by June Faver
As he drove through town, he recalled his first encounter with Reggie Lee Stafford, the dark-eyed beauty who had laughed when he’d stumbled, dropping his books at her feet.
“Watch it, new boy. You almost ran me down.”
In truth, he’d stumbled when he’d done a double take to get another look at her dancing eyes and flash of dimples. But he’d blushed when she’d chided him and gathered his belongings in anger. That meeting had been the first of many disastrous encounters where Reggie Lee and her friends had taunted him as the “new boy.”
Later that day, when a teacher called on her in class using her full name, he’d seized upon the opportunity to get revenge. He’d enjoyed her discomfort when he’d first called her “Regina Vagina.” His timing had been perfect. He’d chosen the moment just before class was dismissed while the teacher was distracted to call out to her, just loud enough to carry, “Hey, Regina Vagina. Why are you so stuck up?”
A wave of raucous laughter swept the classroom. Several boys who were to become his friends gave him thumbs-ups and nods of approval. It was the validation he needed. A way to fit in.
Reggie had turned red and her eyes teared. Grabbing her books, she’d rushed out of class, her covey of girlfriends clustered around her.
He’d felt a moment of remorse for hurting her feelings but had enjoyed bonding with the guys.
She’d retaliated in kind, dubbing him “Franklinstein,” but her taunt had fallen short. Nothing could have equaled naming aloud the female body part that so fascinated the entire male student body.
The wind whipped Frank’s hair as he picked up speed outside the city limits. Within a few minutes, he turned onto the shady lane that led to Aunt Rosie’s house. It was lined with old pecan trees, their branches reaching across to one another like the arms of lovers forever separated by the winding dirt road.
Parked in front of the house, he turned off the ignition and sat for a moment before stepping out. The house had fallen into disrepair, but a feeling of warmth flooded his chest as he gazed up at the old structure.
The porch completely circled the house. He recalled the sound of his young footsteps as he ran around and around irreverently, playing games with other rowdy boys. He could still see Aunt Rosie rocking on the porch, a bit of needlework or a crossword puzzle and pencil in her hands.
Climbing the porch, he set one of the dusty wicker rockers into motion, giving it a push as he passed.
When he inserted the skeleton key in the old-fashioned lock, it turned with difficulty. He couldn’t remember the house ever being locked, but the lawyer had mailed him a key along with a copy of Aunt Rosie’s will. When he’d seen her spidery signature, he was overwhelmed with sadness. He’d been traveling in Europe and hadn’t known of her passing until after the funeral. Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out, puffing his cheeks in the process. He would have to find out where she was buried and pay his overdue respects. Another sin to atone for.
The door opened with a creak, and he stepped across the threshold, entering a treasure trove of memories: mostly pleasant, some bittersweet.
His footsteps sounded hollow. They echoed off the wooden floors and up the stairs to rebound from the hard surface of the stained-glass window on the landing and back down to impact him again.
Walking back to the kitchen, he experienced a feeling of remorse when he saw the layer of dust on Aunt Rosie’s usually immaculate surfaces. His throat tightened with sorrow.
I should have been here more.
He opened the back door, stepped out onto the porch, and gazed across the fields and the orchards. The air was heavy with the smell of fruit trees in blossom and the drone of honeybees harvesting nectar and going about their business of pollinating the blossoms. He took in deep lungfuls of the fragrance.
This is mine now. He wasn’t sure how he felt about owning so much land. He had scrupulously avoided entanglements, and this felt like a major commitment.
In the city, he leased a spacious condo, but he wasn’t particularly attached to it. The furniture, even the paintings hanging on his walls, were all leased.
Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. Although he tried to live in the moment and be flexible enough to seize any opportunity that presented itself, he hoped this legacy wouldn’t require too much of his attention. Up until now, he’d been able to leave the country and travel whenever the notion hit him, and it hit him quite frequently.
He realized that owning this property would infringe upon his ability to go with the flow, to change directions on a whim, celebrate his spontaneity. Now he was a landowner, and with that came certain responsibilities.
He knew Aunt Rosie had derived some of her income from the harvest of peaches and apples from the orchards and the grapes from the vineyard, where they produced a superb pinot grigio, all suitable to be grown in the moderate climate.
Her other income had come from rental properties her husband had left her. They were located all around the small town. Most were residential, but there were several businesses as well. She’d held the local Dairy Queen franchise, although there had always been a manager to handle the day-to-day transactions. Also the small flower shop that handled all the local weddings and funerals.
A smile formed on Frank’s lips. There was one more property.
The Rambling Gazette.
After her husband died, Aunt Rosie inherited the building housing the weekly newspaper. As owner, she maintained a very loose control over the building, and in return for free rent, the publication guaranteed to maintain the building. Miss Rosie didn’t have to deal with it, and the community got their news.
Now the building had passed to Frank. He released a deep chuckle. The Rambling Gazette, where Miss Reggie Lee Stafford worked as reporter and columnist…when she wasn’t babysitting her daddy’s convenience store.
Frank had a feeling he was going to enjoy checking out that old building. It was four stories of red brick, and as far as he knew, the Gazette only occupied the ground floor. It seemed he’d developed a sudden interest in the publishing business. What else did that old building contain?
* * *
Reggie Lee stared out the window of the store but saw nothing. She shivered as she recalled the look in Frank Bell’s green eyes. He was definitely up to something…and it had to be no good.
From the first moment Franklin Bell had arrived in Rambling, he’d been nothing but trouble with a capital T.
She recalled when he’d been introduced to her ninth-grade class. She’d thought he was cute in a green-eyed, dark-blondish sort of way. Way cuter than the other boys. He’d come from some prep school in Arlington, up near Dallas. He was pretty stiff at first. He couldn’t take a joke, and he’d almost gotten into a fight with Kenny Landers his first day.
His temper didn’t improve in the weeks to follow. He’d rushed right smack into her the next day and didn’t even apologize. Just turned all shades of red as he’d gathered up his books and hustled off. Of course, a few people had laughed, but that was nothing. You have to be able to laugh at yourself once in a while.
As if!
Mr. Perfect would never be able to laugh at himself. Not when he could be ridiculing others. Reggie Lee to be specific.
How could a lady as sweet as Miss Rosie Bell Grady even be distantly related to Frank Bell? Their kinship was beyond Reggie Lee’s wildest imagination. She couldn’t conceive that they shared the same gene pool, except for the green eyes.
Miss Rosie had been the kindest person on the planet. If it weren’t for her, Reggie might not have been given an opportunity to become a member of the Gazette staff at such a young age. Miss Rosie had suggested Reggie might like to submit something for the “younger crowd,” as she’d put it. Miss Rosie must have put in a good word for her because that led to Reggie being hired on to cover all school athletic events and later assigned her to write a we
ekly column titled “Around Town.” Reggie also took her turn at writing obituaries and birth and wedding announcements.
Sadly, she had written Miss Rosie’s obituary, cringing when she’d typed in the name of her nephew, Franklin Bell, as her sole living relative.
Miss Rosie’s funeral had been attended by governors, the current and a couple past. Countless senators and congressional representatives came to pay their respects. But there was no member of the family to pay their respects to, because her only surviving relative was out of the country and couldn’t be bothered to fly back to say a final goodbye to the wonderful lady who had taken over the role of parenting him.
Reggie sniffed, remembering that the loss of his own parents was what had brought Frank to Rambling in the first place. Maybe he’d been depressed when he’d first arrived, but it came across as a big, fat chip on his shoulder.
Now he’d come back to claim all of Miss Rosie’s property. The lovely old Victorian house. The verdant orchards and the vineyard. The businesses…
A cold lump settled in the pit of Reggie’s stomach. The Gazette. Frank Bell inherited the redbrick building that housed the Gazette. The building had stood in place for more than a hundred years. It was a monument to the community.
Frank Bell now owns the property. What will that smug bastard do to our building?
Welcome Back to Rambling, Texas
On sale June 2021
About the Author
June Faver loves Texas, from the Gulf Coast to the Panhandle, from the Mexican border to the Piney Woods. Her novels embrace the heart and soul of the state and the larger-than-life Texans who romp across her pages. A former teacher and healthcare professional, she lives and writes in the Texas Hill Country.
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