“Starter marriage while I was in the service. Divorced and discharged, all on the same day. Guess I’m not good marriage material.” He pulled her against him again. “So we have no problem, right?”
She started to explain that yes, there was a problem, that she was in love with a man who’d gone running off to the West Coast and had forgotten her, but that would have sounded like a whiny country-western song.
Just shut up and dance. Perhaps the greatest advice of all time, Mazie thought, giving herself over to pure sensation, letting the music flow through her, humming along to half-remembered songs, enjoying the feel of the large, warm male hand pressing itself into the small of her back. The years floated away like calendar leaves in a 1940s movie, the candy-colored jukebox lights washed over them, and she was sixteen again, in the arms of Bon Jovi. Exept that when she’d been sixteen, she hadn’t been allowed to drink, and when Johnny asked if she wanted another drink she said yes—she was probably still a bit dehydrated after her long bike ride and all—and a little later later on, she had another. Amazing how easily the drinks went down; she hardly tasted the vodka at all. It seemed to Mazie that the more she drank, the better she could dance.
Then the door banged open. A chill wind swept the room. The jukebox ground to a halt like a needle scratching a record. The bartender dropped below the counter. The moose head eyes glowed eerie red. Lightning flashed. Off-key organ music sounded.
Bodelle Blumquist stood silhouetted in the doorway.
Okay, so there really was no flashing lightning or glowing moose eyes. But Bodelle didn’t need special effects to be scary.
Every small town has a Bodelle. The woman who chairs the PTA, bullies the town council, sticks her finger in every pie from the Women’s Sewing Circle to the Girl Scout cookie drive, and has her photo tacked up to the dartboard in all the local pubs.
Bodelle was tall, with a pouter pigeon build—big round uni-bosom and flat rear that gave her physique an unbalanced look. She must have been in her fifties, Mazie thought, but she still had dynamite legs—legs that had won her the title of Miss Leinenkugel Honey Ale in 1979 and landed her a role in a commercial as a dancing box of macaroni and cheese.
She was highlighting the gams today, wearing an above-the-knee skirt and one-size-too-small high-heeled sandals. She had slightly protuberant green eyes lined in black, a turned-up nose, and a mouth carefully drawn on in candy pink lipstick. Her cheekbones were still cover-girl high, but gravity and all those Girl Scout cookies were taking their toll on her jawline.
Her eyes swept the room, then came to rest on Mazie, who suddenly felt the urge to flee. “Mazie Maguire,” Bodelle said. “I heard you were back in town.”
Who needed Twitter? In Quail Hollow everyone knew you were pregnant before you even missed your period. “Would you mind if I stole Mazie away from you for just a teeny tiny second, Johnny?” Bodelle asked, her voice poisonously sweet.
Johnny shrugged and moved to the other end of the bar—the rat—leaving Mazie alone with Bodelle.
“Well, I suppose you’ve heard about the pageant?” Bodelle asked.
“Pageant?” Mazie asked, her stomach fluttering with premonitions of disaster.
“The Twenty-fifth Anniversary Miss Quail Hollow Pageant, of course—I thought everyone knew about it. It starts Thursday and runs through the weekend. There’ll be a parade, a talent contest, door prizes, hot dogs on the courthouse lawn—the biggest thing this town has seen in years. You remember how the winner is usually chosen from the high school seniors? Well, for the anniversary, we’re getting together all the former winners to compete for the Twenty-fifth Anniversary crown.
“Which, of course, includes you, Mazie.” Bodelle took an e-tablet out of her purse, and began typing. “Miss … Quail Hollow 2002 … Mazie Maguire. Or do you go by Vonnerjohn? You were married, weren’t you, to that man who—”
“I later shot to death,” Mazie offered helpfully. “Be sure to put that in my profile.”
“Oh, you have such a droll sense of humor, Mazie. I remember how you made us all smile.”
Bodelle had been running the Miss Quail Hollow Pageant for years, and was as firmly associated with the pageant as Bob Dole was with Viagra. She ran a gift shop on Main Street which, since it never seemed to have any customers, allowed Bodelle enough free time to poke her nose into everyone else’s business.
“I’m sorry, Bodelle,” Mazie said, which was a fib; she wasn’t at all sorry. “But I don’t have the time. I’m taking care of my brother’s kids while their mom’s in the hospital.”
Bodelle waved away Mazie’s objections. “I’m sure you and your family can work something out. It’s for a good cause, after all. The funds we raise will go to the Carnahan family—the ones who lost their home? You want to do your part to help, don’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
“Let me just explain how the winner will be chosen, Mazie—this is so cute.”
Mazie tried to envision cute scenarios. Nude pudding wrestling? A live centipede-eating contest? A yodel-off?
“Fifty percent of a contestant’s score will come from points acquired, and fifty percent will come from fund-raising. Each contestant will get her own personal queenometer—”
“Her own personal what?”
“Queenometer. Like a thermometer, only it measures dollars. Each dollar the contestant raises will move her mercury up a notch. Yours is already up in the hardware store window.”
Bodelle Blumquist had scared Mazie when she’d been a teenager. She still did, Mazie admitted to herself, but in the twelve years that had passed since then, Mazie had dealt with even scarier people. She was not going to be bullied by this two-bit tyrant.
“Then you’ll have to take my queenometer down.” Mazie stared straight into Bodelle’s eyes to emphasize her point. “Because there’s no way on earth I’m going to be in your pageant.”
Shouldering her purse, Mazie wheeled around and marched toward the door, head held high. Which proved to be a mistake, because she failed to see the bar stool that had inexplicably materialized in her path and which, when she stumbled into it, entirely ruined the dignified, dramatic exit she’d intended.
Chapter Eight
“You’re not planning on riding that bike, are you?” asked Johnny Hoolihan, who’d followed Mazie out of the bar and was now watching as she unlocked Emily’s bike from a utility pole.
“Yes. I am.”
Mazie nudged up the kickstand and straddled the bike. On second thought, she decided, it might be better if she walked the bike. Riding a bike required a certain degree of balance and coordination, and at the moment Mazie felt her coordination was just a smidge impaired.
“How about if I give you a ride?” Johnny asked as she got off the bike and began to wheel it along the sidewalk.
“No thanks.”
Johnny walked by her side, hands in his pockets, regarding her with amusement. “Mazie, I’m not the hoodlum you once knew. Your virtue is safe with me. You shouldn’t be biking when you’re a little—”
“A little what? I’m not tipsy.”
“Didn’t say that, did I? C’mon. I’m parked right here.”
He took the bike out of her hands and chivied her over to a large old silver Cadillac. “It belonged to a drug dealer.” Johnny raised the trunk and lifted the bike inside. “Not my drug dealer. I bought it at a sheriff’s auction. I have a thing for classic cars.”
He held open the front door and Mazie flopped into the seat, feeling boneless and woozy and really quite grateful for the offer of a ride. Johnny got in, started the car, and eased out onto Main Street. As they passed the hardware store, Johnny pointed to the window. “Look—there’s your queenometer.”
Mazie craned her neck. The hardware store window featured an enlarged photo of her, taken twelve years ago when she’d been Miss Quail Hollow. Next to it was a four-foot-tall plywood cutout of an old-fashioned thermometer, with a large round bulb and a gauge thrusting perpend
icularly from the base. Was it just her nasty mind, Mazie wondered, or did this thing bear an unfortunate resemblance to an erect male member?
“Oh my God,” Mazie moaned, covering her eyes.
Johnny chuckled. “My reaction exactly.”
Mazie started to laugh, too. “I can’t believe Bodelle didn’t catch the phallic overtones.”
“You shouldn’t have turned down her invitation. I wouldn’t mind seeing you strutting down a runway in a bathing suit.”
“Forget it. Once in a lifetime was enough.”
Johnny turned south onto a county highway. “Ridge Runner Road, right?” Johnny asked. “The big white house?”
“How did you know that?”
“Found out where you lived when we were in high school. I had a crush on you.”
“You did? On me?”
“I would have asked you out, but I was scared of your brothers.”
“Yeah—they were a tremendous asset to my dating life.”
“Scully’s running your family’s farm these days, isn’t he?”
Mazie burped in a very unladylike way. “Uh-huh.”
“And the other brother? Jim?”
“Jimmy’s a contractor. He builds houses.”
“Huh. I would have guessed home demolition.”
Mazie was about to ask Johnny what he did for a living, but they were already pulling into the farm’s driveway. A distance that took twenty minutes on a bike took only five in a car.
Johnny parked in the shade and turned off the engine. They both looked at the house, where the entire Maguire family was clustered on the front porch. Gran, Scully, the twins, Muffin, and—oh God—Labeck, all of them staring. Mazie heaved open the Caddy’s heavy door and got out. Her foot twisted under her—stupid slippery gravel—and she crashed to the ground.
Muffin streaked over and gave her a doggie face-washing, sniffed at her breath, then wrinkled his nose. Scully ambled over and hauled Mazie to her feet, grinning ear to ear. “Hell, Mazie, you smell like the Smirnoff distillery. Hey, Chief—how you doing?”
“Good. Uhh, some guy tried to run your sister off the road. She didn’t get the plates, but I’ll look into it, see what I can find out.”
Wrenching herself away from Scully, Mazie straightened to her full height, brushed dirt off her shorts, and waved to her family. “Hi, everybody. Miss me?”
Scully’s grin widened. “My baby sis, the wino.”
Johnny took the bike out of the Caddy’s trunk and leaned it against a tree. Ben stepped forward, and Mazie performed the introductions. “Ben Labeck, this is Johnny Hoolihan. Johnny’s an old classmate.”
The two men sized each other up, loathed each other on first sight, grimly shook hands, and held an unspoken conversation:
Hoolihan: Dude, I could have bagged her if I’d wanted.
Labeck: If you laid a hand on her I’m going to punch you so hard your tonsils will squirt out your ears.
Tight smiles played over their faces, neck veins stood out, and their grips were so hard that both of them were going to have to stick their hands in tubs of ice water later.
Finally the stag display ended and Johnny returned to his car. “Nice seeing you all again. Give my best to Emily,” he called before driving off.
Gran turned to Mazie, eyes snapping. “Well, young lady, what do you have to say for yourself? We were all worried sick.”
Mazie raised her chin. “You shouldn’t have worried. I was just getting the eggs, remember?”
“And where, may I ask, are those eggs?”
Mazie gazed around as though expecting the eggs to materialize out of thin air. “I didn’t get around to it. I was busy.”
“Aunt Mazie’s dru-u-nk,” Joey chanted, and Sam took up the chant as they all trooped into the house.
She ought to give the boys a lecture on respecting their elders, Mazie thought, but at the moment she didn’t feel up to it.
They’d waited on supper for her. She’d figured it was around four in the afternoon, but somehow time had been sucked into a black hole and spat out again hours later. It was actually six o’clock in the evening. Supper was sauteed bass—apparently the fishing expedition had been successful—along with red potatoes in butter and parsley, baby carrots from the garden, and spice cake with cream cheese cinnamon frosting. As Mazie’s vodka-induced ebullience evaporated, guilt settled in to take its place. She should have been here, helping Gran fix supper. Good thing there’d been the miracles of the fishes, because otherwise—God forbid—they would have had to have eggless meat loaf.
The twins bragged all through the meal about the fish they’d caught and the ones that had gotten away. Mazie kept an eye on Muffin in case the boys tried to slip him bits of fish, because small dogs could easily choke on bones.
Gran broke into the fishing drivel. “Well, Mazie—I hear you’re going to be in the Miss Quail Hollow Pageant.”
“What?” sputtered Mazie. “Bodelle Blumquist’s dog-and-pony show? Where’d you hear that?”
“Oh, it’s quite the buzz. They’re getting all the former beauty queens together for the pageant. Folks are already laying bets on who’ll win.”
“They could get Jake Gyllenhaal to emcee and I still wouldn’t be in it.”
“Of course you’re going to compete,” Gran snapped. “Every woman in my card club has already pledged a hundred dollars toward your queenometer. And you’ve got all those Maguire relatives who’ll donate, too—if they know what’s good for them.”
“Not gon-na hap-pen,” Mazie sang, glancing across the table at Ben, who was avoiding her gaze. He was mad about Hoolihan, she guessed. Good! Was she going to exploit that fact?
Oh, shamelessly.
“Come on, Mazie,” Scully said. “Go ahead, enter the pageant. You’ve got to uphold the family honor.”
“Screw the family honor.”
“Mazie, you’re going to be in it, and you’re going to win it.” Gran dinged her fork against her coffee mug. “All those in favor—”
The kitchen resounded with clanging silverware. Sam broke his glass. Milk spilled on the floor and Muffin started lapping it up. Mazie sank her head into her hands and tried to rub away the vodka headache that had settled behind her forehead.
Fortunately for her, Scully volunteered to do the dishes. Exhausted, sunburned, and now beginning to feel the aches from her bike accident, Mazie started upstairs, intending to down a couple of Tylenol and go to bed. She got as far as the fourth step before Ben Labeck, who’d glided silently into the hallway, reached out a long arm and snagged her wrist. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“Let go of me. I’m going to bed.”
He smiled. “Not a prayer. You’re going for a ride with me.”
Chapter Nine
“Tell me about this Johnny Hooligan,” Ben said, his jaw set.
They were driving along a country road at twilight. It was the first time they’d been alone all day, and it would have been romantic if it hadn’t been for the crackling tension between them.
“It’s Hoolihan. I happened to run into him this afternoon—”
“At a bar where you happened to be hanging out,” Ben said. “Your old boyfriend?”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend. We didn’t move in the same circles.”
“You must have had a lot to talk about. You were gone for hours.”
“Well, we didn’t talk the whole time.”
Shut up, now! warned the Smart Mazie, but as usual, Dumb Mazie kicked Smart Mazie’s butt. “We danced a couple of times. The bar has this old jukebox—”
“You danced with him?”
“Just casual jukebox dancing. It’s not like we were Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey doing the lift scene.”
“Who’s Patrick Sway?”
“It’s Swayze—Patrick Swayze.” Mazie swatted Ben’s shoulder with a rolled-up road atlas, which felt so good she whacked him again.
“Hey—what was that for?” Ben asked indignantly.
“To
stop you from saying any more stupid things. You don’t know Patrick Swayze? Didn’t you ever see Dirty Dancing?”
“Yeah. Monday nights, where those celebrities—”
Mazie hit him again. “The movie, dummkopf!”
How could there be this parallel universe where males had never heard of Dirty Dancing? Every woman worth her estrogen adored Dirty Dancing. They’d played the movie nonstop in the prison rec room until the DVD disc wore out. Mazie loved Patrick Swayze because he was a wildly handsome, muscular hunk who made dancing more macho than sacking a quarterback. She adored Jennifer Grey because she was short, not stereotypical Hollywood gorgeous, and still got the guy.
“You think I can’t dance?” Ben said.
“How would I know? We’ve never danced.”
“Because you never said you wanted to. Okay, so you want to dance, I’ll take you dancing.”
Mazie slumped down in her seat, rolling her eyes so hard she thought she might need a corneal transplant. “Dancing isn’t something you check off your I’ve-got-to-do-this-to-get-laid bucket list. It should be spontaneous. It should be I’m-feeling-the-music-and-I-gotta-move.”
I’m feeling the music? Had she actually said that? What was happening here? She was regressing back to adolescence. If she didn’t get back to civilization soon she’d start popping pimples and shopping for dangly earrings at Claire’s.
Labeck was quiet for a couple of beats, then asked, “What else is on the do-it-to-get-laid bucket list?”
“If you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.”
He thumped a fist against the steering wheel. “I hate when women say that. Guys don’t know! Guys are clueless! You have to give us an instruction manual.”
“How can you not know about women when you grew up with all those sisters?”
Tangled Thing Called Love: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance) Page 5
