Lori Wilde - [Cupid, Texas 02]

by All Out of Love

  “I’m also the curator,” she reminded her. “Which means managing the plants. Besides, I already did the budget. Manuel is out sick and we don’t have enough in the coffers to hire extra gardeners.”

  “Isn’t that what your assistant is for?”

  “For one thing, she’s getting minimum wage. Plus, she’s just a kid, still learning the ropes.”

  “Why didn’t you say things were that tight?” Carol Ann sank her hands on her hips. “We can always start charging admission. I’ll put it on the next city council agenda.”

  “Please don’t mention it to the city council. I’m proud of the fact we don’t charge admission so that everyone can enjoy the garden. I’ll find the money in the budget.” If she had to use her own salary to fill in the holes, she would.

  But that was only a stopgap solution. She did have to find a way to raise money if she wanted to implement the improvements she had in mind for the gardens. Her ultimate dream was to win the annual Lady Bird Johnson city garden beautification award, but that was a long ways off.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Carol Ann stepped toward the devil’s tongue.

  Wow, she was actually getting closer to the stinky plant? Lace couldn’t believe it.

  At four feet tall, Amorphophallus konjac was a sight to behold, although nothing like its giant cousin, Amorphophallus titanium (common name corpse plant, which gave some idea of how bad it smelled), which had been known to grow as tall as twenty feet and took a decade to bloom. She’d always had a secret longing to grow titanium. Nursing one to full bloom demanded a level of commitment she’d as yet been unable to make, but one day she’d do it.

  This plant possessed a florid burgundy inflorescence, so plastic-like that if it were not for the smell, it might be mistaken for artificial. In the center was a single elongated “tongue,” known as a corm, and decidedly phallic in appearance. A purple leaf curled up around the corm like the collar of a vampire’s cloak. The overall effect was both sinister and oddly elegant.

  It was a fascinating specimen and kids loved it because of its foul fragrance and demonic appearance, which was the main reason she’d moved it from the greenhouse into the garden. She loved getting children interested in botany. In spite of the reeking odor, it was a sight worth seeing.

  “Is that konjac?”

  Lace raised an eyebrow. “You know what it is?”

  Carol Ann stuck her chin in the air. “I might not have a PhD, but I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t mean anything derogatory by the question, it’s just that you don’t even like gardening. Where did you hear about konjac?”

  “Dr. Oz. He said it’s a fabulous weight loss substance, safe and effective.”

  Ah. Now it was all making sense.

  “So I did a little Googling and saw a picture of the konjac plant. They did say it was very stinky and now I see why.” Carol Ann waved a hand in front of her nose. “Stinky is a kind way of putting it. Smells like the meat that went bad in our mountain cabin after the freezer went out.”

  With the mystery of her aunt’s interest in Amorphophallus konjac solved, Lace turned back to the yucca.

  “And those flies are quite annoying.”

  “Flies are what pollinate the konjac. That’s why it smells the way it does. To attract them.”

  “I see.” Carol Ann tilted her head. “Which part is the corm? I read that’s where they get the food source from.”

  “The part that looks like a porn star’s penis.” Okay, it was flippant, but seriously, her aunt had it coming.

  Carol Ann made a chuffing noise and her thin nostrils flared. “There’s no need to be crude, young lady.”

  Lace rolled her eyes.

  “I saw that.”

  “ ‘Penis’ is an anatomically correct word,” she pointed out.

  “That may be true but it’s not a word to be used in polite company.”

  “It’s just you and me here. There’s no one else around to judge us. No ghosts of Fants or Greenwoods past.”

  Carol Ann picked up the tote bag she’d dropped earlier and returned to unlock the letterbox. “Well, in spite of the fact you need your mouth washed out with soap, I am glad to see you’re taking proactive steps to do something about your weight.”

  Lace blinked. “What?”

  “Although honestly, you could just purchase the konjac pills at a health food store. It’s called glucomannan. I know you love to dig in the dirt and you do have your father’s hippie tendencies, but you don’t have to grow and harvest and compound your own weight loss aid.”

  Silently, she counted to ten. If Carol Ann said, You have such a pretty face, if you’d only lose thirty pounds, you’d have guys flocking all over you, she was going to scream.

  She had been skinny once. She’d had guys flocking all over and she had allowed the attention to go to her head. Lace cringed, remembering the wild coed she’d become when she, like Carol Ann, had worn a size four. She liked her weight the way it was now, liked being a size fourteen. The sturdiness made her feel powerful, grounded, substantial, and in control.

  “Honey, you do have such a pretty—”

  “Don’t you have to be at work by eight?” Lace cut her off. Her aunt was a CPA and she’d just been asked to take over the books for the town of Cupid after their last accountant left unexpectedly.

  “Oh my, yes.” Carol Ann glanced at her wristwatch. “Thank you for the reminder.” She scooped the letters from the box, tucked them into her tote, reset the lock.

  She clipped the yucca, enjoying the snip-snip sound of the shears.

  Carol Ann cleared her throat. “Oh, by the way, we’re moving the noon meeting from the community center.”

  “Where to?”

  “The rehab wing of Cupid General Hospital. They moved Aunt Delia there yesterday and the doctor said it was fine to hold our meeting in her hospital room. He thought it would cheer her up to feel useful again.”

  A month earlier, Lace’s feisty great-aunt Delia had fallen in the tub and broken her hip. “I’ll be there.”

  Carol Ann stood there a moment as if expecting more conversation. Lace didn’t give her any. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Have a nice day,” she said without looking up.

  Her aunt click-clacked her way back to the gate, paused, and turned around. “Oh, sweetie, I almost forgot what I came here to tell you.”

  Lace suppressed a sigh and raised her head again. She had to see her aunt three times a week at the volunteer meetings, no point in stirring the pot, although it took a lot of tongue biting to keep from smarting off. “What is it, Auntie?”

  “Pierce Hollister has come home.”

  Boom!

  Carol Ann dropped the bomb and walked away without even looking around to see the results of her detonation.

  With a trembling pinky finger, Lace pushed on the bridge of her glasses again, even though they hadn’t fallen back down, as her heart climbed into her throat. This was it. The very thing she’d spent the last twelve years dreading.

  The prodigal athlete’s return.

  SOME THINGS NEVER changed. Life in Cupid, Texas, was one of them.

  People tipped their Stetsons, and nodded hello to friends and strangers alike. Folks sat out on their front lawns, waving to whomever went by. Kids ran laughing and squealing through water sprinklers. The ice cream truck rolled through the neighborhoods offering its wares of fudge bars, Nutty Buddys and Push-ups to the Pied Piper warble of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

  Pierce Hollister drove his F–150 King Ranch luxury Ford pickup truck down Main Street and took a left on Pike. He cruised past the botanical gardens and the Bettingfield livery stable, the smell of horses in the air. It had been a long time since he’d been on the back of a horse.

  If it weren’t for the leg, he’d saddle up a stallion when he got to the Triple H and go for a gallop. Pierce leaned over and pressed a hand to his left shin, and he coul
d feel the ridges of the scar even through the heavy denim of his Wranglers.

  The sky was brilliant blue, the air a dry eighty-nine degrees; the Davis Mountains squatted behind him, as solemn as Zen masters, knowing everything but saying nothing. He had a coach once who’d required them to meditate before a game. He bitched about it as much as the next player, but secretly he’d loved the silent practice and came to look forward to it. Too bad he couldn’t seem to get back to that quiet inner peace.

  He passed by the high school, the parking lots vacant except for the one near the football field filled with pickup trucks and SUVs. The players were running the bleachers, the coach stood on the field, hands on his hips, whistle in his mouth. Year after year, football practice started in July. The players changed, but the ritual never did.

  His leg twinged again and melancholia, bittersweet as pickled watermelon rind, rolled across his tongue. He could taste the shadow of his youth mocking him. Who’s the big shot now?

  Shake it off. Next thing you know you’ll be puttin’ on Springsteen and wailing to “Glory Days.” Back. He was going to get it all back. By this time next year, the media would be calling him the Comeback Kid. Well, maybe not Kid. At thirty, he certainly wasn’t a kid anymore.

  The Dairy Queen was still across the street from the high school, although it had a new paint job since Pierce Hollister’s last thunderclap visit to his hometown two years ago.

  The same day he’d made quarterback of the junior varsity; he’d copped his first feel behind that Dairy Queen in his battered old 1978 Chevy pickup with Mary Alice Fant. His hands up under her sweater, palms skimming her belly, his mouth on hers. A few weeks later, they’d gone all the way on the chaise longue on her parents’ back patio.

  Ah, Mary Alice.

  Pierce grinned, until that memory led to another one and he remembered the mess Mary Alice had caused by publishing that sad little Dear Cupid letter written by his best buddy Jay’s younger half sister in the school newspaper. That had been damn vindictive of her. Mary Alice had done it to embarrass Pierce for breaking up with her so he could date the head cheerleader, Jenny Angus, but what she’d ended up doing was humiliating her own cousin.

  Grimacing, he shook his head. He’d had no idea that Lace had been crushing on him. If he had known how she felt, he wouldn’t have tweaked her hair and called her “brat” for tagging along after him and Jay.

  He still recalled the way Lace had looked the last day he’d ever seen her, barreling through the door of the high school in shame, tears streaming down her face. He’d had an impulse to pull her into his arms and soothe her, tell her everything was going to be okay, but that would have just made things worse for both of them. So he’d just stood there at the door watching her run down the sidewalk as fast as her legs would carry her.

  Coward.

  The incident had happened at the end of the school year and Pierce was relieved to avoid any blowback by going off to the University of Texas, while Jay had been accepted to Texas Tech. They’d kept in contact for a while, but with him on a football scholarship and Jay pre-med, well, they simply had different interests and they’d eventually drifted apart.

  Oh, they still called each other once in a while—Jay had phoned with his condolences when Pierce was in the hospital after the Super Bowl disaster where he’d broken his fibula and tibia and lost the game—but they never brought up Lace’s name.

  Silly, in retrospect, to let something like that cause a ripple in their friendship, but the fact was, it had. Sad because when they were teenagers they’d been like peanut butter and jelly.

  Didn’t really matter now. That was twelve long years ago, so much water under the bridge.

  He braked at an intersection. La Hacienda Grill sat on the corner as it always had, a garish mural painted across the front featuring a platter of tacos and a pitcher of margaritas inset over a pink hibiscus flower, along with four smiling mariachis. Smoke poured from the metal chimney on the roof, punctuating the lunch hour with the smell of sizzling skirt steak.

  A gaggle of giggling teenage girls in halter tops and short shorts strutted in front of his hood. Once upon a time, he would have been chasing after them with a wink and a crook of his finger. Now they just made him feel old. Young bucks leaned against the side of Greenwood’s Grocery, flexing and posturing for the girls. Cocky and full of themselves, so certain their youth would last forever. Funny how things that had once seemed so important barely mattered now.

  Pierce snorted. The light turned green and he eased off the brake.

  He had bigger things on his mind these days than which girl he could lure into his bed. In fact, he’d sworn off women for the foreseeable future. His girlfriend Amber had done a number on him when she’d broken things off after his accident and then promptly took up with the quarterback who’d replaced him on the team. To compensate, he’d thrown himself one hundred percent into his rehab and had made tremendous progress.

  Up ahead, the blue “Hospital” road sign pointed the way to Cupid General. He braced himself for the institutional scent of antiseptic, overheated linen, and powdered eggs. It was a smell he’d grown far too familiar with over the last five months.

  Temporary.

  All his setbacks were temporary. While the media had shown the sack repeatedly—that point of impact where the linebacker’s hit had broken his leg—and compared him to Joe Theismann, his injury had not been quite that severe. His doctors had assured him that it was entirely possible that he could make a full recovery and return to the NFL. Pierce simply wasn’t the kind of guy who could stay sidelined for long.

  In fact, if his old man hadn’t gotten sick, he would still be in Dallas getting physical therapy.

  But his old man had gotten sick and Pierce had come home. Not to lick his wounds, but to help his brother, Malcolm, run the family ranch while Dad was laid up.

  Soon as his father was on his feet again, Pierce would be headed back to Dallas. By then, he should be off the disabled list and ready to hit the ground running.

  He pulled to a stop in the visitors’ parking lot and got out, but he’d taken no more than two steps when from behind him a woman shrieked.

  “Oh. My. God! As I live and breathe, it’s Pierce Hollister!”

  A few more females squealed, then came the sound of stampeding high heels, and the next thing he knew, he was surrounded by two blondes, two brunettes, and a redhead, all young and gorgeous and sweet-smelling.

  Pierce tipped his Stetson back on his head, gave his patented smile, and drawled, “Hello, ladies.”

  They erupted into fresh squeals.

  “I told Tiffany that was you!” the taller brunette said. She had big, wide Bambi eyes and a nose that looked like she’d had it whittled down until it was too small for her face. She was holding a Mylar balloon that said: “It’s a Boy!”

  One of the blondes, who resembled the actress Hayden Panettiere—Pierce had once sat next to Hayden at a celebrity charity event—twittered. She had a box, gift-wrapped with blue paper, tucked under her arm. “It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you, I just couldn’t imagine why Pierce Hollister would come back to this one-horse town.”

  “Cupid is my hometown,” Pierce chided. Hypocrite. When he was her age he’d felt the same way, but he wouldn’t earn any community brownie points by saying so. “Don’t dis it, Tiff.”

  Tiffany wilted like a delicate flower in the hot desert sun. “Oh, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. Cupid is my hometown too, it’s just that it’s so dinky and nothing ever happens here—”

  “Be proud of where you’re from.” But get out while the getting is good.

  The buxom redhead darted out a hand, quickly stroked his forearm, snatched her hand back, and giggled. “Look at me, I just touched Pierce Hollister!”

  The second blonde, whose hair was so fine and thin her ears poked out through it, whipped out her cell phone, snapped a picture of Pierce, and with lightning-fast thumbs was already sending it off to
social media sites.

  The others immediately followed suit. Pierce’s smile was fading.

  “Can I have an autograph?” asked the shorter brunette, her ponytail swishing as she dug in her oversized purse. “I got a pen and notepad in here somewhere.”

  “Forget the paper.” The redhead whipped out a Sharpie from the back pocket of her tight-fitting jeans, thrust it at him, and then pulled open her blouse, revealing an impressive set of tits. “Sign these.”

  Yes, some things never changed.

  Pierce suppressed a sigh, uncapped the Sharpie, and autographed her cleavage. Of course, after that, they all wanted their boobs signed and then they had to take pictures of his signature and tweet it too.

  “We are so sorry about your leg,” the first brunette said when the Sharpie and smart phones had been put away. “We hope you heal real soon.”

  “You’ll be back better than ever!” the redhead enthused.

  “The Dallas Cowboys aren’t the same without you,” Tiffany said.

  How would she know? Preseason didn’t start for another month. The Cowboys might just be fine and dandy without him. Immediately, Pierce stomped on that thought, ground it out. He couldn’t allow self-doubt to take root and grow. The redhead was right. He would be back better than ever.

  Uh-huh. Go ahead, blow smoke up your own ass.

  “If you ladies will excuse me.” He motioned toward the hospital and started moving slowly in that direction. If he moved carefully enough, he could keep from limping.

  “Oh, we’re going that way too,” said the tall brunette. “Our friend just had a baby. We’ll walk with you.”

  “Who are you visiting?” asked the thin-haired blonde, falling into step beside him.

  “My dad,” he said, feeling his lips stretch tight.

  “Oh yes, your dad owns the Triple H, right?”

  Pierce nodded. “He does.”

  The redhead laid a hand on his shoulder. “I hope he gets well real soon.”

  Not half as much as Pierce did. “Thank you.”

  Tiffany rushed ahead and opened the door for him. “You know, you’re a lot more handsome in person than you are on TV.”