by Zoe York
Gritting his teeth, Bram pushed to his feet and stumbled toward the back door. The knob loomed out of his reach. His hip caught the corner of a box and tipped it over. A gross of cardboard and plastic encased toothbrushes clattered to the floor. He stared at the rainbow of colors showering the toes of his boots.
“Hello?” Willie called out.
Blood rushed in his ears. The blush that scorched his cheeks made beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. He dragged his sleeve across the flaming skin and forced his knees to bend.
The clip-clop of Willene's shoes drew closer. “If that's you again, Tommy Wilkinson, I want you to know I called your mama about that candy bar you—Daddy?”
He straightened. “Hey, baby girl.”
She stared at the mess at his feet then gave her head a quick shake. “You're here to put my shelves up?”
He cleared the frog from his throat and nodded. “I am. I justI need to go get my tape measure out of my truck,” he said, gesturing to the door.
One dark eyebrow rose. “You mean the tape measure in your hand?”
Bram glanced down at the shiny steel casing clutched in his palm. “Oh.”
“You're getting a scatter-brained in your old age, Mr. Hatchett.”
Thinking quick, he mumbled, “I meant my drill. It's in the truck.”
A smirk teased her lips. “Uh-huh. Your drill.”
Something about that knowing look rubbed him raw. His cheeks blazed. He closed his eyes and whirled for the door, scattering toothbrushes across the floor. “Be right back.”
“Okay. I'll clean up your mess,” she said as the heavy door swung open.
“I figure you owe me a few messes, little girl,” he shot back.
Willene giggled as she squatted to gather a handful of packages. “Well, you'll owe me soon,” she called after him. “I got you an order for four more of those salad bowls. Some rich lady who's gonna be in town for a bit.”
“Great,” he croaked and let the steel door swing shut. After clipping the tape measure to his belt, he shoved both hands into the pockets of his pants and gulped in cool draughts of fresh air. “That's just fan-damn-tastic.”
Lynne smiled with satisfaction as amber liquid flowed from the cut-glass pitcher she'd unearthed from a cabinet. Cubes of ice crackled with anticipation when warm tea sluiced over them. Her taste buds stood at attention. Certain this time she had it right, she took a tentative sip. Her lips curved into a smile the moment the cool liquid touched her tongue. “Ha! Much better.” She took a bigger swig of her first successful attempt at making sweet tea. Proud of her accomplishment, she carried the glass with her as she sashayed to the door leading to the mudroom.
The tiny addition housed the washer and dryer, but sadly, even though it was fifty years newer, it hadn't held up as well as the original structure. Hastily tacked screens covered the windows but exposed the room to the elements year round. The paint, worn and cracked with age, was chipped along the sills.
A flash of memory ignited a picture in Lynne's mind of her grandmother opening the door from the kitchen with a proud smile. Back then the mudroom was painted a sunny yellow. The matching washer and dryer gleamed a snowy white. The indoor/outdoor carpeting had yet to accumulate a half-century of dirt ground into its fibers. Unimpressed with the addition, her mother uttered a few platitudes which seemed to make her grandmother happy, but Lynne thought it was the most beautiful room she'd ever seen. Back then, bright summer sunlight bathed the walls, intensifying the glow of the egg-yolk paint. One corner of the room held a woven wicker basket brimming with new toys and dolls.
“Go ahead, honey, make yourself at home,” her grandmother had said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
She had. Even now, after decades of living hundreds of miles away, Lynne felt warm and settled the moment she opened the front door. The worn linoleum of the kitchen welcomed her. The air still seemed to be scented with the hint of lemon extract Gramma used in her cakes as well as the cherry-laced tang of her grandfather's pipe tobacco. The cloying sweetness of perfumed dusting powder lingered in the bedroom.
Her fingers tightened around the glass. A full cup of sugar was no match for the bitterness she recalled that occurred during her last visit to this house. She gave her head a brisk shake and started for the back door, intent on sorting through what was left behind of her family's belongings.
Over the past two days, a cursory inspection of the house yielded two conclusions: First, she needed to check into having the rotting back porch replaced. Second, she wanted to find out what happened to the belongings her grandparents and aunt left behind.
Lynne toyed with the idea of calling her mother in Scottsdale, but she chose to reserve the option as a last resort. Any conversation with Elizabeth Burdock Hillman was torture. Speaking to her mother about this particular aspect of the life she left behind decades ago would be the emotional equivalent of bamboo shoots under fingernails.
Staring through the window over the sink while she washed her breakfast dishes, the dilapidated chicken house in the backyard called her name. The ring of keys Percy Jenkins had given her jangled as she pulled them from her pocket. She sorted the keys until she found one that looked like it would fit the padlock on the door to the coop, pulled the dishtowel from her shoulder, and headed for the door.
The lock sprang open with a brisk click. She grinned and curled the hand holding the glass of iced tea to her chest, sighing as cool condensation prickled her skin.
As the door swung wide, she gaped at the wall of neatly stacked cardboard boxes. “Jackpot.”
Lynne placed the glass on the ground and prodded one of the boxes experimentally. The two nearest the coop's low ceiling didn't seem heavy, so she wrestled one from the stack, stumbling back to land on her bottom when the box slid free. The bulky box chucked her chin, and her foot jerked, knocking over the glass.
The precious tea soaked the muddy shoots of grass. She only took a moment to recover. “Very graceful.”
Scrambling to her knees, she tried to pry open the strips of packing tape securing the box. One fingernail bit the dust before she relented and staggered to her feet. Sucking on the afflicted nail, she stumbled to the house to fetch a knife.
Five minutes later, she sliced into a second box containing a dust ruffle, pillow shams, and slightly yellowed curtains which matched the flouncy eyelet comforter she'd found in the first container. A lump of long-restrained emotion rose in her throat. She ran her hand over the aged cotton and closed her eyes. Once upon a time, she'd perched on the edge of a low double bed, fingering the eyelet fringe of a similar bedspread as her Aunt Corrine rolled her fly-away blonde hair onto bristly rollers, securing each curl with a pink plastic pin.
“Do you have a beau?” her aunt asked with all the solemnity a ten-year-old could hope to deserve.
“A beau?” Lynne stared in confusion.
“A boyfriend.”
“Oh. No.” She tried to shake her head, but her aunt held fast to the section of hair to be curled. “Mother says there will be plenty of time for boys later.”
Corrine's lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “You are a mite young still.”
She stared up at her aunt. “Do you have abeau?” As the new word rolled off her tongue, she savored its exotic flavor.
Corrine shook her head and jabbed the pin into place. “There. All done.” She pulled a chiffon scarf from the tiny drawer in the center of an old walnut dresser and used the sheer fabric to cover the curlers. “You sleep on those tonight, and tomorrow you'll wake up a whole new woman.”
Blinking at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, Lynne frowned. “Why do I want to be a new woman?”
Her aunt smiled and patted her cheek. “It's just a sayin', darlin'.”
Lynne returned the smile. “I like the way you talk.”
“I like the way you talk too, sugar,” she replied with a wink.
“How come you're not married?”
The older woman see
med taken aback by the question. Her hand fluttered to her chest and she blinked rapidly. Lynne slid from the bed, impulsively wrapping her skinny arms around her aunt. “I'm sorry. Mother says it's rude to ask people about their personal affairs.”
A startled laugh sprung from the older woman's lips. She hugged her hard. “Oh, sugar, I do love the way you talk.” Her arms tightened around her bony shoulders. “I never fell in love again, that's all.”
Again. She said again. Lynne gave her head a hard shake to dislodge the memory. She tried to recall the letters and cards she started to exchange with her aunt the year she moved off to college. At first, Corrine's replies to her notes were polite and careful. No one could blame her for that. The ugliness between her mother and her aunt following the reading of her grandmother's will would have been enough to make anyone wary. Still, the relationship Lynne forged with her aunt bloomed and flourished in the years since she managed to slip out from beneath her mother's thumb. At least, it flourished on paper.
Lynne stared at the boxes stacked at the entrance to the chicken house. She pulled them out with a grunt. The knife sliced the tape, and she tugged on the flap labeled “C. Burdock.” A quick glance at the boxes remaining in the coop showed them labeled simply “Burdock.” She frowned as she pulled back the other flaps to reveal a treasure trove of half-clothed cover models.
“Romance novels?” she whispered, pulling one of what had to be fifty books from the box. She fanned the pages and a black and white photograph flitted to the ground. “Oh.” The tiny grunt of amazement slipped from her throat while she gazed at the smiling faces captured on film. She retrieved the photograph, the pad of her finger stroking the scalloped edge of the glossy paper.
Her aunt beamed at the camera, but her attention was clearly diverted by the tall dark- haired man with his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Hello, handsome. Who are you?”
Lynne squinted at the snapshot, then held it at arm's length, wishing she'd thought to dig her reading glasses from her purse. She chuckled when she noticed the man her aunt stared at in rapt adoration bore a striking resemblance to a very young Paul Newman. “Well, who could blame a girl for—”
Her heart stumbled when she realized she didn't need any magnification to spot the joy shining from her aunt's smile. “Oh, Aunt Corrine.”
Pressing her lips together, she fought back a hot rush of tears. What happened? Did he marry someone else? Did he break her heart? Lynne narrowed her eyes at the smiling man. How could you? Look at her, she was in love with you. How could you do this to her? How could you?
Thirty years of marriage, a painful divorce, and a hasty flight to the foothills of the Ozarks failed to break her spirit. But one tiny photograph brought Lynne Prescott to her knees. She knelt in the tea-soaked grass and sobbed over a broken heart. It didn't really matter that it wasn't her own.
Chapter 3
After two days of hiding out in his workshop, Bram was forced to head to town to resupply. The sole of his dusty work boot barely touched pavement in front of Walters' Mercantile when Willene called, “Daddy!”
He smiled as she trotted from the store to intercept him. “Hey, sugar.” He greeted her with a one-armed hug and an absent brush of lips against her dark curls. “What's up?”
“Two more orders,” she crowed, waving sheets of printer paper in his face.
Gut coiling, he staggered back a step, “Two? I already have six in the works.”
“I know.” She grinned smugly. “You have a waiting list.” His daughter bounced on the balls of her feet. “I told them there was a six month lead time.”
“Six months?” Bram raked his hand over his face. “I don't know....”
“You can do it.” She folded the sheets of paper and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “How are the salad bowls coming?”
He stared at her, incredulous. “You only told me about them yesterday.”
“Hey, they're paid for.” His baby girl waggled a finger at him and backed up a step. “Gotta get back inside. Let me know when the bowls are done,” she called over her shoulder as she walked back into the store.
The need to get one last shot in was overwhelming. “I don't work for you.”
Willene shot him a saucy smile so like her mother’s it pierced like an arrow to his heart. “You look skinny. Are you eating enough?”
“I eat fine.”
“I have stew in the slow cooker. I'll bring some by tonight,” she said and disappeared into the general store.
The two old men in rocking chairs chuckled at the verbal by-play. “Just like her mama,” one commented.
“Ol' Bobby Walters is gonna have his hands full,” the other agreed.
“Well, considering they're already shacked up, I'd say he already has,” the first drawled.
“Dad,” Bram snapped.
Al Hatchett glanced up, blue eyes bright and guileless. “Sorry, son. Had you not figured that out yet?”
With a wary eye for the two old reprobates, he crossed the sidewalk and snarled under his breath, “I figured it out about two seconds after it happened, old man. I just choose not to think about it.”
“Judging by the stupid look on poor Bobby's puss these days,” Rufus McArdle said, accompanying the observation with a wheezy chuckle, “that's all the boy thinks about.”
“Aw, he was born lookin' that way,” Al said, rocking back until the chair scraped the brick wall.
“Easy on the merchandise,” Bram cautioned.
“I won't hurt your precious chair,” his father admonished. “So, two more orders. Where're they from?”
As Bram pulled the sheets of paper from his pocket and unfolded them, both brows rose. “Beverly Hills and someplace in Connecticut.”
“You're bi-coastal,” Al said with a nod of approval.
“Bi-something,” Rufus chimed in.
This time, the old man chuckled hard enough to make his body convulse with dry coughs. Bram placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “You want a drink?”
“Careful, Ru, I think Bram's making a pass at ya,” Al commented, causing his friend to cough harder.
“Dad.”
“Aw, it's good for him. The coughin' keeps him kicking.” Al leaned down and snagged a bottle of water tucked under his chair. “Here.” He held the bottle out to Rufus who took it in his trembling hand.
“You two deserve each other.”
“At least I'll have someplace to go if your mama ever kicks me out.”
Bram folded the order sheets, tucked them back into his shirt pocket, and waited until Rufus' coughs subsided into wheezy chuckles. But when Bram opened his mouth to speak, he choked on his own spit.
Two doors down the street, someone stepped out of the building that housed the town hall, post office, and barber shop. Once again, indigo denim flowed over endless legs. The back pockets were stitched in white, but Bram barely noticed them. He was too absorbed in the high, firm curve of her bottom and gauging how it would fit in his palms. It was her. The woman with the hair and the legs and the gorgeous.
He shook his head to chase those thoughts from his mind. A spring breeze caught the mass of honey-streaked waves and sent them swirling around her face. The creak of twin rocking chairs ceased. The wind roared in Bram's ears when she reached up to corral those wayward waves with one hand.
“Ahh,” Al murmured. “There she is.”
Snapping out of his trance, Bram whirled to stare at his father. “You know her?”
Rufus nodded. “That's the Burdock girl.”
“Sweet little thing,” his father concurred without dragging his gaze from the woman. “Name's not Burdock, though. Percy says she's a dee-vor-cee.”
Facts soaked in as Bram returned to the vision in blue jeans. Silk. Miss Corrine's niece wore silk with her jeans. The Burdock girlor was that satin? He chuckled silently. The ‘Burdock girl’ was anything but little. Maybe about five-ten in her stocking feet. Of course, she wasn't barefoot at the moment. She was wearing boots,
but they weren't the type one usually spotted kicking around Heartsfield, Arkansas. He couldn't imagine Miss Corrine Burdock sparing boots like this a second glance. They had heels like ice picks and toes so pointy a man had a hard time deciding if he should cringe or pant. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and hiked her enormous handbag—the handbag that apparently cost more than he paid for his first car—higher on her shoulder. He combined his options into a cringing pant.
The blouse she wore was red as sin and clung to her long, lithe frame. Her eyes were wide-set, but he was too far to make out the color. Full lush lips shimmered from pale gloss that caught the sunlight as they moved.
“Is she talkin' to herself?” Al wondered aloud.
Rufus expelled a gusty sigh. “The pretty ones are always the craziest.”
As she turned in a slow circle, sunlight glinted off a small black rectangle attached to her ear. “She has one of those cell phone things in her ear,” Bram observed.
“Like the guy on that Star Force show?” his father asked.
“Trek,” Bram corrected automatically.
“Looks like her mama.” Rufus nodded. “Hope she's not as flighty.”
“Aw, now, Elizabeth did right well for herself,” Al admonished.
Rufus snorted. “Got the hell out of here and barely looked back.”
“Can't blame a girl like Lizzie Burdock for wanting the bright lights and big city,” Al asserted.
“You always were sweet on her,” Rufus teased.
“Was not.”
“Were, too. Sour as unripe muscadines the summer she took off.”
A red flush crept up his father's neck. “No, I wasn't.”
Rufus pointed a gnarled finger at his friend. “See? You're blushing just thinking about her.”
The budding argument caught Bram's attention. “You knew her mother?”
Al rolled his eyes. “It's a small town, boy. Everybody knows everybody.”
“She was a few years older than us,” Rufus explained.
