by Jan Freed
Allie moved up and tugged on Joe’s arm. “They won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of them myself. You won’t have to do a thing. Please, Joe, can we stay?”
He looked into doe brown eyes and remembered a little girl of six pleading for a kitten, a little girl of eight pleading for a puppy.
“You said yourself it was only for a month,” she persisted, turning his own words against him.
He’d vetoed the kitten and puppy. The subsequent rabbit and bird, too. His mother wouldn’t tolerate an animal in the house, and, as she’d told him, he wouldn’t be there to help care for them.
Before Allie’s imploring eyes grew disillusioned, before his gut could churn with guilt, he cupped her head and rumpled her silky hair. “Okay, pal, tomorrow we’ll bring a load of stuff over and get settled in. But when it comes to those two monsters, forget what I said about us sticking together. You’re on your own.”
Whether his sudden difficulty in breathing came from Allie’s crushing bear hug or the quiet thanks in Catherine’s eyes, he couldn’t have said.
FIFTY MILES AWAY, Mary Lou Denton eased behind the counter of Columbus Truck Stop’s diner and tied an apron over her slim black skirt. The luncheon special—chicken-fried steak as big as a hubcap—would keep things hopping for hours yet. She might run the place now, but she couldn’t sit on her duff in the manager’s office while the waitresses up front ran themselves ragged. She’d walked too many years in their shoes.
Grabbing an order pad and pencil, she slipped into the stream of action without a ripple. Dishes clattered. Voices rumbled. Steam clouded or curled, spreading the smells of grease, coffee and fresh-baked bread. A waitress’s telltale perfume. She’d have to wash and rinse her hair twice tonight, but the thought didn’t annoy her as it used to. She pushed back a surge of uneasiness.
If there was an extra spring in her step, it wasn’t because today was Wednesday. She hadn’t worn her hair up in a French twist for any particular reason. Her heart didn’t leap each time the door jangled open. No, not hers. That would mean she cared who came in. And she was way too smart for that. Irene whizzed past balancing loaded plates on both arms. The harried waitress’s well-timed mumble found its mark and Mary Lou scanned the eating customers. Ah. So Grace had discovered the new driver for Valley Produce, had she?
When the pretty young woman tossed him a parting smile and headed toward the kitchen, Mary Lou stepped into her path. “The family in booth three finished five minutes ago.”
Grace blushed, knowing she’d been caught flirting. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mary Lou nodded and moved out of the way. Yes, ma’am, old lady, ma’am. As if she’d never experienced the thrill of a man’s appreciative gaze. As if she never would.
Without vanity, she knew her thick dark hair had very little gray, her skin few wrinkles, her body little excess flesh for a woman of fifty-two years. Men still cast her second glances. She stared at the front door, realized what she was doing and turned back to the counter wearing a blush of her own.
Drivers sat hunched over their plates in a long row. Cattle at the trough, she’d called them once upon a time, when her dreams were big and her patience shrank in proportion to her swelling feet. She’d been so disdainful then. So…naive. Funny how tragedy changed a person’s outlook. She’d returned from the East a whole lot sadder but wiser.
These men had names. Families. Troubles and triumphs. Her feet swelled worse than ever, but thank God her head didn’t.
“Hey, beautiful, c’mere a minute,” a familiar voice boomed.
Irene, Grace and Mary Lou swiveled their heads at the same time. Nate Dawson grinned at all three but crooked his finger at Mary Lou. The younger women rolled their eyes fondly and returned to their duties.
Smiling, Mary Lou walked to the barrel-shaped trucker who’d become a true friend over the years. The birth of his two daughters, his problems with various employers, the glorious day he’d bought his own rig—she’d shared them all with Nate. Just as he’d cheered her promotion to manager two years ago. She suspected he’d put the original bug in the new owner’s ear that led to a serious interview.
She stopped in front of Nate and patted his arm. “How’s it going, stranger? You haven’t stopped by my office in ages.”
“Been workin’ against the clock the last coupla months. Only stopped today ‘cause I was runnin’ on fumes. By the way, pump 9 is knockin’ real bad.”
“I know. It’s on my list.” Along with a hundred other details to take care of. She tapped Nate’s polished plate and chuckled. “Sorry you didn’t like the special.”
“I couldn’t hurt Danny’s feelings now, could I? In fact, maybe I’d better have some of his peach cobbler.”
“Mmm. Aren’t you forgetting those size-forty pants you were going to fit into for Cindy’s wedding?” His daughter was getting married in three weeks. Short of liposuction, Nate was out of time.
His hopeful expression fell. “I stuck to my diet all morning. Didn’t stop for a doughnut or nothin’, you can ask Frank. He’s been tailin’ my mud flaps since San Antonio. Tell her I didn’t stop, will ya, Frank?” Nate elbowed the driver on his right, nearly knocking the smaller man off his stool.
Frank resettled his skinny rump and slanted his colleague a lethal glance. “Touch me again and Cindy’ll be wearing black to her wedding.”
“Ooh. Big talk from such a little man.”
“It ain’t the size of the dog that counts, buddy. It’s the fight in the dog—”
“Guys,” Mary Lou interrupted before the reference to size could turn sexual. And it would, as surely as men would be boys. “I’ll get you the cobbler, Nate, if you’ll promise to reserve a larger tux for the wedding while there’s still time. They may have to ship one in from another store location.”
Nate threw up his hands. “Forget the damn cobbler! Jeez, you’re worse than Barb. It’s not like I haven’t tried to lose weight. I have. It’s just that I’ve got this…condition.”
Mary Lou stared. Nate never lost his temper. “What do you mean, condition?”
Looking as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Nate glanced from side to side, then leaned forward. Alarm shot through her.
“I saw a doctor in Dallas,” he confessed grimly. “There’s a problem with my stomach, Mary Lou.”
“Oh, Nate, no.”
“’Fraid so. Something called dunlop disease.”
“Dunlop disease?” She reached for his beefy forearm and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay, Nate. You’ll do what the doctor says and everything will be fine.”
Eyes cast down, he shook his head, his jowls swaying. “Ain’t nothin’ anyone can do. My belly done lopped over my belt, and that’s all there is to it.”
He raised mischievous hazel eyes an instant before he sputtered into laughter. Frank joined in.
Releasing Nate’s arm with a shove, Mary Lou felt her face heat. Gullible to the end, that’s what she was.
Still hooting, Nate pointed a stubby finger. “Got you good that time, honey, didn’t I, Frank?”
Frank met her narrowed gaze and wisely kept quiet.
Stabbing her pencil into her coiled hair, she stacked the men’s empty dishes with clattering force.
Nate sobered. “Aw hell, Mary Lou, I’m sorry for pulling your leg like that. This damn wedding is making me real mean. It’s all Barb nags me about day and night.” He rubbed at a water ring on the counter. “She expects me to be happy, ya know? But the truth is, I’ll miss Cindy somethin’ terrible.”
Mary Lou scooped up the pile of dishes. “Would you like that cobbler now?”
“Guess I’d better not.” He studied her closely and sighed. “Those cat eyes of yours are still hissing mad. I don’t blame you. I can’t expect you to understand what losing a daughter feels like.”
Her fingers slackened. Crockery hit the floor and shattered. Cursing, she lowered her knees to the black and white tiles and stared at the mess. She hadn’t dropped a dish in at
least fifteen years.
“You okay?” Nate’s concerned voice drifted over her head.
“I’m fine,” she managed to croak.
“For a minute there, you turned white as a sheet. You see a ghost or somethin’?”
Did a memory qualify? “No. I’m fine,” she repeated, as much for herself as for him.
Grace rushed up, sympathy in her cluck and glee in her eyes. “Would you like me to clean that up, Ms. Denton?”
Mary Lou sent her a wry look. “No, just give Nate and Frank their checks, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Feeling as fractured as the smashed earthenware on the floor, Mary Lou struggled for composure. She’d thought her past safely buried. Yet one innocent comment had unearthed her clawing guilt.
Is she married? Is she a mother? Is she happy?
Not knowing sliced her heart. She bled as much now as thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Time had only changed the questions.
“Here you go, Ms. Denton.”
Blinking, she smoothed back her hair with trembling fingers. Irene had placed a whisk, dustpan and paper bag within reach. Mary Lou slowly began gathering broken shards. Movement flowed unchecked around her—a stream purling around the rock suddenly dropped in its midst. At some point Nate apologized again and left. Grace announced she was going on break.
Mary Lou’s awareness returned by degrees. She dumped the last dish fragments into the paper bag and sank back on her heels. For the tenth time in as many minutes the front door jangled open.
It was him.
She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.
Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.
Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”
“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.
Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.
Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think up an excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.
Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.
“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”
She stopped breathing.
“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”
Thanks a lot, God.
There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.
“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.
A beat of silence. “I just knew.”
Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.
John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.
His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.
“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.
“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”
She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”
Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.
John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.
His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”
He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.
“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”
The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to turn around a failing business and warrant this man’s faith in her.
“Why are you hiding behind four feet of wood? What’s wrong, Mary Lou?”
She wanted more than his faith, that’s what was wrong. “I think we should stick to surnames, don’t you?”
His surprisingly dark eyebrows lifted and fell. “Funny. Last month you called me John in this very office. If you insist on formality in front of the staff that’s one thing, but after two years of working together—”
“We don’t work together. I work for you. No, that’s not right, either. I work for your portfolio. I’m a weak investment, remember?”
His mouth quirked. “I’d hardly call you weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Quite unusual for a beautiful woman, in my experience.”
Hot pleasure spilled through her veins. It was the first time he’d stepped from a traditional employer’s role, other than to brag about his college-age daughter. She reminded herself sternly he was out of her league.
“Do you take such a personal interest in all of your investments, Mr. Chandler?”
“It depends on the potential for return, Ms. Denton.”
She licked suddenly dry lips. “And what kind of return do you expect from me?”
“I expect nothing. I speculate that patience with you would be well rewarded in the long run.”
Oh, God. “What if you’re overestimating my abilities?”
“I don’t believe I am. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
Her heart was thumping like diesel-pump 9. “You have?”
For an instant his eyes blazed. “Oh, yes, I have.” He lowered his lashes and tweaked the crease in his pants. “Perhaps we should discuss this more fully over dinner tonight.”
She wanted to say yes more than anything she’d wanted in a very long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You’ve got to eat, don’t you? When was the last time you had dinner in a nice restaurant?”
She smiled briefly. “I think I’m insulted.”
“Don’t be. I know how hard you work, that’s all I meant.”
What else did he know about her? “Mr. Chandler…John,” she conceded, amazed at the fierce triumph that crossed his face. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really don’t believe in mixing business and pleasure.”
His eyes widened innocently. “Did you think we would have fun? That this would be a date?” He wagged his head and hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like to discuss the quarterly profit-and-loss report if you don’t
mind. And there’s an interesting treatise about the effect of religious cults on the price of oil and gas I’d like you to look at. You can take a peek over dessert if you’re a fast reader.”
By this time she was chuckling. He made her fears seem ridiculous. Still…
“You can pick the spot. What do you feel like eating? Chinese? Italian? You name it, you’ve got it.”
His boyish eagerness was irresistible. With a rush of defiance, she caved in. “Any place is fine with me—as long as it doesn’t smell like grease!”
CHAPTER FOUR
CATHERINE MEASURED coffee, poured water and started the automatic brewer in her father’s spotless white kitchen. Her new tenants had moved into the garage apartment the day before. Joe was due at nine o’clock for his “orientation” session. She’d no sooner returned from her morning swim about eight than she’d heard his Bronco back out of the driveway. Round trip, the drive to Allie’s softball camp at the Y shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.
Father and daughter were very close from what Catherine had observed. Still, something about their relationship had nagged at her in the hours after she’d shown them the apartment. It wasn’t just that Allie called her father by his first name, although that indicated a disturbing equality between the two. No, there’d been something else. An interaction she’d recognized and responded to on a deeply personal level.
Then last night an image had crystallized in Catherine’s mind: Allie’s face, pleading with Joe to stay for the month.
The girl’s expression had been resigned, as if she’d experienced disappointment many times in her young life. She’d obviously expected her father to say no and reverse the plans they’d discussed. Yet she hadn’t been able to mask her trace of hopefulness.
Catherine paused now in the act of sponging stray coffee grounds from the counter. How well she understood the adoration, the sick disappointment, the renewed hope. In her case, she’d never been able to meet her father’s expectations. The adoration/disappointment cycle had continued until hope had finally died. The same would happen to Allie unless Joe’s pattern of behavior changed.
