Can't Hurry Love

by Melinda Curtis

  When Lola didn’t explain herself, the sheriff quirked a dark eyebrow. “Twenty-five seconds.”

  Mrs. Everly’s mauve curtains twitched again.

  Howdy-do aside, Lola didn’t want to take a ride with the sheriff. “My husband did his own laundry,” Lola said, as if Drew should understand what that meant. “He bleached all the evidence out of his shorts.”

  Without so much as a Come again? the sheriff flipped the safety tab on the fire extinguisher.

  And yet he didn’t immediately put out the fire. His gaze connected squarely with Lola’s.

  For the second time that day, Lola felt sucker punched.

  Drew knew.

  He knew Randy was a cheater. And if the sheriff knew, everyone in town knew.

  Well…Her gaze drifted to the governing board of the Widows Club.

  Maybe not everyone.

  Lola tossed the last pair of briefs on the flames and went inside.

  If Drew wanted to arrest her, he’d have to come and get her.

  And give her some answers while he was at it.

  * * *

  Females plus fire often equaled trouble.

  When Sheriff Drew Taylor arrived on the scene, he’d done a three-point inspection of the female with the fire—no weapons, no tears, nothing out of the ordinary in Lola Williams’s appearance. In short, this wasn’t shaping up to be trouble.

  Drew knew all about women and trouble. He was a single dad to a precocious six-year-old girl and the big brother to four younger sisters. When Drew was ten, his dad had seen the pink writing on the wall and hit the road, sentencing his son to a life of hair bows, chatterboxes, and long bathroom queues.

  Granted, that made Drew qualified to raise a little girl alone but experience told him a woman’s appearance was sometimes more important than her outward expressions of emotion. When his sisters had sunk into Woe-Is-Me mode, they’d called for pizza and raided Drew’s dresser for his old sweatpants. The healing power of an elastic waistband and a pepperoni pie was amazing. When his sisters had reached Watch-Out-World mode, they’d donned their female battle gear (tight-fitting clothes, man-hunter makeup) and cut down anything in their path, including cheating boyfriends, backstabbing girlfriends, and well-meaning brothers.

  Contrary to what Florence in dispatch had reported, there wasn’t a wild woman setting fire to the neighborhood on Skyview Drive. Lola hadn’t been dressed to wallow or wound. Her makeup had been as natural as her sun-kissed brown hair. In shorts and a pink tank top, she’d been dressed to wash her car or work in the garden, not eat her way through a pizza or confront her dead husband’s lover with a weapon.

  Drew aimed a chemical stream at the small flames in Lola’s driveway, vowing that Becky wouldn’t fall in love until she was thirty. By then, he’d be fifty-five and ready to sit back and enjoy being a grandpa. He wouldn’t have to worry about the women in his life—Becky, his sisters, his ex-wife.

  My ex-wife…

  Drew gripped the fire extinguisher as if it were an empty, crushable beer can.

  He looked around. The widows watched him in patient silence. A gentle breeze rustled bright-green leaves on trees up and down Skyview Drive. Two houses down, Joni Russell watered the daisies in her window boxes. This was Sunshine. Quiet, sleepy Sunshine.

  Keeping the peace in Sunshine was easy compared to keeping the peace in Afghanistan, New York, or a household with four sisters. Shoot, worry about his siblings had kept him up more nights than worry about his own kid. The twins were finishing college over in Boulder, occasionally running out of money, occasionally posting heart-stopping activities on social media. Eileen was twenty-seven and worked at the local animal shelter. She had a habit of bringing home strays she couldn’t handle. The last stray had two legs and a southern accent. And then there was Priscilla, who was about Lola’s age. She was newly divorced and pushing the boundaries of her newly found freedom, acting more like the twins than a woman of twenty-nine.

  Sometimes Drew wanted to arrest his sisters for their own good. The absolute last thing he needed was to add Lola Williams to his Watch-Over list, which was already filled with his mother, his four sisters, and his daughter.

  He exhaled and changed his grip on the fire extinguisher.

  “Drew Taylor.” Mims gave him a stern look she’d perfected while running the elementary school cafeteria. “You are not going to arrest Lola.”

  Having no intention of reading his landlord her rights, Drew set the safety on the extinguisher.

  “She didn’t hurt anyone.” That came from Bitsy, the protector of the underdog. She’d recently retired from working in customer service at a cable company’s call center in Greeley, where rumor had it she’d comped irate customers more free services than were listed in the coupon book the high school band sold every year.

  “We’re here to take Lola under our wing.” Clarice shook her walking stick at him, tottering only slightly on those two new knees she’d gotten six months earlier. “What that girl needs is a life, not a police record.”

  “Oh.” As in Oh no. Drew had a sudden burst of sympathy for Lola.

  The Sunshine Valley Widows Club did good work, but most of its members were old and set in their small-town ways. For local charities, they held fund-raisers as traditional as bake sales and as politically incorrect as kissing booths at the fair. Tonight, the Widows Club was holding a bachelorette auction at Shaw’s Bar & Grill. Clearly, they were looking for another woman to auction off.

  They wanted to auction Lola off tonight? If Lola wasn’t allowed a little time to come to terms with Randy’s infidelity, she’d reach Watch-Out-World mode. And then Drew would need more than a fire extinguisher to control the damage. “Give Lola some space, and I won’t arrest her.”

  “It’s her time,” Mims said with all the practicality of a woman announcing her car was due for an oil change. “We’ve given her an extra six months.”

  “Being widowed,” Clarice tsk-tsked, “it can be lonely.”

  “Loneliness can fester,” Bitsy said in that soothing voice of hers.

  “And then widows start acting odd.” Mims pointed toward the pile of driveway ashes.

  Loneliness had nothing to do with Lola acting odd. It was the realization that Randy wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.

  Six years ago, Drew had seen that same shell-shocked expression on his ex-wife’s face. That was the last time he’d seen Jane. He would bet his ex hadn’t worn that expression when she’d called him this morning. Nope. He would bet he was the one who’d looked like the rug had been yanked out from under him. Jane hadn’t seen Becky since she was three months old and suddenly wanted joint custody? It was enough to T-bone a man.

  Frustration crowded its way into his lungs and up his throat until he had to focus on something else to breathe easier—the ashes in the driveway, the sturdy oak door, Lola.

  Compared to Jane, Lola was no trouble. Sure, a few people in town considered her stuck-up because she was from New York City, and others couldn’t understand how she could do hair and makeup on corpses. There was talk she’d swindled Randy’s mother financially after his death, and some folks, like Lola’s neighbor Ramona Everly, took that as a personal affront. And despite all that, it probably didn’t help that Lola didn’t try to blend in. She didn’t wear traditional cowboy boots. She didn’t have a four-wheel drive. And she rooted for the New York Giants!

  But once Lola got over the shock of the truth, she’d be fine. There were guys in town who’d ask her out because she was a looker and didn’t have kids. She had roots here now—real estate, two jobs. She’d find her footing and get back on track.

  A red SUV parked across the street. Avery Blackstone got out. She was dressed for this evening’s auction in high-heeled boots, black leggings, and a shiny low-cut black blouse. She and her family were some of the few Ute tribe members who didn’t live on the nearby reservation, and if Drew hadn’t gone to school with her, he might have been in awe of her beauty.

&nbs
p; Avery nodded to Drew. “Florence called me.”

  Drew made a mental note to thank his dispatcher for contacting Lola’s best friend.

  “Just in time.” Mims took Avery by the arm and led her to the ashes. “Lola needs you. She burned Randy’s drawers.”

  Avery hesitated, as silent and solemn as if she’d just joined a graveside vigil. Finally, she asked, “Randy’s dresser drawers?”

  “No. His…” Clarice ran a hand down one of her gray braids and then pointed briefly downward. “His underthings.”

  “He was cheating on Lola before he died,” Bitsy said in a hushed tone. “Can you believe it?”

  Avery’s heavily made-up, dark eyes widened. “No.”

  Drew could believe it. The farmhouse he rented from Randy and Lola had a separate two-car garage at the back of the property with an apartment above it. The garage, which wasn’t included in Drew’s rent, had access to a road down by the South Platte River. Until Randy died, Drew had often been awakened by Randy’s truck rumbling in from the back and a text: Do Not Disturb. Randy’s truck was always gone by morning, leaving Drew wrestling with his conscience. He didn’t consider cheating to be the answer to a bad marriage. But what could he do? No laws he upheld had been broken. And the one time he’d tried to hint at the truth to Lola, she’d thought he was hitting on her.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Avery.” Drew opened his car door. He had two more calls to answer and needed to move along. But first, he fixed the widows with a stern stare. “Lola needs friends right now much more than she needs to be auctioned off by the Widows Club for a dinner date.”

  “You’re meddling.” Mims’s broad-faced grin looked innocent on first glance. It was only upon closer inspection that her steely determination could be seen in the tight lines radiating from her mouth. “The only way we’ll agree to letting Lola skip the fund-raiser, Sheriff, is if you agree to show up tonight.”

  “It’s Saturday, Mims.” Drew glanced toward Lola’s front window. The curtains were closed. “And your event is at the only bar in town. Of course I’ll be there.”

  Besides, Becky was sleeping over at her best friend’s house, and given Jane’s demand for custody, Drew could use a drink.

  Chapter Two

  Huddle up, gals.” Mims drew Bitsy and Clarice close on the sidewalk as the sheriff drove away. “Haven’t I been saying for years the sheriff is like a peach just waiting to ripen?”

  Clarice and Bitsy nodded.

  “Did you see the way Drew looked at Lola?” Mims lowered her voice in case one of Lola’s front windows was open.

  “Yes,” Clarice said brightly. “And he didn’t arrest her.”

  “He’s ready for love,” Bitsy said slowly.

  “But she’s not ripe,” Clarice added with a toss of a silver braid. “Or ready.”

  “Lola’s a caution,” Mims agreed, ready to put their efforts with Lola on hold so the group could devote all their energy to finding Edith a man. “Now, Edith—”

  “Lola’s in shock.” Bitsy had a determined gleam in her eyes, holding to her poker pick. “It’s not a deal breaker. Did you see that look Drew gave her? It smoked nearly as much as the fire.”

  Mims’s cell phone rang. She dug it from her hunting-vest pocket and read the display. “It’s Susie Taylor.” Drew’s mom.

  “It’s a sign.” Clarice pounded her walking stick on the sidewalk, grinning. “You know how I love signs.”

  “Let’s not get carried away with those signs of yours,” Bitsy cautioned in a soft voice. “You said a tie was a sign. And before that your sign had us trying to convince Wendy Adams that Harlen Martinez was the one for her.”

  That had been a disaster.

  Hoping their efforts with Edith would be more successful, Mims answered her phone.

  * * *

  After the bonfire, Lola expected the knock on her door.

  She just didn’t expect Avery to be the knocker.

  “Randy was unfaithful?” Avery wrapped her arms around Lola and squeezed like she could put the pieces of Lola’s life back together by sheer force of will. “Who was he sleeping with?”

  “No idea.” Lola peeked past the cascade of Avery’s black silken hair to the empty curb. “No Widows Club? No sheriff?”

  “Forget them.” Avery backed away from Lola just enough to study her face. “How badly is your heart broken?”

  As the horror of betrayal and the fear of being arrested—or finagled into the Widows Club—burned out, Lola’s legs crumpled like charred logs. She would’ve fallen if not for Avery, who propped her up and hustled her to the brown leather couch.

  It wasn’t the first time Avery had come to Lola’s rescue. That was how they’d met. Lola had been working on her first postmortem client at the mortuary, holding the heebie-jeebies at bay until she’d realized Mrs. Baumgart needed her nose hairs tweezed and she’d removed more than nose hair. She’d rushed out back and lost her breakfast in the trash, only to be found by Avery. She managed the movie theater, which shared an alley with the mortuary. She’d taken Lola into the theater office and given her a ginger ale and a pep talk about surviving in small towns.

  Lola could use another pep talk about now.

  “Tell me what you know.” Avery eyed Randy’s wet bar.

  Lola collapsed sideways on a couch cushion as she recapped what she’d discovered.

  In the ensuing silence, Lola’s gaze found their wedding picture on the wall. Her hair had been perfect. Her dress Vera Wang. She should have recognized the zit on her forehead as an omen. “I thought Randy loved me.”

  Avery poked around the bar, grabbing hold of Randy’s unopened fifty-year-old bottle of whiskey. “He gave you a ring and his name.”

  “And uprooted me from New York.” Lola wanted to curl into a tight ball and cry. But what good would that do? Randy would still be dead, still have been unfaithful, and she’d still be surrounded by his things.

  His things.

  She jolted upright. The deer head mounted above the redbrick fireplace. The branded beer mirror over the living room bar. The leather couch. The familiar decorations of the updated small Craftsman that had given her comfort after Randy’s death. They were…It was…

  “I’m living in Randy’s bachelor pad.” A chill crept over Lola. “I need to redecorate.” Not move. Because Randy had taken out second mortgages on both houses, and his life insurance had gone to his mother. If Lola left now, she’d leave with nothing but debt.

  “Haven’t I been telling you to redecorate for months?” Avery handed Lola a full shot glass. Randy’s expensive whiskey sat open on the bar.

  Lola hesitated before accepting the shot. She wasn’t a drinker, and Randy had been saving that bottle.

  “Yes, I opened the whiskey Randy paid five hundred dollars for.” Avery filled her glass to the rim, drinking it without so much as a wince.

  “But—”

  Avery narrowed her expertly lined eyes. “Is Randy going to complain?”

  “No.”

  “Would you rather the other woman drank it?”

  “No!” It took Lola two burning swallows to get it all down. The whiskey didn’t fill the hole in her heart or the wound to her pride but it did give her a false jolt of courage. “Who was it, Avery? Who is the other woman?”

  “I don’t know.” Her friend shrugged, staring at the bottom of her shot glass. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes!” The need to know pressed a panic button inside of Lola, one she’d had no idea had been factory installed. “Why wasn’t I good enough for him?” Lola pressed a hand over her eyes and groaned. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, she was turning into her mother. Her slightly dramatic, slightly eccentric, slightly foolish mother, who’d often wailed the very same question during the first few months after Lola’s dad had left them.

  “Forget about Randy. You’re coming to Shaw’s with me tonight.” Avery made her second whiskey disappear in one smooth swallow. “You could use a therapy session with a
good bottle of wine.”

  “Shaw’s doesn’t have good wine.” It had Widows Club fund-raisers. “Did Mims put you up to this?”

  “No, but it’s been a long time since you left this man cave.” Avery sat next to her and poured them both another drink. “You need a new man.”

  “I need to get rid of my old man first.” Lola downed the whiskey. It didn’t burn any less than the first time. Trust Randy to buy crappy, expensive liquor. But it served a purpose. She stood on steadier legs. “Randy goes. Starting now.” Lola marched toward the stairs.

  On the second floor, Lola made it past another wedding picture and the king-size bed without choking up. She entered the walk-in closet, which was bigger than most bedrooms, big enough for two floor-to-ceiling shoe racks and two dressers. But not big enough to hide the truth of Randy’s infidelity.

  “Is that your dream book?” Avery rushed to Lola’s dresser. She flipped open the stained pink fabric scrapbook of Lola’s youth. “Look at these autographed playbills. And hairstyles. And swatches of lace. And…” She cooed. “That is the sweetest baby nursery I’ve ever seen.”

  And it would never be Lola’s. “My mother told me when I was nine…” Right after Lola’s dad announced he’d gotten his mistress pregnant. “There are no happily-ever-afters.” She’d been right. Lola reached for the scrapbook, which held crushed dreams and broken promises. “That’s going in the trash.”

  Avery cradled the book to her chest. “You aren’t giving up on your dreams just because Randy was a jerk. I still believe in Prince Charming. And you should too.”

  Lola’s eyes misted. More than half the scrapbook was filled with aspirations of family and love. Those seemed as out of reach as her abandoned career doing hair and makeup on Broadway. She had no reason to keep the scrapbook, except…

  Nana’s dear face came to mind, her bright-blue eye shadow and rosy blush framed by a steel-gray beehive. She’d sat at the kitchen table with Lola, cutting out pictures from Playbill and People and recounting Grandpa’s courtship.