by Liz Talley
Jack followed the man, who turned and stuck out a papery hand. “My name’s Willie Turner. This here’s my store.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jack said, taking the man’s hand. It felt fragile in his larger one. “Name’s Jack Darby. I appreciate your help.”
Willie’s rheumy eyes danced. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
Jack didn’t know how the man figured he was a neighbor. No one in Oak Stand knew him or his name. He’d bought the horse farm in the name of his newly established corporation, Sonar Caballo, so the man’s words puzzled Jack.
“Neighbors?” Jack asked.
“Ain’t we all neighbors in this ol’ world?” The old man bent and peered underneath the truck. “Your spare sittin’ under here?”
Jack launched into action, locating the jack and the spare. Before he could blink, he and Willie had the deflated tire off and the spare on with a minimum of groaning and sweating. He wiped his hands on a towel he’d tucked in the door of the truck before he set out.
“Come on in and get yourself a cold drink,” Willie said, turning and heading for his tiny store. He didn’t leave room for a refusal.
Jack pulled the screened door open and felt the cool rush of air-conditioning as he tried to adjust his eyes to the dim room. It smelled of earthworms, hummed with crickets and rattling coolers, and felt like he’d stepped back thirty years in time. There was even a 1977 Dallas Cowboys calendar on the wall behind the cash register.
“Go on and grab a soda,” Willie said from behind the counter. “Get me one of those orange ones if you don’t mind.” He rifled underneath the counter and Jack stepped toward the cooler, pulling out a Nehi Orange and a Dr Pepper. He shut the case just as Willie flopped a dog-eared phone book onto the counter.
“I can’t rightly remember Old Bill Fuller’s number. He’s got a tire store in town, and I know he could patch that tire right up. You got time for that?”
Jack popped the top on his soda and handed Willie the orange can. “Yes sir. I’m going to be staying over at the Henderson place. I mean, well, I just bought the place.”
“Know it well,” Willie said, thumbing through the few yellow pages in the book. “My mama used to work for Mrs. Henderson back in the fifties. They was good people. Their boy dying over there in Vietnam liked to kilt them.”
Jack took a big gulp of soda, enjoying the way the icy beverage coasted down his throat and settled in his belly. He had no clue why he’d told Willie he’d bought the farm. He wasn’t ready to reveal himself to the town, at least not until he saw Nellie.
Willie shoved the phone book toward him, handing him a tiny notepad and pen brandishing a bank logo.
He obediently jotted down the info, folded the paper and shoved it into his back pocket. “I thank you, Mr. Turner, for helping me. It was a kindness I hope to repay someday.”
Willie waved his gratitude away. “The good Lord put us here to serve.”
Jack finished his soda and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “My thanks anyway. How much do I owe you for the drink?”
“Not a thing. Just make sure you come see me when you want to go fishing on that pond you got out there. I got every kind of bait you need and some you don’t,” the old man added, settling himself into a folding lawn chair behind the counter.
Jack smiled. “I’ll do that. It’s been awhile since I’ve been fishing. Perhaps you’ll join me and help me catch a mess of fish to fry.”
Willie pointed one crooked finger at him. “Name the place and time.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Turner.” Jack waved as he walked out the door.
Blinking against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, he walked back to his truck. Gravel crunched beneath the old work boots he’d found in the back of his closet. He’d been in town but half an hour and already had a date. Okay, so it wasn’t with Nellie, but fishing with an old-timer who knew his way around a rod and reel was a close second.
Now he just had to figure out how to present himself to Nellie. His plan had gotten him this far, but what next?
Most people would’ve called him crazy. Hell, at times he thought rolling the dice on Nellie sounded like the stupidest stunt ever. Chuck everything and go after some woman who’d lied to him like a snake-oil salesman? Maybe he’d swallowed a stupid pill the night Elle—wait, Nellie—had shown up.
But, no, he knew. He hadn’t even been surprised when a horse farm popped up for sale right outside her hometown. Serendipity. Fate. Kismet. Divine intervention. Put any name to it, but Jack knew what he had with Nellie was real.
He slid behind the wheel and fumbled for the air-conditioning button. Damn, but Texas was hot in late June. The air was so thick he felt he couldn’t even breathe. Rivulets of sweat coasted down his back.
He fired the AC on high.
Sweet, cool air poured out as he pulled away from the bait shop. Willie had come out front and stood waving goodbye.
Not such a bad welcome after all.
AVOIDING THE BLACK HOLES dotting the gravel-deprived driveway, Jack bumped up to the Henderson place. Maybe he’d been too optimistic about his welcome. The house loomed in the distance, large, domineering and in want of a good coat of paint. For some reason, it made him recall the Amityville house. Spooky. Oaks draped the front yard, and in the gloom, he could just make out an old greenhouse with plastic flapping ghostlike in the Texas breeze.
Jack stomped the brake to avoid hitting a cat that sprang from beneath the sagging porch. The truck skidded to a stop.“Hell,” he muttered. “Just what I need—a run-down, piece-of-crap house. Can’t wait to see the barn.”
He didn’t make a habit of talking to himself, yet in a setting such as this, black cat included, he felt it perfectly logical.
Jack opened the truck door, slid out from behind the wheel, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He needed help.
Someone answered on the fourth ring.
“Wuz up, J.D.?”
“Hey, Drew. Not much. Where’s your mom?”
The phone clattered and he heard his nephew call for his mother before asking his favorite question. “When you comin’ down for a game?”
“I’ll try and make it soon. I got to get your mom’s help first.” He hated putting Drew off. Lord knows he didn’t make his nephew’s baseball games often enough. Maybe if things worked out with Nellie—and they would work out—he could take her to watch his nephew pitch.
“I had to ice my shoulder after every game. It’s been sore a lot.”
“You using that liniment I sent you?”
“That stuff smells like horseshit. How am I supposed to ever get laid smelling like that?”
Jack heard his sister pick up another line. “Andrew Taggart! You watch your dirty mouth!”
“Sorry, Mom. Bye, J.D., gotta get to practice.”
He heard his nephew hang up. “Hey, sis.”
“What am I gonna do with him? His father doesn’t take a bit of interest. Getting laid. He just turned seventeen, for goodness’ sake.”
He smiled, kicking a stone into the overgrown grass beside the front walk. “Well, that’s when I first got laid.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Dawn said. Jack could hear resignation in her voice. “I can’t believe he’s old enough to brush his own teeth, much less want to have sex.”
Silence hung on the line.
“I’m getting old,” his sister sighed.
“Yeah, getting old sucks,” he said.
“What’s up?” Dawn asked. Jack could hear dishes being dumped into the sink. His sister was a legendary multitasker.
“I need your help.” He looked up at the house. It had good bones, but needed some major sprucing up. He was going to spend a buttload to get the place in shape. He could only hope his Vegas house sold soon and for above asking price.
“You? Wait. You? Jack Darby? You need help?” Dawn was not only a multitasker, but a typical older sister.
“You want to be a smart-ass, or do you wa
nt to put your skills to use?”
She stopped taunting. He could hear her nearly salivate over the phone. “Skills?”
“Yeah, this place I bought needs work. A lot of work.” He walked up and surveyed the porch. A couple of slats were missing. The front door looked to be in good shape, but the windows were fifty years old with cracking paint.
“What do you mean? Like a remodel? Because I don’t do remodels. I own a furniture redesign shop.”
“Uh, like I know that.” He started to add that he’d helped her finance it, but she didn’t need to be reminded of her little brother’s success. She was doing fine on her own.
“Just saying,” she said. He heard glasses clink and a cabinet door slam. “You want me to come up and take a look?”
“I’m calling,” Jack said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. He was almost afraid to open the door. He wished he had brought Dutch. At least the dog would protect him. Or maybe not. Dutch was afraid of the wind if it blew too hard.
“Hmm.” Dawn was thinking. He could hear the cogwheels turning in her head. She was visualizing her calendar—Andrew’s games, consultant appointments, meetings at the church. “I guess I can come up this weekend. Larry has Drew. Next week’s out because of tournament ball. I could at least help you get a game plan for what needs to be done.”
“That’s great, Dawn. I could really use you.” He knew the words that would lock Dawn into coming. Need and appreciation. His sweet sister was so predictable. God, he loved her.
“Okay, okay, you already have me. No need to pour on the sugar, Jackie.”
He rolled his eyes and noticed an enormous spiderweb lacing the beams of the porch. He put the key in the lock and gave it a twist. The bolt slid home with a loud click. Jack pushed the door open. The creak wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.
Sunlight followed him into the foyer. First impression: The Waltons meet the Brady Bunch. Dusty oak floors made a worn path into the large living room. Groovy striped wallpaper lined the single wall to his right.
“Wow.”
He heard crystal clinking before Dawn said, “What?”
“This living room is really orange.” He stepped into the room. A tired gold sectional filled one half. A shag rug centered in front of a bay window harbored a forest of dust bunnies or maybe Texas tumbleweeds. A macramé basket hung drunkenly from a lone hook in the corner. A few tables were scattered about, as if they’d missed the burn pile by a splinter. In the corner squatted a wood-burning stove.
“Like how? Russet or tangerine? Or maybe a melon?”
He snorted. “Like orange. Um, Tennessee-orange.”
“Tennessee-orange? What kind of…oh, yeah, you’re a guy. Tennessee-orange. That’s like bright.”
“Yeah. No shit, Sherlock,” Jack quipped, walking toward the kitchen tucked to the right of the living area.
“You want me to come or not?” she snipped. He forgot how much she hated “potty” words, no matter that she used them herself every time she stubbed a toe or broke a nail.
“Sorry,” he said, peering through the gloom of the small kitchen. It looked very green, like that sixties’ green. Puke.
“Okay, listen. I gotta run. Drew has practice. He’s already started my car and is honking the horn. I’ll come on Friday. Until then, hire somebody to do some cleaning and start salvaging anything you think you can use. I’ll bring catalogues so we can order the basics.” Dawn didn’t ask. She commanded. It was the benefit of being the oldest.
“Aye-aye, captain.” He closed his phone. Thank God for sisters like Dawn. He never could have called Cheryl to help. She was constantly on deadline. Forgetful, lovely and committed to writing those God-awful romance books, his sister Cheryl would have gladly pitched in to help and then promptly forgotten she had. She’d remember at Christmas.
Dawn took charge. Newly single after thirteen years of a rotten marriage, she held her vulnerability in her hand like a repulsive beetle, refusing to look at it even as it scuttled about her palm. She balanced raising her son Andrew with launching a new business, taking Internet classes, and avoiding her creep of an ex-husband and all his legal troubles.
She was a classy lady.
He trudged through the dining room, kicking old empty boxes to the side along with dusty newsprint. Depressing. Up the stairs. Rickety. Into the first bedroom. Moldy. Second bedroom. Musty. Master bedroom. Not so bad.
He was afraid to peek into the bathrooms—they couldn’t be good—so he whipped out his cell phone and started calling the utility companies. He needed to get someone out here ASAP. He could rough it for a few days, but Jack Darby had been no Boy Scout. And he wasn’t starting anytime soon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The grass may be greener on the other side, but you still gotta mow it.
—Grandmother Tucker to Nellie when Nellie complained about being a Tucker.
ALL THROUGH THE MONTH of June, Nellie had tried to avoid thinking about Jack. Okay, that was a lie. She thought about him every night as she lay in her double bed, staring at the curvy mirror just above the old-fashioned wash-stand. The night shadows flickered in the mirror, begging contemplation, so she would grow philosophic about all things great and small.
She thought about Grandmother Tucker with her iron will and soft smiles, about her own failure to achieve her dream of being married and raising kids, and the spark in Jack’s eyes just before he slid his body into hers. The way he cupped her face, peering into the depths of her eyes, searching for who she truly was. That raw, tender moment of sheer nakedness. Not of the body, but of the soul.She’d had that with Jack. A perfect stranger she’d met in a bar. Emphasis on the perfect.
But the other stuff got in the way. Her own insecurities about who she was, who she should be. Part of her loved the way she’d felt in Vegas; the other part wagged her finger at the wild half, reminding her who she was, how she was supposed to act, what was expected.
She was Nelda Rae Hughes. And she was a Tucker. Tuckers stood straight, combed their hair before they left the house, served on charity boards, gave benevolently, but spent wisely. Grandmother Dorothy Rivers Tucker made sure her granddaughter understood this. It was her birthright. Her destiny.
And unlike her own mother, Nellie never rebelled. Probably because she didn’t want to end up like her mother. Pregnant, forced into a miserable marriage, and then strung out on whatever drugs she could beg, borrow or steal, Grace had been a tragic figure destined for a bad end. Nellie’s father had thought he could get his hands on the Tucker millions through Grace, but that was before he got to know Dorothy Tucker. Before he realized how stupid he had been. Before he realized living off the Tuckers was as hopeless as Grace’s sanity.
When Grandmother Tucker found Nellie, she’d been lying in an overloaded diaper, listless and lifeless, way past the wailing stage. Her mother, strung out on bad stuff, had driven away two days before, leaving her baby behind. Grace had never even looked back. Or so Uncle Teddy had told her.
Of course, at eleven years old, Nellie had soaked this up, a willing sponge to her alcoholic uncle’s tale. Grandmother Tucker had come into the parlor, heard Uncle Teddy and promptly hit him in the head with the fireplace broom.
Then Grandmother Tucker had stepped over Uncle Teddy as he lay moaning on the floor, lifted Nellie into her arms even though she weighed a hundred pounds, and told her Uncle Teddy was an idiot. Nellie believed her because ever since Grandmother Tucker had scooped Nellie up off the floor where she lay in that house just south of Tyler, abandoned by her own parents, she’d belonged to Grandmother Tucker.
And Grandmother Tucker had been a hell of a strong woman. How Nellie had both loved and hated her. Yet love triumphed. It always did. Or maybe not. Take her and Jack. Her only course of action was to leave Grandmother Tucker in the past. And leave Jack there, too.
That had been her mantra for a whole month. Leave the past and look to the future.
So she worked and she got busy on the kitchen renovatio
n. She’d hired Brent Hamilton and had no clue when he did any work. Every time she saw him, he was on the phone. It never sounded work-related, but the kitchen showed progress so she couldn’t complain.
She’d step inside, and Brent would shout a hello, rake her up and down with his eyes and lift his eyebrows appreciatively. It both flattered and repulsed.
“When you going out with me, Nellie baby?” he would ask.
She gave the same answer every day. “When hell freezes over.”
It drove Brent crazy. He couldn’t stand being turned down. Especially by the former nerdy town librarian.
“We’ll see about that. I’ve got plans for you, and they’ll drive those women from your mind.” He would wink playfully, trying to establish some intimacy based on his lame lesbian comment.
She ignored him. No doubt, he was good in bed. He’d had plenty of practice. But he didn’t intrigue her as he once had. Two months ago, she would have tripped over herself to get to Brent. Of course, two months ago, he wouldn’t have asked.
He asked now because of the way she looked. Shallow. She was the same person she’d always been. Except now she wore expensive, formfitting clothes, straightened her frizzy hair so it shone like satin, curled her eyelashes and polished her toenails. She’d always held her shoulders back—Tucker rule—but now her breasts were headliners instead of two-bit extras. It was all icing, window dressing. The real Nellie still wore her comfy panties under the kick-ass jeans. Well, most of the time anyway. The pretty silk ones were sometimes hard to ignore.
Brent approved of her new look. So she wasn’t surprised when she came home one Saturday, wearing a silk sleeveless sweater in pale blue with a white handkerchief skirt and backless sandals, to see him come out of the kitchen looking for her.
He stomped out, covered in dust, but looking pretty darned good despite the debris peppering his wavy hair.
“So you went out again with that redneck Bubba Malone but you won’t go with me?” Incredulous. The idea of her having an ice cream with Bubba Malone had baffled more intelligent people than Brent. And when she’d gone with him a couple of days ago to the Jupiter Steakhouse, well, that just stunned her handsome contractor. Especially after he’d asked her out for the same night.
