The hellion

by LaVyrle Spencer

  "You're not being fair, Tommy Lee. That's not why I came out here and you know it."

  "I don't know anything, least of all why I can't get you out from under my skin." His fingers tightened, and her heart clamored harder.

  "Let me go. There's too much in our past to… to…" But she stammered to a halt and his voice turned a shade softer, silkier.

  "To what, Rachel? To start it again? That thing that's been on both of our minds all day long?" Already he was drawing her close. "This…"

  His open lips came down on hers with a soft, firm pressure, and immediately his tongue came seeking.

  "Don't!" She twisted her head to one side and pushed on his chest.

  "Why?"

  "Because everything is different now. I'm different, you're different, our life-styles are totally incompatible."

  His mouth followed her jaw as she arched fiercely away from him. "I can change. I will… for you, if..."

  "I said, don't! It won't work and we'll end up hurting each other." She tried to twist free, but his hold was too sure and his fingers dug into her arms.

  "I would be anything you wanted me to be, don't you know that, Rachel? If it meant having you back again… Rachel, please…" His hands cradled her head and drew her once again nearly onto tiptoe for a deep, thorough kiss. But as his questing tongue entered her mouth, it brought the aftertaste of gin. Angrily she pushed him away and stepped back.

  "Don't you dare kiss me with your sixth drink of the night still foul on your lips!"

  "Oh, so you've been counting?"

  "Yes, I've been counting. All across the lake in the boat and tonight through supper and on the ride home!"

  He loomed before her but made no further move to touch her while she stood with fists clenched, angry that he couldn't see what he was doing with his life.

  "I can stop drinking any day I want," he stated belligerently. "Just give me a reason to!"

  She ran a hand through her hair and twisted aside. "Oh, Tommy Lee, you fool. Don't you see, nobody can give you that reason but yourself? And it isn't just the drinking. It's the way you live. In that…" She flapped a palm toward the house. "That beautiful, sad, unkempt mansion where you sleep on your dirty laundry!"

  His shoulders wilted slightly. "Rachel, I didn't know you were coming or..."

  "It shouldn't have made a difference. For God's sake, Tommy Lee, you weren't raised in squalor. How can you live that way? And don't blame it on our parents! It's not our parents who ruined your life, it's you! You've become content to just… just drink yourself into oblivion and… and atrophy! But it's not too late to do something about it if you really want to. You could start by going in there and cleaning up that place, or if you don't want to clean it up yourself, at least hire some help to do it for you. And while you're at it, make it somebody who'll cook you something besides greasy fattening foods!"

  He stiffened and pulled back while she felt heartless for striking at his most vulnerable spot. But if she didn't try to make him see the light, who would?

  His voice was tight with suppressed anger as he invited caustically, "Well, don't quit now. You're on a roll."

  At his words she felt a rich, roiling rage that he had so blithely profaned both the body and spirit of the Tommy Lee she had once loved and been so proud of.

  "All right, you asked for it," she shouted, and pointed into the woods. "Go walk back a mile down that road and pick up the litter you threw out the car window, and stop throwing your trash in the lake." Her hand fell to her side and her fists bunched. "And stop driving by my dress shop fifteen times a day and coming in to buy red earrings for your women!" She was nearly in tears as she finished.

  "Anything else?" he snapped.

  Her lips were trembling and she knew in a moment she'd be crying. It was terrible, finding herself falling in love with him again while admitting a thousand reasons not to be.

  "Yes! And water your plants!"

  He did a silent double take. "What?" His head jutted forward and his face scrunched up.

  She felt foolish for having brought up such a picayune grievance, which had nothing whatever to do with anything, and to make matters worse, the tears were beginning to flood her throat and eyes. She spun away from him and began to pace. "Oh, don't you see, Tommy Lee, we've grown so different than we used to be. All the time I'm with you I find myself wondering what people's reaction would be if they knew." She faced him and spread her palms helplessly. "All right, so I'm a snob, but I can't help it. I'm… you've changed so much… You… you're..." She pressed her lips tightly against her teeth and turned away, not wanting to hurt him any further.

  "I'm what?" He stalked her, his voice coming from just behind her shoulder. "That whoring, drinking, fast-driving no-good son of a bitch our parents made me into when they forced you and me apart and made us give up our baby? Do you think that's what I want to be, Rachel?" She was suddenly whirled around, and she found him bending above her, gripping her arms again. "Do you think I don't know what the whole town calls me? That hellion, Tommy Lee Gentry." She tried to escape his hands, but he jerked her erect before him. "But you know something, Rachel? I don't give a damn about what they think or say. All I care about is you. Why do you think I didn't take you to some classy restaurant in Florence tonight? Why do you think I asked you out on my boat instead of someplace in town where we could be seen? Do you think I don't know how shocked the residents of Russellville would be if they saw the prim and proper Widow Hollis in the company of that hell-raiser Tommy Lee Gentry? But I can change, Rachel. You just watch me. Because no matter how you try to hide it, there's still something between us. I could see it in your eyes today when you didn't think I was looking. I could see you wondering if it would be as good as it used to be, and if we could make it over the hundred and one hurdles we'd have to face if we decided to go public and announce to the world that we were going to pick up where we never should have left off twenty-four years..."

  "You're wrong. You..."

  "Shut up, Rachel, and get it into your head that you're not done with me yet. Not by a long shot. We will pick up again, only it won't be where we left off because we've both learned a lot since then-about life and about what to do in the back seat of a car."

  "Let me go, Tommy Lee! I don't want..."

  "I said shut up, Rachel, because you're going to be kissed whether you like it or not, and I'll be back to get the rest later-daddies or no daddies!"

  He hauled her up against him, took a handful of her hair to tip her head back, and crushed his mouth to hers while his tongue writhed against her tightly sealed lips, trying to force them open. Her heart thrust mightily against his chest as she wedged an elbow between them, gripping his shirt while the heel of one hand bored into his chest. But he was powerful in his anger, and she was as defenseless as a doll in his arms. He felt her muscles strain and quiver while she fought him, but his arms and tongue were relentless until the ferocity of his kiss gradually mellowed. And only then did she slowly, cautiously begin to relax against him, allowing herself to feel what it might be possible for them to have again. The silken circles he drew over her lips at last unlocked them, and her body rose up slightly to accommodate his, while the hand clasping his shirt rested easy, just short of caressing. Somewhere in the depths of her mind it registered again that he'd grown taller, for her head tilted sharply back. His chest was fuller beneath her palm. And he'd learned a thorough and sensual technique of kissing that soon raised responses, as his tongue explored the interior of her mouth while one hand prowled beneath her elbow to boldly caress her breast.

  But the contact had scarcely begun before Tommy Lee abruptly pushed Rachel away, spun around, and stalked to his car. He yanked the door open and threw himself into the driver's seat, then slammed the door with uncontrolled vehemence. The engine was already gunning before Tommy Lee realized he wasn't going anywhere.

  Rachel stood where he'd left her- trembling, angry, aroused. Suddenly the engine died and the car door was flu
ng open again. It slammed into the night stillness and he faced her with that same hulking stance he'd presented earlier.

  "Well, what're you still doing here?" He took a single ominous step her way. "Git! If you know what's good for you, Rachel, you git!"

  She turned and ran for her car, her heart raising a furor in her body. And this time it was Rachel who tore all the way back to town.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The reform of Tommy Lee Gentry began in earnest the very next day. He arose earlier than usual, put on a pair of shorts that were too tight around the waist, and went for a jog down his curving driveway as the sun sent splinters of pure morning through the leaves. But he scarcely noticed. He was absolutely miserable- sweating, side-aching, leg-cramping miserable. He hadn't gone fifty yards before he had to stop, lean against a tree, and pant. Fifty yards! Lord a'mighty, in high school the coach sent us ten times around the track! He made it to the end of the driveway with six stops, then had to walk back to the house, clutching his left side. The waistband of the shorts was nearly slicing through his skin by now. He kicked them off with a foul curse and ran down to the lake buck naked, dived off the end of the dock, and found out why they call it a belly flop.

  Cursing again, he determinedly plowed through the water in a formless crawl, the muscles of his arms and legs aching from yesterday's unaccustomed workout.

  With the lake right here, you should swim every day, Tommy Lee. Remembering Rachel's words he forced his arms through the water and thought, I'll show you, Rachel!

  Dammit, he loved that woman, and he'd get into shape even if it took a full year of this misery to do it! But as he slogged from the water after a torturous four-minute swim, panting so hard his throat hurt, checking his bright red stinging belly, he wasn't too sure he didn't dislike her intensely.

  Back in the house he dressed in faded blue jeans and called Liz Scroggins to say he wouldn't be in till later, then faced the horrendous job of housecleaning. Standing at the edge of the living room, he grimaced, cursed again, and attacked the job like a belligerent child whose allowance has been withheld pending an improvement in cooperation and attitude.

  All through that wretched morning, while he forced his sore muscles to do tasks they abhorred, while he suffered a hunger such as he hadn't known in years, while he returned time and again to his empty refrigerator searching for nourishment that wasn't there, Gentry ranted. He worked for hours, then took a break to search again for something to give him sustenance, but all he could find was beer, hard liquor, and limes. He drank a glass of despicably bitter lime water, picturing Rachel's skinny little ribs, and puckered up his face, then cursed again while vowing, Damn you, Rachel Hollis, you'll kiss me next time without a fight.

  But the housecleaning was scarcely half done. Thinking of all there was yet to do he slammed several cupboard doors hard enough to break the filaments in the light bulbs, then gave up, strode out to the car and drove to Catfish Corner.

  "Daisy!" he bellowed, slamming through the deserted bar area toward the living quarters in the rear. "Where the hell are you?"

  Daisy's smiling face appeared around the corner. "Uh-oh, what I done now?" she teased.

  "Daisy, I need two things, and I need 'em fast. A maid who can cook and something to eat that hasn't got any calories in it!"

  Daisy fed him some summer squash that nearly gagged him, then called her sister-in-law, who called her married daughter, who called her first cousin by marriage, who said, sure thing, she'd be happy to work for Mr. Gentry, but taking a job for a holy terror like him was kind of risky, so she wanted two hundred a week, the first week in advance, and a room of her own-after all she wasn't made of money and didn't have a car, so how was she supposed to get back and forth to that no-man's-land of his? She'd live in or she wouldn't do it at all. And she wanted Saturdays and Sundays off, and a ride back to town so she could spend them with her family and could attend her own Baptist church, then she'd need a ride back out to the country no earlier than 9:00 P.M. on Sunday night to give her plenty of visiting time.

  Daisy stood with one hand on her hip, dangling the receiver over her shoulder, smirking across the kitchen at Tommy Lee while on the other side of the room Sam smiled behind his hand. "What should I tell her?"

  "If she can cook better than you, tell her yes, I'll meet her outrageous demands, but if she ever puts summer squash in front of me she's fired on the spot!" He glared at Daisy and added for good measure, "And ask her what the hell ever happened to slavery!"

  Daisy moved her shoulders saucily, but her face was all innocence while she spoke to Georgine in an exaggerated Uncle Remus accent. "Mr. Gentry, he say yes, two hunnerd a week is nuttin', and if he too busy entertainin' his ladies to carry you home, you jiss plan on fetchin' yoself in one o' his big fancy cars. He says he know how all us black folk like big fancy Cadillac cars."

  Tommy Lee came half out of his chair. "Daisy!" he roared. "A simple yes will do!"

  Before the day was out Georgine was installed in Tommy Lee's house. She was given a pretty little guest bedroom and the keys to the Blazer so she could drive into town and stock the cupboard shelves properly. That night when Tommy Lee sat down to supper he demanded to know what the hell she'd spent a hundred and twenty dollars on when all he found on his plate was turnip greens and a piece of broiled, butterless fish that'd leave a medium-size cat howling for seconds!

  Georgine replied with a wordless pursing of her lips as she whipped her apron off and headed determinedly for the front door. Tommy Lee was forced to plead with her to stay, though when he bit into the tasteless fish he had no idea why he'd bothered.

  Later that evening he wanted a martini so badly he went up to his bedroom, where Georgine couldn't see him, and tried to do push-ups to take his mind off the drink-only to find out he couldn't do push-ups anymore. When in the hell had that happened? He sat in a dejected heap on the floor, staring at his traitorous biceps and hating them. He'd been intending to call Rachel that night and apologize for treating her so roughly and for telling her to shut up, but after the failure of his body to perform, he was too angry with both himself and her to pick up the phone.

  He ended the night starved, thirsty, and suffering through twelve of the most painful sit-ups he'd ever performed in his life.

  On Tuesday he called Panache, but Verda claimed Rachel wasn't in.

  "Humph!" he snorted, and slammed down the receiver with typical dieter's temper.

  On Wednesday he managed the downward stroke of a push-up, but after quivering in the suspended state for thirty seconds, still could not push himself back up. He called Panache again, and this time, when he was told she wasn't in, barked, "Well, how the hell can she run a business when she's never there!" Then he hung up again.

  On Thursday he made it to the end of the driveway without stopping. But when he got there he threw up. None of his calls to Rachel's house turned up an answer and Tommy Lee raged inwardly. How dare she ignore him when he was suffering like a blue bitch-and all for her!

  On Friday his arms ached from the pair of six-pound "executive dumbbells" he'd bought the day before and had overused in an effort to strengthen his traitorous biceps, which would only push him up once. His stomach growled constantly, and every time it did, he pictured a plate of Big Sam's catfish and hush puppies. And tried phoning Rachel again. And got angrier. And finally stalked into Panache to confront her personally only to find her out, and himself forced to buy another pair of earrings as an excuse for having come in.

  Meanwhile, Rachel was spending a long tiring week in Dallas at the Trade Mart, meeting with the representatives of the various clothing manufacturers at appointed times, trying to determine what would sell and what wouldn't next fall. "Going to market" was always harrowing. A poor decision was costly, and since her merchandise turnover was limited, it was imperative her choices be prudent. Nor could she buy in quantity. In a small town no woman wanted to confront her newest designer dress walking toward her on another woman.

&
nbsp; Discounts were discussed, haggling done, the autumn line of garments viewed.

  Dallas was hot and dry and very lonely. At night she returned to her hotel room to think about Tommy Lee and try not to cry. She remembered the evidence of his abject loneliness and her heart broke for him. That house-oh, Lord, that house. It was a monument to what they'd once had, and thinking of it again stirred her in a heart-wrenching way. What kind of devotion drove a man to build a house for a woman who was married to someone else? And what woman could see it, recognize it, and not be moved by it?

  She thought of him living in that beautiful place, dreaming his dreams while years rolled on and made him older, more lax about the direction his life was taking… and the tears gathered in her throat. Had he really been waiting for her to be free again? Unbelievably, it seemed to be true.

  The house itself gave evidence to that fact.

  She remembered them returning to it after their swim, and how he'd paused on the stairs above her on his way to his room to change. He'd looked back down and said, "You can't imagine how many times I've dreamed of you being here in my house, looking exactly the way you do right now." She had clasped the door frame and stood gazing up at him, feeling again the magnetic appeal he still had for her. It was one of the rare uncomplicated moments she'd experienced that day. She'd held all extraneous circumstances in abeyance and had allowed herself to admit that she still had-probably would always have-deep feelings for him.

  It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him she recognized "their house," but if she had, she wasn't sure she could have kept from asking to see the bedroom. And that would have been a mistake.

  For the longer she was with him, the more her thoughts wandered in that direction. How odd that in spite of his flaws, in spite of all the other women he'd known, she still looked upon him as her Tommy Lee. And when she thought that way she felt prickly and decidedly female.