****
Deason kicked off his dirty shoes, opened the screen door, and then turned his key in the lock. Kinko whimpered, jumping to her hind legs, pawing his shins. “Hello, girl.” He stooped, cradling the small dog in his arm. Turning to shut the door, he glared through the screen, wishing Vic would steal the ugly sneakers and return his boots.
He eased his tired body into the recliner, set Kinko on his knee and finally allowed Charis to step slowly, seductively, to the front of his mind. He closed his eyes and inhaled, recalling the clean scent that drifted from her hair and clothing—a sharp contrast to the smells he’d gotten used to in the alleyways.
Always pretty, he’d seen her in various colorful hospital scrubs through Mr. Barnaby’s kitchen window. She looked even prettier today in curve hugging jeans and a pale pink t-shirt, the usual knot of blond hair down and tousled, lifting around her face and shoulders in the breeze. He shifted in the chair, recalling how she’d brushed the strands from her full mouth, her light blue gaze on him as she touched her lips—
His phone vibrated in his front pocket, jolting his eyes open, vaporizing Charis’s flawless face. He slid the phone out and frowned at the unfamiliar digits. Probably a wrong number.
“Deason,” he answered, his frown turning to a scowl at the sound of his ex-wife’s voice, calling his name against a backdrop of country music and laughter. She was at the bar. “What do you want, Gabriella?”
“What way is that to speak to me?” she asked, playing up her slight Hispanic accent, mixing it with baby talk. “Call me Gabby, like you used to. I just want to see you. Is that so much to ask?”
Deason bristled. “I’m hanging up now—”
“No. Please, mi amor, I miss you.”
Suddenly she spoke Spanish? He laughed. “Practice your Rosetta Stone language skills on someone else. The only Spanish I want to hear from you is adios.”
“You love me. You cannot say you don’t miss me, there alone, in the home we shared. I won’t believe it.”
Deason squeezed his eyes shut. For the briefest moment, Gabby’s words sounded sweet to his ears, meaningful, like they used to.
“Believe it,” he said, eager to coax the bitterness back into her voice. It worked. She released an angry growl. He ended the call, not giving her the satisfaction of having the last word.
The phone vibrated in his grip, the same unknown number appearing on the screen. He stared at the digits, tempted to shout, threaten, rip her to shreds—anything to keep his heartache at bay.
She’s not worth it. Charis Locke’s voice soothed over him, her words sparing Gabriella just as they’d spared Vic in Mr. Barnaby’s front yard.
Deason ignored the call.
****
Charis eyed the crooked rug then looked away. She wouldn’t fix it. It wasn’t hurting anything lying under the coffee table, slightly off center.
She sighed, glanced out the window, knelt to straighten it. The stubborn water spots inside the shower door, the loose drawer handle in the kitchen, now the area rug. All evening she’d stressed over the most insignificant details as she awaited her mother’s arrival.
Ridiculous. It wasn’t like Lita was a neat freak, for goodness sake. As a child, Charis remembered jumping over strewn clothing, shoes, sometimes even trash, making a game of it as she hopscotched down the hallway to her room.
Light swept through the window. She jumped up and pushed aside the sheer curtain to see a battered, older model hatchback pulling into the driveway. The silhouette of a long legged, longhaired woman climbed from the passenger side, her features shadowed as she faced the house. Charis’s heartbeat picked up speed as she waved at Lita through the glass. She rushed out the front door to meet her.
“Hi there, baby doll.” Her mother opened her arms.
“Glad you’re here, Lita.” Charis embraced her. “How was your trip?”
“Why don’t you help me unload this roller skate and I’ll tell you all about it.” Charis chuckled at the comparison as Lita opened the hatch of the small white car.
“I made coffee,” Charis said, hauling the last of the luggage to the spare bedroom. “In case you want to stay up and visit a while.” She turned to look at Lita, noting the dark circles under her eyes. “Or you can turn in, if you’d rather.”
Lita stepped to Charis, touching her face. “Turn in? After driving all this way to see you, are you kidding? I’d love to share a pot of coffee with my only daughter.”
Charis smiled and nodded. “Good. I’ll get us fixed up. Still take it black?”
“Still do.”
She padded quickly to the kitchen, excited as a little girl on Christmas Eve. Coffee with her mother. A fresh start out of the blue. She balanced the cups on saucers and walked to the dining room, anticipation zipping through her. “Let’s sit at the table,” she called.
“And just where is that?” Lita said, footsteps nearing. “Aha. Found you.” She dropped into the chair beside Charis’s and slid the coffee closer. “Thanks, baby. I really appreciate you letting me pop in on you like this. I know we didn’t part on very good terms after the wedding.”
“It’s okay. Weddings are stressful. Emotions run high and things happen. Everything’s all right now.”
“Heard you and Vic split up.”
Charis nodded, wondering who she’d been talking to. “Yeah, over a year ago now. Things just didn’t work out.” She didn’t want to delve into the gory details, at least not yet.
“That’s too bad. But I promise, there’s plenty more fish in the sea.” She blew on her coffee, took a sip, set it down. “And every damn one of them is either a whale waiting to swallow you whole or a shark ready to bite you in two.”
Charis grinned, the laughter dying in her throat at the sight of Lita’s expression.
“They lure you in, abuse you, use you up then throw you away. Or worse, trade you in for a newer model.”
Charis shook her head. “Well, don’t worry about me. I’m not falling for it. Not anymore. I don’t need a man telling me how to live. The only man I care to spend my days and nights with is Mr. Barnaby. Taking care of him is the joy of my life.”
“You mean to tell me that old man’s still living?”
Lita’s careless question grated against Charis’s heart. “He’s only seventy-seven. Not too terribly ancient.” She chased the words with a deep, cleansing breath.
“But doesn’t he have Alzheimer’s? I thought that typically shortened the lifespan.”
“Mr. B is anything but typical. And he’s stubborn. Wouldn’t surprise me if he outlived us all.”
Lita shrugged. “That old man isn’t going to rule your heart forever. You might not think you’ll be taken in again, but you will. Pretty as you are, it’s only a matter of time until some sweet talking man comes along with eyes like crowbars, prying into your soul. And you’ll fall for it. Trust me. You will.”
Resentment sifted through Charis at the remark. How dare she? Charis had practically raised herself. In actuality, she barely knew this woman, yet she had the gall to insinuate…
She wanted to scream that she wasn’t like her. Just because Lita had chosen to be fish food for an ocean full of no good whales and sharks, didn’t mean she would.
“I’m sorry. I can tell I’ve upset you.” Lita wrapped a hand around Charis’s clenched fist, dragging it over the table toward her. “I had no right to say that. I regret so many of the mistakes I’ve made, and am trying to warn you against making the same ones. I just have a shitty way of going about it. Won’t happen again. I promise.”
Charis returned her gaze to Lita’s. “I know you’ve been through a lot. We both have. But I’m plenty old enough to know what I want and don’t want at this point in my life. I’ve worked too hard for my independence to surrender it to the first man who comes along.”
Lita lowered her eyes. “Well then, I guess you’re a stronger woman than me.” She cleared her throat then smiled. “So, where’s a good place for me to
start job hunting?”
“I picked up a few applications for you today,” Charis said, rising. She stepped to the small desk in the corner, returning with a thin stack of papers.
“Bamboozles, Fenton’s Shoes, Wal-Mart and the movie theater. I think Wal-Mart is the only one hiring at the time. They said you’d have to go in and take an online test. Fill the other applications out too though, just in case. It never hurts to have them on file. I hear good help is hard to find and even harder to keep.”
“Well, what d’ya know. Shaydn city went and got itself a Wal-Mart.” She thumbed through the pages. “Real thoughtful of you, picking these up.”
“I was glad to do it. Tomorrow you can pick up some more. Maybe even get a few from the business offices down town. I’ll be working tomorrow and then all weekend, but make yourself at home. You can come and visit me at Mr. B’s house, if you’d like.”
“Sounds fine,” Lita said through a yawn. She stretched, arching against the chair.
“You’d better get some sleep. Hope the caffeine doesn’t keep you awake.”
“Nah, it doesn’t faze me.” Lita stood, sliding the applications under her arm, picking up her empty cup and saucer.
“I’ll get those,” Charis said, taking the dishes from her. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom and clean sheets on the bed. I’ll write down my cell number and Mr. B’s home number for you and leave them on the table. I’m leaving for work early, but you need to sleep in.”
Lita smiled. “I can’t thank you enough. Talk to you tomorrow.” She kissed Charis’s cheek then left the room.
****
Deason pumped his elbow, rolling down the dinosaur’s clouded window. “Let’s get moving,” he shouted. He was grouchy and it was early, following yet another night of Gabriella’s calls. She’d called every night following the call she’d made from the bar Thursday evening. He’d ignored them all. Last night she’d been relentless, that same unknown number showing up a dozen different times. Unable to take it anymore, he’d shouted an obscenity into the phone before turning it off at two a.m. He hated turning his phone off. It always made him feel like she’d won.
“Hold your damn horses. What’s the hurry, anyway?” Jagger yelled from across the lot, jumping from the hood of Deason’s pickup, stamping out a cigarette. “Oh. I forgot. It must be Tuesday morning,” he mocked.
His neck warmed as Jagger hopped into the cab beside him. “By all means, let’s get this piece of junk to Kentucky Street, on the double.” Jagger grinned, seeming to enjoy Deason’s discomfort as he teased him about Charis.
Deason switched on the headlights and steered around the parked maintenance vehicles. “Stay off the hood of my Ford. You might dent it.” He glanced at his beat up pickup in the rearview mirror as he pulled the garbage truck from the parking lot of Shaydn Public Works.
“Still wearin’ your stylish sneaks, I see,” Jagger noted.
“It’s not like I have a choice. I’m throwing every penny back for the move. Nothing left over for incidentals, like stolen boots.”
“The thought of that jackass stompin’ around in your work boots bother you?”
“Well I sure as hell don’t want them back now. Vic Locke can drop dead in my boots, for all I care.”
They worked through the neighborhoods of west Shaydn as the sun rose, promising another scorcher. The heat index didn’t seem to know that mid-September meant fall. Smack dab in the middle of the state, it could be another month before the leaves started to change color. Then again, Old Man Winter might take a notion to show up tomorrow, skipping fall altogether. Like the old saying went, “if you don’t like Oklahoma’s weather, just wait a minute and it’ll change.”
“Kentucky’s comin’ up.” Jagger nodded toward the next street over, as if after living his whole life in Shaydn, Deason had suddenly forgotten where the streets were.
“Yep.” His stomach secretly flipped.
Six blocks later, they approached Mr. Barnaby’s curb.
“There’s your girl.”
Charis walked toward them, smiling, a box tucked under her arm. The morning sun played through the loose twist in her golden hair, illuminating every fallen strand around her face. For one painful moment, his heart ached, wishing Jagger’s words were true.
“Hey, there.” She stepped to the driver side.
To Jagger’s dismay, Deason killed the engine and opened the door, joining Charis in the street.
“Morning,” he said, already captivated by those eyes—as if the sky decided to settle right in behind her dark lashes.
She held the box out to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, glancing down at the picture of Red Wing boots on the lid, already knowing the answer.
“Just a little something I picked up.” She shrugged.
He turned the box, looking at the end. “How’d you know my size?”
Her smile grew. “A little bird told me.”
Deason swept his gaze to Jagger, leaning against the fender, smoking. “That ‘little bird’ wouldn’t happen to be a crusty old buzzard named Jagger, now would it?”
“Hey. Who you callin’ crusty?” Jagger scowled.
Charis joined Deason in laughter then grew serious. “I know what happened to your boots... it’s the least I could do.”
“Your kindness is unnecessary. But very much appreciated,” Deason nodded then brought his gaze to hers. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked over her shoulder to where Mr. Barnaby stood staring through his screen door. “Well, I’d better get back in to Mr. B. He’ll wonder what I’m up to. I didn’t dare tell him about your boots. Kicking Vic’s ass is already on his bucket list.” She chuckled, swiping an escaped lock of hair from her face.
“Okay. Thanks, again.” Deason smiled, feeling as if more was in order—maybe a hug? Not wanting to overstep his bounds, he tugged off his gloves and shook her hand.
“For cryin’ out loud, the woman said she has to go,” Jagger lamented. “And I’m taking over the driving. If I can get this heap started, that is, since you killed it.”
Happiness soaked Deason’s soul, for the first time in a long time. Climbing into the passenger seat, he changed into his new boots then pulled on his gloves. He jumped to the street, bumped Mr. Barnaby’s trash bin over the curb then dumped it into the back of the dinosaur. The engine belched to life, drowning out the tune he hummed.
****
“I’ll get it, Mr. B.” Charis dried her hands and stepped across the linoleum to the phone. “Hello? Oh. Hi, Wendell.” Her skin crawled a little at the sound of his voice.
“My, Charis, your voice sounds sweet. Pure honey dripping from the comb.”
Nearly gagging at the metaphor, she paused, letting an uncomfortable silence hang between them.
Wendell cleared his throat. “So…how’s Father?”
“He’s good.” Charis smiled at Mr. B, grumbling to himself over the newspaper. “Ate all of his oatmeal this morning.”
Mr. B snapped his head up, glaring, aware she was talking about him. “Tell that sissy son of mine we’re doing just fine and to mind his own business.”
Charis slapped a hand over the mouthpiece, muffling a chuckle. She stretched the phone cord around the corner to the living room. “Are you still in Colorado Springs?” she asked.
Wendell sighed. “Yes, still here. Worked on the bank’s ledgers through the weekend planning to get a head start. But it looks as though I’ll be here a few more days, at least. I hope to start heading back to you on Friday morning.”
Heading back to her? She cut her eyes heavenward. “Okay, we’ll see you then. Bye.”
“Wait a minute, I’m not finished.” He laughed nasally. “I need to ask you about the video transfer. Have you heard from Sarah?”
“I called her a couple of days ago. She said she’d have the tapes transferred to disks in plenty of time for your dad’s birthday. She’ll give me a call when she’s done.”
; “Glad to hear it. Well, I guess that’s pretty much it, unless Father wants to talk to me.”
Charis stepped around the corner, offering Mr. B the telephone. He glanced at the handset then steeled his eyes on her. She dodged back to the living room, saving Wendell from the cussing she knew was coming.
“Um…he’s busy, Wendell. We’ll see you Friday evening.” Breathing a sigh of relief, she hung up, just as Mr. B’s choice words, meant for his son’s ears, roared from the kitchen.
“Now, now, he’s not all that bad,” she soothed, sitting down beside the old man. “He’s just a little soft. Not all men can be as strong and masculine as you, Mr. B.” She patted his arm.
He rubbed off a grin with his trembling hand then made his voice gruff. “Well, he oughta try a little harder. Hope to hell he never meets a ruffian like Vic Locke in a dark alley. Old Vic would stomp a mud hole in the middle of him. Wendell can’t hold his own like that McKindle kid can.”
“Ah, he’d do all right,” she said.
Mr. B’s hard, faded eyes crinkled at the corners. Charis shared his chuckle.
“Okay, so maybe Vic’d make mincemeat out of him. But Wendell does care about you. You can’t argue that.”
“Cares so much he had papers drawn up declaring me incompetent. Then sold my store right out from under me to that boozer, Butch Locke.” Pain edged his voice. “With a friend, or in my case a son, like that, who needs…ah, you know the rest.”
Her heart hurt for him. She knew how it felt to assume you could trust someone simply because you loved them. The humiliation of believing that lie. She too had been hurt by someone she loved. Of course, Vic had been a different person back then, not the venomous snake he now was. He’d been sweet and gentle. Until after the wedding.
Charis should’ve seen it coming. She knew all about the phenomenon of children from abusive homes attracting abusers. She’d read all the articles in nursing school. What she didn’t understand is how the abusers knew. She’d never mentioned the beatings she’d watched her mother take at the hands of one alcoholic man after another, or the countless smacks upside the head she’d received for getting in the middle. Yet Victor Locke homed in on her, as if guided by some twisted, victim-seeking missile.
Another Man's Treasure Page 4
