by Macy Beckett
Luke’s brows formed a dark slash over his eyes as he explained to Bobbi, “Mama was a big Dukes of Hazzard fan.”
This was also news to her. From what she remembered, Mama was a fan of opiates, Junior Mints, and dickheads—in that order. She’d never watched shows. Instead, she’d used the television as an electronic babysitter, always tuned to Sesame Street or whatever program had kept Bobbi out of her hair. And until the truancy officer had shown up, the TV had been Bobbi’s teacher for a few years, since dressing a child and walking her to the school bus was too much trouble for Mama.
“The Duke boys were moonshiners, like my daddy.” Luke rubbed the back of his neck and took a sudden interest in his steel-toed boots. “She quit watching after he died.”
“Your daddy?” Trey asked, obviously wondering why Luke hadn’t said their daddy.
“We’re both bastards with different dads,” she said. “That okay with you, Golden Boy?”
“Jesus, it was just a question.”
“Language, Trey Lewis!” Pru smacked his upper arm.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Good thing I’ve got you to pray for my soul.” He was clearly teasing, but when Trey flashed that easy smile, Pru forgave him with a grandmotherly pinch of his cheek.
Bobbi rolled her eyes, and Trey caught it, giving her a not-so-innocent grin. One that said all the praying in the world wouldn’t wash away the sins he wanted to commit with her. She knew that look—it was the same one she’d seen on his stunning face at Shooters when he’d introduced himself, and her stomach had dipped into her shorts then just like it was doing now. Biting her lip, she dropped her gaze and studied her red-polished toenails.
“We should probably fire up the grill before the storm sets in,” Trey said.
Bobbi glanced at the endless, blue sky, where a single cotton ball of a cloud hovered above. “What storm?”
Shaking his head, he laughed dryly. “Oh, it’s coming.” Then he limped—wait, limped?—to Luke’s truck to retrieve her luggage. He clearly favored his right leg, something he hadn’t done a few minutes ago. If he’d hurt himself, she didn’t want him towing her fifty-pound suitcase.
“I can get that.” She teetered across the gravel on her sandals, but Trey waved her off and hauled the bag toward the house as easily as carrying a lunch box. For a few stunned seconds, she watched his bicep muscles bunch beneath his snug shirtsleeve until he tipped open the screen door and disappeared inside. She shook her head, criticizing herself for getting worked up over a few silly muscles, and followed.
An icy blast of air-conditioning frosted the bare skin on Bobbi’s arms, and she rubbed her hands together while her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The clunk of Trey’s heavy work boots echoed up the steps, which seemed presumptuous at first, but as Luke’s best friend, it made sense that he’d know the way to the guest bedroom.
The place still had that new house smell—paint, varnish, plaster—and two unpacked cardboard boxes in the foyer confirmed the newlyweds hadn’t quite settled in yet. But judging by the gleaming hardwood floors and meticulously aligned chair railing, Luke and Trey were skilled builders who’d put a lot of love into this home.
June smoothed two fingers over the goose bumps puckering Bobbi’s arms. “Luke keeps it colder than a witch’s heart in here. It’s the only thing we fight about.” She leaned in and waggled her eyebrows. “Cover me while I go change the thermostat.”
June dashed away, and a few moments later, Trey returned down the stairs. He motioned for Bobbi to join him, and when she did, he lowered his voice and said, “Top of the stairs, last door on the right. It’s the smallest room in the house, the paint’s the color of dried puke, and the sun’ll wake you up every morning at six, but it’s farthest from the master bedroom.” He pressed his lips to her ear, brushing her with his soft mouth as he whispered, “Trust me, that’s the one you want. This one time, I crashed upstairs…”
Bobbi got chills on her chills. She pretended to listen as Trey told some story about having to spend the night here, but the tickle of his warm breath had switched her headlights to full-beams, and she had to sneak a peek at her blouse to make sure her bra was concealing the evidence. Thankfully, it was. She scratched her nose, figuring it had been way too long since she’d gotten lucky if a little whisper action affected her like this. Good thing she’d remembered to pack BOB, her Battery-Operated Boyfriend. With three speed settings and a seven-inch core of rotating ball bearings, she’d forget the caress of Trey’s lips and the heat of his breath in no time.
“…screamed louder than a freight train.” Glancing over her shoulder, he clumsily changed the subject when Pru walked within earshot. “And that’s how I know a storm’s coming.”
Right on cue, thunder boomed from outside and shook the walls. “Impressive,” Bobbi said, meeting his blue gaze. “Got any other magical powers?”
A wicked grin curved his lips, and Bobbi warned, “Don’t answer that.” Eager to put some space between them, she hurried into the living room but stopped short, skidding to a halt before she’d fully crossed the threshold. “Oh my god,” she whispered in shock. “Mismatched furniture.”
A plaid sofa in burgundy tones clashed with two easy chairs, one blue, one brown, while a distressed, white, shabby-chic coffee table displayed an assortment of remote controls on a silver tray like they were finger sandwiches instead of gadgets. She shut her eyes, but all she could see was that damned dollhouse.
“They’re just starting out,” Trey said critically while brushing past her into the room. “So what if they can’t afford new furniture?”
He didn’t understand, and Bobbi had no intention of explaining for his benefit. “They don’t have a one-armed doll lying around, do they?”
Settling in the brown leather chair, Trey studied her in silence for a moment. “No, but they’ve got a three-legged cat.”
Not an exact match, but close enough to make her feel like she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. Wasn’t there an episode where someone lived inside a dollhouse? Yeah, she remembered now. A guy named Charley had obsessed over one of the miniature figures inside the house until he wound up becoming one himself. Only Bobbi didn’t want to be inside the replica of her favorite childhood toy. She didn’t even want to remember it.
All those emotions she’d locked down tight began bucking against the vault, demanding release, and Bobbi’s pulse raced as tiny beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. Darting a glance around the room, she identified the only visible source of chaos—an overflowing, disorganized shelf of DVDs and video games—and she made a beeline for it. Then Bobbi knelt on the floor and did the only thing that made her feel calm when life was out of control: she put things in order.
Hmm. How should she sort the movies—alphabetically or by genre?
“What’s she doin’?” Pru asked, as she crossed the small room and lowered onto the couch with a groan.
Alphabetically, for sure, starting with All the President’s Men.
“Don’t ask me,” Trey replied. “She’s a strange bird. A pretty bird, though.”
Bobbi had a bird for Trey, and she showed it to him in the form of her middle finger.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Bo wanna cracker?”
Ignoring him, she slid Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure next to Big Love, Season 1.
“Folks tend to get cranky when they don’t eat,” he continued. “Or when they’re tired. Or when their favorite lipstick gets discontinued. Is that what’s got you in knots, Bo Peep?” He used a mock lispy voice to tease, “Revlon quit makin’ your perfect pink?”
She pointed a Blu-ray at him, but before she could tell Trey where to stick his hypothetical lipstick, lightning flashed, followed by deafening thunder, and the house went dark. Rain and hailstones mingled to pelt the roof in an oddly soothing percu
ssion, and she took a deep breath, refusing to let Trey bait her.
“Oh, sugar.” June sashayed in, holding a tall glass of something Bobbi couldn’t identify in the feeble sunlight filtering from the far window. “Now the stove’s out too. I was going to make a frozen pizza since we can’t use the grill.” She offered the glass to Bobbi. “Sangria? It’s my specialty.”
“Yes!” Oh, hell yes. Bobbi brought the cool glass to her lips and tipped it back, savoring the tangy blend of fresh juice and sweet, magical booze. It was the best sangria she’d ever tasted—not too tart, not too syrupy. She’d forgotten June was a bartender, and now she understood the reason behind Shooters’ success. Well, that and because it was the only bar in three counties. But June would blow the competition away if she had any. “You’re the best sister-in-law I’ve ever had.”
Giggling, June lit a couple of jar candles and brought them to the coffee table. “Then maybe you’ll let me borrow some of your clothes. I love your outfit.”
“Oh, thanks. One of my dads designed it.” And since Daddy Bruce made all his samples in her size, she received a free, designer wardrobe each season. Sometimes, just once in a while, it didn’t suck to be her.
“One of your dads?” Trey asked, then instantly held both palms out and clarified, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m only askin’!”
Luke joined the party, kneeling at his wife’s feet. “Yeah, Bobbi was adopted by a gay couple. I met ’em when I was looking for her a few years back. They’re really good guys.”
Bobbi grabbed one candle and scooted closer to the shelf to resume her work.
“Huh,” Trey said. “Is the other dad a hairdresser?”
She whipped her head around, red locks slapping her in the eyes. “Way to stereotype, Golden Boy.”
“Jesus!—oops, sorry, Miss Pru—I mean, goddamn! Why do you try so hard to be offended all the time?”
“Quit your blasphemin’, Trey Lewis!” Pru was a few inches too far to swat the blasphemer from the sofa, so she grabbed a nearby Sports Illustrated, rolled it up, and cracked him over the head.
“Ow!”
“I don’t have to try very hard when you’re around,” Bobbi objected, though it wasn’t the first time someone had accused her of being overly sensitive when it came to hot-button social issues. Her most recent ex had nicknamed her the Liberal Loco, one of the many reasons he was an ex.
“You’ve been pissy with me for something or other since you came to town. Your ass is tighter than a clam with lockjaw.”
“Dude,” Luke warned.
“Okay, okay. Sorry, Bo Peep.” While she sat there with her mouth agape, Trey leaned forward, resting his tanned forearms on his knees. “So, what does your other dad do?”
Narrowing her eyes until Trey was barely visible through tiny slits, she gritted her teeth and muttered, “He’s the best damn stylist in Inglewood.”
Trey smirked and relaxed against the chair, folding both hands behind his head in smug satisfaction, while June tried to cut the tension by suggesting they adjourn to the kitchen to make sandwiches for dinner.
Bobbi followed, but only to refill her glass. She’d decided to drink her supper tonight. While alphabetizing June’s spice rack—seriously, why would anyone put the cinnamon next to the rosemary?—she turned Trey’s words over in her mind. Your ass is tighter than a clam with lockjaw. That wasn’t true. Just because she liked things neat and orderly didn’t mean she was uptight. She knew how to have a good time. Sure, this year had been rough, and she’d cried more than she’d laughed, but that didn’t make her a Debbie Downer. That bonehead, Trey, didn’t know her. They were practically strangers.
She mentally repeated her own words until she started to believe them.
Over the next few hours, she refilled her glass again and again, until Trey’s teasing and Amazon Granny’s critical stares and memories of her one-armed doll began to drift from her consciousness like dandelion seeds floating away on the breeze. After her fifth sangria, those pesky spice labels wouldn’t hold still long enough for her to read them, so Bobbi staggered to the kitchen table to make a sandwich. But someone must have pulled the chair out from under her, because she wound up on the beige linoleum beneath the table. Ah, what the hell. It was comfy down here. With a soft giggle-snort, she curled onto her side and tucked both hands under her cheek like a pillow. Right before passing out on the kitchen floor, she heard one last echo of Trey’s voice and opened her eyes to the blurry, tan tips of his Timberlands.
“That’s some sister you’ve got, buddy,” he said. “It’s gonna be a long-ass summer.”
***
Bobbi awoke several hours later, head stuffed with cotton and her stomach churning like the San Francisco Bay at high tide. Groaning, she rolled to the side and squinted at the digital clock on her nightstand. Midnight. That was it?
She pushed to her elbows, wondering how she’d made it into bed. A glance at the floor revealed her sandals parked neatly beside her suitcase, and Bobbi was pretty darned sure she couldn’t have managed unbuckling those tiny straps in her inebriated state. June must’ve helped, poor girl. This wasn’t the kind of first impression Bobbi’d wanted to make on her new sister-in-law. She’d have to repay June somehow, maybe surprise her with one of Daddy Bruce’s new fall designs. But right now, Bobbi had more urgent matters to attend to.
She knew from extensive, firsthand experience that the only way to avoid a hangover was to drink twice as much water as alcohol. If she snuck downstairs and chugged a gallon, she’d be up all night peeing, but it’d be worth it in the morning. Slowly, she lowered one foot to the hardwood floor, then the other, bracing herself against the mattress when her brain spun a pirouette inside her skull. Whoa, how many times had she refilled that glass?
On wobbly knees, she felt her way out of the bedroom, down the dark hall, and then clung to the handrail while descending the stairs. A soft glow emanated from the kitchen, along with hushed voices, and Bobbi peered into the room to find June and her grandma sitting at the table sharing a slice of pecan pie and working a Sudoku puzzle.
June glanced up and waved with her fork. “Hey. Glad you’re up and about. Luke was worried about you. How’re you feeling?”
Pru didn’t say a word, just raked a concerned gaze over Bobbi, probably deciding the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the Gallagher family tree.
“I’m fine,” Bobbi said with care, barely managing to keep the slur out of her voice. “Just thirsty.” Lifting her chin, she walked to the sink in slow, measured strides and filled a glass with water from the tap. She felt the weight of June and Pru’s eyes on her as she downed the glass and refilled it two more times, and she wished they’d finish their dessert and go to bed, selfish as that sounded. Because if there was a magical way to explain why she’d rolled into town unannounced for the first time in twenty years, then proceeded to get hammered and pass out on the floor, she didn’t know how.
“Why don’t you join us?” June used one foot to push out the chair across from her at the table. “I was just telling Grammy how excited I am to have you here for the whole summer.”
Right. More like how worried she was about having a boozehound for a housemate. Bobbi brought her glass to the table and took a seat. She had to say something—she couldn’t let them assume she’d carried on her mother’s pathetic legacy—but what?
“Uh, listen,” she began clumsily. “About before…I don’t want you to think…” As desperately as she tried, she failed to shake the apology off her tongue.
“Gotta be hard.” Pru speared a pecan with her fork. “Comin’ back here after all this time, ’specially when everyone knows you, but you don’t remember ’em. Dontcha think, June?”
Bobbi knew what Pru had just done, and she silently thanked her with a small grin.
“Oh, yeah.” June’s eyes widened as she caught on, and she nodded a little too e
mphatically, curls bouncing around her face. “I moved to Austin after high school and didn’t come home for almost ten years, so I know the feeling.”
“Really?” Bobbi leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “Why?”
Grandmother and granddaughter shared an uneasy glance, and June admitted, “We had a little falling out.”
Bobbi couldn’t help it. Her story radar bleeped another red alert, and the prying words came tumbling forth. “Ten years for a little falling out?” Bringing a hand to her heart, she gasped at her own rudeness. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“You’re family.” June said it without hesitation, and after Pru tilted her head and scanned Bobbi for a moment, she nodded in agreement. “My business is yours too.”
While June told the story of her parents’ death and how Pru’s rigid upbringing had pushed her away, Bobbi marveled at how effortlessly her new sister had accepted her as part of the family. Just like that, with no background investigation or even a quick-n-dirty credit check. How’d she do it? How’d she know Bobbi wasn’t an axe murderer, or considering her mother’s reputation, a junkie conspiring to rob her blind? After what’d happened with the Smyth documentary, Bobbi didn’t even trust a vagrant to squeegee her windshield without the proper credentials, and no one in California welcomed a stranger into their home for a Coke, let alone a summer.
“Well,” Bobbi said when June had finished, “I’m glad it all worked out. My brother’s a lucky man.”
June averted her gaze and twirled a lock of hair. “I’m pretty lucky too.”
“Luck had nothin’ to do with it,” Pru declared, claiming the last bite of pie. She shoveled it into her mouth and spoke with one cheek full. “The Good Lord knew what He was doin’.”
Either way, a guy’s taste in women said a lot about him. Bobbi didn’t know her brother’s political affiliation or even his favorite sports team, but the fact that he’d chosen June—a kindhearted childhood playmate—over some melon-boobed Stepford wife told her he was a good man.
