Til There Was U

by Dianne Castell

  “It’s a gray slab of ugly concrete polluting the landscape, and you can kiss any awards for environmental excellence good-bye and—”

  “And,” Rory added as he came into the dining room, “I don’t know why you two have been arguing for the last nine hours over everything from grass to garages to the color of the sidewalk.” He looked from one to the other. “Jimminy Christmas. What the hell’s going on?” He waved his hand in the air. “Yesterday you’re swapping spit and clothes and chipping teeth, and today you’re fighting like two snakes in a barrel.”

  Ryan stood and tossed down his pencil. “We’re getting nowhere. I’m going into town for a while. I’ll ask around about Mimi, see if anyone knows anything or heard any gossip.”

  Rory shrugged. “The PI I hired already did that. Came up with nothing.”

  “Locals open up to locals more than strangers, especially if I’m buying a round or two.” Without looking at Effie he headed for the hallway, his heavy steps tromping across the hardwood floors, followed by the front door closing with a solid thud.

  Rory wagged his head. “All this over a mall? Can’t imagine there’s all that much to argue over.”

  Effie stood. “Just a big difference of opinion.” Resulting from basic lust, sexual frustration, and the Save Thelma Campaign. “Where’s Bonnie? I think I need to be around someone who doesn’t talk back for a little while.”

  “You better enjoy it now because in a few years she’ll be like the rest of the O’Fallons, opinionated as hell, determined to get their own way and raising Cain when they don’t. Thelma’s heating her bottle and feeding her some goop that looks a lot like wallpaper paste but is supposed to be cereal. You can feed her a bottle if you like. We’ll share. Thelma’s on her way out; she’s got another date. Lord have mercy, don’t know what she sees in that man.”

  Effie dropped her own pencil on the pile of blueprints and asked in a lower voice, “Guess we don’t have to guess who that man is?”

  “Christ Almighty, she’s been with Conrad the whole damn day. She came home filthy. Said they were working on a project together.” Rory raised his eyebrows. “Conrad working? Now that’s a new one. Said she wanted to grab a shower, see how things were getting along here, and then she’s heading back over to his place this evening. She and Conrad are putting in some kind of patio thing. What the hell’s that all about?”

  He stroked his chin. “I can’t remember that man doing one lick of anything physical. I suppose he really has changed. Something sure has.”

  “My bet’s on the something.”

  “Except there’s no dang reason for Conrad to take a fancy to Thelma other than he cottons to her.”

  Effie followed Rory into the kitchen. She scooped Bonnie out of her pumpkin seat, remembering to support her head. The little warm bundle in her arms felt incredibly comforting after a stressful day with the architect from hell. “Come here, sweet thing.”

  Rory sat down at the kitchen table across from Effie. “I suppose we should be telling Bonnie stories and reciting nursery rhymes. I got one of those baby books, and that’s what they said to do. Makes ‘em good at reading.”

  Effie smiled. “Hey, I can do stories. I’ve got great stories. Once upon a time there were three little tailors, Prada, Escada and Verchai, and they each had a fabulous collection of incredible clothes that they made just for Princess Bonnie.”

  Thelma let out a hardy laugh as she handed Effie the bottle. “Lordy, you’re going to be giving this little girl some high-and-mighty ideas and have her spoiled rotten in no time at all.”

  Effie winked at Rory. “I think her daddy’s the one who’ll be doing the spoiling.” She offered Bonnie the bottle and cooed, “And then he’ll take you for rides on his big towboats and show you how to keep an eye out for leaks so the tug doesn’t sink right out from under you and how to line the work vests for the coast guard and measure cable and line and ...”

  The kitchen got unusually quiet, and Effie glanced up. Thelma and Rory stared at her as if she’d sprouted another nose. “What? You don’t want Bonnie on a towboat? I just assumed that you’d—”

  Rory said, “She’ll be steering a tow and running barges before she’s driving a car.” He arched his left eyebrow. “But what’s all this malarkey about checking for leaks and lining up the vests? Where the devil did that come from? What kind of books have you been reading?”

  “And I suppose the coast guard doesn’t mind if the deck is spotless or not?”

  Rory shrugged. “It’s a work boat. It gets hosed down from time to time, painted as need be, but that’s about it.” He scratched his head. “You been reading some kind of books or . . . or . . .”

  His eyes met hers, widened, and he let out a whistle. “Oh, boy.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to string oh boy up by his—” Balls, she thought, but instead said, “Toenails.” There was a baby present. “The boy had me running all over that tug, checking out stuff and doing whatever else came into his little pea brain.” She eyed Rory. “You have two other sons. You won’t even miss this one.”

  Rory chuckled. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I sure can’t picture you letting Ryan order you around, telling you to do this and that. You don’t seem the sort who’d stand still for such a thing.”

  “I’m not,” Effie growled, feeling as if she had a sign with I’m a gullible stupid-ass hanging around her neck. She set Bonnie on her lap, snagged the burp towel from the top of the pumpkin seat and gently patted the baby’s back. “I fell for the oldest male trick in the book. Ryan said I wasn’t up to working on the tow because I was a woman. Said he’d drop me off in Memphis to get my nails done instead.”

  Rory laughed, joined by Thelma. Tears trickled down her face. “Have mercy. I sure wish I’d been a fly on the wall when that conversation happened.”

  Rory swiped his own tears. “Then Ryan proceeded to order you about?”

  “Ryan and I are always trying to outdo each other. I couldn’t very well not do what he said or I’d look like a big female wuss. Bet he’s off somewhere laughing his butt off right now.”

  “Or running for his life if he knows what’s good for him,” Thelma added on another chuckle.

  Effie handed Bonnie to Rory. “Where’d that slimy piece of donkey dung you call a son go tonight?”

  Thelma nodded to the door. “I’m guessing he’s gone over to Slim’s. It’s the local watering hole around here where everyone gets together, especially at night. The place has the best cold beer and barbecue on earth, even beats mine. I sure do love Slim’s.”

  Rory gently rocked Bonnie in his big strong arms and fed her the rest of the bottle. He winked up at Effie. “I’m bettin’ there’s going to be a hot time in town tonight. Some first-class hell-raising for sure. If it wasn’t for Bonnie here, I’d be going with you just to get myself a front row seat for the action.”

  Effie stood. “I’ll bring you an order of ribs and be tickled pink to give you a rundown on the evening’s events.”

  Chapter 10

  Damn the fucking heat and mosquitoes and black flies and gnats! Conrad grabbed his shirttail and swiped sweat from his forehead. The early evening sat sweltering and still. Fuck! Was there any other way on the fucking Mississippi in fucking July? Except this day in July he was digging up his own fucking backyard instead of downing cool martinis—extra dry with two olives—at the fucking country club and trying to decide between the fucking poached salmon or the fucking breaded veal for dinner. Fuck!

  He dropped the shovel and yanked off his work gloves. Blisters across his palms! Three with ragged broken skin, watery and hurting like hell, the rest just waiting for the opportunity to pop and get gross and ugly. He glanced down at his favorite old tennis shoes he usually wore when lounging around the house. Covered in red Tennessee dirt. And what the fuck was that godawful smell that followed him everywhere. Did something die out here?

  He looked at his cobalt blue Ralph Lauren shirt now stained with circles
of sweat. He sniffed the material. Oh, God, that odor was him! He smelled like a fucking sewer! He kicked at the shovel on the ground, putting another smear on his shoes. How much’did he have to endure for a million bucks? Why did a Martha Stewart clone have to get this inheritance? Why not a Jennifer Lopez clone?

  “Conrad,” Thelma called in a cheery voice as she rounded the house from the front, carrying a basket. She waved and smiled. “There you ...” Her words faded as she came up beside him. She looked from him to the two-foot-deep patch of ground that covered about five hundred square feet. “What ...What did you do?”

  Damn near killed myself to impress you, he thought but said, “What’s wrong?” Good grief, what did he have to do to please her? Turn back flips across the damn lawn while spitting fire? Probably be easier than this!

  “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I dug a hole.”

  “You dug up all the rest of the area where the patio is going to be and ... and you even laid out some of the bricks.”

  She looked him dead in the eyes. “You worked much too hard in this heat. You should have waited ‘til tomorrow for me to come back and help you. But. . . but...”

  She put down the basket and wagged her head and pointed to the space he’d dug, deep enough for the gravel and then sand and bricks on top. She said, “You curved the edges. It softens the appearance, and it looks so elegant. The design’s perfect for the house.”

  She pointed to the bricks he’d laid out to get a feel for the design. “A basket-weave pattern? It’s formal but graceful.”

  Big fucking deal! But he said, “Well, I have to take the bricks up and put down more sand and tamp for a solid foundation. This was a sample of what’s to come.” What was to come was more fucking work. He was a damn laborer.

  “How’d you do this?”

  Sweated my ass off. He slapped a smile on his face. “A brick patio isn’t exactly a bridge or dam or an expressway, but I know how to do it.”

  “It’s really going to be beautiful, Conrad. Your dad would love it.” She beamed at him as if he were some kind of god. First time anyone had ever looked at him that way.

  “You’re wonderful.” She put the basket down on the grass, then kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t seem to care he was hot and sweaty and dirty. He thought of all the jewelry he’d given to women and vacations he’d taken them on and fancy dinners he’d bought, and he couldn’t honestly remember any woman ever saying anything more than the obligatory thanks. Then he dug this hole in the ground, and Thelma went all ape-shit. Dumb broad. Over a stupid hole in the ground and some bricks. Amazing.

  No, what was amazing was that Thelma McAllister was such an easy mark that it scared him.

  “Is something wrong, Conrad?”

  “Not a thing.” Actually everything was perfect. He should astound her a little more. “I plan on adding a matching walkway down to the creek, to that gazebo we talked about.”

  “A lovely place in the spring when the creek’s flowing fast and in the fall when the leaves are turning.”

  Simpleton! He looked deep into her eyes. “I’m glad you like it, Thelma. I thought of you when I made the plans.” He wasn’t lying about that!

  She stared back, her eyes not leaving his. She blushed and looked away. “I... I brought you dinner.”

  Stammering was a good sign. Meant she wasn’t in control. Something was happening to her. He chuckled to himself. Conrad Hastings was what was happening to her.

  She continued, “I have fried chicken and fresh green beans from my garden and pecan pie.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Can’t have a picnic without my pecan pie.”

  “That wasn’t necessary. I’ll get cleaned up, and we can go to the country club for dinner.” Though she was dressed in cheap slacks and cotton T-shirt. He frowned at that, then realized she was frowning, too, least her eyes were. Her lips seemed frozen in a smile. Oh, God, what now?

  Shit. He’d just insulted her stupid fried chicken. Nice going, Hastings! Great way to snare a two-million-dollar sucker. His gaze met hers. “Not that your chicken doesn’t sound wonderful, my dear,” he recanted. “I just meant that you deserve a night out because you helped me with the patio this afternoon. My way of saying thank you.”

  His stomach rolled as he thought of greasy chicken instead of poached salmon. “But since you fried the chicken and did all this work, we’ll go to the club some other time.”

  “You need to eat something right now, Conrad. You’re looking worn as an old kitchen towel.”

  Tennesseeisms, just what he wanted from his future wife. “You set the dining room table inside, and I’ll grab a quick shower and then—”

  “You should eat first, just a few bites. I bet you haven’t eaten all day- You didn’t eat anything when we worked earlier.” She pulled a plaid blanket from the basket, fluffed it into the air and it settled onto the grass under the oak that he intended to shade a corner of the patio against the brutal western summer sun. That’s why he designed the patio to curve at the end, to wrap around the oak.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Then you can shower.” She peered at him hard. “You’re starting to look peaked.”

  “I’m filthy. I’ll get your blanket dirty, and I can’t eat with such grimy hands.” Though he suddenly did feel a bit weak. Working all day in this heat wasn’t his strong suit, or any suit since he’d never done it before.

  “The blanket will wash.” She gently took his hands and tugged him down beside her. It seemed easier to just do what she wanted than not. Besides, he suddenly felt tired to the bone, a little shaky. She didn’t let go of his hands when he parked across from her. She touched his palm. “Oh, Conrad.”

  “My hands are a mess.”

  “What terrible blisters.” She pulled an insulated bowl from the basket, peeled off the lid, scooped a glob onto a plate and set it in his lap. She handed him a fork. “You eat a few bites, and I’ll go inside and get some ointment and a washcloth.” She stood.

  “But—”

  “I’ll find it on my own, you just relax,” she called as she made for the house.

  “There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen pantry,” he called after her.

  He looked at the mayo-covered potatoes and celery and eggs and bacon bits. Botulism in a bowl. He made a face. Maybe he could just fling a blob somewhere and she’d think he’d eaten it. Then he looked up and saw her coming out of the house carrying a tray.

  Damn! Too late for flinging. He forked up a little dab, prayed his antibodies were up to the challenge, then smiled at Thelma as he held up the offering. He put it in his mouth.

  It tasted cold and fresh and totally ... incredible. Not too tart, not sweet, perfect. Thelma might dress for shit, but the woman could cook. A novel diversion from the glitzy women he usually dated. Their idea of cooking was dumping water into the coffeemaker. Homemade meant spooning carryout onto plates.

  She put the tray with soap, towel, pan of water and the first aid kit on the blanket and knelt down beside him. “Now let me see your hands. I want to wash the blisters and put on ointment and a Band-Aid.”

  “In a minute.” Maybe he’d just overreacted to how good the salad tasted because he was so hungry. He scooped up another forkful and ate it. Nope, same incredible taste. “This is really good, Thelma,” he said around a mouthful. And he meant it. Probably the first thing he’d said to her that he did mean without some hidden agenda attached.

  “Why, thank you, Conrad.” She smiled and took his left hand and gently washed it. Her touch was soft and caring as she washed the blisters and applied ointment and gauze. “This will last ‘til after we eat. Then you can shower, and we’ll do a better job of getting you fixed up.”

  We. Whoa, baby! He was making great inroads, and it was nice to have a woman dote on him for a change. Usually he did the damn doting ... frequently to get into some woman’s pants. But this time he didn’t give a flying-fuck about screwing.

  “I have fresh-squeezed lemona
de.”

  His parched mouth watered at the suggestion. “This is a great picnic.” Least he’d eat well for the next year and have someone around who truly seemed to . . . care about his well-being. Hell, that had never come up before.

  He studied Thelma for a moment. She was easy enough to get along with. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. What did matter was the money she brought to the table and the share he’d walk away with.

  Since things were going so well tonight it gave him a perfect opportunity to step things up to the next level. He only had about a week to get her to marry him; that didn’t leave much time, even for someone as smooth as Conrad Hastings. He watched as she loaded his plate with fried chicken, more potato salad, biscuits and green beans. She had a twinkle in her eyes. And she hummed?

  He laughed to himself. Holy shit, she was crazy about him. All the blisters, bugs and sweat were worth it. She was in awe of him. He had her right where he wanted her.

  He picked up a drumstick and bit into it. Damn! Good as the potato salad.

  She took a bite of green beans and said to him, “The way you’re going at that chicken leg, I don’t think you’ve eaten in a month.”

  He laughed and wagged the drumstick at her. He needed to keep things folksy between them, down-home and cozy, nothing highfalutin. “It’s your cooking. I haven’t tasted food like this since . . . since my mom.”

  Oh, that was good. Very down-home, very Tennessee. And, wonder-of-wonders, true. “Boy, she could cook. You’re so much like her.” He studied Thelma for a second. Damn, another truism.

  “I didn’t know your mama, but I’ll take that as a compliment. “

  He wolfed down the potato salad and helped himself to more.

  “Why are you doing this, Conrad?”

  He nearly dropped his plate. Alarm snaked up his spine. What had he done wrong to tip his hand? “Ah, what do you mean, my dear?”

  She waved her fork over the yard. “All this work? You could have paid to have it done, but you didn’t. Why do it yourself?”