought her and waggled it. “Darlin’, the girls at the library texted me before you even made it home from the Piggly Wiggly.”
Darcy fell to her back and pulled the afghan over her head, muffling her voice. “He’s not actually gay.”
“Good gracious, of course he’s not. Half of the women in town are prancing around like bitches in heat. He must give off some sort of male animal pheromone. I saw that on Oprah one time. Are you attracted to him?”
“Oh. My. God.” The afghan stayed put over her face. Was she actually having this conversation? She’d never confided in Ada about men. In fact, Ada had only briefly met the two men she’d gotten semiserious with in Atlanta, and she’d never brought either of them home to Falcon. “Who wouldn’t be?” Darcy’s voice barely penetrated the yarn. “He hates me.”
“He’ll get over it. Although, I’m not sure a banana pudding is going to make much of a dent. Give it some time. The rumors will die.”
“Will they? They never did about Mama.” Darcy pulled the afghan off and raised her head.
“There’s a big difference. The rumor about Dalt isn’t true. Your mama . . . well, she did her best to stoke the talk.”
Silence settled for a time.
Ada cleared her throat. “Since there’s no pudding, could you fix some macaroni and cheese? There’s a documentary on the PBS I want to watch. How about it?”
Laughter snuck through her embarrassment. Darcy hauled herself up. “Coming right up.” She was almost out the door when she turned back to lay a kiss on Ada’s age-softened cheek. Ada patted her hand, no words necessary.
* * *
Robbie drummed his fingers on the arms of his recliner. Sexual frustration tinged with anger drove his restlessness. Only one thing to do. He hauled his motorcycle out of the detached garage and pulled on a leather jacket and black helmet. The growly vibration of the crotch rocket’s engine settled in his chest, helping to erase a portion of the emotional stew.
With patience, he negotiated the bumpy lane, but as soon as he hit asphalt, he let the bike run. Twisty country roads beckoned. He went too fast. The danger and adrenaline appeased the beast.
After his heart had stopped pounding and some of the tension left his shoulders, he pulled into an out-of-the-way convenience store to stretch. He drained a bottle of water in a matter of seconds, the leather jacket and helmet uncomfortably hot but mandatory. He might be reckless, but he wasn’t stupid.
Robbie wasn’t sure the same could be said about the three young men sauntering in his direction. Their pants sagged, and their grungy T-shirts weren’t long enough to cover the tops of multi-hued boxers. All three boys were white, their muscles lean, not yet fully developed.
The leader wore a smirk below a hooped ring in his nose. A rebel-flag bandana hung out of his back pocket, a swinging statement. His hair was short, spiky, cotton-colored. Pink scalp shined under the artificial lights. The punk was one aggressive neck tat away from being a poster child of the KKK.
“Well, well, boys. If the rumors are true, we have caught ourselves a faggot.” The leader’s voice was thin but full of confidence and bravado. All three looked to be around eighteen, but Robbie had never seen them around Falcon.
“I’m going to advise you to turn around and walk away.” Robbie propped his helmet on the bike and faced the trio. Robbie had at least eighty pounds on them, but as a teacher and coach, he couldn’t fight teenagers in parking lots. His job was too important. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, partly in preparation but mostly for intimidation.
Forward progress of the two boys in the back halted, and they exchanged telling looks, but their leader wouldn’t be denied.
“Nasty rumors are spreading about you, Coach. I’ll bet you love hanging out in the locker room. If you came on to me, I’d beat your ass.” He snickered and threw a glance over his shoulder. This little show was obviously to gain favor with his friends.
“Let’s get a few things straight. Skinny, white boys are not my type, and I’d be the one beating your ass. I’m a United States Army Ranger, son. You really want to take me on?”
The young man snapped forward and popped Robbie on the cheek with a fist. Pain radiated across his face. Rage thundered through him like an old friend. He twisted the boy’s shirt in his left hand and hauled his fist back, putting enough static energy in his arm to break the boy’s jaw.
Panic gaped the boy’s mouth, and Robbie took a deep breath, tamping the tarry mire of his fury back. Instead of a bone-crushing blow, he jabbed twice with the heel of his hand, once below the boy’s eye and once on the bridge of his nose. Enough to teach the boy a lesson, but not enough to send him to the hospital.
Blood trickled out of both nostrils, staining the metal hoop. A guttural, animal-like moan reverberated from his chest. Robbie dropped him. The boy landed on his side, his shaking hands cupped over his nose and mouth. His shirt had ridden up to expose a set of small, ripped abs. Childlike sobs escaped around his fingers. With a sigh, Robbie turned to his friends.
“You boys want to give me a try, or do you want to take your friend home and get some ice on his face?”
They exchanged a look and said “Ice,” at the same time.
The trio stumbled into an old sedan and squealed out of the lot. Twice in one day, anger had burned a path through him. Thank God he’d learned not to let it overwhelm him. He should send the Army therapist a thank you note.
He pulled his helmet on, the tight press against his cheek calling forth some imaginative curses. Is this what he had to look forward to until the rumors died? Damn Darcy Wilde and her big mouth. Her tempting, sexy-as-hell, big mouth.
He stowed his bike in the garage and went straight to the kitchen. Avery whined at his knee, sensing with doggie intuition his human was hurt. Robbie knelt to offer him a reassuring hug and received a gentle lick on his sore cheek.
He tossed some ice in a dishtowel and grabbed a spoon and the casserole dish. Flipping to ESPN, he leaned back in his recliner, one hand holding ice to his cheek, the other shoveling a huge bite to his mouth.
Holy shit. That was good. Another huge bite, and he closed his eyes to savor the explosion
of flavor. The bananas were perfectly ripe, the wafers crisp, and the pudding thick and custardy. Not from a box, that was for damn sure. A tongue drooled on his arm. He offered a spoonful to Avery, who wolfed it down.
Between the two of them, they finished the entire dish and lay together in a banana pudding coma, watching Sports Center repeat itself. He would have to run an extra three miles tomorrow in the crushing Alabama humidity. It had totally been worth it.
* * *
The next morning, with an undisguisable shiner, Robbie dropped into the chair behind his desk and vowed to ignore the situation. Eventually, someone else would do something stupid to draw the town’s attention.
A productive morning ensued. Not only did he draw out some new, inventive plays, he worked on his lesson plan for the honors calculus class he would teach in the fall. Two of his squad would be in there, but the rest would be unknowns, and he wanted to impress them. A knock on the door interrupted a plan on derivatives and integrals.
“Coach Dalton, you busy?” Tyler Buchanan, his burly center, stood in the doorway, shifting on size-fifteen feet. Sweat crept down his face to wet the collar of his frayed, loose T-shirt. Strawberry red burst on his ruddy cheeks.
A glance at the schedule told him Tyler should be in the weight room with Logan. Tyler had a shot for a college scholarship, but only if scouts came to watch, and scouts only watched winning teams.
“Not too busy for you. What’s up?” Robbie prepared himself for anything. He hadn’t planned to address the rumors with the team, but they’d surely heard.
“Well . . . I . . .” Tyler gnawed a lip and eased into a chair. His fingers played with each other in his lap. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Shoot.” Steel tensed Robbie’s back, and his shoulders hunched in a defensive posture he couldn’t seem to stop.
Tyler popped out of the chair, ambled round the office, and palmed one of the many footballs lying around. Smacking it against his opposite hand, he finally said, “A few of us seniors are having problems with a book.” The boy’s gaze stayed on the ball. Tyler shook his head, and his mouth pulled into a frown.
The statement took Robbie aback. The team hadn’t caught wind of the rumors after all. Maybe the talk would die a quick death. “Okay. Which one?”
Tyler regained the chair, the legs creaking under his bulk. “To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s required reading this summer, but most of us don’t get it. We have to hand in a report the first day of school. I can’t afford to start off with an F.”
“I haven’t read it either, but I can grab a copy from the library and help you boys out.”
“That’d be awesome. I’ll tell the others.” Tyler got up to leave but stopped in the doorway. “Don’t worry about what everyone’s saying, Coach. It’ll all be good once we win, right?”
“Right,” Robbie said with a small laugh. So much for a quick death. “Get on back to the weight room.”
Practice went better than expected. A few snickers resulted in extra laps and pushups, and that’s where it ended. The benefit to the gossip was less bleacher babes in attendance to distract the players and coaches. Sheila was there, but no sign of Darcy.
After a shower and a change of clothes, he stopped at the library. Cars packed the lot. The citizens were invested in the football team, and Robbie was its CEO. They expected him to be friendly and available, even if it didn’t come naturally. He was programmed for the fight on the field, not the schmoozing in the stands.
He could leave the errand for another day. A beer and his armchair called. The minivan parked next to him backed up to reveal a tiny blue convertible with Georgia plates. On the other hand, he really did need to get that book.
Chaos reigned inside the library. Little bodies scattered in every direction, forcing a soft warning woof from Avery. A body slammed into his legs and a sticky hand grabbed his for balance before running off again. Two old ladies tottered after the children, one of them brandishing a cane.
Darcy, in a flirty knee-length skirt and prim white blouse, was in heated conversation with a third lady who was around the same age as the other two. Throwing her hands up in the air, Darcy twirled away, clapped her hands, and in a singsong voice, herded the children into a side room like the pied piper.
The cacophony of noise decreased by a hundred decibels. The three old ladies gathered together around a bin of books and whispered. He and Avery approached, the dog’s nails clacking on the marbled floor.
“Ladies, I’m looking for a book, but I need to apply for a card first,” he said.
A wizened face surrounded by artificial, orange-red hair tilted back to examine him. “You came to the right place. Take your hat off inside, boy.”
Robbie whipped his ball cap off and ran fingers through his hair. He followed the orange halo toward the circulation desk, having to adjust his steps to pace her slow, mincing walk. He stood a good foot taller than the woman, but her spine was as straight as an iron pipe, her posture better than the teenagers who slouched their way around town. Handing over a printout of his electric bill and his license, he waited for her judgment.
“You’re the new coach. Robert Dalton.” She delved into her orangey hair and emerged with a pair of reading glasses. Perching them on the tip of her nose, she squinted at the license. “From Tennessee?”
“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t had the chance to hit the DMV. I hope you’ll accept it.” Robbie glanced over his shoulder, but Darcy wasn’t visible through the side window of the reading room.
“I’m Miss Esmeralda Hancock.” Pride drove her shoulders back even farther and her chin up.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
His polite greeting was obviously not what she expected or wanted. “Have you never heard of the Hancocks of Hancock County?”
“I can’t say as I have, ma’am.” At her look of horror, he added, “But, it’s only because I’m new to town, I’m sure.”
The woman laced her fingers, several rings twinkling below knuckles swollen with arthritis, and set them on the counter. “My family founded the county in eighteen aught one. The Hancocks travelled from Scotland looking for rich farmland and plentiful water, but there were Indians here, Mr. Dalton. Creek to be exact, and they murdered Jube Hancock in cold blood in front of his family.” The practiced cadence of her story echoed dramatically against the marble.
The tapping of a cane on marble drew closer. “This young man doesn’t give a flying flip about old Jube.”
The woman circled around the desk and sent Robbie an eye roll and a sassy smirk. She was as old as Miss Esmeralda, but instead of the stoic seriousness of the former, the second lady seemed poised to break into laughter at any moment. Robbie found himself smiling as if he’d known her for years.
“I’m Constance Eubanks. The relatively normal one of the bunch.” She poked her cane toward the other two librarians.
Her teasing insult drew the third lady to the other side of the desk. “Normal? Constance, you wouldn’t know normal if it bit you on the—”
“Arm?” Miss Constance interjected with a tittering laugh.
“Jane! Constance! You two aren’t any better than Ada. You’re giving this young man a terrible impression.” Miss Esmeralda sniffed, but Robbie detected the hint of a smile.
Their banter flowed around him, at once amusing and comforting, the lifelong ease between the three ladies apparent.
Miss Esmeralda returned to what must be her favorite subject. “Jube Hancock was a hero, Constance. Why, I have letters—”
Miss Constance winked at Robbie. “I have a journal from my great-great-great grandmother that said old Jube was on a bender and taunted the Creeks to do their worst. In fact, it’s rumored the arrow pierced his bare”—Miss Constance looked around before whispering—“buttocks.”
A righteous gusty breath inflated Miss Esmeralda, and her papery cheeks flushed. Robbie had a feeling the baiting of Miss Esmeralda by Miss Constance was a long-played game.
“Constanc
e, you know that journal has been discounted. Why must you always bring it up?”
Miss Constance banged her cane on the floor, threw her head back, and laughed. “Because I do so love to rile you up.”
Miss Jane shook her head and thumbed at the other two. “Ignore them. We’ve been in each others’ pockets for too many years. Ada told me you’re renting the old Wilson place. Surprised you didn’t prefer one of those new white-washed houses over by the Walmart.”
Three sets of curious eyes bored into him, the long-standing debate over Jube Hancock forgotten. He shifted on his feet and turned the ball cap in his hands. “I prefer the woods and the privacy.”
The three ladies nodded in unison, their eyes understanding. He had a feeling Miss Ada had told them all about him.
The wrinkles on Miss Constance’s brow deepened and her mouth turned down. She folded her hands over the top of her cane and leaned forward. “Let’s get down to what really matters. Whom are you starting at quarterback, Mr. Dalton? McGee or Hill?”
The unexpected question left him foundering for words. Not that it seemed to matter, because Miss Esmeralda piped up almost immediately. “He’d be fool not to start McGee. The boy’s got legs to go with that arm.”
Miss Jane harrumphed. “But, Hill’s more accurate and consistent. More oft than not McGee’s passes went into the stands last season. I’m not sure he could hit the broadside of a barn five times out of ten. Bless his heart.”
Robbie cleared his throat. “Both boys are working with Alec Grayson and improving every practice. I’ll decide who’ll start the week before the first game, but both boys will likely play.”
Miss Esmeralda tapped her cheek with a forefinger. “Mr. Grayson . . . yes, he prefers Clancy and Crichton. Comes in most weeks for a new batch of thrillers. Must be lonely.”
The three ladies exchanged glances and nodded in unison once more. Robbie had no idea if Alec was lonely or not. Socializing didn’t come naturally to Robbie, but both of them were new to town. Maybe he should ask Alec out for a beer. “Ladies, if everything is in order, I need to checkout To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Slow and Steady Rush: Sweet Home Alabama Page 7