Stef Ann Holm

by Lucy gets Her Life Back

  A man like Drew got whatever he wanted. It was a given. He just had to smile and he received.

  Lucy opted to let his suggestion go. If he were serious, he could give her a call.

  “So are you divorced?” he asked, the question taking her by surprise. He didn’t stand on ceremony, and she wasn’t sure if she liked his approach or not.

  “That obvious?”

  “No wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean diddly these days.”

  “Yes, I’m divorced. And you?” She hated that she asked, but the question was on the table before she could shelf it.

  “Never married.”

  Bad news. A man his age who’d never married wouldn’t know how to spell the word compromise.

  Perhaps his lack of matrimonial commitment was what caused that blank expression that suddenly appeared on his face. Maybe. Maybe not. But he did seem a little bothered by the status or, at the very least, self-conscious about it.

  His broad shoulders captured her attention when he shifted his stance again. “How old are your sons?”

  “Twelve and sixteen.”

  “Tryouts for summer Little League will be at the Park and Rec field by Wood Creek.”

  “I’ll have them there.” She’d always been an advocate of sports for her boys, and thankfully, they enjoyed participating. It kept them out of trouble, for the most part, and centered their focus on a team activity.

  “If he makes the cut, I’ll be coaching Jason’s team.”

  “He’ll make it.” Lucy’s conviction was steady. “He’s good.”

  Drew nodded. “When he registers for school, make sure you get him on the high school team, too. We practice before the fall semester starts, so he’ll have to be there in August.”

  “How could I find out more information?”

  Drew set the basket on the end display of gourmet coffee, reached for his wallet, then handed her a card. “Give me a call.”

  An indecisive arch lifted Lucy’s brows. She didn’t call men, but she guessed she’d have to make an exception. For the boys. Only for the boys.

  The card was straightforward. Bold. Masculine. The type set blocky.

  Andrew Tolman

  Little League Coach and H.S. Athletic

  Director

  Wood Ridge Team and Red Duck

  School District

  P. O. Box 935

  Timberline, Idaho 83691

  Cell: 208-555-9452

  “Call me anytime. I’ll make sure you’re sent the paperwork to have him play for Timberline High.” Drew tossed his wallet back into the basket, then added, “I’ll need your phone number.”

  Lucy blurted, “What for?” Images of an indignant Jacquie Santini scratching her eyes out came into Lucy’s mind, yet for some idiotic reason, she lost her head and wished he wanted her phone number to ask her out on a date. Stupid!

  Drew gave her that crooked smile of his. “How can I refer clients to you if they can’t call you?”

  Flustered, she changed her posture and took back control. She was being an idiot, and just as ridiculous as Opal and her fast breathing at the diner. Even knowing she’d momentarily lost her common sense, Lucy staved off an untimely blush.

  She recited her cell number—which was a moot point. It was on her business card, which was on the grocery store bulletin board.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  “You don’t need to write it down?” She didn’t know why she asked him that. She told herself she wanted to make sure he got it right so she could get the referrals.

  Biting back a groan, Lucy wanted to just crawl into one of the mussels and close the shell on herself. She was so out of practice in the art of male-and-female conversations, she called herself every kind of pathetic. Why was she letting this guy get to her? He was bad news.

  “You think because I’m a jock I don’t have a memory?” he asked, but he did so with humor.

  “Uh, no. I just…well, my memory’s not what it used to be the older I get. So I just…well, I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  The self-assured way in which he spoke evoked shivers through her that she prayed like crazy he wouldn’t notice.

  “How old are you?” he asked, breaking through her musings.

  Recovering, Lucy had no problem in this department. “Forty-five. And I’ve earned every wrinkle and dimple.”

  And that was the God’s honest truth. She was proud of being forty-five, and actually, she thought she looked better at this age than when she’d been in her thirties. She was at a time in her life when she felt free enough to speak her mind, was secure enough in her looks not to apologize for anything a younger woman may have that she didn’t, and she was darn well a lot smarter.

  “You don’t look forty-five,” he responded, giving her a smile that was genuinely complimentary.

  Why his flattery made her feel so alive was a mystery. One she didn’t want to explore. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How old are you?”

  “Forty-six. My joints are a little stiff on a cold morning, but if you ever repeat that to anyone, I’ll say you’re full of shit.”

  The fact that he could reveal a truth like that and curse at the same time both fascinated and annoyed her. She liked to pride herself on keeping her language clean. There were times when a word slipped out and she rued it, but sometimes nothing better sufficed.

  It seemed as if they’d run the gamut of small talk, and Lucy had nothing further to say. She suddenly felt awkward.

  “Well…I need to get going.” She stepped away, and yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. They were a compelling hazel that just made her want to melt.

  Why, of all the men she’d encountered since her divorce, did this one have to pique her interest? That Jacquie would tear her hair out from the roots if she suspected Lucy was remotely interested.

  And besides, a man like Drew was the very last type she’d ever pick for herself. She wanted someone stable and family oriented. A hard worker. Someone who’d be her life partner, who’d rub her feet after a long day and watch a movie with her. In turn, she’d fix him candlelight dinners, put on sexy lingerie and…

  Lucy felt her nipples harden and a tingle catch hold of her between her legs. Her plain panties felt tighter, more constricting. She blushed, backed away farther and put a hand out to steady herself, on a display of Idaho wines.

  And what did Drew do about that?

  He gave her a half grin, walked toward her and took the bottle right out of her hand.

  “Good choice. I’ll add it to my wine rack.” Dropping the bottle in his basket, he drawled, “See you around, sugar.”

  Lucy couldn’t find the words to reply. She stood there like a lump and watched him retreat, her gaze sliding down to his behind. The man had a firm butt like nobody’s business.

  Blinking, Lucy straightened her posture, waited a moment until she was sure he’d gone through the checkout, then dashed to her car and turned the engine over.

  Going past the High County Motel’s lounge, she wondered how many stories of Drew Tolman had been traded inside.

  Lots and lots…or so she thought.

  A man like him would most definitely be the talk of this small town. She didn’t even want to know the half of it.

  Four

  Dean Martin sang for one night at the High Country Motel’s Celebration Lounge. He’d been vacationing in Timberline without any of the Rat Pack, was feeling no pain, and ended up taking the mike right out of Burt Gunderson’s hands.

  Burt had been leaning in to croon a love song to Spin Goodey-Leonard. Sitting straight on the studded leather seat, Spin had been half into her third martini when Dean’s face suddenly came into her view. She’d pushed her rhinestone-rimmed eyeglasses up her nose and focused on him, thought he was dreamy and grabbed his crotch.

  It was the last time Spin ever got drunk.

  The legend of Dino’s solo that night was retold for many years, and
to this day, every once in a while, it surfaced. And always with a more snappy ending. Sometimes Spin and Dino checked into room 69 for some sixty-nine action. Other times, Spin and Dino ran off to Lost Wages and had a secret wedding ceremony—performed by an Elvis impersonator, no less. Once, someone guaranteed that Spin had Dino’s love child. None of it was true, but the story made good entertainment when gossip fell short in Red Duck.

  Which, on this particular night, it did not.

  Lucy Carpenter’s name floated off the lounge walls, along with the mirrored reflections from the disco ball.

  Sheriff Roger Lewis wanted to know more about her, and had just come in, off duty, to sniff out information. Opal Harvey smoked unfiltered cigarettes at the bar, sitting alongside Bud Tremore, who wore a lumberjack’s red flannel shirt.

  The sheriff smirked, headed toward the duo and thought to himself, Yahtzee! Just the two people who’d know about Ms. Boy-Zee Carpenter.

  Roger had run a little check on her, wanted to see if she had any priors. Nothing. Her record was clean as a whistle. But still, Roger always did a double-detail.

  “Bud,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, Roger, and yourself?” Bud Tremore’s middle filled out beyond the cinch of his belt, but he wasn’t portly. Just big. His bald head shone and his shoulders were broad as a barrel. Bud was a decent guy. Straight up. Good citizen.

  “Not too bad.” Roger touched the brim of his felt hat. “Opal, how’re you this evening?”

  “Sheriff, some some-bitch jimmied the lock to the back of my diner. They didn’t get in, but I’m telling you, they tried.” Her red lipstick was creased on her full lips. “I told Clyde about it, but he said there was nothing he could do. This town—it’s getting out of control.”

  Roger ground his back teeth until they ached. Opal could be sweet as apple pie to Drew Tolman, and snippy as cuss to him. Truth be told, Roger once had a thing for Opal, but he’d never let her in on it. She’d been involved with someone else at the time, and when that pooped out, Roger had just met a gal up from Provo and the two of them did a little spooning. But that ended last year.

  “Clyde told me, Opal. I’ll come on by your place tomorrow to check it out.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Opal sipped on a ginger ale, its bubbles fizzing to the top.

  Settling in, Roger asked, “So, Bud, what’s up with this Lucy Carpenter renting out at your place?”

  “She needed something and she talked me into it. That teardown’s just been sitting. It falls under subdivision covenants now, but it used to be zoned for commercial. I’ve got more restrictions on selling it than the trouble it’s worth. I hate bureaucratic paperwork. She said she didn’t care what condition it was in.”

  “Did you run her credit?”

  Bud scratched his jaw. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “No need. She paid me a check on the spot.”

  “How did you know if it would bounce or not?”

  “Didn’t.” Bud took a chug of beer, a crescent of foam staying on his upper lip. “But look at her. She’s got the nicest face of any woman coming into town these days. Who wouldn’t trust her?”

  Roger frowned. “Opal, she say anything to you when she came into the diner the other day?”

  “No, Roger. She just talked to Drew a short time while he was waiting on me to get Ada some biscuits.”

  “I thought Ada was on South Beach.”

  “She is. Doesn’t look like she’s lost a pound, but if you tell her I said that, I’ll say you’re a damn liar.”

  “So what’s this Lucy Carpenter’s business in town?” Roger grabbed a handful of Spanish peanuts and let them trickle into his open mouth.

  “Cooking,” Bud replied, nudging his chin a little higher to rid himself of its double sag. “She cooks for people. You know—like Raul Nunez.”

  “Raul makes a mean scalloped corn deluxe. He won’t give me the recipe.” Opal crushed her cigarette.

  “He still cooking for that actress—what the hell’s her name?” Roger’s mind drew a blank, and he swore at the senility of old age setting in, even though he was barely a day over fifty-five. “That one who did the movie with Tom Cruise.”

  “Yep, he does,” Bud said. “She’s still in town for the summer. I seen her Mercedes at the yoga studio the other day.”

  “You think this Lucy’ll give Raul a run for it?” Opal lit another cigarette, blew the smoke away from the men.

  “I hate to say it, but she has spunk,” Roger commented, then let his thoughts wander as he ordered a drink.

  Time would tell what Lucy Carpenter would contribute to Red Duck—and if that boy of hers would get himself into any trouble.

  The rest of the night was spent debating who served the best burger in town, Woolly’s or the Mule Shoe. That ran its course at ten forty-nine, and then the conversation drifted to who might still be playing poker at the barbershop.

  It was just another night in the High Country lounge.

  Five

  Matt walked down Main Street with his big brother. They’d gotten up early, had breakfast and helped move furniture, and now Mom was using their computer for work. She had to print out her cooking stuff for some people. She said he and Jason could check out the main part of town—as long as they were back in an hour.

  Matt didn’t see much wrong with living in Red Duck. He had a few friends back in Boise, but he never really had a best friend like he’d had in the first grade. Tommy Olsen moved away in the fourth grade, and Matt hadn’t played with anybody else who thought it was funny to squish the guts out of night crawlers under the tires of a Tonka truck.

  Shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, Jason stopped to look at a group of boys across the street.

  “Jason, come on.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.” His brother pushed ahead, his hair sticking up at his forehead. He’d put some jelly stuff in it today to make it spike.

  Matt stepped inside a comic book store and Jason followed.

  Jason didn’t read them anymore, he’d only come along to get away from the house. Matt glanced at the rack. “Look at all these.”

  “Yeah, I see ’em.” But Jason was staring out the door.

  “Jason, come here.” Matt didn’t like the feeling he got, and he worried his brother thought about doing something dumb right now.

  “I’ll be right back.” Jason was walking outside.

  “But—”

  “I’m just going across the street for a second.”

  “Only a second?”

  “Don’t have a cow—I said I’ll be right back.”

  Stepping off the curb, Jason stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and slumped his shoulders. Matt stayed in the doorway and watched his older brother talk to the boys. Jason thought he was hot stuff, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t anybody important in Red Duck. In Boise, other kids thought he was cool.

  One of the boys lit a cigarette and Matt watched his older brother take a puff. Stupid. Mom was going to find out.

  “Can I help you find something?” a man’s voice asked.

  Matt turned around and saw a bald guy smiling down at him.

  “Uh, no, sir. I was just looking at the comics.” Matt took one, flipped the pages, then skimmed through a few others until he got lost in one. When he finally glanced back to the street, Jason and the boys were gone.

  Matt racked the comic book and stepped outside. He passed a sandwich shop, then read a sign that said the Mule Shoe Bar. The tall and narrow windows on either side of the door were too dark to see through. Matt cupped his hands around his eyes and looked inside a few of the other shops. His brother wasn’t in any of them.

  Wandering around the corner, Matt tried not to worry. If he stuck around here, Jason would have to show up.

  He saw a funny-looking lady walking a dog. She had one pink curler in her hair right on the back of her head. Her hair was gray, and she was like the dough boy
on TV—plump and looking like her clothes were too tight. She had a happy face, though. She reminded him of his music teacher.

  The dog she was walking was really cool. He was big and black and he kept pulling her down the street toward a fire hydrant.

  “Hey, boy,” Matt said, getting closer to the dog. Then, looking at the dough lady, he asked, “Can I pet him?”

  “If you can make him stand still.”