Once In A Blue Moon

by Celia Stewart

  “I don’t feel like eating here. Let’s go to Carmen’s and have Mexican instead.” Zack grabbed him by the arm and tried to steer him toward their trucks but after only a few steps the diner’s door swung open again, and Ty understood his brother’s sudden craving for Mexican food.

  “Well, hey Ty,” Melyn Cooley drawled.

  His chest seized up at the sight of Rhea beside her, and he forced himself to take nice slow breaths. Walking on glass was easier than handling his ex-wife. Rhea was like those white tigers in Vegas--no telling when she’d get in a snit and turn on you, claws bared.

  Was that a black eye under her makeup? He opened his mouth to ask her what happened then realized he couldn’t. He didn’t have the right to anymore. But old habits died hard. “Melyn. Rhea.”

  “Let’s go.” Zack tugged on his elbow, but he shook it off.

  “Ty.” Rhea had bleached her honey colored hair out to match Melyn’s nearly white-blonde hair. It looked like straw. And the harsh sunlight exaggerated their heavy makeup. Rhea’s snug T-shirt left so little to the imagination he could, as Aunt Susie would say, count her beauty marks.

  The pretty little girl he’d married was nowhere in sight. And it wasn’t just the clothes and hair that made the difference, but the hard look in her blue eyes and the slight curl to her lip. The thought left him sad, and angry. Because he still hadn’t figured out how they’d gotten here. Gotten divorced. Become enemies. She hated him. And he hated himself for missing her after all she’d put him through. Oh, he didn’t mean to miss her. But proposing to a girl at twelve, marrying her at eighteen then divorcing her at thirty left a man with a lot of history to wade through. And unfortunately, there was no way to erase that history.

  Melyn was dressed almost identically in a tight shirt and even tighter, belly-baring jeans. Three years ago at Rhea’s annual Labor Day cookout, she’d hit on him then, after he’d refused her indecent proposal, laughed and told him Rhea dared her to do it. He hadn’t believed her at the time. He did now.

  Rhea swayed closer, a calculating look in her eyes.

  “Let’s go,” Zack insisted, tugging on his arm again.

  “How’s therapy?” Rhea asked. From behind her, Melyn snickered.

  Ty’s face heated up but he forced himself to stay quiet. Rhea knew how important the family name was to Momma--and him. Before she’d left, she’d taken great pleasure in taunting him: What would the good folks of Bluebonnet say if they found out a favorite son was “in therapy?” Movie stars got therapy. Rich people with silly problems. Not cowboys.

  Tell that to his dad.

  “If you’re so interested, maybe you should give it a whirl,” Zack said.

  “Shut up...”

  “How’s Billy?” Ty boldly countered before she could finish.

  Please God, don’t let her make a scene. He fought the urge to cough as her heavy perfume surrounded him like a thick cloud. And he caught the speculative looks from the two older couples who passed by on their way inside the diner.

  “How’s Bad Betti Blanchard?”

  His heart immediately sped up. Rhea knew he’d slept with another woman. Just as quickly he reminded himself she was sleeping with another man and had been since before their divorce was final. Melyn might live there too, but he’d seen the way Billy and Rhea pawed at each other the day she moved out. They were more than just old friends.

  “Bad Betti’s none of your business,” Zack insisted.

  “It is if we make it our business.” Melyn had apparently decided to step up to bat.

  Ty knew Rhea’s viciousness better than anyone, and the last thing he wanted was her going after Bettina.

  “You need to tell your little skanky girlfriend...” Rhea traced a long bloody looking fingertip against his T-shirt, “--she better not get in my way.”

  He clenched his teeth together and swallowed hard. He couldn’t pull back. Or swat her finger away. Or wipe his sweaty hands on his jeans. One false move, one show of weakness and she’d pounce.

  “You left him for another man. And you’re divorced. Which means you’ve got no right to tell him what to do.” By the time Zack had finished speaking, he’d nearly shoved Ty out of the way.

  A large crowd exited the diner and slowed to watch the goings-on. Great, it’d be all over town before sundown. Just what he didn’t need. More fuel for the town gossip mill.

  Between his very ugly and not-so-private divorce and his father’s very public acknowledgment of an illegitimate child, the family had taken some hard hits lately.

  And Rhea had been very public in her severing of ties. She made no secret of the fact she had no love for any of them. Hell, Momma practically raised her--had been more of a mother to her than her own mom. But when given the choice to get counseling or leave, she’d chosen to leave. And hadn’t gone quietly.

  “She didn’t leave him for another man, silly. Billy Green’s with me,” Melyn announced. “He just helped her move.”

  “Call off your fuckin’ bulldog, Ty. And tell that skank you’ve been banging if she hits me again, I’ll burn her house down.” Rhea shoved past him and Melyn followed.

  Don’t turn around. Stay calm. He blew out a breath and nodded to the small crowd that had watched the end of his latest public run-in with Rhea--most of whom he knew at least by sight--and headed for the diner’s door. The last showdown had been when she’d gotten the divorce papers. She’d stormed into the dancehall where Aunt Susie had joyfully let Jessa trounce her for raising a ruckus. The family had two rules: Take Care of Your Own and Don’t Air Your Dirty Laundry--or as Dad liked to say, don’t shit in your food dish. Normally, Aunt Susie didn’t forget that ... normally.

  At least Rhea hadn’t totally blown her cool this time.

  “You wanna go home?” Zack muttered from behind him.

  The small crowd spread like the Red Sea, then began to disperse. Every family had problems. But when you’re a big dog in a small yard people tend to gnaw on your problems like a puppy with a forbidden slipper.

  No! Ty wheeled on his brother, past sick of his family trying to protect him. Sometimes that take-care-of-your-own rule got overdone. “I’m hungry, and today’s special is chicken fried chicken.” Ignoring Zack’s frown, he continued inside.

  Their lunch of Mae’s famous chicken fried chicken was quiet, the normally easy camaraderie he shared with his brother gone. And he was still distracted by his run-in with Rhea, therapy, his nightmares, Bettina. Exhaustion ate at him. Not just fatigue but a deep-down, soul tired he couldn’t seem to shake.

  “Are you just gonna sit there and sulk, or what?” Zack finally demanded.

  “I’m not sulking.” Ty thoughtfully chewed a bite of chicken, then asked, “Why’d you wanna have lunch?”

  “I just wanted to know how you were doing. You’ve been keeping to yourself ... Christ, I sound like Dad.” Zack sat back, and let his fork clatter against his plate.

  Ty chuckled. He had sounded like Dad. “She looked like shit,” he said softly.

  Zack leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “How can you even care after what she did to you?”

  “Dammit, Zack, she was my wife for almost half my life! No, okay I don’t love her, but she’s been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember. That doesn’t just go away overnight,” he hissed. “I just wanted to talk about her for a minute. Is that so wrong? With Dr. Ritter it’s always ‘how I feel this’ and ‘how I feel that’. I don’t want to study it; I just want to talk about it!”

  “So fine, talk.” But Zack’s crossed arms and the scowl on his freckled face weren’t very encouraging.

  “What’s the point if you’re gonna sit there and be an ass?” Ty sighed and picked up his fork, focusing on his mashed potatoes instead.

  Across the table from him, Zack started to laugh softly.

  “What?”

  “Bad Betti hit Rhea,” Zack murmured, lips twitching.

  Ty shook his head and smiled, rubbing his face to keep from cra
cking up. He didn’t need to add “laughing maniacally at Mae’s” to the gossipmill. “Don’t call her that.”

  “Her who?” Zack thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of fried okra.

  “Bettina. She’s sweet.”

  “So why don’t you go out with her? You know the only reason people call her that is ‘cause of her mom ... and the fact she got caught doing what every other high school kid in this town did.”

  “What’s that?” Ty took another bite of his chicken, then almost choked at his brother’s answer.

  “Having sex.”

  Once he downed a half a glass of tea and recovered from his coughing fit, he sat back and took a deep breath. He’d focus on the sex and maybe his brother would forget about him dating Bettina. Though sex and Bettina seemed like a perfect fit. “You didn’t have sex in high school.”

  “How do you know?” Zack demanded, suddenly all defensive.

  “Don’t lie.” Ty grinned, enjoying the chance to put his little brother in the hot seat. At the same time, something kept niggling at him. Something Rhea had said. Or maybe it was what she hadn’t said.

  “How you doin’, Ty honey?” Mae appeared from nowhere and slipped an arm around him. She was old enough to be his mother. Had even gone to school with his mother.

  “I’m fine, Miss Mae.” His lips twitched as he tried to focus on the plate she was sliding in front of him instead of her cleavage. Miss Mae’s Cleavage was legendary. But then, so was her lemon meringue pie.

  “Don’t worry, Zack, I didn’t forget you! I’ll be right back, sweetie.” Miss Mae hustled through the crowd toward the kitchen.

  “I think she likes you.” Zack winked and dug in to the last of his potatoes.

  Ty’s sweet tooth won a quick internal skirmish. He shoved the remains of his lunch out of the way and scooped a bite of pie onto his fork. Then ended up almost doubled over, howling with laughter. He’d tried, but this was too good not to give in to.

  “What?”

  “Rhea and Billy are cheating on Melyn.” He leaned back in his chair, smoothed down his goatee and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. With another small chuckle, he slid the fork in his mouth and moaned at the combination of sour lemon and sweet homemade meringue.

  * * * *

  On the way home Ty drove by Bettina’s again. The for sale sign hadn’t changed. But her grass sure needed to be cut.

  If her car had been in the driveway, he would have stopped and let her know about Rhea’s threats. At least, that was the excuse he told himself. He sat parked at the curb, tapping his steering wheel and debating on whether to leave a note or not.

  In hindsight, he could see his ex-wife’s abuse, her manipulation, the petty jealousies, her rages and tears went back even longer than the twelve years they’d been married--all the way to high school. The violence had started later. He’d never laid a hand on her, so her ability to casually inflict pain on him had left him stunned and confused. But then, so had her lack of interest in working things out.

  What would his life have been like if he and Bettina had dated in high school? Or if he’d dated anyone other than Rhea, for that matter. He smiled, remembering how he’d occasionally catch Bettina mooning after him. He never said anything but always found it flattering, even if she had run with a rough crowd.

  Put it in perspective. He shook it off. Rhea didn’t deserve that much time. He hated not fighting back, but refused to stoop to her level and make a scene.

  A part of him wanted to take Zack’s advice and call Bettina up, but the rest of him just didn’t feel ready for all that. Dating and flowers and ... he’d learned he wasn’t a very good judge of character. But here he sat outside her house like a lovesick fool. And his momma would probably know about it before he got home. He snorted and reached for the ignition only to stop and lean on the steering wheel, not quite ready to leave.

  Funny how he could sit here so many years later and remember walking Bettina home from that dance in the sixth grade. To the very same house with the same cracked cement walkway. Funny how life could change but stay the same.

  He chuckled again. Funny he’d never considered whether he was a breast man or not before. But he could remember even in the sixth grade Bettina had been chesty. His skin prickled as the temperature in the truck went up about ten degrees and the crotch of his jeans tightened. She still had big breasts with tight pink nipples and wasn’t at all bashful about ‘em either. He groaned and adjusted his jeans.

  And all that soft curly hair. And pouty lips. And those eyes. Those big green eyes that laughed and said, “I dare you.”

  Maybe it wasn’t her chest size but everything about her. There was something powerful about her that had turned him on that night. Sex with her had been like some forbidden treat. A guilty pleasure--like his sweet tooth. Just the thought of her naked and riding him again, the memory of their quickie in the chair, her kisses, her teasing made him hard all over again. He suddenly realized how hot he was, how his shirt stuck to his back. Hell, the temperature had to be 104 today, and here he sat in a tin can with a raging hard-on.

  If he weren’t wearing his best jeans he’d cut her grass. At the least manual labor would take care of his erection--though so would jacking off.

  If the neighbors wouldn’t see him doing her yard work--though honestly, it didn’t look like anyone was home.

  If his mom heard he’d cut Bad Betti Blanchard’s grass, she’d really light into him. Mom had settled down some, but she still had her moments. And she already thought he was half off his rocker anyway.

  Fuck it.

  He climbed out of his truck, quietly closing the door. Like anyone was gonna hear him.

  He couldn’t remember who lived to Bettina’s right, but to her left was Old Lady Lindsay. She was ninety, if she was a day, smoked like a freight train and drove her gigantic ancient Oldsmobile to the Senior Recreation Center every afternoon for bingo. And had since he was in high school.

  Ty casually looked around again. Not a soul. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in his front seat, thankful he’d worn an undershirt. Then went to find Bettina’s lawnmower.

  Chapter Five

  Think pink

  The days and weeks after my run-ins with Rhea and Ty floated by in a haze of tears, ice cream and anything else I could shove in my mouth. I’d never in my life been so in the dumps over a man but repeated self-scoldings and peptalks did no good.

  I had come to think of my life in terms of BT--before Ty and AT--after Ty.

  The first few weeks AT, I’d alternated between nausea and binge eating. Definitely not like me; however, I’d never had my heart well and truly broken before. Squashed and beaten like a flower in a South Texas flash flood. This was unquestionably new territory for me and at first, I allowed myself to mope, eat, and cry. But things didn’t seem to improve. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull myself out of my funk, and continued eating and crying ... and sleeping. I was depressed.

  My depression lifted at the oddest incident. But even that didn’t last long. The week after I blacked Rhea’s eye I came home to find my grass had been cut. Totally not out of the ordinary since I paid my neighbor’s son to cut and bag for me. The Jackson brothers--a couple of twelve year old, fair-haired imps were always looking to make a dime.

  About time, too. They were a week past due.

  On my way to work the next morning I stuffed an envelope with their pay in the mailbox, figuring their mother would give it to them. And a couple weeks later we repeated our song and dance.

  Late in August, just before school started, their mom, who was the source of their blonde hair and always looked frazzled, showed up on my doorstep with both envelopes. And that’s when I got tickled.

  “Betti, I’m sorry to bother you, but I found these in my mail.”

  “Oh Bev, that was for the boys mowing my grass. I hadn’t seen you around, so I just left their money in your mailbox.”

  “Well, see now, that’s the thing. The
boys left July first to go spend the rest of the summer with their daddy up in Wichita Falls. Then my mama got sick a week later, and I’ve been in Alabama. Sally Truesdale’s been collecting all my mail and watering my yard. I just got back last week, and I’m still trying to set my house straight.”

  “So, who cut my grass?” Frowning, I stepped out on my porch and looked around. Like the mysterious grass cutter would still be nearby.

  “I have no clue, but Sally did mention she’d seen Ty Boudreaux pass through here quite a bit lately.”

  What in the hell was Sally Truesdale smoking? Bev wasn’t one to gossip ... but she was a woman. And Sally was always in the know. We eyed each other in the porch light, both of us fully aware my response would be reported to Sally and then repeated all over town.

  “Why in the world would Ty Boudreaux come around here?” 'Least said;' least spread was my motto. “This isn’t his side of town.” I put on my best “I have no clue” frown and crossed my arms. Thank God it was dark out.

  “She said she saw him more than once.” Bev could fish ‘till the cows came home. “I hear he’s been having a lot of trouble since Rhea up and left him.”

  My lips were sealed.

  But if Sally had seen him, then who else had? No way was I going to try and find out first-hand what Sally knew, or worse, canvas the neighbors to find out if anyone had actually seen Ty mowing my grass. And honestly, why would he?

  Mowing a woman’s grass while she wasn’t home had to be the most insane thing I’ve ever heard of. Right?

  * * * *

  Before I realized it, Labor Day and Halloween had passed us by--and my waistline had swelled to alarming proportions. Tall and curvy was one thing, but my size sixteens had become downright uncomfortable. This was not how I wanted to spend my holiday season, bloated like a whale.

  Over oatmeal and coffee one morning, my stomach rolled over. I knew last night’s experiment had been a bad idea: Mocha Java Chip ice cream with chocolate sauce on top. The whole morning passed in a nauseated haze, as I lay on my bed unable to move until I had no choice. Once my stomach was empty, I grabbed the cordless phone off my night stand and buried my head under soft Egyptian cotton sheets, dialing the salon.