by Ann B. Ross
I leaned my head on my hand and tried to calm my rapid breathing. “Sam didn’t send it,” I said, realizing that I was going to need their help to handle a new and completely unsuitable suitor who was looming on the horizon. “Listen to this.”
I unfolded the card and read:
“My heart will know no bounds
When you come riding around.
Whether you do it for love or money,
Thurlow’ll want you for his honey.”
“Oh, Lord,” I said, my head sinking down on the table. “Have you ever heard anything so awful? I could just expire right here and now. Oh, the shame of it, being courted by that repulsive old man. What in the world am I going to do?”
“Just ignore him, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie advised. “He’ll soon get the message and quit bothering you.”
I looked up at her, frowning. That’s what she’d been doing to Mr. Pickens, in the hope that he’d get the opposite message.
Lillian reached for another piece of candy. “Look like to me, we ought to eat all we want, then send him the empty box an’ say we had our fill an’ don’t want no more.”
Hazel Marie bent over the box, deciding what to try next. “Wonder what Sam’s going to say when he hears about this,” she said, as if she were talking to herself.
Lillian started laughing, and I threw up my hands. “Sam wouldn’t care one way or another,” I said, and started out of the room.
“I think he ought to know he has a rival, don’t you, Lillian?” Hazel Marie said, as I took myself off.
With Hazel Marie’s words still ringing in my mind, I went upstairs to face an unpleasant task that simply had to be done. I sat down at my desk and, sighing, drew out an informal with my initials engraved on the front. I declare, I hated writing a thank-you note to someone I couldn’t stand, but one does what one knows is the proper thing to do. Even if one would like to wring the recipient’s neck.
Gathering my thoughts and taking pen in hand, I wrote:
Dear Mr. Jones,
On behalf of the residents of Willow Lane, I want to thank you again for the generous donation you have made and also for the additional one you will make upon completion of my promised excursion. Pursuant to that, it is my pleasure to invite you to dine at Red Ryder’s Stop, Shop and Eat, where the presentation of said promised donation can be made to the acclaim of all present.
Thank you also for the Whitman’s Sampler box, an entirely unnecessary but appreciated gift. Lillian and Hazel Marie enjoyed it ever so much.
Cordially,
I signed my name with a flourish and a sigh of relief at having the chore over and done with. After addressing and stamping the envelope, I congratulated myself on doing the correct thing, difficult though it had been, and also for writing a formal and dispassionate note that ought to serve to cool Thurlow Jones’s jets, as Little Lloyd would say.
“One thing is for sure,” I mumbled, wondering what I had done to be on the receiving end of such unwanted attentions, “I am not eating any of that candy.”
When the phone rang on my desk, I picked it up before Lillian could get it downstairs.
“Julia?” Sam said. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Sam.” Well, as fine as I could be after my meeting with Clarence Gibbs, and after receiving an unwanted box of candy, but he didn’t need to know about either one. “How are you?”
“Not so good.” He breathed long and deep, and I began to worry that something else was wrong with him. “Julia,” he went on before I could ask about it, “I’ve been thinking about that big donation from Thurlow Jones. He’s an odd bird if there ever was one, and I hope he didn’t get the wrong idea when you went to see him.”
“I don’t know what kind of wrong idea he could’ve gotten, Sam,” I said. “My request to him was straightforward enough.”
“Well, but you don’t know him like I do.”
“That’s what you keep telling me, but you don’t need to warn me about him.” I rubbed a certain spot on my back side, but I wasn’t about to mention that. “I’m well aware of what he’s capable of, but so far he’s been nothing but generous and thoughtful. Why, Sam, he even sent us a box of candy this morning.” I don’t know why I told him that. I hadn’t intended to; it just popped out.
“Candy!” Sam said, in a voice raised louder than I’d ever heard it. “What is that fool doing sending you candy? Send it back, Julia. You can’t encourage him or you’ll never be rid of him.”
“I can’t do that, Sam,” I said, a little smile playing around my mouth as I realized that Hazel Marie’s assessment just might be right. “It would be so ungracious of me. Besides, a lady can accept certain attentions without implying any reciprocation. And, if I started sending things back, I’d have to employ a whole messenger service to return all the other gifts I’ve received.”
“Who else has been sending you gifts? Julia, listen to me, you can’t go around accepting things from every Tom, Dick, and Harry. It gives the wrong impression.”
“Oh, Sam,” I said, glancing out my window to see some of the ladies coming up the walk. “You worry too much. Look, I have guests coming in, so I have to go.”
He didn’t much like it, especially since I now had him thinking that every unattached male in town was showering me with presents. Well, just as Hazel Marie’d said, it wouldn’t hurt him to think he wasn’t the only one in the running.
When the doorbell rang downstairs, I prepared myself to meet my guests. I had to show them by my comportment that participating in this endeavor would not in the least be unusual or inappropriate, while hiding the fact that to me it was simply outrageous. It was imperative for my peace of mind that I talk them into signing up for the thrill of their lives, so I wouldn’t be the only one making a fool of herself. Misery loves company, you know.
Chapter 24
It wasn’t the ladies at the door, but Mr. Pickens, who’d arrived much earlier than we’d expected. Hazel Marie had let him in, and they stood together just staring at each other. I did a little staring, too.
Lord, the man exuded masculinity and lemon cologne in enough quantities to make my head swim. Leather does something exceptional to the men who wear it, especially when made up into tight-fitting pants and heavy boots with silver buckles. Because it was an Indian summer day, as he’d pointed out—although I thought it was just an excuse—he wore only a leather vest over a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. I couldn’t keep my eyes off those highly visible muscles and, particularly, that ugly scar on his upper arm. To have something like that made me wonder if his profession of looking for missing persons and tracking down insurance fraud was much more dangerous than I’d thought. Or maybe one of his wives had lit into him, leaving something to remember her by.
And, Lord, when he turned I saw a tattoo on his other arm—some kind of bird. An eagle, maybe. Or a chicken. I’ll tell you, with all that ornamentation, Mr. Pickens cut a dashing and somewhat dangerous-looking figure.
He had come riding up on what he called his Harley Softail, a most inappropriate name in my opinion, and I hoped he wouldn’t mention it again. He did manage his machine, however, with a great deal more skill than Sam had displayed on his.
As the ladies arrived, each pair of eyes popped out at the sight of Mr. Pickens’s unclothed arm muscles. LuAnne immediately started flapping her hands, as she does whenever she gets excited, and at one point I thought she was going to reach out and rub her hand over his scar. LuAnne tended to lose her head when she was in the presence of a certain virile type of man. But, given Leonard’s usual somnolent state, I guess she had to make up for it somewhere.
Mr. Pickens took all their wide-eyed stares in stride as if he were used to that kind of adulation. He was just as charming as he could be, greeting them and complimenting each one so that he quickly overcame any trepidations they might’ve felt. They were so taken with him, in fact, that they hardly partook of Lillian’s offerings from the kitchen, standing around him and aski
ng questions about the motorcycle parked in my front yard.
Every once in a while, he’d look over somebody’s head and wink at Hazel Marie, letting her know that she was his one and only. I would’ve had my doubts, if it’d been me.
I finally got them seated and quickly presented our idea of the leading ladies of the town riding with an experienced biker in order to raise money for the Willow Lane folks. I explained how we’d get sponsors, spelled out in glorious detail how exhilarating and healthy a ride would be, and how much good we all could do.
No one said a word for a long minute, then Mr. Pickens stood up. “Ladies,” he said, his white teeth gleaming from under that black mustache. He looked directly at LuAnne, and I heard her catch her breath. “Ladies, let me reassure you about a couple of things. Everybody you’ll be riding with is highly safety conscious, and you won’t be in any danger at all. Another thing, forget all you’ve ever read or heard about bikers. You won’t meet a nicer or friendlier bunch of people anywhere. There won’t be any fussing, fighting, or brawling; just a lot of good, clean fun.”
Emma Sue Ledbetter sniffed and Norma Cantrell, taking a cue from her, twitched her shoulders, but Mr. Pickens pretended not to notice. “Now,” he said, “I’ve brought my bike and I’d like to ride each one of you around the block to let you see what it’s like.” Then, looking deep into the eyes of each woman there, he lowered his voice and said, “I need somebody to go with me. Who wants to be first?”
He smiled that heart-melting smile right in LuAnne’s face, and she jumped right up. “I will!” Then she stopped and looked down at herself. “But I have on a skirt. Hazel Marie, can I borrow a pair of your pants?”
Before Hazel Marie could answer, Mr. Pickens said, “We can fix that. I’ll tuck you in good, and we won’t go fast, anyway.”
We all went out on the front porch to watch the performance. Lillian, not wanting to miss anything, edged out behind us. Mr. Pickens helped LuAnne put on the extra helmet he’d brought, then assisted her onto the backseat—what he called the saddle. Then, to her great delight, he carefully tucked her skirt around her so that it wouldn’t blow up. Then he adjusted his own helmet and climbed aboard, giving the machine a kick that started the motor with a great roar. LuAnne shrieked and grabbed his waist. Then he propelled the two of them out of the yard in the most careful and sedate manner possible.
“I can’t believe she’d do that,” Emma Sue said, a disapproving frown on her face. “What is Leonard going to say?”
“Leonard’s not going to say anything,” I said. LuAnne’s husband seemed half asleep half the time.
While we waited for them to circle the block, I noticed a long, black car parked at the curb, not quite in front of the house but near enough for me to see a man sitting in it. I thought he was going to get out, but the spectacle LuAnne and Mr. Pickens presented may have caused him to think better of it. Probably a sales-type person, I thought, wanting to demonstrate a vacuum cleaner by throwing dirt on my Orientals. It was just as well that he kept his seat, for I never welcomed salespeople inside my house. When I want to buy something, I go to the store and get it. I don’t need to be talked into something in my own living room.
I forgot about the salesman when Mr. Pickens guided the cycle back into the yard and helped LuAnne off in a gentlemanly fashion. When she took off the helmet, her face was lit up with excitement.
“That was wonderful!” she crowed. “I’m ready to go again. But somebody else take a turn. You’ll love it.”
When nobody volunteered, Mr. Pickens scanned each face, then pointed at Helen Stroud. “How about you? Wouldn’t you like to ride with me?”
Well, put that way, what woman wouldn’t? With a giggle, Helen took LuAnne’s place and soon she and Mr. Pickens were roaring out into the street. She yelped as a sudden gust of wind blew her dress over her head, and I thought Emma Sue was going to die laughing on the spot.
LuAnne chattered on about the thrill of it until Helen was deposited back into the yard. Strange things must happen under that helmet—or from holding onto Mr. Pickens—because she was just as flushed as LuAnne had been.
Mr. Pickens put down the kickstand and walked up onto the porch. Mildred Allen backed away, saying, “I would, but I won’t fit on that back seat.” And she was right, for the seat was molded across the back and along the sides, and even if she’d been able to fit into it, she’d’ve been wedged in for life.
“We can fix something up for you,” Mr. Pickens said. Then, noticing her self-consciousness, he sidled up to her and said, “Bikers go crazy for full-figured women.”
She turned as red as a beet, while I rolled my eyes. Mr. Pickens had no shame at all. But he turned his black eyes on Emma Sue, smiling at her and ignoring her tight mouth and frown of disapproval.
“Mrs. Ledbetter,” he said, “you’re the one I particularly want because you have the influence to make or break this charitable enterprise. I know people look up to you, so your approval would mean everything in making the Run a success.”
Her mouth loosened just a little, as she nodded her head. “That may be true, Mr. Pickens,” she said, “but I am totally dedicated to Christian work alone. I just can’t spread myself too thin, you know. This sort of thing, even if it is for a good cause, would take time and effort away from spreading the Gospel.”
“Ma’am, I’m glad you brought that up,” Mr. Pickens said, as if it’d just occurred to him. “See, there’ll be riders from local Christian motorcycle clubs joining us. A good many of them, in fact. You won’t believe all the good they do, witnessing and testifying and preaching and teaching the Bible everywhere they ride. You really ought to meet them. They’d open up a whole new field ready for harvest and waiting for someone like you.”
I glared at Mr. Pickens, trying to warn him not to try to fool her with all that pious talk, but Norma Cantrell chimed in. “I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Emma Sue, I think that new preacher out at Pine Grove Baptist is a member. And so is his wife. I heard that his congregation wasn’t too happy at the thought of their preacher running with a motorcycle gang, especially since he’d already bought a red Trans Am and put headers on it. But he explained that it was all part of his ministry, and now I understand that almost all his deacons are bikers.”
“Yes,” Helen Stroud said, nodding her head vigorously, “and I heard they have a Sunday School class just for Harley owners. Harleys for Heaven, they call it.”
“Is that right?” Emma Sue murmured, eyeing Mr. Pickens’s motorcycle with increasing interest. “It would be a new field of endeavor, wouldn’t it? And, you know, if I could say that I’d ridden a motorcycle, I’d really be able to reach young people.”
“They’d think you were the greatest thing on two wheels,” Mr. Pickens said, flashing that smile of his, knowing he’d talked another woman into doing what he wanted her to do. “Let’s try it. Want to?”
And she did, shrieking and laughing and gripping Mr. Pickens’s waist as they took off down the street. I wondered if Pastor Ledbetter could hear her, and what he’d do if he did.
By the time they got back, Mr. Pickens had another convert, for Emma Sue was ready to be catechized and baptized into motorcycle heaven. If there was such a thing.
Our only semi-failure of the day was Norma, who didn’t mind the ride but hated the helmet. It mashed her teased hair down flat, and she was considerably upset about it, stomping off to the bathroom when she dismounted to back-comb it again.
I gave Mr. Pickens credit for convincing the ladies that motorcycle riding was not only safe and fun, but charitable and evangelistic. I didn’t know another man in the world who could’ve done it.
In spite of having achieved what we wanted, though, I noticed that Hazel Marie had been unnaturally quiet during all the time Mr. Pickens was working his wiles. Women who used the same methods to get their way had nothing on Mr. Pickens, who could wrap a woman around his finger when those black eyes lit on you and his muscles started rippling and when
, well, he moved his heavily cologned presence next to you. No wonder Hazel Marie’d held her tongue; he was a wonder to behold.
Chapter 25
“We need to get the word out,” I said to Hazel Marie’s back. She was still gazing pensively out the window long after Mr. Pickens had disappeared from sight, although the noise of his departure lingered on behind him.
“Advertisements, radio announcements, and what-have-you. You’re good at that sort of thing, Hazel Marie; why don’t you take that on?”
Tearing herself away from the window, she agreed to word the announcement to go in the newspaper and on the flyers that we intended to distribute around town.
“Let’s get their names out as soon as we can,” I told her, “before they have second thoughts and decline the honor. Be sure to put in that any other ladies who want to join in are welcome, as long as they get sponsors.”
“Okay. But, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, a worried frown on her face. “I’ve been worrying about something J. D. said last night.”
“Lord, Hazel Marie, it’s a wonder you don’t worry about everything he says, day or night.”
“Well, I do, sometimes. But he mentioned that we might have a problem with the bikers’ regular riders, their wives and girlfriends. How’re they going to feel if they’re replaced by other women? They might not like it.” She stopped, frowning even more. “I don’t think I would.”
I didn’t doubt that a minute, given the fact that she couldn’t trust Mr. Pickens around other women as far as she could throw him.
“What we have to do, Hazel Marie,” I said, “is give those displaced riders something else to do. You know, make them feel that they’re contributing something by not riding. What could it be?”
