She pooh-poohed his suggestion. “I was upset when I said that. I thought Libby was making a fool of herself.”
He put his hands on his hips. “And now?”
She set the last bowl in the dish rack to drain and dried her hands. “Libby came by yesterday, and we had a long heart-to-heart. She’s happy, Jake. In fact, she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. And like it or not, Bradley Bandy has a lot to do with that.”
He grunted, not wanting to acknowledge the truth in what she was saying.
With her mixed feelings clearly painted on her face his mother admitted, “To be honest, I’m still afraid she’s lost her everlovin’ mind—”
He cut in. “A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.”
She swatted him with a dish towel. “But on the off chance that I’m wrong, my sister deserves to have a life that includes love and companionship and something besides books to keep her warm at night.”
“I guess,” he grumbled. The vision of Bradley keeping his aunt warm at night made him feel queasy—like he’d swallowed a spoonful of warm grease. But he loved his Aunt Libby. She’d been like a second mother to him, and he wanted her to be happy, too.
His mother took him by the arm and said gently, “If it’s a mistake, it’s hers to make. And she needs to know that we’re in her corner, no matter what.”
He exhaled noisily. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”
She kissed him on the cheek. “That’s my boy. Six-thirty will be early enough. And don’t bring the Porsche. I don’t want to arrive with my clothes all wrinkled and my hair all windblown.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How ’bout some coffee?”
“Thanks, but it’s a work night, and tomorrow comes early. I better take off.”
“All right, son.” She walked him to the front door. “By the way, while I was buying potting soil at the garden center today I heard a rumor that disturbed me.”
Jake steeled himself. “You probably heard the same ones I’ve been hearing.”
“These concerned Marla Jean Bandy. According to Thurman Nelson she was running wild this past weekend, kicking up her heels at Lu Lu’s.”
Jake snorted. “Last I heard having fun on a Saturday night was still legal in this country.”
She leaned close, and in a this-is-just-between-you-and-me voice filled him in. “I know, but he said she was carrying on with a whole passel of men, and even got into a fight with that Cornwell girl.”
“Ma, you taught me not believe everything I hear.”
“And I didn’t bring it up just to spread more gossip.” He could tell her dander was up. “I’m simply worried about that girl. What with this business with Libby, and all, I can’t help but feel some responsibility.”
“Marla Jean was out dancing—that’s it.”
“And how do you know so much about it, Mister Smarty Pants?”
“If you must know, I was one of the passel she danced with. And I took her home at the end of the evening, too. The rest is just folks running their mouths.” Jake folded his arms over his chest as if that settled the matter. But he should have known better.
“You took her home?” His mom’s face lit up like a bug zapper in a mosquito-infested swamp. “You always did have a soft spot for that girl, didn’t you?”
The calculating eyeball she cast his direction made him squirm. “I don’t have a soft spot for her, Ma. She’s Linc’s little sister, and like you said, Aunt Libby is partly to blame for the situation she’s in. So, maybe I was watching out for her. I just think she should be able to go out and have some fun without the whole town having a party to discuss it.”
His mother laid her hand on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Abel Gene Jacobson.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“If you say so.” Her smile said she thought otherwise.
“I say so, and now I’ve gotta go.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime.” She switched on the porch light and walked outside with him.
He made a mopey face and added reluctantly, “And I’ll pick you up at six-thirty on Saturday for this thing with Aunt Libby.”
“It won’t be so bad, Jake. You’ll see.”
That was what she used to tell him when he had to get a shot at the doctor’s. He hadn’t bought it when he was a kid, and he didn’t buy it now.
Chapter Six
Marla stood in the middle of her childhood bedroom studying the canvas on the easel. The painting resembled a piece of lasagna that had been flung out onto the sidewalk and trampled by a herd of livestock. A psychiatrist could have a field day with what it had to say about the state of her psyche. She was more worried about what it said about her ability to paint.
In the years since college her interest in art had taken a back seat to other things. Between the barber shop and devoting herself to Bradley, it hadn’t seemed all that important. But in the months since her separation and divorce she’d taken it up again, even signing up for a couple of continuing ed art classes offered by the community college over in Derbyville. Needing a place to paint, she’d turned her old bedroom in her parents’ house into an art studio.
At first she used painting as an emotional release. Heaving colors onto the canvas with savage brushstrokes, slathering veins of blood red, bottomless black, and bilious greens and yellows onto the surface with slashes of her palette knife. She tried to wring all of her emotions out—the pain, the loneliness, the self-pity. Dredging it all up and spitting it out until there was nothing left.
It helped for a while, but as she looked at the stacks of butt-ugly canvases lining the bedroom walls, she knew they’d outlived their usefulness. It was time to start fresh and get back some of the joy she used to feel when she painted—a long time ago, before her life had turned into a stinking soap opera. Painting had always been the one thing that felt like hers alone. The place where she could truly be herself. Not Milton and Bitsy’s daughter. Not Bradley’s wife.
Marla Jean cast one more critical look at the latest attempt resting on the easel, and reached for the tube of burnt umber. Without any plan or purpose, she started blocking out a face, painting right on top of the chaos underneath. Portraits had always been her thing, her true passion.
After Bradley left, her focus had been too scattered to express anything that wasn’t purely abstract. She didn’t count the stick figures of Bradley she regularly drew and dismembered those first few months. But people had always fascinated her, especially their faces.
As she worked she thought about the football game on Friday night. Harry Beal had called to remind her of her promise to join him at Romeo’s pizza place after the game. She almost backed out when she thought about what Jake said about him having a crush on her all these years. But Harry sounded so normal, so pleasant, and it was nice to have plans, so instead she assured him she was looking forward to the game. And that was true. Getting out more was just what she needed.
Since Saturday night at Lu Lu’s something deep inside her, the part that had hardened and calcified since Bradley’s betrayal was softening, coming back to life. Maybe only part way. Maybe just a little around the edges. And maybe she’d never be able to trust with her arms wide open again the way she used to, but at least it was a beginning. The idea of actually dating anyone scared her spitless. She could be honest about that. And a big part of her still felt like a married woman.
Dooley’s warning about Jake had darted in and out of her head all afternoon. Lord knows, she certainly wasn’t sweet on him, but if she could have her choice of any man in this town to start some kind of no-strings something-something with, it would be Jake. Alone in the privacy of her own home she couldn’t deny the idea got her juices flowing.
It seemed like a lifetime ago, but she still remembered the week before he’d gone off to college. She’d gone to the bowling alley with her girlfriends, and Jake had been sitting on the tailgate of his truck in the parking lot. Waving
at her friends to go on inside without her, she’d gone over to say hello.
The August night had been summertime hot, and she’d left the house wearing a wispy yellow sundress with spaghetti straps that refused to stay on her shoulders. As soon as she’d spotted him, she felt something inside her stir, something womanly, powerful, and brazen.
That night Jake seemed different, darker, and more dangerous somehow, and he woke up everything female inside her adolescent body. All these years later, she could recall everything she’d felt and exactly the way he’d looked. The tight, worn blue jeans, the plain white T-shirt. He wore his hair longer back then, and those unruly black curls made him look like a fallen angel.
“Hey, if it isn’t Marla Jean.” He’d patted the tailgate beside him, beckoning her with a lopsided smile and brooding brown eyes that took in every inch of her. “Why don’t you sit down and keep me company.”
“What’s going on, Jake?” She climbed up beside him, smelling the beer on his breath.
“I’m waiting for Lincoln to get off work, so we can celebrate.” He took a swig from the bottle in his hand.
“It looks like you’ve already been celebrating.”
“Don’t be such a goody-two-shoes. I’m finally getting out of here. After next weekend, I’ll be long gone.”
She sighed. Her brother and Jake were both leaving, and she was miserable about it. “Don’t remind me. You’re going to have so much fun at college you’ll forget you ever knew me.” For the longest time, she’d held onto the fantasy that someday he’d stop thinking of her as a kid and instead see her as a captivating woman. Fat chance, especially now that he was leaving town.
He threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I’ll never forget about you, brat. You are the standard by which I’ll judge all the multitude of women I meet when I’m gone.”
She stared at her lap. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
He didn’t answer as he turned her body to face him. His fingers traced the thin yellow straps of her dress where they had fallen down her arms before slipping them back up to her shoulders where they belonged. Her skin tingled at his touch, and breathless, she raised her eyes to look at him.
Maybe it was the liquor that had made him less guarded than normal. Marla Jean didn’t care. All she knew was that his eyes glinted with a fire that made her want to move closer, to risk being burned by the pleasure they promised. In all the times she’d teased him, he’d never looked at her with such bold, brash intention. He leaned toward her, his face close enough to touch, his whispered words gliding across her cheek. “I’ll remember you, Marla Jean.”
His mouth grazed her lips once, twice before becoming hungry and demanding. She threw her arms around him, kissing him back with willing innocence. He pulled back, untangling her arms from his neck, looking at her once more, carefully, intently, as if he were committing her to memory. Then he stood up. “You better get inside with your friends, little girl, before I do something we’ll both regret.”
“Jake?” She reached for him, not understanding his abrupt change in mood.
His voice was harsh when he picked her up by the waist and set her on the ground. “Go on. Get out of here.”
Before she could protest her brother pulled into the parking lot, honking his horn and squealing his tires. Turning away as if she didn’t exist, Jake walked over to greet Linc. Marla Jean ran into the bowling alley, not sure if she should thank her brother or blast him for his lousy timing.
Much to Dooley’s dismay, and Hoot’s amusement, she’d mooned around about Jake for the first month or so after he was gone, convinced he harbored serious feelings for her, and as soon as he got a chance he’d come home and sweep her into his arms and declare himself. But being a senior in high school soon took up all her time and attention, and if she even saw Jake when he came home on visits she couldn’t remember. That had been years ago, but it hadn’t taken long last Saturday night to realize he still had the complete power to unnerve her.
She used a wide brush and roughed in the hollows for a pair of eyes. Her phone rang, and she was tempted to ignore it. Hiding from the outside world had become a habit. One she needed to break, so instead she grabbed the phone on the fourth ring.
“Hello.” She continued to paint, using quick brushstrokes to work in some eyebrows.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t home.” Her brother’s deep voice came through the receiver.
She barely let him finish before launching into a tirade. “Lincoln Samuel Patrick Randolph Jones, you are in big, big trouble.” Her mother had gotten a little carried away when naming her firstborn.
“Hey,” he protested. “I just got home. How can I be in trouble?”
“Why don’t you ask your friend Jake?” She swirled her brush into the paint on the palette and formed a nose on the canvas in front of her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. You told him to keep an eye on me.”
“Now, Marla Jean—”
“Don’t you ‘now, Marla Jean’ me. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t need you to sic Jake on me like a guard dog.”
“I’m not going to apologize for worrying, so don’t even try to make me feel guilty. You have to admit you haven’t been yourself lately.” He resorted to the haughty tone he took when he felt defensive.
“I may not ever be myself again, big brother, so get used to it. And it’s not fair to put Abel Jacobson between me and whatever I decide to go after.” She played with the shading around the cheekbones.
“What are you talking about?” He sounded uneasy.
“Men, Lincoln. I’ve decided to start dating again, and I’ll probably go through a few before it’s all over. I’m telling you to stay out of my way.” She reshaped the chin, making it stronger.
“See, this is what I mean. You’ve gone off the deep end.”
“And I love it. Let’s see. Donny Joe Ledbetter was this last weekend, I’m going out with Harry Beal after the game on Friday night, and then I may see if Jackson Connor is free for Sunday dinner.” She didn’t mind exaggerating the truth if it would get under Lincoln’s skin.
“Old Mr. Connor, the funeral director? He’s sixty-five years old, if he’s a day.”
“I don’t want to leave any leaf unturned. What do you think about Ted Grimes? He winked at me when I got gas the other day.” Ted Grimes, owner of the local gas station, had been married four times and rumor had it, he was in the market for wife number five.
“Very funny.” Lincoln didn’t sound amused.
“And I haven’t even started exploring the twenty-something population. I don’t have a problem with being the older woman. If I learned nothing else from Bradley and Libby I learned not to limit my options.”
“All right, cut it out, Marla Jean.”
“I’ll cut it out when you cut it out. You’re my brother, and I love you. But I’m all grown up, and you have to stop treating me like a child.”
“Even if you’re acting like one?”
“You’re not winning any points, buddy boy, but the answer is yes. Even if I’m acting like one.”
“So, were you this rude to poor Jake?”
“Poor Jake can handle himself.” She picked up some brown on her brush and touched it to the eyes.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Listen, Lincoln, I’m glad you’re home, but I need to go. Give Dinah a hug for me, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Marla Jean, wait.”
“Good night, big brother.”
He huffed. “Good night, sis. But we’re not through discussing this.”
Hanging up the phone, she stood back to study the painting. It was just the rough beginnings of a man’s face, and she hadn’t had anyone particular in mind when she started. But there was no mistaking who it resembled. The dark hair, the forceful eyes, the mouth that could tempt Mother Superior. Son of a biscuit with cream gravy on top. Jake’s face stared
back at her from the canvas.
She turned the painting over to face the wall and stalked out of the room. No matter what Dooley thought, she wasn’t the same dumb little girl who’d been sweet on Jake all those years ago. Sadder but wiser, that was the old saying, and these days it described her perfectly when it came to men, especially men like Abel Jacobson.
Jake sat in a chair on his folks’ old front porch with his boots propped up on the railing. It was a cool, cloudy night, dark and moonless, but he hadn’t bothered turning on the porch light. It just attracted bugs, and besides, he liked sitting in the shadows. When he left his mother’s house he’d thought he might finish painting the back bedroom, but he was too restless to work. Instead, he grabbed a beer from the old fridge he’d hooked up in the kitchen, and settled down on the porch. Every five seconds he found himself checking out the house across the street, two doors down.
The lights were on in Marla Jean’s old bedroom window, and he could see her silhouette behind the curtains. There was no mistaking the shape of her body, or the riot of wavy hair dancing around her head. She stood in one place, barely moving.
The fact that he was curious about what she was up to right now bothered him. The fact that he was thinking about her at all bothered him even more.
For years she’d been consigned to the place in his head of Lincoln’s very married kid sister. Nothing more, nothing less. Then his aunt had to go break up Marla Jean’s marriage, and his danged sense of duty and responsibility kicked in all over again. When Linc asked him to keep an eye on her how could he say no?
And something else bothered him—the look on his mother’s face when she’d mentioned Marla Jean. The last thing he needed was for her to stick her matchmaking, scheming, busybody nose into his love life. Not that he actually had much of a love life these days, and that was fine with him. Keeping the remodeling business going took up most of his time. He dated when he felt like it. There was never a shortage of women that liked to have a good time. And if sex was what he needed, there was no shortage of women happy to oblige in that area, either. Women who knew how the cookie crumbled.
Ain't Misbehaving (9781455523801) Page 5
