Hold on Tight

by Deborah Smith

  Don Barkley, the shop teacher, nodded happily over his baloney sandwich. “He’s my kind a’ man. He wrote in that book of his, Loving a Dixie Gal, that the ideal woman is an excheerleader who majored in home ec at college. She has a beehive hairdo, and wears high heels at all times.”

  More laughter. Dinah’s lips flattened into a thin line. She popped the tab on her diet soft drink and frowned, not having heard this particular information about Rucker’s taste in women before. Yes, it was amazing what moonlight, fragrant autumn air, and expert masculine lips could do to her good sense.

  “I like the characters he writes about in his column,” noted Gita Smith, the English teacher.

  “Oh? What characters?” Dinah asked nonchalantly.

  “Well, there’s Miss Hunstomper, his secretary. He says she used to be a female wrestler. Then there’s his five-hundred-pound Aunt Clara Vanette—Aunt Clarinet—who felt a lump in her couch and finally figured out that it was her long-lost parakeet. She recalled the night he disappeared, the night she took a nap on the couch with him perched on her shoulder. Poor, squashed thing—”

  “Oh, please,” Dinah begged, “not during lunch.”

  “I like his accountant, Ed Howe,” interjected Byron Breedlove, head of the science department. “Of the firm Dewey, Cheatum, and Howe.”

  Everyone laughed again. “I like the Reverend Snooker Hornswaggle, his poker buddy,” Myra Faye said.

  Gita, a petite little brunette, giggled mightily. “Rucker said in one column that any woman over size eight ought to be sent to Russia. Isn’t that funny?”

  A booming, unmistakable voice filled the small lounge. “Looks like a mean group to me. Probably drink their beers warm and kick their dogs.”

  Dinah stood up, her mouth opening in amazement. “Speak of the devil.”

  Rucker grinned at her from the doorway, a bag from the local fast-food chicken franchise perched in the crook of one arm. “Good afternoon, teacher. I brought you some lunch.”

  He ambled in, looking quite handsome despite the fact that his auburn hair was tousled and he wore jeans, a Masters Tournament T-shirt, and an old green windbreaker. His eyes roamed greedily over her and her tasteful gray suit, then took in everyone else. Dinah put her hands on her hips and stared at him in amused exasperation. “Did anyone give you permission to come upstairs to the teachers’ lounge?” she asked finally.

  “Sure. My buddy Lou Parker.”

  “You never told me that you knew our principal.”

  He set the bag of food down and kissed her quickly on the cheek. Dinah put a fingertip on the warm, tingling spot and tried to ignore the slack-jawed looks the other teachers gave her. “I met him ten minutes ago,” Rucker explained. “Now we’re good friends. He said I could come on up here and make myself at home.”

  Dinah shook a finger at him. “What did you …”

  Rucker smiled sweetly. “I promised to speak at the Friday afternoon pep rally.”

  “You are such a con man.” He nodded, unashamed. She gave him a fiendish look. “Tell me something, dear boy. Did you once write that any woman larger than a size eight ought to be shipped to Russia?”

  He didn’t answer, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He formed a comical, shifty-eyed expression. “What size are you?” he asked.

  “A perfect size ten, buster.”

  “I said any woman over a size sixteen ought to be shipped to Russia,” he lied confidently.

  “Hey!” Myra Faye, easily a size twenty and then some, waved a piece of celery at him with fake threat.

  He grasped his heart. “Uh, I said,” Rucker corrected, “that any woman over a size thirty …”

  Everyone broke into chortles. “Sit down and remove your foot from your mouth,” Dinah urged. She took a seat across the room and he followed her. He began pulling containers from the sack he’d brought. “Thank you,” she murmured, staring at fried chicken, potato salad, pecan pie, and biscuits. “This is fattening. Fattening and unexpected.” Everything about Rucker was unexpected, so she wasn’t surprised.

  “Well, I was down at Fred’s barber shop, and I mentioned what my favorite food is, and Fred told me to go to the Captain Cluck place out on the highway, and when I got there, I thought, ‘I bet Dinah likes fried chicken, and I know my possum does, too …’ ”

  “What were you doing at Fred’s?”

  “Playin’ poker.” He smiled gleefully. “I won fifty matches. Fred won’t be lightin’ any candles for a while.”

  “And tell me, Mr. McClure, how else does a famous writer spend his work day?”

  “Well, I got up real early and watched Oprah Winfrey. Then I went over to the Lucky Duck and had breakfast, and then I interviewed Bascom Lewis—”

  “Bascom? To put it politely, Rucker, he’s the town wino. We sent him to a rehabilitation program, but it didn’t do much good. What is so fascinating about Bascom?”

  Rucker handed her a chicken breast and took a big bite from a biscuit. He chewed heartily, his green eyes completely content to do nothing but gleam at her with unabashed admiration. Then he swallowed and said, “He and me sat at the town square a while and shot spit balls at the cars on Main Street. He tells great stories. He’s a very happy, contented man. He gets a pension from the Army and he—”

  “You shot spit balls?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Do you enjoy provoking people everywhere you go?”

  “Well, we didn’t hit anything but a furniture truck from Mobile,” Rucker protested. “And only because it was movin’ slow.”

  Dinah shook her head in resignation. “And what sophisticated business do you have planned for the afternoon?”

  “Well, I’m gonna drive down to Birmingham and play a little golf with the mayor there, then I’m comin’ back here to go dove huntin’ with Dewey tonight.” He sighed. “I have to find something to do, since you’re gonna ignore me and spend your evening at a city budget meeting.”

  “The chief? You made friends with my police chief and he’s taking you dove hunting?”

  “Sure. I want to ask him what it’s like to be a black chief of police in Alabama.”

  “Do you even like to hunt?”

  “Of course!” He looked grandly offended. “I’m a real man, right?”

  “No doubt. I recognize it by the mustache.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Well, okay. I’ll tell the truth. I haven’t been huntin’ since I was a kid. I’m not too good at it.” He paused. “Actually, I couldn’t even bag a bird at a restaurant.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t mention anything about my huntin’ to the possum.”

  She chewed her chicken distractedly and basked in the glow of his vibrant personality and outrageous humor. “So what time do you want me to come for dinner tomorrow?” he asked abruptly.

  Dinah coughed, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and eyed him askance. “You weren’t invited.”

  “Never stopped me before.” He looked plaintive. “Me and the possum can’t eat a lot of restaurant food. We’re delicate.”

  “Like a Mack truck is delicate.” She fumbled with her fork, absently raking it across a cup of greasy potato salad that Rucker apparently thought was wonderful. All right, calm down, she told her skipping heart. Let him come to dinner. Show him that you’re in charge of your wild fantasies and don’t intend to be bowled over by his charm. His incredible charm. “How about seven o’clock? But I can’t promise that you’ll like my cooking. I don’t cook southern.” Dinah glanced wickedly at her fellow teachers, then looked back at Rucker. “How would you like some baked oysters, or maybe some enchiladas?”

  “Great,” he said enthusiastically. “I can’t wait.”

  When they finished lunch he grasped her hand, squeezed it hard, winked at her, and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he promised. “Enchiladas or oysters. Hot damn.”

  Dinah stood also and squeezed his hand back. She realized with a sinking feeling that she was already anticipating their dinner together.
She had to get herself under control before then.

  “Be careful when you go hunting,” she told him.

  He looked so happy at her concern that she squeezed his hand one more time before she let it go. Rucker said a pleasant good-bye to the rest of her group and strode out the door whistling.

  Gita stared after him, sighing blissfully. “He doesn’t care if you’re a size ten and he’s willing to eat oysters and enchiladas for you. Oh, Dinah, this is so romantic.”

  “I think,” Nureyev said loudly, “therefore I am!” He preened a little and chanted that bit of philosophy several more times. Finally Dinah turned away from the kitchen sink and tossed him a slice of mushroom to stop his chattering. He caught it deftly in his sharp black beak, shook it several times to make certain that it was dead, and swallowed it. Then he screeched happily.

  “I’ll cart you and your perch out to the back porch if you don’t quiet down,” she warned. “One talkative male in this house will be enough tonight.”

  She checked the casserole dish in the oven, turned the heat down under a pot of tiny potatoes on the stove, then hurried through the house, nervously fluffing pillows and checking for dust devils. When she realized how uncharacteristic her housekeeping frenzy was, she stopped abruptly and declared to the field-stone fireplace, “I am not doing this for Rucker McClure’s benefit! I have nothing against cheerleading, beehive hairdos, or home ec degrees, but they aren’t my style!”

  She heard the sound of the Cadillac crunching up her gravel driveway. Dinah trotted to the baby grand piano, which occupied one corner of the living room, and sat down. She gave her white slacks and brightly colored pullover a quick perusal, made sure her French braid extended neatly down the center of her back, then rested her fingers on the piano keys and began playing a Chopin piece. She knew exactly what picture she wanted to present when Rucker stopped on her porch and looked through the glass panes of the front door. Casual, elegant intimidation. Watch your step, Mr. McClure.

  She kept her face composed and serene when she heard his heavy footsteps on the whitewashed plank porch, and she kept playing with outward patience until his cheerful rapping signaled that the show had begun.

  Grace Kelly, eat your heart out, Dinah thought proudly as she slowly raised her head to look at him. He had a large grocery bag in one hand, and the possum was perched on his shoulder. She sighed. Who could deal intelligently with a man who thought of a possum as a fashion accessory?

  Through the glass panes he gave her approach a sensual inspection so hot it could have dissolved steel. Tendrils of tickling sensation exploded in her stomach and spread downward. Stop seducing me, you Southern Don Juan, she begged silently. One corner of his mouth rising into a smile, he held up a hand, wrist relaxed, and shook it. Hubbah hubbah, chicky, the gesture told her. Nice tomatoes. It wasn’t quite the humble, intimidated response she’d hoped to evoke.

  But it was sincere, sexy, and effective—so effective that Dinah’s body felt deliciously languid even as she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Decorum gone, she put a hand on her hip, swung the door open, and looked at him wryly.

  “So you and Dewey didn’t come back until after lunch today,” she said with mild rebuke. “And both of you had hangovers. And no doves.”

  He nodded, looking a little sheepish. “I forgot how fast news travels in a small town. We had a good time, though. He’s a great character. The best Baptist deacon I’ve ever known.”

  “Come in before I lose all my heat from the fireplace.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to lose all your heat,” he noted smoothly as he stepped inside. She closed the door and watched him look around the big, open living room at the piano, the mixture of abstract and classical art, the white-on-white contemporary decor, and the bookcases filled to overflowing. “This is some farmhouse,” he observed.

  “I did some renovating and redecorating. Make yourself at home. Give me your coat.”

  “I never had a home like this.” He handed her the grocery bag and the possum, then shucked off the same windbreaker he’d worn the day before. Underneath it, his soul stirring body was covered in a fresh selection from his collection of plaid shirts and jeans.

  “Beer?” she asked, forcing her traitorous eyes to the grocery bag.

  “Champagne. Hah. Surprised you, didn’t I?”

  “I didn’t know our package store carried champagne. Everyone got excited last year when the owner brought in some twenty-dollar bottles of wine. People went in just to look at them.”

  “Ah, but I went to Birmingham yesterday, you recall. The big city. I bought it there. The best champagne, of course. Or at least, it cost the most.”

  “Well … well, thank you. It’s very nice.” Feeling awkward and pleased, she set the possum down on her carpet and took Rucker’s jacket. “I’ll go put it in the refrigerator.”

  “The champagne, not my jacket,” he requested coyly.

  “Right,” she mumbled.

  “You’re forgetting something, Miss Dinah.”

  She took a step backwards, clutching the grocery bag in front of her. “No, I didn’t,” she said lightly.

  His eyes were too serious, his mouth too enticing. “Yes, you did.” He cupped her face in both hands and watched her lips part in expectation as he stepped closer. “That’s the kind of reaction I like to see,” he whispered, and kissed her. “Hello.” He kissed her again, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth. “You look fantastic.” Another kiss. “I missed you.” A final kiss, damp and intimate, and by now she was leaning forward, her breath ragged and her eyes closed tightly. He nibbled the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t know you could play the piano, Madam Mayor. Takes sensitive fingers to do that. Wish I were a piano.”

  He nuzzled her neck from shoulder to ear, tickled her earlobe with his mustache, then ran his fingers over her cheek bones and down to her lips. He caressed their sensitive surface with his fingertips while she let her eyes open languidly. His voice was throaty, and his chest moved in a quick rhythm that matched her own. “Will you tickle my ivories after dinner, Deedee?”

  Blinking groggily, Dinah stepped back. “Deedee?” she rasped. “Deedee?”

  “Yeah. It’s a good nickname. How do you like it?”

  She stood silent for a moment, catching her breath, trying to think straight. Finally she managed to say, “I have not, nor shall I ever be, a ‘Deedee.’ That name conjures up images of a tiny person in ruffles and heavy mascara.”

  “Well, I can dream, can’t I?” he joked.

  Dinah put a hand to her forehead to test for cracks. No, she only felt as if she were falling apart and enjoying every second of it. “You, sir, may call me ‘Dee,’ if you insist.”

  “Okay. I can compromise.”

  “What may I call you, Rucker?”

  “How about honey bunny, or handsome, or sweetcakes? ‘Your Majesty’ will do. That’s what my secretary uses.”

  “She’s obviously unqualified to find a job elsewhere, poor desperate woman.”

  She turned and hurried toward the kitchen, her knees still shaky from the effect of his kisses. Laughing, Rucker followed her. “Actually, she gives me no respect at all. She’s studying for a degree in psychology at night school. She’s a little bitty blond who served three years in the Navy. I used to protect her from the he-wolves at the paper, until I found out she has a black belt in karate and a wit like sharp steak knives.”

  “Is this the fabled Miss Hunstomper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Buon giorno!” Nureyev called from the kitchen. “Nein! Sprechen sie Englisch, amigo?”

  “This is my pet crow,” Dinah explained as she stepped across the threshold. “His name is Nureyev.” She paused for smug effect. “After the ballet star. You’ll have to pardon him. He gets his foreign languages confused.”

  Rucker paused, staring in amazement at the large black bird sitting on a perch stand by the room’s bay window. “I have the same problem,” he commented vaguely. He tracked Dinah’
s graceful movements around the airy, windowed kitchen, watching her put the champagne in the refrigerator and then go into the dining room beyond. She came back with a crystal snifter half full of dark liquid.

  “How about some brandy and soda?” she asked.

  He took it wordlessly, and the gleaming amusement in her blue eyes alerted him that she was enjoying his intrigue over the crow. “It came from Arnold Westerby,” she finally explained. “He’s a ranger down at the county forestry station. He found it as a baby and brought it to me. I never knew crows could talk, but they can. And they’re very intelligent.” She paused. “Arnold brought me the possum too. I think Arnold has a crush on me.”

  Rucker took a swallow of the smooth brandy and regained his aplomb. “Now, how can I compete with a feller who gives you crows and possums?” he asked wryly. “I’ve got animal tendencies, but not that kind.”

  Dinah glanced at him, but said nothing. She opened the oven door and removed a beautiful white casserole dish. “I hope you like coq au vin.”

  “Ohhhh, chicken and vegetables in wine sauce. I can deal with that.”

  Dinah looked at him in surprise. He arched one brow. “I’ve been in lots of nice restaurants. I know what coq au vin is. Hah.”

  “Mr. McClure, you outshine all my expectations.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Of course, I didn’t expect much.”

  He bowed. At that point, the possum waddled into the kitchen. “Nein! Nein!” Nureyev screeched, eyeing the newcomer in dismay. “I think, therefore I am!”

  “I sleep, therefore I am,” Rucker responded. Sighing, he bent over and picked the possum up gently. “Come on, little feller, I’m gonna set you free out in Dee’s woods.”

  Dinah turned from the stove and studied the sorrowful expression on Rucker’s face. “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know if he’s happy bein’ a pet. I want to give him up before I get any more attached to him.”

  “When I sent him to you, I assumed you’d have someone turn him loose the same day. I never expected you to keep him.”