Hot in Hellcat Canyon

by Julie Anne Long

  “Agreed.”

  They stood in silence a moment longer.

  “Was that our Britt dropped you off?” Glenn said, almost idly.

  “Our?” Interesting choice of words.

  “Oh, we kind of think of our employees that way, me and Sherrie. A bit like family.”

  “Family, huh? Even that glowering guy behind the grill?”

  “Oh, sure. Nice kid, Giorgio, underneath it all. Talented cook.”

  Sure he is, J. T. thought. Nice like a snakebite is nice.

  “Yeah, thought I recognized that car of hers,” Glenn said. “Damn thing is held together with chewing gum and paper clips and string, practically. Wonder when the last time she changed her oil was? Women and their cars.” Glenn gave his head a long-­suffering shake. “I have two daughters. Two boys, too. One’s a surgeon at the hospital in Black Oak. But that Britt has some smarts, though, I’ll hand that to her.”

  J. T. thought about Britt and that poor, sad ficus. “Something tells me she’s good about stuff like oil. I had in mind renting a house in Hellcat Canyon for a time, since I’ll be filming near town. The house I saw today wasn’t quite right, however. Britt was kind enough to drop me off here.”

  Glenn grunted an assent. “House has to fit a man. Like a truck.”

  This might in fact be true. J. T. didn’t know. He hadn’t lived in any single place that felt like home since he’d left Tennessee, and he hadn’t thought it mattered. Thanks to what Britt had said today about Rosemary, he now knew his notion of home was lodged in him like an old bullet: it was blue-­eyed Mary’s, shirts drying on a line, green everywhere your eye fell, living things rustling about in the trees and brush. An old pain that couldn’t be reached or removed.

  He felt a sudden irrational surge of envy for the guy standing next to him. Glenn Harwood knew what home was.

  “Yep,” was all he said.

  They were quiet again as someone in the garage clanged some metal part good and hard.

  J. T. had the distinct sense that Glenn was working up to something.

  “She’s a good girl, Britt. A real sweetheart with a wit on her. Everyone here likes her. She keeps a bit to herself, though. Like something spooked her once.”

  It was admirably subtle.

  But J. T. was pretty sure this was Glenn’s way of warning this Hollywood Casanova to not be cavalier with Britt.

  If not to stay away completely.

  He instantly seesawed between being amused at the guy’s nerve and sizzlingly angry at the insinuation.

  Glenn didn’t know him at all.

  But then, only a few people really did. But there was a trail of photos and articles implying things about him, not all of which were wrong, and J. T. had to admit he would draw the very same conclusions about himself if he saw the photos.

  He went absolutely silent and rigid for a moment. But one of the advantages of being just a little older was that he thought now before he spoke and good sense more often than not elbowed aside his ego.

  He was the interloper here in Hellcat Canyon, after all. He’d had to prove things to people his entire life. Why stop now? he thought ironically.

  He guessed, in the end, he was glad someone cared enough about Britt to issue a warning.

  “I kind of got that sense, too,” he said carefully.

  It wasn’t really reassurance, but something told him that Glenn was no dummy.

  They didn’t look at each other.

  Glenn just gave a short nod.

  Spooked. An interesting choice of word. But the more J. T. thought about it, the more it kind of fit. Because . . . how had she put it? Why would she only “want the basics”? In his experience, people like that were made—­through some kind of experience—­not born.

  When he’d asked her whether she’d learned anything the hard way . . .

  Well, no person with a heart would have asked her a single other question after seeing her expression.

  Britt Langley might be hiding something. But hiding didn’t come naturally to her.

  Her eyes gave her away.

  They watched their respective trucks for a little moment of silence.

  “Film crew in the area will mean more customers at the Misty Cat,” Glenn mused.

  “Yep. I’ll make sure they know about it, too.”

  They were guys, and they didn’t really need to say any more than that. Glenn’s satisfaction with this turn of events was palpable, and J. T. was a businessman, too.

  “I believe I met one of your daughters and your granddaughter—­outside the flower shop. Cute little girl. Smart. Annalise, I think her name was? A great speller.”

  Glenn glowed. “Oh, that’d be my second oldest, Edie—­Eden, her name is—­and her daughter. Smart doesn’t cover it with the little one. She can spell like a sonofagun. And stuuuuborn. Like her mama. My wife is a softie. So Edie must have got her hard head from me.” He said this with a sort of regretful, abstracted pride.

  J. T. smiled at that. “Stubborn women,” he repeated. Vaguely but approvingly.

  “McCORD!” A guy with a clipboard appeared, like a doctor. “Got a sec to talk about your truck?”

  “Well, I’m up. I’ll be back for another Glennburger soon. Best burger I’ve ever had.”

  Glenn beamed at him. “Tell me something I don’t know, son.”

  A bent rocker arm was no small thing, but they’d actually called around and were able to find the part and they could have it messengered over, courtesy of some internet magic. J. T. could have the truck back tomorrow.

  He sighed with the same relief he experienced every time he managed to patch his truck back together again and signed the estimate.

  Then he stopped in at the little service station mart attached to the garage to grab a couple of bottles of water and peruse the selection of snacks, most of which were packaged in lurid cellophane and comprised of preservatives.

  He paused suddenly before a collection of black plastic cone-­shaped bins that usually held bunches of flowers. Only one bouquet was left, a haphazard cluster of daisies and carnations and marigolds and some kind of purple flower embellished with frayed greenery, all of it just hours away from going limp, if he had to guess from the looks of things. Yesterday, he wouldn’t even have noticed it.

  And he thought of Britt kneeling next to that poor dying ficus, and about people who went nuts flailing for ways to make their lives something safe and comfortable and bearable, him included, his mama, maybe even his pa with his bottle, and he thought about the oppressive clutter at the Angel’s Nest. It seemed to J. T. his life had comprised torrents of things he was either trying to dodge—­like his dad’s fists, matrimony, or bad publicity—­or things he ought to grab, like women, opportunities, and good publicity. He was good at shooting those kinds of rapids.

  It was the damnedest thing, but helping a beautiful, prickly woman carry a half-­dead ficus felt like a grace note amid all of that. Maybe because, while his entire life had been pretty eventful and glamorous and enviable, none of it had been . . .

  It occurred to him that the word he might be looking for was gentle.

  He snorted at himself. But he added the bouquet to his things on the counter, anyway.

  He walked back to the Angel’s Nest and paused a moment outside to watch the guys clambering over the billboard with big roller brushes.

  The words . . . wish they were you were now readable.

  “Damn straight,” he told the sign.

  Most days, being him was a pretty good thing to be. Even days when thorny little blondes blew him off.

  And then he held his breath like a deep-­sea diver against the wave of potpourri and pushed open the door.

  Rosemary was still working on the ledger, fingers deftly tap tap tapping at the keys. She glanced up briefly and her fingers didn’t stop
.

  “There are cookies in the lounge, hon, if you want some, fresh out of the oven.”

  He could almost smell them through the potpourri. Chocolate chip, if he had to guess.

  “Thanks. I could use a cookie.”

  She paused and looked up when she sensed he hadn’t moved on.

  He thrust the gas-­station bouquet out at her. “These looked kind of lonely at the gas station. Thought they might look nice right up here on the counter.”

  Her eyes widened. She nervously pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose.

  And then she slowly flushed a pleased shade of red that complemented the one on her head and took it from him.

  “Oh, my goodness, aren’t you a sweetheart.”

  He’d managed to fluster her again.

  He’d actually managed to fluster himself a little. Somehow he’d forgotten the sort of pleasure that could be had in making someone happy for no reason at all.

  He frankly couldn’t think of the last time anyone else had tried to make him happy for no reason at all.

  She took the bouquet and buried her nose in them. “It was just what the room was missing.”

  It was the only thing the room was missing, more specifically.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said.

  She naturally located a vase shaped like an angel. It was sporting wings.

  He begrudgingly allowed that they were, as Britt suggested, kind of pretty.

  He was two steps toward the stairs, on his way to hunt down a cookie, when Rosemary said, “You just missed meeting Cherisse and Kevin, your neighbors. They came in from a hike and went back up to their room.”

  He froze mid-­step. Closed his eyes. Swore silently.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stay trapped in that purple room with Kevin and Cherisse boffing noisily away all afternoon.

  He pivoted smoothly.

  “You got some trail maps down here, Rosemary? I’m in the mood for a hike.”

  She licked the tip of her finger and swiped a turquoise flyer from a stack next to the pink ones. “I sure do, hon, and this has all the best routes and landmarks marked. The Eternity Oak, now that’s worth seeing.” She laid it on the counter and pointed to an illustration. “Big beautiful old live oak they say was just a baby when the Maidu Indians lived in these hills. Legend has it that if you carve your initials and your sweetie’s initials into it, nothing can ever sunder your union—­you’ll be bound to that person for life, for better or for worse. So you better be damned sure about that person before you do it. People around here take that oak seriously. You won’t find too many initials on it.”

  “Hell. Do you use that story to scare the kiddies on Halloween?”

  Being bound to the wrong person for life sounded like the worst kind of purgatory. Given how long it might take to find out that person was really wrong. Say, something like five years.

  “I take it you’re not a romantic, Mr. McCord?”

  “Let’s just say I have a healthy sense of self-­preservation,” he said dryly.

  “Well, we all need that, too, don’t we? Oh, hon, there are a few awful stories around here about what happens if you don’t get the right name up there. And they say the oak grows over your initials if your love is destined to die.”

  “Damn.” He was impressed. “That is one brutal tree.”

  “I don’t make the legends up, I just repeat ’em. Now, you got yourself a black belt, hon. I know because I read it on Wikipedia. Won’t work against a bear but any random crazy hill folk might be startled if you start in on them that way, so you stay on the trail.”

  “I’ll be ready for random crazy hill folk. I come from random crazy hill folk.”

  “I believe you, hon, but you also don’t want to go too far and make a wrong turn up at Coyote Creek settlement, because some folks have been known to grow”—­she lowered her voice to a whisper and held her hand against the side of her mouth—­“marijuana . . . way, way up in those hills and, well, let’s just say they’re enthusiastic about their privacy.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “But you’re pretty safe with any number of these options. If you keep to the Grubstake Trail, you can follow that on up to Whiskey Creek or Whiplash Ridge. You take the South Route, there’s a good trail about a mile from Rustler’s Ridge along Sassy Hooker Crossing, right on up to Full Moon Falls, and you’ll pass the Eternity Oak on the way there.”

  “Those miners sure were colorful fellas.” Sassy Hooker Crossing, for some reason, made him think of lady peanuts. Just as colorful.

  “They were at that.”

  “I like falls.”

  “Well, that’s your route, then. And you’ll like these falls. They are the prettiest thing ever. Now, if you’re a country boy, I don’t need to tell you what to do if you encounter a snake that rattles, or a bear or a mountain lion or coyote.”

  “Don’t try to pet it.”

  “Want me to tell you what else to touch and what not to touch?”

  Rosemary had just lobbed him a good one.

  “I wish you would have told me that years ago, Rosemary. Could have saved me some trouble and made me even more popular than I am.”

  She grinned at him. “Leaves of three, let it be, sweetie. Don’t pick me any wildflowers if you don’t know the names of them. And don’t you slip up and carve the wrong initials in that tree.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.”

  Pines, manzanita, Indian paintbrush, oaks, firs, redwoods and all manner of greenery kept the trails shaded for the most part, but the sun was ruthless where it made it through the tree cover, and it helped incinerate a little of J. T.’s restlessness.

  He was halfway up the trail when his phone chimed in with a text.

  He scrambled for it. He exhaled.

  Still not his agent.

  It was from Linda Goldstein.

  John Tennessee, I have a stash of signed photos from Blood Brothers days. The ones with floppy hair. Do you still want to use them? If not, what would you like me to do with them?

  Linda was the president of his fan club. He was bemused he still had an official fan club, let alone one with an elected officer; it was really more of a skeleton crew of women who never abandoned anything they started, bless them, whether it was a knitted afghan or organized adulation for star of a program that was popular before most of them were moms.

  J. T. texted back:

  Laminate them and use them as placemats for your cat’s dinner? Offer them to your boys for target practice?

  A moment later a message trilled in:

  HA HA HA! You’re the BEST. I know The Rush is going to be GREAT!

  Accompanied by a flurry of emojis: various smiles and clapping hands and one inexplicable cat.

  Linda had evolved from a gushy, giddy, alarmingly well-­organized Tennessee McCord worshipper into a happily married, cheerfully harried, alarmingly well-­organized mother of two teenage boys. And now she treated J. T. more or less like one of them: with a blend of affectionate “Go get ’em, Tiger!” and concerned clucking. She’d always been unequivocally on his side, which he obviously didn’t always deserve.

  He texted back:

  You can recycle them if you want. I’ll get you some new ones. We’ll have some great stills from The Rush.

  Emojis in principle got on his nerves the way cherubs did.

  But he hesitated.

  And then added a smiling emoji before he sent it. Just a basic one. Because he knew she would enjoy it.

  He wondered what Britt Langley’s policy on emojis was.

  He smiled to himself, and then the smile evolved into a frown.

  He was positive she hadn’t believed him, but he hadn’t asked a woman out in a long time. Not in so many words, anyway. For the past fifte
en years, before Rebecca, it was more often than not his people calling some actress’s people and arranging a date. Or him saying yes to some hot woman who had flung herself into his path. Not that he was complaining, necessarily.

  And he hadn’t gotten laid in . . . well, it wasn’t like he’d made marks on his wall like a prisoner in a cell. Months had gone by, though. Long enough for him to start feeling twitchy.

  It was hardly for lack of opportunity.

  It was just that the whole thing with Rebecca had left him feeling scorched and sobered. Together they’d been any publicist’s wet dream. They really should have worked. They were probably too dazzled by each other and their own publicity and mostly too busy to realize they excelled at making each other miserable, and it started to become really clear when her career took off and his foundered. He felt like he’d given the relationship his best shot. But there was no getting around the fact that they’d been hurtling toward the inevitable messy end for some time.

  In inimitable Rebecca Corday fashion, she’d picked her moment to maximize drama and publicity. She’d needed to punish him, and boy had she.

  Five years ought to be long enough for another person to make a mark on you, to reshape you a little, he thought. Apart from feeling disoriented for a while—­every relationship was like a culture of two, with its own language and customs—­mostly he felt like he’d been evicted from a small, hot, noisy party.

  And maybe that said more about him than it did about her. Maybe he was indeed the problem.

  He didn’t pass a single other soul on the trail, unless you counted deer and squirrels, the former of which galloped off, the latter of which scolded him from high branches. A blue jay followed him for a time, from tree branch to tree branch, squawking. A hummingbird strafed him, then moved on, satisfied it had shown him who was boss. He didn’t encounter any mammals of the kind with fangs or claws, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in there, watching him.

  He hiked past sheer drops—­thoughtfully labeled by the Forest Service—­and staggeringly beautiful vistas of the canyon, carved out by a relentless river.

  He heard Full Moon Falls before she saw them. The low roar was like a lover’s breath in your ear when things were just starting to get hot.