by Jeff Abbott
I’m safe as long as you don’t get hit in the face,” Lorna said. She stepped back from both men. “Why don’t you both just leave me alone?
Go spend the evening learning how to spell.” He ignored her, determined to be a paladin. “This guy bothering you, Lorna?” He puffed up his chest, pushing it within an inch of the infuriated Swede.
“Maybe I should make sure he behaves like a gentleman.” “You be a gentleman yourself, Trevor,” Lorna demanded. “I don’t need a bodyguard.” “Yeah, Trevor, she doesn’t need you.” Bertil gave Trevor’s chest a little jab with his finger. “Listen here, butthead, I don’t-”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Control yourself!” The star of the exhibit, Fauve himself, intervened. He was a tall, thin willow of a man, wearing a ridiculous-looking copy of the small-lapeled gray suit the Beatles favored back in the Sixties. A curve of hair hung artistically in his face, showing his great sensitivity and a gentle nature. Fauve put a protective arm around Lorna, his hand perilously close to her right buttock, and flexed his fingers, as though ready to squeeze. “Gentlemen, really, no need to fight. Ms. Wiercinski is my special guest this evening, so I do hope that you won’t resort to fisticuffs over her.” “Go sculpt, Fauve,” Lorna blurted, pushing his hand away. I didn’t see it at the time, but I can imagine the glint that appeared in her eye. “They weren’t fighting over me. They were discussing which of them hates your rock piles more.” “What!” Bertil exclaimed, his jaw dropping. (I later learned Bertil was a corporate art buyer whose boss was a close friend and admirer of Fauve’s.) “Lorna!” Trevor’s face turned pale. (I later found out that Trevor was an aspiring painter who was panting to get under Fauve’s wing.) She whirled, leaving her would-be protectors squabbling. In her haste to flee them, she barreled right into me. Her eyes locked with mine, but she lowered her gaze and pushed past me. “Excuse me.” I followed her, the din of Trevor and Bertil’s protestations fading with Fauve’s outraged cries over their deplorable lack of taste. I caught up with her as she left the gallery, venturing into the cold March air of Boston. “So much for culture!” she yelled at the night sky. “Ma’am?” I called to her. “Are you okay?” She paused and regarded me with her gray eyes. “Look, buddy, I don’t need any more guardians tonight.” “I don’t believe you do.” I smiled. “You handled the Three Artistic Stooges in rare style.” She took a step toward me. “I take it you’re not from Boston. Style usually has just one syllable.” Being teased about my accent always rankled me, but from her it didn’t seem too bad. “No, not originally. I’m from Texas.” “So why didn’t you leap to my defense? Aren’t cowboys supposed to be chivalrous?” “Only to womenfolk that need our help. You obviously didn’t, ma’am.” I turned ma’am into two syllables-and she laughed. I tried not to waver on my feet, a sure sign of nervousness. This girl made me feel timid, but I rallied my courage for those unforgettable gray eyes. “I’m fed up with spray-painted rocks. Wanna get some coffee or maybe a drink?” She considered me for a moment, measuring me on the internal ruler that women must in these dangerous times. “I don’t usually go out with men I don’t know.” I offered my hand. “Jordan Poteet.” I never ever went by Jordy up north-I thought it sounded too hick. She didn’t laugh but she looked amused. “What a perfectly fantastic name. Definitely American. Unlike Bertil, Trevor, or Fauve.” She took my hand and shook it, holding it a moment longer than necessary, as if taking my pulse.
“I’m Lorna Wiercinski. Mispronounce it twice and die. It’s not as American as your name, but hey, this is Boston, the great unmelted pot.” She pointed down the block. “There’s a pub on the corner. I know the owner, so if you give me trouble, he’ll kick the shit out of you.
We could have an Irish coffee.” Odd invitation, but I didn’t mind. I offered her my arm. Judging by her expression, it might have been leprous. “God help me. Just how much of a Southern gentleman are you?”
She laughed, finally placing her hand on my forearm. “Not nearly enough for my own good,” I answered. It was the strangest date of my life. We each drank three Irish coffees, sinfully rich with cream and whiskey, then after two hours of laughing and talking she asked me back to her apartment. It was an upscale condo not far from the gallery. I’d wondered if we’d end up in bed, but she wanted to play poker. With me and her neighbor, Mrs. Perkins. She’d suggested it. I’d agreed-a little too stunned to argue. And she’d gone down the hall to fetch Mrs. Perkins. “She’ll be right over,” Lorna said, pouring us each a whiskey. “As soon as she gets her money and puts in her teeth.”
“I hope she doesn’t get them confused. Hate to have her ante up her molars.” She laughed. “I’ll see your bicuspids and raise you an incisor.” As it turned out, the poker game was fun, and although I kept wondering what Lorna’s bed felt like, I didn’t get to sample it.
Mrs. Perkins claimed she was on a fixed income (considering the neighborhood, her fixed income was most likely a trust fund), so I had to let her win her money back and we played into the wee hours. When the amiable Mrs. Perkins won the stunning total of twenty dollars, she toddled off and Lorna called me a cab. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” I prayed this funny, smart girl would say yes. “Yes, I would,” she answered, almost shyly. “You see, you passed tests number one and two. First, you didn’t presume you’d sleep here, and second, Mrs. Perkins liked you. She let you win at first so the game’d go on longer. Yes, I think dinner is a real possibility.” Our good-night kiss was brief but sweet, one of those you hold in your memory like a treasure. And so it began-three years’ worth of wonderful remembrances. We discussed marriage once or twice, but Lorna was gun-shy, her own mother having been divorced three times. Said mother was somewhere in Toronto with a much younger man who didn’t believe in matrimony. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in Boston and Lorna seemed firmly planted in her native soil. So the topic was dropped and we just enjoyed each other. My return to Texas to care for my mother was a bucket of ice water in Lorna’s face. I asked her to accompany me. She said no-she couldn’t do that. And I left. So much for us. It hurt, but I hadn’t looked back. Lost in my memory, I hardly noticed her hand close over mine as I finished stirring the avocado and spices. Lorna’s voice was low: “You haven’t called-or written-in months.” I bit my upper lip. “I don’t think you’re here because I haven’t stayed in touch. Which I’m sorry for. I guess I just thought it would be better if we broke cleanly.” I took the dip and a big bowl of tostadas into the living room. Lorna followed me. “So you’re not coming back to Boston? Ever? Babe, what happens when your mother dies?
Do you plan to stay here forever?” Leave it to Lorna to ask all the tough questions in the first five minutes. “I don’t know. I’ll worry about that when it happens.” “Spare me, Jordan. That’s never been how your mind works.” Her voice was serious now, and her tongue kept darting out to moisten her lips. Nervous. “I didn’t want to ask you such a difficult question, but I think I deserve to know.” “It’s more complicated than just Mama’s illness, Lorna. A lot has happened since I came back.” She sat down and scooped up guacamole on the corner of a chip. “So talk. Tell me.” So I recounted it all, starting with Beta Harcher’s murder and my discovery that my daddy wasn’t my daddy after all-and trying to have a relationship with my actual father. I’ll give Lorna credit. She stayed quiet throughout the story. When I was done, she took my hand. “My God, baby, I can’t believe it I’m so, so sorry.
Are you okay?” I nodded. “I’m surviving. But I don’t plan on leaving town right when… Mama dies. That may not be for a long time anyhow, Lorna. And I have Bob Don to consider-and Candace, too.” “As soon as I laid eyes on her, I could see you marrying that Scarlett clone and playing the gentleman planter on her money.” “So you know about Candace’s money?” A chip halted halfway to my mouth. “Is this part of your land-acquisition deal with Intraglobal, finding out who’s got what where?” She looked startled, then shook her head, dark curls jiggling around her face. “I’m not su
rprised you know about the land deal. I suppose word gets around in such a small town.” She opened her briefcase and began to shuffle papers. “Perhaps it’s best we simply put our former relationship on hold for the moment. It really doesn’t matter. I’m not here to lure you back to New England. The truth is I’m here to offer you a reasonable purchase price for your land.” Her shift in gears was so abrupt I was taken aback. Not like Lorna. She’d already observed how I’d changed; perhaps she had changed as well.
Fine, we’d talk business. Surely that would be less stressful than the earlier topic: us. “I know. Intraglobal Development wants to build condominiums, right?” “An entire resort condominium community, Jordan,” Lorna amended for me. “Designed for residents who desire a higher standard of living-” “That should narrow down the candidates,”
I interjected, but she pressed on. “-and those from Austin and Houston who seek a comfortable weekend getaway on the shores of the Colorado.”
She began to spread out maps; architectural drawings that included a golf course, pool, tennis courts, and clubhouse; construction schedules; and environmental-impact statements. She told me in more detail than I cared to hear exactly what the development plans were.
It still seemed ludicrous and impossible: Lorna Wiercinski, who had shared my bed and my heart and my sense of humor for three years, was here. I listened to her overrehearsed presentation, nodding over her figures, blinking at her studies for the potential market (the target demographic audience in the cities was excellent, in her estimation), smiling at her own excitement about the project, and wondering what kind of money they’d offer. I hadn’t yet decided on a course of action. In any case, I’d hear both sides before parting with the title to my riverside acres. I’d promised that much to Miss Twyla. “So that’s basically it-a condominium resort community that will both provide a solid growth pattern for Bonaparte County and not interfere with the river’s ecosystem.” “Lorna, I’m amazed. You actually parroted your company spiel instead of slapping your offer for my land on the table and telling me I had five seconds to make up my mind. Does your boss have you on morphine?” She smiled a smile several wattages below normal and shrugged. “I know; it’s so much more restrained than the real me. I’ve got to do it that way. Greg says I’m too blunt otherwise. Scare people off.” “This would be Greg Callahan?” “Yes. I take it you’ve heard about him.” I opted not to share Nina Hernandez’s less-than-charitable characterization of Lorna’s colleague. “Yeah, his name’s getting around town.” Lorna huffed. “I warned him to stay away from the local women.” “Excuse me?” “Greg’s a bit of a ladies’ man. He doesn‘t have your studly height, but he has a hell of a lot more charm.” Her voice lowered slightly to a tone I was ever so familiar with and I wondered just how much charm this Greg had. “Charm’s a passing commodity, unlike height,” I said with a smile. She examined me with mock gravity. “It seems to have passed you right by, if I may say so.” “You stopped long enough to look.” “Looking’s free,” she replied, scooping up more guacamole. “You can’t find something worth having without doing a little window-shopping.” “So how much is my land worth to you?” We’d slipped into the gentle flirting we’d done so well and so often back in Boston. We used to stay up late, munching popcorn and watching videotapes of the Thin Man movies-and exchanging verbal salvos as if we were Nick and Nora. I could hear Clo rumbling around upstairs, obviously preparing to join us. And the chicken enchiladas smelled nearly ready. “I can’t make the offer. That has to come from Greg. Maybe he can meet with you tonight.” “Let’s eat first, then discuss this further.” I called upstairs to Clo, then went into the kitchen. “You’ll stay for dinner, of course,” I said. I went into the kitchen and opened the oven door. Lorna leaned over my shoulder, sniffing at the casserole dish. “Maybe I will stay.” Lorna peered at the bubbling mix of cheese, jalapenos, and tortillas that smelled like a corner of heaven. “It just depends on what the hell’s on the menu.”
Watching Lorna eat her first bona fide Mexican meal while juggling conversation with Clo was a great entertainment value. “Mrs.
Butterfield, Jordan tells me you do a wonderful job with his mother.”
“Try to.” “So, are you a lifetime resident of Mirabeau?” Lorna asked as she filled her plate with two thick, cheesy chicken enchiladas.
“Yes.” Clo had obviously taken her monosyllabic pill while upstairs.
She watched Lorna guardedly and began to eat. Lorna gave me her don’t-we-have-a-live-wire-here look and I smiled. It bothered me, though, that I could still interpret Lorna’s glances so easily. Under the circumstances, it made me damn uncomfortable to have such easy nonverbal communication flashing about. How readily could she read my face? I suddenly felt as naked as a newborn. “So tell me, Mrs.
Butterfield…” Lorna attempted again. “You must get a tremendous amount of satisfaction out of nursing.” “I see why you like him.” Clo jerked her head toward me. “You talk just as much as he does.” With that, she popped half an enchilada into her mouth and began to chew with great dignity. That silenced Lorna long enough for her to try Sister’s culinary treat. She surveyed the spicy quagmire on her plate, scooped some on a fork, and popped it into her mouth. Popped is the correct verb, as her eyes then proceeded to pop in surprise and she rapidly popped the top on a new bottle of beer and began to gulp down the icy brew. Clo and I smiled over the peppers on our forks and proceeded to eat them with great relish, little sweat, and no beer.
When Lorna’s vocal cords quit smoldering she stared at me with one eyebrow raised. “It’s that war thing, isn’t it? You lost, so when one of us comes down here you try to rupture our internal organs with this Tex-Mex concoction.” Clo made a choked chuckle and I was saved from replying literally by the bell. I scooped up the phone receiver, swallowed my mouthful of enchilada, and said a hello. “Jordy, you must honor my request!” It was Miss Twyla and she was apparently reliving her previous life as a Byzantine empress. She clearly expected me to fetch every time she barked. “Calm down, Miss Twyla. What’s the matter-” “The crowd will be such at tonight’s meeting that my little living room can’t hold them all. May we use the library instead?” “I suppose so.” I checked my watch. It was a little past seven. “Still starting at eight?” “Yes, dear. Nina, Tiny, and I will call everyone and let them know of the change in plans.” “Excuse me. Did you say Tiny is there?” “Yes, Jordy, and what a wonderful help he’s been. I’m sure the meeting will be an orderly one with Tiny’s help. I’ll leave a note on my front door for those we can’t reach by phone. Perhaps you can meet us at the library a little before eight.” “Certainly. See you then.” I hung up. Oh, great. Now Miss Twyla had gotten Tiny Parmalee involved. My evening was complete. I would spend my evening with my ex-teacher with a cause, an environmentalist windbag who bossed folks around, and the fellow who’d bullied me and every other kid at Mirabeau Elementary. I’d have to make sure I’d hidden my lunch money before I headed over to the library. Clo had finished eating and was rinsing her plate in the sink. Lorna’s plate was also clean, except for the pile of sliced jalapenos she’d pushed to the rim. Clo excused herself to check on Mama. I told her I’d be gone for a while, but should be home by ten. She agreed to stay with Mama until I returned, then went upstairs. “Delightful woman,” Lorna observed. “A graduate of the Nurse Ratched School, I take it?” “Clo doesn’t like Yankees.” “I don’t get this Yankee garbage. Why do Southerners continue to mope about the war? I’m a little tired of being referred to as a Yankee and having it sound like I’ve got a venereal disease. People down here don’t try to get to know you before they make judgments-” “Sorry, but no sympathy. Now you know what I went through in Boston. Like the times folks made fun of my accent by repeating back everything I said, all the times I was asked how many oil wells I owned, all the times people wondered aloud if I was a member of the KKK.” I cleared our plates and began to wash them. It wasn’t easy using my one good hand, but I managed. She was very c
lose behind me before I realized it.
“Then how about our own little Appomattox? I suggest an immediate peace treaty.” Her palms, generous as the rest of her, slid up and down along my sides in a gentle rhythm. My body began to respond before my mind did. By that time her hands were in full exploratory mode and I dropped the plate I’d been trying to wash into the soapy lake of the sink. “Lorna-” I whispered as I turned to her. Her mouth covered mine and goddamn it, I let it. I’ve no excuse. It felt like we were back in her apartment in Boston, the ever-present noise of traffic outside her kitchen window. But as hard as she was kissing me, I was kissing back and cussing myself for doing so. After several seconds I broke the kiss and turned my head. “My arm hurts when we get that close.” “I didn’t even touch your arm.” “I’m-involved with Candace, Lorna. I care about her. I think I’m in love with her.” “You think! Love isn’t something you think. It’s something you know.” She pulled back from me. “Look, Jordan, I’m not good at this confession stuff. I don’t lay out my heart very easily. But I was wrong, dead wrong, to let you come back here without a fight. What was I supposed to do-say no, don’t go take care of your mom? What kind of selfish monster would I be if I said that? I never loved you more than when you said you had to come back here to help your family. Everything you were willing to give up for the people you loved, it just amazed me.
