Ain't Misbehaving (9781455523801)

by Cannon, Molly

  “Dad promised to come clean with my mother. And I said after he told her he was going to give her everything she asked for in the divorce, and if he didn’t I would tear his heart out of his chest and feed it to the dogs at the junk yard. He was still just sitting in the road bawling like a baby when we left.”

  “Jesus, Jake.”

  “He didn’t come home that night. He called Mom and said he’d been delayed for another week, but he’d see her that weekend. She promised to make meat loaf—his favorite. He died of a heart attack in your mother’s bed two days later.”

  Theo looked stunned and sat back down. Sadie whined and climbed back into his lap. “And you never told anyone you already knew about us?”

  “Except for explaining things to my mother I didn’t see the point. Things were hard enough on her without airing our family’s dirty laundry for the whole town to hear. So, I guess you can see why I don’t hold love and marriage in very high regard.”

  Theo sat quietly, like he needed time to process what he’d just heard, but then he shook his head and said, “I don’t know, Jake. Our dad turned out to be a jerk. So what? You knew that even before you caught him cheating. And if I’d been in your shoes I’d have wanted to kill him too.”

  “But you—” Jake tried to interrupt but Theo kept talking.

  “You aren’t anything like him, and you never will be. And you don’t have to keep paying for his crimes.”

  “Maybe I do. Maybe if I hadn’t confronted him, you’d still have a father. You loved him, and I took that away.”

  “That’s a load of crap. He had a bad heart, Jake. And on his best day he wasn’t half the man you are. But because of him, you don’t think you deserve a woman like Marla Jean, or any other kind of real happiness. But I’m going to tell you a secret, Jake. She’d be damn lucky to get you. Any woman would be, and I’ll beat the crap out of anyone who says different. I’d even be willing to beat some sense into you, too, if I thought it would do any good.”

  “You should learn some respect for your elders.” Jake scowled at his brother, who sat smiling serenely while petting Sadie like he didn’t have a care in the world. “And give me my dog.”

  Theo grinned. “You mean Marla Jean’s dog?”

  Jake narrowed his eyes.

  Theo stood up. “Here you go, Jake. I hope the two of you will be very happy. Now, I’m gonna go get all spruced up. Then I’m gonna go dance the legs off every pretty girl I can find. Maybe a few ugly ones, too.” Theo winked at his big brother and sauntered out of the room like he’d just won France in a poker game.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Poor thing.”

  From the moment Marla Jean and her friends walked into Lu Lu’s she heard the whispers, saw the sidelong glances, felt the weight of pity that emanated from the people she’d known most of her life. She should have been used to it by now. Ever since the divorce and especially with the impending wedding she’d heard enough “poor thing” whispers to last her a lifetime. Just one more reason the move to Derbyville had been a brilliant plan on her part.

  Holding her head high she headed toward the bar. As thanks for their help she’d insisted over Theo and Donny Joe’s protests that the first pitcher was on her. Linc tagged along, wanting to get something non-alcoholic for Dinah. “Do you think they have milk?” he asked.

  “You’re going to have to lighten up, Lincoln, or you are going to drive Dinah crazy.”

  “What? I’m just trying to take care of her. Everyone’s always telling me I need to be more sensitive.”

  “Sensitive and overbearing are not the same thing, but I give you points for trying. It’s very sweet.” She reached over and patted his arm.

  As they pushed through the Friday night crowd, it seemed the buzz of whispers got louder and the smiles more forced the closer they got to the bar. And then she understood. The gossipy concern wasn’t only directed at her this time. It also included the woman sitting alone at the end of the bar.

  Jake’s Aunt Libby. Bradley’s intended. Her nemesis.

  Miss Comstock perched crookedly on a bar stool with a drink in one hand and her head lolling on the palm of the other. Her normally neatly coiffed hairdo stuck out at odd angles from her head. Her red nose and streaked eye makeup made it plain to see she’d been crying.

  Marla Jean was shocked and a bit alarmed. What was she doing here, and all alone? This was the night before the wedding. Libby should be somewhere with her middle-aged girlfriends putting dollar bills in male strippers’ G-strings, not sitting all alone at Lu Lu’s, looking for all the world like her life had ended.

  Folks were happy enough to whisper about the poor woman, but no one stepped up to find out what was wrong. They were all content to keep their distance. Marla Jean sighed. She was tired of tiptoeing around the drama that was her life these days. “I know I’ll regret this, Linc. But I’m going to go talk to her.”

  While Marla Jean had been gawking at Libby, Linc had ordered drinks for the table and now balanced them on a tray. “I don’t see how it’s your problem, sis.”

  She blew out a weary gust of air. “You’re probably right, but I’m not gonna have a lick of fun tonight if I don’t find out what the Sam Hill’s going on. Go on back to the table. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  Without giving herself time to question her sanity, she marched over and sat down on the barstool next to Libby. “Hey, Miss Comstock. What’s going on?”

  Libby raised her head and fixed one bleary eye on Marla Jean. In a loud voice she said, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Marla Jean Bandy. I hope you’re happy now, missy.”

  Marla Jean wasn’t surprised that somehow this—whatever it was—was going to end up being her doing, but she asked anyway. “Why should I be happy?”

  “The wedding.” Libby waved her hand around like she was shooing flies. “I’m calling it off. And I think that calls for a drink, don’t you? Let me buy you a drink.”

  “You’re calling it off?” That was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Surely, there wasn’t trouble in paradise already. “Why would you do that?”

  Libby stood up. Leaning over the wooden bar she yelled in a very un-librarian-like voice at the bartender. “Mike, can we get some drinks down here? I’ll take another margarita on the rocks. And one for my good friend, Marla Jean, too.”

  When she sat back down nearly missing the stool completely, Marla Jean caught her by the arm and steered her back onto her seat, then she tried sending Mike a she’s-had-enough signal, but he obviously didn’t get the message.

  With a glance in their direction he yelled back, “Coming right up, Missus Comstock.”

  “Thank you, Mike. Mike is so nice. Don’t you think he’s nice? I knew his sister, Norma Lockhart. She used to teach home economics. Did you ever have her in school, Marla Jean?” Libby twirled in her direction and demanded in a dead-serious voice, “Did you?”

  “Yes, as I recall she taught me how to make gathered skirts and macaroni and cheese.” Marla Jean tried to get her back on topic. “Libby, tell me what happened with the wedding? Did Bradley do something? He can be thoughtless sometimes, but it was most likely pre-wedding jitters. I can’t believe it could be anything that serious.” She wasn’t sure why she was defending Bradley, but she really did believe he loved Libby.

  “Bradley doesn’t even know yet—I didn’t want to ruin his bachelor party. But I can’t marry him.”

  “You’ve decided not to marry him, and you’re worried about ruining his bachelor party? That’s crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. I’ve come to realize that he hasn’t let go of you or his old life completely. I know about the money he owes you for the house, and if he really cared about our new life together he’d just give you the money so we could move on with a clean slate. I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t even discuss it.” She was sniffing, and a tear ran down her cheek.

  Marla tried to feel sympathetic, but the whole idea was ridiculous. “Oh pleas
e. The only reason he wouldn’t give me the money is because he’s a selfish bastard—sorry—and all he does care about is his new life with you.”

  Miss Comstock wailed, “You see? We’ve both been so selfish. Only thinking about what will make us happy.” Her nose was running, her black eye makeup ran down her cheeks, and she made loud sobbing noises.

  Marla Jean could feel people watching them, so she patted her on the back and said, “That’s normal when you decide to get married. It’s easy to get caught up in all the plans.” Hoping to calm her down she added, “He just wants to give you the perfect wedding.”

  She rolled her eyes and seemed to lose her balance momentarily. Righting herself she declared, “Pooh on that. Who needs a perfect wedding? All this fuss feels like putting a paper frill on a pork chop. When you take off all the frou-frou and take a bite, it’s still just a pork chop.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Who knew Miss Comstock was such a philosopher? And Bradley had turned out to be a bit of a pig, after all.

  Libby pounded on the bar with her fist and demanded stridently, “Mike, where’s my drink?” In a sweet voice she added, “And can I have one of those paper umbrellas this time?”

  Mike set a margarita in front of each of them, then reached under the counter and produced two paper umbrellas. “Here you go, ladies.”

  Libby picked up a purple one and opened it, twirling it between two fingers. “I simply love these cute little umbrellas. They remind me of the first drink Brad ever bought me.” She got all misty-eyed again.

  “Charming,” Marla Jean muttered with a forced smile. “Why? Did it have an umbrella, too?” She really didn’t want to hear any sordid details from one of Bradley and Libby’s illicit assignations, but if she could get her talking instead of carrying on at the top of her lungs it would be an improvement.

  Libby sniffed loudly. “No, but we’d been walking in the park, discussing Chekov’s use of weather to create mood and atmosphere, when we got caught in a rainstorm. I was soaking wet, and I must have looked a sight, but Brad held my hand and told me I looked like a puppy he’d had as a boy. Sweetie was her name.”

  “I remember Sweetie.” A nervous poodle with bad breath, but it didn’t seem like the time to mention it.

  “And he said if he called me Sweetie, people would get the wrong idea. I laughed, but then he kissed me right there in broad daylight. Then we stopped at Bertie’s and had pie and coffee and that was the first drink he bought me. So, no, it didn’t have an umbrella.” Libby looked all dreamy-eyed at the memory.

  Indignation, familiar and white hot, flared inside Marla Jean at the thought of the two of them prancing around town like two giddy lovesick adolescents. But just as suddenly the feeling faded, and was replaced by the dawning realization that she honestly didn’t give a rat’s ass anymore. They could spend their honeymoon naked as jay birds in the gazebo in the town square for all she cared. Hell, she’d sell tickets. And after that dreamy-eyed reminiscence she didn’t believe for one minute that Miss Comstock would seriously call off the wedding. No way. No how.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mike making come-over-here gestures in her direction. “That’s a darling story, but could you excuse me just a moment, Miss Comstock—”

  “Please call me Libby.”

  “Okay, Libby. Hold that thought,” she said brightly. Scooting down to Mike she asked quietly, “How much has she had to drink?”

  “Two. I swear she’s only had two drinks. The rest have been strictly lime juice and ice cubes, but she’s a real lightweight.”

  “You should call Bradley, maybe. Get him to come pick her up,” Marla Jean suggested.

  Libby lurched off the stool, crashed into Marla Jean’s side, knocking Marla Jean’s untouched margarita over in the process. “Whoops! Sorry, sorry. What are you two whispering about over here?”

  Marla Jean jumped back but not before she got splashed with the sticky liquid.

  “Not a thing, Missus Comstock,” Mike said while throwing a clean towel in Marla Jean’s direction and mopping up the mess on the bar with another.

  “Oh, come on, Mikey. I heard you say somethin’ about Brad. Don’t try to kid me. Is it a secret? I can keep a secret, too.” She put her finger to her lips and loudly shushed everyone around them. “Shh—we’re telling secrets.”

  “Speaking of Brad, would you like me to give him a call?” Mike asked. “He’s probably stopping by with his bachelor party sometime, anyway.”

  Libby looked alarmed, grabbed her purse, and slapped some money on the bar. “No way. Absolutely not. He’s the last person I want to see. I’ll be going now.” She made a show of straightening her skirt and patting her mussed hair before stumbling off toward the front door.

  Marla Jean stopped scrubbing at the wet, sticky fabric that had once been her I-look-hot-tonight top and watched her go. It wasn’t her concern. Let someone else take care of it. She was the last person on earth who should have to give up her night on the town because Bradley and Libby had had a fight that Bradley didn’t even know about yet. She took a step toward her group’s table. Linc and Dinah were smooching. Theo was dancing with Cindy Connors. She noticed absent-mindedly that they made a cute couple, and Donny Joe was nowhere to be seen. She risked a glance back at Miss Comstock, who’d almost reached the front door, but was weaving and tottering like a spinning top on its last go ’round.

  Mike continued to wipe the bar, but remarked worriedly, “I better call a cab.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it.” Calling Everson’s one and only cab to take a soused Libby Comstock home from Lu Lu’s was the same as putting a screaming headline in the local newspaper. Bo Birdwell couldn’t be discreet if he was promised his own fishing hole and a lifetime supply of stink bait. Marla Jean threw the soaked bar towel at Mike and cursed a blue streak as she hurried after Libby. “Damn it all to hell and poop-faced son of a dodo bird.”

  The older woman was in no condition to drive, and hell, it wasn’t her responsibility, but she was going to make sure Bradley’s future wife got home without killing herself. It was no more than any civilized person would do. On top of that she was Jake’s aunt, and he loved her. She’d do it for Jake.

  Libby made it to the parking lot and fumbled in her purse for her keys. Catching up to her, Marla Jean reached over and plucked them out of her hand. “You better let me drive you home, Miss Comstock.”

  “Aren’t you sweet, but I can’t possibly go home.” She started off across the parking lot, and Marla Jean realized with a start she was headed for the Bookmobile. Miss Comstock had driven the Bookmobile to Lu Lu’s? Well, crap. That was probably against every municipal regulation in Everson. Some old law about not allowing city vehicles on any property that served alcohol.

  The woman could lose her lending license or whatever the hell was required to operate the read-a-book-and-wreck-a-home mobile. Just because she was having cold feet about marrying Bradley, and all because of a momentary lapse in judgment. After all her years of service to the community, that didn’t seem fair.

  She herded Libby into the passenger seat of the vehicle and hurried around to the driver’s side. The Bookmobile was really just an oversized step van with special shelves installed in the back to hold the books. She figured it would be easy enough to maneuver, until she noted with her umpteenth curse of the evening that the dang thing was a blankety-blank stick shift.

  “Well crud. I haven’t driven one of these since high school. Bradley tried to teach me.” Back when he was still trying to impress her, he tried to teach her to drive a stick. It turned out he loved his Mustang more than he loved her, so the lessons weren’t long in duration. A nervous giggle escaped her throat. “I hope I remember what to do. You might have to remind me.”

  But Libby didn’t offer any advice; instead she lolled against her door, with her eyes closed tight, while breathing heavily through her open mouth. Just great, the woman had picked a splendid time for a nap. Marla Jean sent u
p a prayer to the god of manual transmissions, pushed in the clutch and started the engine. Scrunching up her face in concentration she moved the shifter to first gear. So far, so good. After a few jerky starts, she gave herself a mental thumbs-up as the van headed for the exit in the farthest corner of Lu Lu’s parking lot. The far corner where she was less likely to be seen escaping with her ex-husband’s suddenly reluctant fiancée in tow.

  The van lurched onto the road heading toward Libby’s house on Crawford Road, and the herky-jerky motion roused Libby from her slumber. She sat up and asked in a voice as thick as oatmeal, “Where are we going? What’s going on?”

  “Hey, Miss Comstock, we really shouldn’t be driving the Bookmobile around town, so I thought I’d take you home.” Marla Jean sped up and winced at the awful grinding noise the gears made when she tried to shift from second to third.

  Libby sat up in alarm. “For Heaven’s sakes, Marla Jean, try being a little more careful with Marion.” Sounding wide awake now, she’d reverted to her prim and proper librarian self.

  “With who?” Marla Jean had enough on her plate trying to remember which foot needed to step on what and when it needed to step on it. She didn’t have time for guessing games.

  Libby patted the dash in front of her. “Marion—you know after the librarian in The Music Man. Bradley would always sing a few bars when he first started getting books from me.” Without warning she bellowed in an off-tune voice. “Ma-a-a-arion—Madam libra-a-a-arian.”

  Marla Jean grimaced. So much for prim and proper. “That must have been irritating. Bradley can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and oh Lordy, let me guess. You name your cars, just like Jake.”

  “Well, more likely Jake gets it from me and his mother, but of course you’re right. We can take Marion and drop her at my house, and I’ll pick up my other car.”