by Robin Wells
“What?”
“Look shocked. Pretend I’m telling you that dear old Uncle Leo bit the dust. That’s what I just told your boss.”
“But . . .”
“Just listen to me. I know you don’t want to lie, so I did it for you. All you need to do is gather up your stuff and leave. He’ll let you off for the rest of the week.”
“But . . .”
“He’s standing there listening, isn’t he? So don’t say a word. I already told him your uncle in Mississippi died and we need you here to help with arrangements. I’ve got leave until Sunday. If you’re asked specifics, say you’re going to Coldwater, just outside of Jackson. It won’t be a lie. I’ll take you to Mississippi.”
“I—I don’t . . .”
“Just look shocked. From the way you sound, I imagine that’s how you look anyway, so you won’t even have to do any acting. Just grab your purse and leave. If anyone asks for an explanation, just say you have a family situation—which, of course, you do. Having a family is a situation in and of itself. Then take the trolley . . .”
“Streetcar,” I automatically corrected.
“. . . streetcar to Jackson Avenue. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Let me talk to Thomas again.”
I was acutely aware that Mr. Coppler was watching me. I numbly I held out the phone. “He—he wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Coppler gave me a sympathetic smile and took the receiver. He listened for a moment. “Of course. I understand completely. I’ll take care of it.”
He cast me a kindly look—his eyes were big and brown and expressive like Charlie Chaplin’s—and set the phone in its cradle. “I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. I had the strongest urge to laugh, but fear kept me from it.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. Take the rest of the week off. And don’t concern yourself about money. I’ll see to it that you get hardship pay.”
“Oh! I couldn’t. I mean, that—that’s not necessary.”
He patted my shoulder, then pulled his hand back, as if he was unsure if he should touch me. He was endearingly awkward. “That’s all right. We take care of our own around here.”
Guilt stabbed me. “Really, you don’t need . . .”
“It’s our policy.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now go. And don’t worry about a thing here.”
I nodded, gathered up my coat and purse, and left the building in a numb daze. As I climbed on the streetcar, the numbness gave way to a bizarre combination of delight and outrage. I’d never known a man like Joe—so take-charge, so willful, so forceful. How masculine, how movie-star-ish, how thrilling!
Yet, on the other hand, how dare he? He was playing fast and loose with my career, making decisions that weren’t his to make.
It was as if he’d staked a claim on me. As if I belonged to him.
A shiver of excitement spun up my spine. The idea of belonging to Joe, of Joe belonging to me . . . well, it positively bewitched me. At the same time, it scared me to death.
Which took me back full circle to outrage. How dare he? Just who did he think he was?
Joe was leaning on the lamppost at the intersection of St. Charles Avenue and Jackson when the streetcar clanged to a stop. I climbed down the wooden stairs behind a matron with a cane, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, attraction buzzing through me like a hive of bees. He stepped toward me as if he was going to hug me, but his smile punched my anger button. I pushed him hard on the chest with both hands. “That was awfully presumptuous of you.”
He gave me a crooked grin. “I wanted to see you.”
“So you concocted a cockamamie story and lied to my boss?”
He lifted his shoulders. “You could have told him I wasn’t your cousin—that I was just a cheeky soldier trying to get you to play hooky with him.”
Oh Lordy—he was right. I stared at him, mentally smacking my palm to my forehead, feeling like the worst kind of fool. I had to turn away from him to collect myself.
The thought of not playing along hadn’t even occurred to me. I’d been over my head before I even knew I was in hot water. I whipped back around. “I can’t believe I let you put me in this situation! I’ve not only misled my boss and skipped work, but there will be unending repercussions to this. I’m going to have to tell all kinds of lies and answer all kinds of questions when I go back, and—”
“No, you won’t,” he cut in. “I told Thomas you’re a very private person and you won’t want to talk about it, and that no one should send sympathy cards or flowers.”
“Still, I’ll have to say something. People will ask about me about the funeral.”
“So we’ll attend one.” He pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket. It was the obituary of an elderly man in Mississippi who would be buried this afternoon.
“Who’s this?”
“Uncle Leo, of course.”
“Your uncle?”
“No, but you can bet he’s somebody’s.” He grinned. “We’ll go to his funeral—it’s on the way to my friend’s fishing camp—and then you’ll be absolutely honest in talking about it.”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. This was beyond presumptuous. It was flat-out insane. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No. I’m completely in it. I happen to be one of the few people in this world who is.”
“Now you’re not even making sense.”
“Most folks don’t have a clue what they really want. I do.”
And, apparently, he wanted me. The thought sent chill bumps coursing down my arm.
“I can’t just go away to a fishing camp in Mississippi with you.”
“Sure you can.”
I pulled myself to my tallest posture, but I still only came up to his shoulder. “Look, I don’t know what impression you have of me, but I’m not that kind of girl.”
“I didn’t think you were. But I also didn’t think you were the kind to let a bunch of archaic social conventions keep you from having an adventure, either.”
“An adventure is one thing; ruining my reputation is quite another.”
“It won’t be ruined if nobody knows about it.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Here’s the plan: You’ll pack a bag while your friend and your landlady are at work. Leave a note just stating the facts: that you got a phone call at work telling you that Uncle Leo had passed away, and you’ve gone to Mississippi to his funeral. You’ll be back Saturday.”
“Saturday! That’s three nights from now.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sharing a room with you.”
“I don’t expect you to. You’ll have your own bedroom. And I promise to treat you with the greatest dignity and respect.”
“Will there be a chaperone?”
He looked me straight in the eye. “No.”
“So it’ll be just you and me out in the woods?”
“That’s right. But I give you my word I will be a total gentleman. Your virtue will remain intact.”
I knew better. I knew it wasn’t prudent. I knew my parents would have a stroke if they ever found out. But I wanted to go so badly that I convinced myself it would be all right. I told myself that he was an honorable man—after all, he was an Army Air Force officer, wasn’t he? Surely I could trust the word of a man that the government entrusted with an enormous bomber, thousands of pounds of explosives, and the lives of other crewmen.
In retrospect, I was overlooking one important fact: the person I couldn’t trust was myself.
Looking back on it now, it’s hard to explain exactly what it was about Joe that affected me like catnip affects a cat. It wasn’t just his appearance, although—Lordy, oh Lordy!—he was one good-looking man. Joe just had something extra. He was mo
re alive than most people, as if God had packed an extra dose of vitality into him, or maybe a double soul. He radiated something—heat or light or magnetism or some such. He sparkled and shone and shot off electric sparks.
And when he turned his attention on me full throttle, it was like standing in front of a fire hose. It knocked me plumb flat.
Joe was impervious to the rules that everyone else lived by. And when I was with him, I felt impervious, too.
That was my big mistake. I forgot who I was—a small-town girl, bound by small-town rules.
16
hope
I wasn’t sure if the rumbling of the garbage truck outside her house broke Gran’s storytelling trance or if her memory just suddenly shifted gears, but one moment she was weaving a spell with her words, and the next she was leaning forward, gripping the arms of her chair. “The photos of Joe—I know where they are! They’re in the attic, in a box marked ‘bed linens.’”
Eddie and Ralph had brought down all the attic boxes—and I’d gone through most of them. “Is there more than one box marked ‘bed linens?’”
“No, just the one.”
“I went through it yesterday,” I said. “There weren’t any photos.”
“It’s hidden under an extra piece of cardboard at the bottom.”
Oh, no. My stomach knotted. “I—I threw that box out.” Remorse welled up like nausea. “And the garbage truck just came.”
“Well, child, go and get it!”
I raced outside. Gran’s old metal garbage can stood empty on the curb, but the truck was stopped in front of Matt’s house. “Wait!” I yelled.
Two trash workers froze, each holding one of Matt’s thirty-gallon plastic bins.
“I need to get back a box I accidentally threw out.”
The shorter man shook his dreadlocks. “If we’ve already emptied your can, it’s too late, lady.”
“Please—you just picked it up.” I pointed to Gran’s empty can. “Can I look in your truck? I’m sure it’s on top of the pile.”
The larger man—he was the size of a mountain, wearing a dirty black T-shirt that read “If you don’t like bacon, you’re wrong” and a colorful do-rag—cocked his gloved thumb toward the cab of the truck. “Ask the driver.”
I ran to the window and looked up at the weather-beaten man behind the wheel. He chomped on a piece of gum, his expression bored. “Please,” I begged. “I accidentally threw out some of my grandmother’s photos.”
He cast me a disinterested glance. “Sorry. Too late.”
“Please—if I can just look. You just picked up her trash—it was the last house—and I’m sure . . .”
He really looked at me for the first time. “You talkin’ ’bout Mizz Addie?”
“Yes.”
“She took my sister’s wedding photos and didn’ charge no fee.”
I’m not named Hope for nothing. I gave him my best smile. “Well, then, you know how sweet she is. It would mean a lot to her to get her pictures back.”
With a sigh, he looked at his watch. “I’m not supposed to do this, and I’m runnin’ behind schedule. But seein’ as it’s Mizz Addie . . . you got three minutes.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“Three minutes, hear? That’s it, then we gotta roll.”
I raced back around the truck, grabbed the railing, and hoisted myself up the tall step. When I stuck my head inside the garbage bay, I was hit by a stench so strong and foul that I gagged. I pulled out my head and took a deep gulp of air. My eyes watered, making it nearly impossible to see.
The large garbageman took pity on me. He climbed up beside me, his weight making the truck dip. “What’s it look like?” he asked.
“It’s an old box.”
The shorter worker spit on the pavement and let out a coarse laugh. “Oh, that really narrows it down.”
“It says ‘bed linens’ on the side,” I added. “You just picked it up.”
“Should be on top. Let’s just pull out all the boxes we can reach,” said the larger worker.
He heaved out two boxes. I held my breath, reached for one, and threw it out. Packing peanuts sprayed all over Matt’s lawn. The worker hurled three more boxes. I tossed one, spewing what looked like rotten lettuce. The man grabbed another box.
“Hey, this is supposed to trash pickup, not delivery,” said an angry male voice from below. “What the hell are you doing?”
The trash worker blocked my view, but I immediately recognized Matt’s voice. My stomach, already tight and queasy, seized into a fist. Why, oh why did he always show up when I was doing something weird?
“Sorry, man,” said the trash worker on the ground. “Your neighbor threw away something by accident, and . . .”
I spotted Gran’s scrawl on a box in the large trash worker’s hand. “That’s it!” I yelled. “The box you’re holding—that’s it!”
“Yeah? Well, then, here you go.” He handed me the box. The top half was dripping with something that smelled like decaying shrimp.
I held it upside down, not wanting to get the bottom wet, and turned around to climb down, only to realize the step was too high for me to manage without hanging on to something. If I just threw the box on the ground, I might get the pictures wet. If I jumped holding it, I was likely to crush the photos by landing on them.
Matt stepped into my line of vision, a dark scowl on his face. I hesitated. “I, uh . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Matt reached up, grabbed me around the waist, and swung me down as if I were a doll. When he set me on the ground, I realized I’d coated his suit jacket, tie, and dress shirt with wet, fish-scented goo.
“Th-thank you,” I said to Matt.
He looked down at his clothes, grimaced, then looked back at me. “You’re welcome.”
The burly driver leaned out the window. “All set?”
“Yes,” I called. “Thank you!”
“Tell Mizz Addie that George Myers says hello.” He waved back as the truck rumbled away, leaving me alone with Matt and my remorse.
I shifted the upside-down box to my other hand. “I’m so sorry. If you wait here, I’ll get some paper towels, and . . .”
He held up his palm and looked down at his clothes. “I think this’ll take more than a couple of sheets of Brawny.”
“Oh!” Nervous motormouth-itis kicked in. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I’ll get your clothes cleaned. Just take them off and give them to me, and . . .”
He arched an eyebrow.
Oh, dear—it sounded like I wanted him to drop trou in the middle of the street. “I mean later. When you’re in private, probably inside your house.” I was sounding weirder and weirder, and I just couldn’t stop myself. “You can take them off and give them to me. Not that I’ll be right there to take them. I mean, I won’t be watching you undress.” I was just digging a bigger and deeper hole. “You can bring them to me, or I’ll come and get them, and . . . and I’ll take them to the cleaners. To get cleaned.” I wished one of those sinkholes I’d seen on the news would form right under my feet.
He looked at me. I wasn’t sure because the sun was shining behind him, but I thought there might be a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Thanks, but I can manage.” He gestured to the box. “Just tell me one thing: why did we go to all this trouble for an empty box?”
“Gran says she hid pictures in it.”
“It’s empty.”
“It has a false bottom.”
“A false bottom.” He looked at me as if I were ready for a rubber room and a straightjacket.
I felt as if I were. I desperately tried for humor. “I know, I know—it sounds like something from a bad movie. Or the title of a bad country-western song title.” I gave him a hopeful grin. “‘Her bottom was false and so was her heart.’”
Oh, thank God—Matt laughed!
The sound was deep and throaty, and it did something funny to my chest.
“The way you look right now reminds me of an actual song,” he said. “It goes something like, “I Like My Women a Little on the Trashy Side.’”
I looked down and realized the front of my shirt and shorts were smeared with gunk. I gave a sheepish grin. “If that’s the case, I must be pretty irresistible just now.”
Wait. Had I just made another suggestive remark? What was my problem? My face heated.
It didn’t seem to bother him much. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He jogged into his open garage. I carefully set my prize box upside down in his driveway, then picked up the boxes I’d helped throw on his yard and put them in his now-empty trash can.
Matt returned a minute later, minus his jacket, with a roll of paper towels and bottle of hand sanitizer under his arm. He dabbed at his shirt and tie as he walked toward me. By this time I was collecting packing peanuts.
“Here.” He handed me the towels and sanitizer and took the box from me. I cleaned my clothes as best I could as he reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny.
“A pocketknife?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, aren’t you the Boy Scout.”
“Actually, I was.”
“Eagle Scout?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should be.” He knelt down and inserted the knife in the corner of the box. “That knitting badge was a bitch.”
Kneeling beside him, I furrowed my brow. “Knitting?”
He shot me a get-real look. “I’m kidding.”
Of course. How could I think otherwise? I felt that old familiar embarrassment creep over me, that sense of being a screwup that I’d often felt with Kurt. I immediately fought to squelch it. “I didn’t know you knew how.”
He looked at me, his brows raised questioningly.
“To kid,” I explained. “Not to knit.”
He laughed again. My chest felt strangely warm as I watched him work the knife along the seam of the box, cutting off the soiled top flaps, then slicing off the sides. His hands were sure and steady, tanned and square and masculine. Watching them made my mouth go dry.
