by Liz Talley
Or sometimes like this.
“From Vegas, huh? I sure would like to go there. Do a little gambling, see that big dam, and those topless show-girls. You know who just went out to Vegas? Nellie Hughes. You know her? Meet her in Vegas? That’d be a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, it would.”
“So…”
Silence.
“So you gonna raise horses, huh? What kind? I know a man over in Marshall that raises them paints for show.”
Or sometimes there were no questions. Just a rundown on Nellie’s life.
“You know someone else who makes good pound cake? Nellie Hughes. Why, her grandmother made the lightest cake. Gotta sift the flour three times. That’s the key. Well, Nellie was raised by her grandmother. Nellie’s momma went plumb crazy, strung out on drugs, you know. And her daddy… Well, if you ask me, that’s a man who was just lookin’ for a meal ticket. Went off to work on oil rigs and didn’t come back. Left that baby with her crazy mother and took up with a piece of trash down in Mississippi. He divorced Grace—that’s Nellie’s momma—as soon as the poor woman was committed. He’s remarried now, but Nellie’s momma is over in Longview in a home. She don’t know nobody. Shame, ain’t it? But of course, I’m not a gossip. By the way, who’s doing your painting?”
That particular conversation had been a doozy. It took Jack a good thirty minutes before he could make an excuse to get back to work.
And he had worked. Hard. And his sister and Andrew had helped him. Which was why, as he sat slurping his cereal, he dreaded having to tell Dawn and Andrew goodbye. They were leaving the next day. But his dad would be in town the following week. Tom was wrapping things up in California and still trying to placate Lila.
“Hey, here’s the mail from yesterday. You worked so late I went to bed and forgot to give it to you.” Dawn padded across the kitchen in her bare feet and tossed the bundle on the table. “I need to go over the schedule with you before I leave.”
“Schedule?” he said, popping the rubber band and separating the junk mail from the bills. His forwarded mail had finally caught up with him.
Dawn plopped a calendar agenda in front of him. “I have all your appointments for the house highlighted in blue. All appointments pertaining to the buildings and property are in pink. Meetings with local officials for permits and licenses are yellow. Over to the side, you will see a list of numbers. Those are the invoice numbers for the furniture companies along with contact info.”
He felt as though he’d climbed on a Tilt-A-Whirl “Whoa. Wait a sec. I have all these people coming out today?”
“I’ll handle everything today. After that, you’re on your own.” Dawn stole a frosted bran flake from the side of his bowl and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes sparked mischievously. “Flooring people will be here in half an hour. I need to shower and get coffee. Don’t forget to call Dad. Something about the horse trailer registration and bringing Dutch down when he comes.”
Dawn left and Drew walked in.
He shuffled about the kitchen banging cabinets and rattling drawers. Finally he parked himself at the table with a salad bowl and a gallon of milk. He poured half the box of sugar snappies into the massive bowl and added a good portion of the milk. Then he started slurping away.
Jack shoved back from the table, pulling Dawn’s “calendar from hell” away from the fray. He didn’t want his blues mixing with his yellows or he’d have too many greens. Drew kept right on attacking the cereal.
“I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes. We’re pouring cement today and then going to town for fencing.”
“Mmmfff…” was all he heard. He’d just reached the door to the back porch when Drew called out, “You missed one.”
Jack spun around and snatched the vellum envelope from his nephew’s outstretched hand. He stomped onto the screened back porch and plunked down on an ancient rocking chair. He’d be damned if he sat and listened to Drew smack his way through a second bowl of cereal.
He squinted at the envelope he held. It was addressed to him in fine, clear strokes. No return address, but an Oak Stand postmark.
He slid a finger under the flap and pulled out…an invitation? The front was monogrammed with the initials NRH. He opened it.
Jack—Please come to dinner so we may continue our discussion. Friday night, 7:30 at 401 Fort Street. Thong optional.
Nellie
He allowed the note to fall into his lap. A dinner invitation? And what did she mean by thong optional? Was that a double entendre? Or did she just want it back?He stared at the back end of his property as he thought about the implications. The fig tree had been picked clean by the birds. Two pear trees bore spotted fruit. Some clumpy purple flowers grew unchecked at the base of several trees and pampas grass puffed against a dilapidated shed. At one time, the place had been well loved, carefully tended, not sad and scraggly.
Yet Jack could feel nothing but satisfaction. Friday he would know one way or the other. He leaned toward a happy ending, but did he really know Nellie the way he thought he did?
A mockingbird landed in the fig tree and warbled a joyful tune. She was a spot of beauty in the jumble of the overgrown, yellowed yard, and her song gave him faith. Faith that everything would fall into place. Everything would be right.
He hoped.
NELLIE PORED over the cookbooks shoved willy-nilly into a box in the dining room, looking for something impressive to serve Jack. She wanted this dinner to be fabulous. Tenderloin with cracked-pepper crust, braised lamb chops with traditional mint sauce, shrimp and scallop pasta in a lemon sauce—one by one she discarded each choice. Nothing seemed right. Finally, she settled on the epitome of Southern cuisine—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, purple hull peas, corn bread, fresh sliced tomatoes and Texas chocolate sheet cake. No man could resist.
Pleased with her choice, she had but one problem. Her kitchen was still in shambles. Brent had made good progress, but on the day she’d issued the invitation, she lacked an actual cooktop and the ovens weren’t installed. She’d done some cooking over at Bubba’s since his momma had been feeling the effects of chemotherapy. It gave her time to think. No therapy like dicing onion and tenderizing flank steak. But she needed her own kitchen.So she offered Brent a bribe of an extra five percent profit on the project if he could finish the kitchen in a few days, not the expected week or two. Lacking a mind for math and anything better to do, he agreed. By Friday morning, the kitchen was complete. For just a thousand dollars extra.
Nellie had nearly tripped over the plumber on his way out the front door. As she turned to watch him go, she realized her house was quiet. Very quiet.
For the past several weeks, she’d heard saws buzzing, hammers banging, tiles crashing and lots of colorful phrasing. She’d grown so used to having other people in the house, moving, toting, painting and repairing, it felt odd for it to be silent.
She dropped her purse on the dining room table, rounded the corner and stared at her completed kitchen.
Wow. It was awesome. Stone floors, newly stained cabinets with pewter hardware, gleaming appliances, granite countertops and caramel walls. Lovely, beautiful, magnificent—all three. She swore she could feel a lump in her throat.
Before she could stop herself, she was fast at work restoring order. She pulled out pots and hung them on the rack hanging above the farmhouse table that served as the kitchen island. New canisters went on the gleaming counters, her grandmother’s cheerful red kettle on the stove, and her ivy planter in the corner. As Nellie set her kitchen right, she stopped to marvel at the new stainless-steel microwave, the built-in desk for bill paying, and the clever corner panel that hid her small TV. By the time she’d hung her hand-embroidered towels on the small bar by the sink, several hours had passed.
Cripes! She had to get to the store. She’d shelled the peas last night, so she poured them in the sink to rinse once more. She placed freshly picked big boy tomatoes in the window for the sun to warm and then scooped up her new
Prada bag and headed out to the car.
By the time she’d shopped, then stopped for fresh flowers and some vanilla candles from the Enchanted Garden Gift Shop, it was nearly two o’clock.
By five, she’d fried the chicken crisp and set it in the warming drawer, and the potatoes were peeled and ready to boil. The peas had a good scald on them, and the corn bread was baking. Nellie pulled the sheet cake out to cool. She’d frost it just before Jack got there. Everything turned out beautifully. Nellie sent up a prayer of thanks and then headed upstairs for a much needed shower.
By six-thirty, she had butterflies in her stomach and chocolate icing all over her. She’d inserted the damn beaters incorrectly and gotten a huge surprise when she’d turned on the mixer. Chocolate splattered the front of her shirt and face. Nellie grabbed a paper towel just as the doorbell rang.
Crap. She swiped the paper towel across her face and scrambled to find the matches. She tapped her way across the kitchen to the dining room in her new Manolos and lit the candles on the table, blowing the flame out just as it singed her fingers.
“Damn!” She waved her hand as if she could shake off the pain. She had to stop cursing; she sounded like the workmen who’d traipsed through her house daily.
The doorbell sounded again. Her plan to greet Jack at the door, cool and calm and unruffled, disintegrated. She hit the button on the new satellite radio, filling the dining room with traditional jazz, and ducked into the kitchen.
Time for a backup plan. She shrugged off her shirt, unhooked her lacy bra and reached for the old-fashioned frilly apron in her cupboard. Jack had wanted her to meld her two personalities. Well, tonight he would meet the woman she’d always been.
JACK RANG the doorbell again and wondered if he’d gotten the wrong night. No, couldn’t be.
He pressed the buzzer yet again. He was just about to peep in the window when he heard Nellie call out, “It’s open.”He twisted the brass doorknob and stuck his head in. “Hello?”
“Come in. I’m just finishing up in the kitchen.” She sounded out of breath.
Jack stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He was immediately assaulted by the sheer rightness of the room before him. Tiffany lamps flanked an overstuffed couch while warm golden walls highlighted a staircase arching above a built-in bookcase—it was the sort of room that made him want to sink into the squat chair in the corner and pull out the day’s paper. Perhaps Dutch at his feet and squabbling kids upstairs rattling the floor. Nellie would come out of the kitchen and call them down for supper.
He shook the image from his head and closed the door behind him. Stop being a moron. He was here for dinner, not eternity.
Across the cozy living room sat a grand dining room table covered in a lacy white cloth complete with flickering candles. Soft jazz played in the background. Nice.
And then the smells hit him—warm buttery cake along with something fried. He thought about Bubba’s leftover lunches and his stomach growled. Jack headed for the kitchen like a guided missile toward its target.
“Smells good,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen.
Nellie glanced up. She had a spatula in one hand and a huge half-iced cake in front of her. Chocolate frosting smudged one cheek. He forgot about food.
“Right on time,” she said, scooping more frosting from the bowl and smearing it on the cake. “I appreciate a man who’s punctual.”
He took her in as she went back to work. She’d pulled her hair into a bun. It might have looked severe except a few tendrils had escaped to curl around her flushed cheeks. Perched on her nose were the hideous glasses, thick as a magnifying glass and rimmed in gunmetal gray. Her lips were pink and glossy above a horrible ruffled yellow apron that disappeared beneath the table.
“Oh, hello. I’m looking for Nellie Hughes. Is she here?” Jack tried for a straight face, but failed miserably.
She dropped the spoon in the bowl and stuck her hands on her hips. “Oh, very funny.”
That’s when he noticed her shoulders and arms were bare beneath the apron and he could see the outline of her nipples.
His mouth went dry. Was she naked under the apron?
Nellie turned around and reached for a paper towel.
Hello. He’d never encountered a better sight than her bare derriere beneath the limp yellow bow around her waist.
She turned around, lips twitching and eyes gleaming. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
Jack couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. His tongue was glued to his teeth. He couldn’t even swallow. His mind was trying to wrap itself around the fact that Miss Nellie Hughes stood in her kitchen naked beneath a ruffled old-fashioned apron, calmly asking him if he’d like a glass of wine.
“Jack?” she said. “Wine?”
“Hmm? Yeah.” He nodded.
She spun around and leaned over to the small wine rack resting in the corner of the cabinet. One foot came off the floor and the curve of her breast strained against the bib of the apron. He had to clench his fists to stop from reaching for her. Hell, he needed to find some control, some cool, some of the unflappable Jack Darby who’d existed long ago.
“So you decided against the thong?” Jack said, finally finding his voice.
“Huh?” Nellie said, standing on tiptoe and pulling down two crystal goblets.
“I said I see you’ve decided to go without the thong. Your invite said it was optional.”
“Oh.” She set the goblets next to the cake pan. Her forehead wrinkled. “Yeah, I decided against it. They’re really uncomfortable.”
“I know. Mine’s killing me.” He grinned.
Nellie’s eyes widened. “You’re wearing a thong?”
“You said it was optional, so I decided to give it a whirl. I hope you really didn’t want yours back. It was a tight fit.”
She laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Wanna find out?” he asked, moving around the table toward the vixen who seemed determined to drive him wild and enjoy every moment of doing so.
She stuck one hand in the middle of his chest, effectively stopping him from closing the distance between them. “Nope. I want some wine. Will you open it? The cork-screw’s in the drawer behind you, I think.”
He tucked his hands in his pockets to keep from hauling her up against him. So, it was her turn to play games. Okay, he was willing as long as she didn’t cover that beautiful ass. He opened the drawer and found the opener.
Nellie completed icing the cake. She offered him a frosting-covered beater. He shook his head and handed her a glass of chardonnay. She set the wine on the counter and then looked him directly in the eye before raising a beater to her lips. He wanted to shout, Stop. Don’t do it, but couldn’t bring himself to prevent the kinky torture of Nellie licking every drop of chocolate frosting from the beater. He even flinched when she moaned, “Mmm.”
She spun around and dropped both beaters into the soapy dishwater, presenting him once again with the loveliest of views. Jack decided he’d never seen an ass as fine as hers. She looked over her shoulder and gave him the biggest come-hither smile. “Ready to eat?”
Jack nearly came undone. Nearly.
“It looks delicious.” He returned her smile with one of his own, one dripping with sexual promise. Every naughty thing he’d ever considered doing to her flitted through his head. He could tell she recognized the lewd thoughts—she looked both anxious and turned-on. Good.
“Oh, it is,” she promised. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll serve you.”
“Every man’s dream,” he said, not moving one inch. He pretty much had her blocked. Penned in. Right where he wanted her.
Nellie eyed the pots sitting on the stove. “Go ahead. It’s getting cold.”
“From where I’m standing, it looks pretty hot. Burning hot.” Jack lifted one brow.
She seemed unaffected, because she shoved right by him, scooting out of reach, and pulled the warming drawer open. A platter of golden fried chicken appeared in her hand.
She spun around and sauntered to the dining room table.
“Damn,” he muttered beneath his breath. He wasn’t sure he could do it. He felt like a junkie who hadn’t had his smack in weeks. He damn near shook with the need to throw her onto the table and do away with the niceties. To hell with talking it out, coming to a decision. Miss Hughes was playing with fire.
He wiped the sweat dotting his forehead, snatched the two goblets of wine and headed to the dining room. He’d do his best, but he wouldn’t be held responsible if he couldn’t finish dinner.
Nellie smiled at him as he sat down in the cushioned Chippendale chair as if she was Miss Suzy Homemaker and not the very bad girl she truly was. “Here we go. I’ll just go get the corn bread and we can get started.”
He watched as she spun around, thinking it was time to finish rather than start. Things had started a long time ago. Of course, Nellie knew exactly what she was doing, clacking back and forth bare-assed. It wasn’t until she leaned over to ladle peas on his plate that he figured out two could play at this game.
He reached for his wine, brushing the outline of her nipple. Satisfied at hearing the intake of her breath, he murmured, “Oops. Sorry.”
Nellie jerked back. “No problem.”
Jack let his napkin slip from his lap, revealing his raging erection. He bent to retrieve it, allowing his hand to slide under her apron and squeeze one sweet cheek.
She swatted his hand. “Hey!”
He gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry. I always wanted to do that.”
“To me or to someone else?”
He shrugged. “Just waiting for the opportunity to present itself.”
Her eyes narrowed. She slung a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “The gravy is in the gravy boat.”
He wondered what in the hell a gravy boat was.
Nellie strutted back into the kitchen, bottom swaying, breasts jiggling enough to tempt a saint. Jack clenched his teeth. He picked up the wineglass and downed it in one motion. She came back with a pan of corn bread. Red mitts covered her hands. She looked pretty cute in her yellow apron and tight bun. Ugly glasses aside, he thought he could really get into the nerdy-librarian-gone-wild scenario. Definitely a turn-on.
