Sultry with a Twist

by Macy Beckett

  “Oh.” Luke glanced down and pushed a fork across his empty paper plate. “Well, I’m sorry, all the same.”

  “Me too.” She rose to her knees and packed the clear, plastic containers inside Pru’s basket. “I wasted almost ten years feeling hurt and angry, and it was selfish. But I want to start over. A clean slate, okay?”

  Luke nodded, still focused on his plate. He’d been waiting for June’s forgiveness nearly a decade, so why did his chest feel heavy all of a sudden? Why did his stomach feel knotted like a pretzel again? It made no sense, but Luke almost preferred June’s passive-aggressive anger to her offer of a new beginning. It had been easy spending time with her knowing he’d never stood a chance, but now…somehow he felt uneasy. Afraid. But of what, he didn’t know.

  What in the name of Sam Hill was wrong with him?

  Chapter 13

  June gazed high above the sink, where the wooden spoon hung from a weathered loop of twine attached to its handle. She caught herself unconsciously rubbing her bottom and grinned, marveling at the power that unholy torture device still held over her. Standing on tiptoe, she pulled it down and then used its blunt edge to scrape the inside of Gram’s food processor.

  She’d never made salsa from scratch before, let alone using freshly plucked garden chilies and tomatoes, but if the spicy, mouthwatering scent was any indication, she’d done a halfway decent job on her first try. She sprinkled a pinch of chopped cilantro into the bowl and dumped the mixture into a saucepan to let it simmer in a little olive oil.

  She’d resolved to teach Luke how to love, and nothing said I love you like breakfast in bed—huevos rancheros, his favorite. It had taken some epic guilt-tripping for Gram to convince Luke to spend the night, and June didn’t intend to waste this rare opportunity.

  While the salsa bubbled, she coated Gram’s skillet in butter and heated a flour tortilla for two minutes on each side, then slid the lightly browned flatbread onto a warming plate in the oven. After adding another hefty pat of butter to the skillet, she fried three eggs over easy, the way Luke had always liked them. She ladled some steaming salsa onto a plate, topped it with the warm tortilla, then added three flawlessly fried eggs. Another spoonful of sauce and a sprinkle of shredded cheddar, and the dish was complete. She even garnished it with a tiny bluebell from the backyard.

  With a mug of piping hot black coffee in one hand and the world’s most perfect breakfast in the other, June made her way to Luke’s bedroom. Luckily, he hadn’t closed his door completely, so she bumped it open with her hip.

  “Oh, sugar.” His room was empty. Seconds later, the squealing pipes in the hall bathroom told her he’d turned on the shower. So much for breakfast in bed. She could set her watch by Luke’s showers—exactly ten minutes. Hoping the stewed salsa would keep his eggs warm, she placed the meal on Luke’s nightstand and scrawled a short note on the back of a gas station receipt: Happy Labor Day! ~June

  Since she’d already checked in with Esteban, June returned to her bedroom to dress, choosing a pair of jeans that covered the stings on her legs. Most days she didn’t bother hiding them, but who’d want to buy food and drinks from someone who looked poxed? She slipped on her fitted, black Shooters T-shirt, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and then padded downstairs to the kitchen.

  Gram had come in from the garden, and she stood behind the sink washing dishes while Lucky mewed and brushed against her calves.

  “Come here, sweet kitty.” June made kissing noises and crouched down to scratch behind Lucky’s ears, but he hopped forward, rejecting her touch in favor of kneading Gram’s house shoes with his front claws.

  “I think I’ve been replaced.” June grabbed a dish towel and began drying. “Maybe I should leave him with you when I go back to Austin.”

  Because they stood so closely, June felt Gram’s shoulder tense at the words. “Plenty ’a time to talk about that later,” Gram said, clearly not ready to face June’s return home. Truth be told, June wasn’t ready to face it either. “I need a favor.”

  “What’s that?” June asked.

  “Can you take a couple hours off this week? I gotta have a procedure done, and I can’t drive myself—”

  “What?” June interrupted, fisting her dish towel. Procedure sounded so clinical and serious. “Are you okay?”

  Gram waved her soapy hand. “I’m fine. Just somethin’ Doc Benton orders once a year since my surgery.”

  “Surgery?” Taking a step back, June scanned Grammy from the top of her gray head to the tips of her fuzzy, blue slippers, checking for dull skin or bowed posture, anything that might indicate Gram was unwell. “When did you have surgery?”

  “Hmm.” Gram glanced out the window into the yard. “Goin’ on seven years, I s’pose. Had some intestinal blockage.”

  “Wh—” The word died on June’s tongue, choked out by disbelief. Grammy had gone under the knife, and nobody had bothered to tell her? Heat flushed June’s cheeks—first in anger at her fellow townsfolk, and then at herself, because ultimately, she’d been the one to cut ties with Gram. Had Grammy been scared, or in a lot of pain? Who’d stood by her bedside to pray with her before the operation? Who’d brought flowers and cards afterward and driven her home to make sure she hadn’t overdone it?

  “It was nothin’ serious,” Gram reassured her, but June knew better. Competent physicians didn’t recommend surgery without good cause. “So can you?” Gram asked. “Drive me?”

  “Of course.” June finished drying a cereal bowl, then set it on the counter. “But do you promise you’re okay? Tell the truth.” She’d always seen Gram as unshakable—a six-foot-tall pillar of fortitude—but maybe this giant of a woman wasn’t as strong as she’d assumed. Maybe Gram was mortal after all.

  “I’m fine, June,” she said in her signature, stern tone. “I swear it on the Good Book.”

  June let out a breath. “Okay.” Since both hands were wet, she leaned against Gram, giving her a side hug. “I’m glad. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, Grammy.” But she would be here the next time her grandmother needed her.

  “Psh!” She bumped June’s hip. “Now, don’t start that mess.”

  June smiled. The old Gram was back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You workin’ Burl’s booth today?”

  “Yeah. I told him I’d run the booth for free, if he’d donate half the profits. Wasn’t easy convincing him.” She dried the wooden spoon and reached up to restore it to its proper place above the sink. “I thought I was tightfisted, but he pinches pennies so hard they bleed copper.”

  Gram grunted softly, her version of a snicker. “Where’s the money goin’?”

  “I figured I’d split it between God’s Pantry and Helping Hands.”

  They worked quietly for the next few minutes, letting the scratch of steel wool and the gentle slosh of water fill the silence. June peered out the window, taking in the clear, indigo sky and the morning sun playing across golden cornstalks. From her earlier visit to the garden, it seemed fall had decided to unpack its bags and stay awhile.

  She looked forward to spending the day outdoors at the fair, even if it meant working. Maybe she’d abandon her post long enough to enjoy some cotton candy and ride the bumper cars. Too bad she couldn’t convince Luke to take the afternoon off and play, but he intended to celebrate Labor Day by laboring. No surprise there.

  “What about you?” June asked. “Are you selling pumpkin butter, or making the sandwiches?” Gram’s church was famous for their five-alarm barbeque beef sandwiches. Their banner hadn’t changed since June’s childhood: Come for the Brimstone BBQ, stay to be saved! Because your mouth should burn, not your soul! June smiled to herself, realizing Burl’s booth-o-wickedness would probably face the church tent from the opposite side of the field, where the county lines changed from dry to wet. A showdown between sinners and saints.

  “Well, I’m not rightly sure.” Gram drained the sink, shook her wet hands, and then wiped them on the front of her checkered, blue ap
ron. “I’d kinda thought about—”

  “Hey,” Luke interrupted, clomping into the kitchen in his heavy work boots. His damp hair dripped down the side of his neck, and he seemed more rested than she’d seen him in a week—skin bright and freshly shaven, his clear, green eyes free from the weight of exhaustion. He held the empty breakfast plate in one hand while sipping his coffee. “I’m heading out.” And then he walked right past her, set the plate in the sink, and turned to go without another word.

  June’s heart sank an inch. He didn’t even mention the breakfast. He’d obviously eaten it, and there was no way he’d missed her note.

  “Did you like it?” she asked in a voice much more fragile than she’d intended. “I got up at six to start making the sals—”

  “Sorry.” Still facing away, his back stiffened, the wide muscles of his shoulders stretching that thin white T-shirt tight enough to bust a seam. “I didn’t thank you for the eggs.”

  “Well, you still haven’t.” Heat flushed June’s face again, heart thumping as hurt morphed into anger. But just as June geared up to say, See if I ever make huevos rancheros for you again, dillhole, she remembered the pastor’s words. This would take time. And patience.

  Luke turned and made a grand, faux gesture of gratitude, flourishing his hand and bowing low like a knight in shining Timberlands. “A thousand pardons, your grace.” The hint of a smile played on his lips, and it was the only thing holding her back from flicking his face with the dish towel. “From the bottom of my soul, thank you for the eggs.”

  “You’re welcome, jerk.”

  “Uh, Lucas,” Grammy began, pausing to untie her apron. “What’re your plans for the day?”

  “Same as the last time you asked. Installing granite countertops in the kitchen.”

  Grammy froze, then jabbed one finger in the air. “You gettin’ smart with me?”

  “No, ma’am.” Shaking his head, Luke leaned against the refrigerator and tried to hide a smirk.

  “I gotta favor to ask.” She draped her apron over the back of a chair, then slowly lowered onto the wood seat with a groan. Bringing one hand to her hip, she massaged in circles, while her face contorted in pain. June gasped, remembering the conversation they’d had a few minutes earlier, but just as she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, Gram locked eyes with her and winked. Grammy actually winked? “Need your help today,” she continued, “at the church tent.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I can’t, Pru. I already wasted one day—”

  “It’s this hip-a-mine,” she interrupted. “Actin’ up again. It’s never been right since that time you left the floor wet an’ I slipped ’n fell. Remember?” She groaned again and nodded at Luke. “You dropped them ice cubes, never cleaned ’em up.”

  Luke heaved a sigh, his shoulders rounding forward as he deflated like an old beach ball. “That was a million years ago, but yeah, I remember.”

  “Sure would be nice to stay home ’n rest. Workin’ the fair’s tough on my back, and now, with this hip—”

  “Jesu—uh, I mean, jeeze, Pru.” Luke squeezed the bridge of his nose, and June wondered if she should tell him he was being played like a royal flush. “Can’t you get someone from church to fill in for you?”

  “We’re spread mighty thin, Lucas. There’s the bake sale, cookin’ up all that beef, collectin’ money, the mission work…”

  “What about you?” Luke said, glancing at June with his brows raised in hope. “Come on, Junebug. Do me a solid here.”

  June pointed to her T-shirt, where Shooters Tavern looped across her chest in red embroidery. “I’m selling the devil’s brew today. Sorry.” But she wasn’t sorry, not at the prospect of sharing another day with Luke. Her time in Sultry Springs was limited, and she’d make the most of the opportunity Gram had just tossed into her lap. Maybe she could even drag him to the bumper cars. No, the Ferris wheel—that sounded more romantic. Plus, he couldn’t run away when belted in a seat and suspended sixty feet above the ground. “But, hey,” she said. “If you’re sticking around, can I get a ride? I need to pick up a ton of stuff from Shooters, and it won’t fit in my car. I’d planned on borrowing Trey’s truck, but this way I won’t have to.”

  Luke closed his eyes and locked his thumb and forefinger around his temples. “What time’s your shift, Pru?”

  Grammy glanced at the digital time display on the microwave, and June could practically see the wheels turning in her grandmother’s wily mind as she calculated how long it would take Luke to drive to Hallover and back. “Noon to six.”

  Well done, Grammy, you evil genius. It was ten o’clock now, not enough time to make the round-trip and get any work done at his house before twelve. June felt a distant pinprick of guilt as she watched Luke hang his head in defeat, but she vowed to increase her efforts and get his property on the market in plenty of time. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, what difference would one day make?

  “Fine,” Luke grumbled. “But I’m gettin’ a free sandwich out of this.” Pointing to June, he added, “Beer too. I’m gonna need it.”

  “Deal. Let’s go.” June grabbed her purse and planted a kiss on Gram’s cheek. “Hope you feel better, Grammy. Call Luke’s cell if you need anything. Mine doesn’t get service out here.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Gram gave another conspiratorial wink. “You kids behave yourselves. Y’hear?”

  ***

  Pressing her shoulder against the back door, June heaved forward with all her weight, while simultaneously jiggling the rusted key inside its lock. “Burl needs to replace this dead bolt,” she complained. There was a trick to getting the door open, but she hadn’t mastered it yet.

  “Burl needs to replace a hell of a lot more than that. Here, move over.” Luke nudged her aside and took hold of the doorknob, then lifted hard and pulled back. “Now try.”

  The bolt slid aside easily, and they stepped inside the veritable minefield that was Shooters. June kicked aside a fallen pool stick and wrinkled her nose at the foul potpourri of odors emanating from the men’s room.

  “God bless,” she said, regarding dozens of unwashed beer mugs—some still half full—that covered the back tables. “There’ll be rings all over the wood now.” The staff wasn’t supposed to leave before cleaning the glassware and tidying the place. She did her part Saturday night, but nobody else seemed to give half a darn, least of all the owner. What a waste.

  “This place is a dump. Looks even worse in the daytime.” Luke flipped on the lights, then inspected a few chairs until he found one clean enough for his jean-clad backside. “It’s a good thing Burl doesn’t have any competition around here.”

  “You know, he’s not a bad guy. I actually like him a lot, but he’s a terrible businessman.” She swept her hand toward the pool tables, covered in a dusting of peanut shells and blue chalk. “He tries to save money by not hiring a cleaning crew, but it hurts him in the end.”

  “I dunno, Junebug. This place stays packed.”

  “Right, but not with the kind of clientele I’d want.” She steered around stray chairs and hopped over an errant eight ball, until she reached the bar. “If he spruced this place up, he could draw a more upscale crowd and raise his drink prices. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Uh-huh.” Luke snorted a laugh. “You’d fill the joint with jellyfish and classical music. Maybe add a library off to the side and make everyone wear dinner jackets.”

  “Don’t knock my jellies. Luquos’ll be the hottest bar in Austin, you’ll see.” Ignoring his teasing, June fished around under the bar until she found the supply of plastic cups. Someone had moved them. God, were these people allergic to organization?

  She carried the boxes to the front door and then paused, feeling an odd tingling along her scalp, an intuition of being watched. The hairs on her forearms stood, and chills puckered the surface of her skin. June didn’t need to turn around to confirm it; she felt Luke’s gaze on her body like a physical touch brushing her skin. When she glanced over her shoulder,
he’d dipped his head low, studying her beneath his lashes with a simmering intensity that didn’t seem at all friendly. Something had shifted in him, a change so abrupt that she replayed their conversation to make sure she hadn’t said anything offensive.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked.

  An invisible hypnotist snapped his fingers and awakened Luke, restoring his cheer. Well, maybe cheer was too strong a word. Restoring his regular cynical attitude. Lifting his chin and masking whatever emotion had just played across his features, he said, “No. Why would I be?”

  “I don’t know. You were glaring at me just now.”

  “Nope. Just thinking.” And then he kicked his boots onto the table, folded his hands behind his head, and flagrantly changed the subject. “So, what would you do with this place?”

  Luke’s behavior made as much sense as advanced trigonometry, but June let it go and scanned the room. She’d actually given this subject some thought, so it didn’t take long to form a reply. “Well, first I’d close down for a month to refinish the floors and all the tabletops. Then put a few coats of fresh paint on the walls and ceiling, new toilets—they overflowed all Saturday night—and I’d remodel the bathrooms. Reconfigure the table layout to clear space for a dance floor. And I would add a room, but not a library. Something to draw more income, like poker machines or a mechanical bull—”

  “A what?”

  “Sure. Make people sign a waiver, then charge them ten dollars a ride. I’ll bet that’d even draw a crowd in Austin. Of course, it’s not right for Luquos, but it’s perfect for Shooters.” June shrugged and trekked toward the back room, calling over her shoulder, “Doesn’t matter though. Burl’s too much of a tight-ass—oops, I mean tightwad—to consider it.”

  She unlocked the door to the storage room and then rifled through the cabinets and drawers until she found a steel ladle. Luke joined her, leaning one hip against the chipped, Formica countertop that had once been white, now darkened with age and neglect.