by Larry Enmon
He didn’t say anything for a minute or two but kept his big warm hand on her shoulder as a comfort. He leaned closer and said, “When you’re ready try it again. Eject the case.”
Jesse swallowed hard and slid the bolt to the rear. The empty case flew out to the right. Her dad held another bullet and she took it, catching a glimpse of him. He gave her a reassuring nod.
She slipped the bullet into the breach. Slid the bolt closed. Found another target, cocked the rifle, and adjusted her sight picture again. This one was closer. She squeezed the trigger, but just before the shot, for some reason, closed both eyes. Another wild miss. She’d forgotten everything she’d been taught the past year. What was so easy at shooting contest and in their backyard now became impossible.
Jesse lowered her head to the rifle’s stock. Warm tears skated down her cheeks onto the cold metal. She’d never felt so worthless. She’d let her dad down. She’d let herself down. Her silent cry broke out into a full bawl. Her tiny shoulders heaving at the anger and humiliation she felt. That rock solid hand gently stroked her hair. When she turned toward him, he was lying beside her with a mischievous grin.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She wiped her tears on her sleeve, but they were soon replaced with others.
“I know what your problem is,” he said. “Wanna know?”
She sniffled and nodded.
“You’re just overthinking. Remember, Sis, shooting is only 50 percent physical—the other 50 is mental. I have just the remedy—works every time.” His confident reassurance could always relax her. He could figure out anything. He reached into his jacket and came out with a piece of peppermint candy, rolled in clear plastic. He opened it and gave it to her.
“Pop that under your tongue and let it melt. Concentrate on the taste and not your nervousness. It’ll calm you down. Peppermint has that quality.”
Jesse tried swallowing, but there was nothing to swallow. She took the candy and eased it under her tongue. Her dad loved peppermint. Kept some on him all the time. He reloaded the rifle and handed it to her. She lowered it across the sandbag and looked down the barrel at the front sight. A fat prairie dog scurried from one burrow to another. Her heart pounded.
“Which one are you aiming at?” her dad asked.
She replied in a whisper. “The big one running. Waiting for him to stop.”
“No, not that one.”
“Huh?”
He pointed in the distance. “See that rock thirty yards behind him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shoot that skinny one to the right of the rock.”
Panic rose in her voice. “Are you kidding?”
His hand rested in the middle of her back. “No, you can take him, Sis.”
A smaller target farther out? The candy melted and filled her mouth with sweetness. She calmed down and shut out the thought of distance, allowing her year-long training to take over. She cocked the rifle, and her finger slipped into the trigger guard. The critter craned its neck and stood on his hind legs, looking at another prairie dog. She had the sites tight on him but hesitated. Thoughts drifted through her head about his friends and family and how much they’d miss him. Her breath came in pants, and her hand was so sweaty it slipped on the stock.
Her dad whispered, “Just relax, Sis, don’t think about it. It doesn’t matter. You’re in control and have the power if you want it. If you don’t, someone else will take it—it’s just a game.”
A quiet calm settled upon her again. Her vision sharpened. The sight alignment and sight picture was perfect. She took one final breath, let half out, and in slow motion squeezed the trigger. The furry thing’s head exploded.
“Holy shit!” Uncle Bill exclaimed. “Pardon my French.” He held the bottle in one hand and binoculars in the other. He took a quick swig. He stared at her with his mouth open. “Jess, you hit the head. A ninety-yard head shot! I can’t even do that.”
The soft pat on her shoulder filled her with pride. But another feeling, much more intense also raced through her. Something she didn’t feel shooting targets. Too young to understand, she only knew she wanted more. Jesse racked back the bolt and the cartridge case sailed out. She gazed at the box of shells her dad held.
“May I have another?”
Ten years later, she won the regional marksmanship tournament, and a year after that, the state. Jesse never again felt the hesitation and doubt she’d experienced that first day. She became an expert tracker and hunter, bagging something bigger every season from unbelievable distances. Her only regret—the humiliation her dad would feel if he knew about her life choices. He was an honest but poor man. A man of honor and great pride in his only child. He was probably rolling in his grave right now.
* * *
Jesse pulled herself back to the here and now. Her target looked like he was about to present himself for the perfect shot.
Never taking her eyes from the scope, she reached in her pocket and her nimble fingers unwrapped the peppermint. She popped it in her mouth and let it slide beneath her tongue. She maintained her even breathing pattern. In … out … in … out.
Don’t hold your breath until just before the shot.
The gangster slowed his pace, turning directly toward her. He stopped and she put the crosshairs between his eyes. Her finger tightened on the trigger. He whirled around and walked in a different direction, still jabbering away on the cell. He stopped again and she tightened again. He laughed and leaned back against the white cinder block building. As his shoulders touch the wall, she completed her trigger squeeze.
The rifle made little sound—a small whistle. The wall behind the target speckled red, and he dropped straight down. His two buds were still in conversation at the other end of the building. She swung the rifle in their direction. It would be so easy—bam, bam. She pulled her gaze away from the sight. Not part of the contract. Only Levern’s lieutenants—not the humps.
One noticed what happened and pointed. He yelled something and they raced to their fallen boss. Jesse slowly racked the spent shell from the rifle and pocketed it. She glanced around before returning to her car and slipping the rifle into the large cardboard tube on the back floorboard.
A rustling sound drifted through the air. Jesse snapped her head to the left. She strained her ears listening to hear it again—nothing. The wind sometimes played sound tricks in trees. She removed the Teddy bear, diaper bag, and blanket from the baby seat and tossed them on the tube. One last scan of the junkyard and the trees, and Jesse backed out of the shadows of the ancient oak and disappeared into the maze of back streets.
* * *
Frank opened the wooden gate and strolled on the flagstone path through a garden that looked like it belonged in the English countryside. The various plant colors and textures blended into a relaxing palette that spilled over the walkway, touching Frank’s cuffs as he walked to the steps of the porch. Bees, hummingbirds, and butterflies flittered from one plant to the other. Strange.
Shouldn’t they have flown south already?
When Frank’s foot touched the first step, something happened. He felt intoxicated—light-headed. A state of peace, bliss, and happiness swept over him. He paused and did a gut check, leaning on the rail.
What the …?
It wasn’t like he never felt this way before, but it usually took a couple of bottles of red to get him there. What was going on?
To the left of the front door hung a Texas Historical Commission marker. Frank leaned a hand against the wall and read the inscription. The house had been constructed in 1910. One of the first around the new Dallas Lake.
Yeah, I know this place.
Frank knocked and Alma answered the door wearing a tight white sweater and dark blue skirt. Her red hair flowed over her shoulders. She looked great.
“You found the place,” she said.
Frank handed her the wine. “I’m a detective.”
Her warm inviting smile drew him across the threshold. “Yes, you are. Come in
.”
She looked different from yesterday. Couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A few years younger? She’d changed her hair, which gave her a more sexy appearance.
“Roast still has a half hour. Want to relax in the garden?”
“Let’s open the wine first,” Frank said. Something touched his leg. He stared at the tabby rubbing its cheek against his pants.
“Don’t mind Maggie. She’s just saying hello.” Alma led the way through the living room. It was just as he remembered—all antique furniture. A mismatch of early American, Colonial and English. Probably not one piece less than a hundred years old. Lace curtains hung from the windows, and soft Persian rugs covered the dark, hardwood floor. The only out of place furnishing was the wall-mounted big screen TV. Everything else was right out of a museum.
“You know I’ve been here before,” Frank said.
Alma stopped as they entered the kitchen. Her mouth fell open and she stepped away from him. “You have?”
Frank had seen that expression a hundred times. Right after a long interrogation when the suspect realizes they’re trapped and the only way out is to confess. He gazed in all directions. “Yeah, about sixteen years ago when I first moved to Dallas.”
Alma’s shoulders relaxed, but she held her breath. “Pray tell?”
Frank took the wine from her and picked up an opener from the counter. As he attacked the cork, he explained. “When I first moved here I was looking for something to do one Saturday and signed up for a tour of homes. Helped to familiarize myself with different parts of the city before becoming a police officer.”
She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. The way she stared at him, never blinking, made Frank wonder.
In a defensive voice she said, “I didn’t live here then.”
He pulled the cork from the bottle before setting it on the counter. “The tour guide said the owner was in Ireland or Scotland for the summer, I can’t remember. But I always remembered ‘The Cottage by the Lake.’ Had sort of a romantic ring.”
Frank studied Alma. Besides looking different, she acted different. He couldn’t care less. He felt wonderful. Why overthink a beautiful evening with a beautiful woman?
Alma’s eyes shifted and finally met his before she asked, “So how long ago was that again?”
“Like I said, fifteen or sixteen years.” He poured her a glass and then him.
“I think you’re a romantic for going on a tour and remembering something from that long ago.”
Her smile had a seductive quality. She held the glass in those delicate fingers, and for no particular reason, Frank found that it excited him. Alma sipped the wine, never taking her mesmerizing green eyes off him.
“My aunt lived here then,” Alma said. “Died a few years ago and left the house to me.”
“Wish I had an aunt like that.”
She laughed. “You did. Except it was a grandparent who left you a big trust. Come on.” She opened the kitchen door and grabbed his hand. They stepped outside.
A giant bald cypress shaded the small side yard, giving it an enchanted, magical feel. A cool breeze swept around the house as evening shadows closed in. Her long hair fluttered in the wind, and she looked like one of those story-book princesses you read about as a kid. They strolled down the mulch garden path past green gnomes peeking around rocks. Crystals and gem stones littered the base of shrubs. When they turned the corner, Frank gazed at the expansive backyard—one huge garden. Her place was as beautiful as the Dallas Arboretum, which was on the opposite side of the lake.
“My God,” he exclaimed.
“Let’s take the tour,” she said.
Alma led him past trees, beds of herbs, around plantings of colorful flowers, and under arbors of wisteria and grape. Bird houses and feeders hung from a dozen tree limbs. Colorful birds flitted from one tree to another and their songs blended into a strange eerie melody. She stopped at a sun dial in the middle of a large paved-stone star.
“Who takes care of all this?” he asked.
“I have a gardener help me with the heavy things, but I do a lot of it.”
Frank was so relaxed and comfortable he could have slept right there on the stone path. The stress of the investigation had disappeared, and he was totally at ease—like being home—only better. Something strange was going on, but Frank enjoyed himself too much to care.
“Oh, dear,” she said, and handed Frank her glass. She ambled to a rabbit limping across the path. Alma bent over and examined its hind leg. The animal didn’t attempt to flee.
Frank picked up a small metal donkey decoration from a flower bed. He gazed at the piece of yard art and at the tight skirt stretched across Alma’s back side as she bent over.
“There,” she said, “you just had a sticker—all gone, now.”
As the bunny hopped into the bushes, Frank said, “Nice ass.”
Alma jerked her head in his direction and he held up the metal donkey. “Never saw one like this before.” He allowed a smile to crack the corners of his mouth.
She grinned, lifted a brow, and stood, sauntering beside him. She took back her glass and sipped it before saying, “So you’re an expert on asses now?”
“Know a good one when I see it.”
She nuzzled next to him and put her hand behind his head. Their eyes met and his lips touched hers. The kiss lasted a long time. Exploring each other’s mouths. This totally surprised Frank. He hadn’t expected she’d make the first move. This evening was going better than he could have anticipated. Dizziness enveloped him and he stumbled backward.
“Whoa.” She steadied him and they laughed. “Let’s have dinner,” she said.
She took his hand again and led him through the maze of plants. They passed a circle of mushrooms on the way back to the cottage. He motioned at them.
“Those are growing weird—never seen that before.”
She playfully chuckled. “It’s a fairy ring.”
The explanation confused Frank, but he didn’t care enough to follow up. The sun had almost set, and the long shadows of evening danced on the path like playful little spirits. In the back of the house stood a lush eight-foot yellow rose bush. The top snaked above the roof and ran along the gutter. The last fleeing rays of sun illuminated it, and it appeared to shine. Frank stopped and sucked in its sweet fragrance.
“That’s magnificent,” he said.
Alma wrapped an arm around his waist. “It’s my favorite. The Yellow Rose of Texas.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”
Walking back into the house, the fragrant garden smell was replaced with the aroma of cooking meat. She popped the garlic bread into the oven while he poured more wine.
“I meant to ask you,” he said, “what did you put on my wrist?”
Her forehead crinkled. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He held it up for her to see. “It did the trick—look.” He peeled back his shirt sleeve for her examination.
She rubbed her finger across it. “Does that hurt?”
Frank shook his head. “Not a bit. What was that stuff?”
“Just a little something I whipped up. Want ’a see?”
Alma led him to a room off the kitchen, a little smaller, but packed from floor to ceiling. On a half dozen shelves there were labeled bottles of crushed powders, salves, oils, and extracts. An ancient, wooden counter surrounded the room with the shelves above it.
“What’s all this?” Frank read the labels as he walked past—Wolf’s bane, Frankincense, Milk Thistle …
She strolled to the counter, turned, and leaned back. “I’m an herbalist. What I treated you with was all plant-based substances. Nothing but herbs and plants from my garden. A little aloe gel, comfrey leaf oil, and chickweed salve.” She winked. “Nothing that would hurt you.”
They had more wine with dinner and chatted about everything from gardening to cooking. Frank always considered his roast recipe second to none, but what Alma served collap
sed that notion. She had peach cobbler for dessert—best he ever had. He helped clear the table.
“I want that roast and cobbler recipe,” Frank said.
Alma released a nervous laugh. “I have to admit I was worried all evening about cooking for a professional chef. Never did that before. Living alone, I’m afraid my cooking skills have deteriorated.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Frank said.
Alma put on some light jazz and kicked off her flats. She held out her arms and Frank folded into them. They slow danced in the living room to old John Coltrane and Mary Lou Williams’s songs. Her perfume had a mysterious floral fragrance he’d never encountered. Frank still found it hard to believe—the perfect evening with the perfect woman. They laughed, joked, and exchanged soft kisses as the evening rolled on. While swaying to the music, she laid her head on his shoulder and caressed his back.
“I wasn’t sure I should invite you to dinner,” she whispered.
“Why?”
She gazed into his eyes. “I don’t know … I … I wasn’t sure if you would find it too forward, me asking you over. We hardly know each other.”
Frank found her candor absolutely endearing. “I’m happy you did. I wanted to see you again. Just wasn’t sure how to ask.”
She laid her head back on his shoulder. Frank could have danced with her all evening. She floated over the floor gracefully, as if she were part of him.
Massaging the back of his neck, she said just above a whisper, “I find you terribly attractive.”
Nothing she could have said would have turned Frank on more. She pushed her pelvis closer and held him tighter.
Frank was about to explode. She must have felt him getting harder. As she pushed closer, the beating of Frank’s heart resonated through his skull like a base drum. He couldn’t take much more. How did he miss all the signs the other night when he had her over for dinner? They must have been there. Had to be if she felt this way about him. Something was very weird here, but in Frank’s condition he couldn’t have cared less. Never overthink a good thing.