Rich enjoyed the banter and was relieved to have a break from their earlier gut-wrenching conversations. “Best running back ever?” he challenged.
“Jim Brown. You might make a case for Walter Payton. No other contenders in my book. Did you ever play?” she asked.
“I was about a hundred pounds too light for college ball. In high school I was number sixty-seven in their program, number one in their hearts.”
“Sixty-seven,” Charlotte repeated. “Tackle?”
“Yes, defensive tackle.” Rich looked surprised. “Best coach ever?”
“Easy one,” she said. “Jim Browne.”
“You disappoint, my lady. Brown never coached, unless you want to count some of that personal advisor junk. Your answer is disallowed.” He scooped up the last few crumbs on his plate.
“Different guy,” she said, showing her dimple. “Browne with an ‘e’. My dad, Jim Browne. You didn’t specify professional level.”
“Miss Lottie is married to a coach?” Rich said in mock horror.
“Was. Daddy died three years ago, the summer before Chris’s senior year of high school.”
“Does your son play?” Rich eyed the bite of cherry pie Charlotte had left.
“Yes. Trombone, thank goodness. I love football, but it’s dangerous.”
Once they were on their way again, Charlotte took out her phone and dialed Chris.
“One quick call,” she said to Rich. When there was no answer, she left voice mail reminding her son Friday was his grandmother’s birthday. “If you come home, make sure you leave College Station early enough to get here before dark so I won’t worry about you. Love you, sweetie. Bye.”
“College Station? Your son’s an Aggie?” Rich feigned shock.
“All the way to the bone,” she said. “He never lets me forget I went to UTSA. I try to be neutral in the whole A&M Texas rivalry.”
Rich gave a short laugh. “There’s no neutrality in that war. You’re going to have to adjust your loyalties, Phillips, since your son’s an Aggie. My condolences for your defection to the losing side.”
“It could be worse. Chris could have gone to Georgetown and ended up a Redskins fan.”
“Want to hear what I’ve found out in the last couple of days?” Rich asked, suddenly changing the subject.
“Yes, I do,” Charlotte replied. “I’m especially curious why everybody thought you were dead.”
“That took me by surprise, too,” Rich joked. “I was on a special assignment in the Philippines, on the Island of Mindoro, based out of the U.S. embassy in Manila. Colonel Richard Martinez, from San Antonio, was on Mindanao, which is also one of the Philippine Islands. An eye witness saw Martinez get killed, but his body was never recovered. Somebody messed up royally at the embassy. My wife was notified I was the one who had been killed in action. A couple of days later there was a correction, and Rita, my wife, was informed a mistake had been made. Apparently she was heartbroken.”
“That seems only natural,” Charlotte commented.
“Yes, the news that I was still alive devastated poor Rita.”
“Oh, I meant...” Charlotte began.
“I know,” he said. “With Rita it was the other way around. The day she learned I was dead, she cleaned out our safe deposit box. She must have been licking her greedy little chops when she added up the life insurance. A copy of our prenuptial agreement was with the policies, probably a surprise, but no longer a worry. Then the roof fell in—the Air Force told her I was alive and well. I was worth so much more to her dead.”
Rich’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion. “I guess the more she thought about being the grieving widow of a fallen hero, the better she liked the idea. She played it to the hilt, probably milked my dad for all she could. He paid for a big memorial service for me and I bet you can guess where most of the money went. Appears she tried to collect my life insurance and dispose of some other assets as well. Without a death certificate she didn’t get too far with that scheme. Typical Rita-think.”
Rich passed a slow-moving cattle truck, reset the cruise control, and continued. “She stopped paying the mortgage and car payments, maxed out the credit cards, and cleaned out our joint checking and savings accounts. Also tried to get my IRA and sell my stock. Fortunately, she didn’t succeed. She sold my clothes at a garage sale. The guy who bought Buster demanded a refund when he got bitten trying to force Bus into his truck.” Rich glanced at the rearview mirror. “I’d have killed her if she’d hurt Buster. The email letting her know I was coming home early must have thrown Rita into a panic. She filed for divorce and left town with some poor Army bas— some soldier. I should have known something was up when her emails started to get lovey-dovey.”
“She told you this?” Charlotte asked, trying not to sound shocked.
“I haven’t talked to Rita. Yet.” The coldness in Rich’s voice gave her a shiver of undeserved pity for Rita.
“Then how do you know so many details?” She hated to ask, but wanted to know.
“Pieced together,” Rich replied. “Jerry had a lawyer and a paralegal research financial records, trace transactions. A neighbor told me about the garage sale and some gossip. Monday I put on my uniform and drank coffee all morning in the Burger Hut next to MPC—that’s the Military Personnel Center. I saw some guys I knew, got a little scuttlebutt. That afternoon I walked the halls in MPC. Checked my records, talked to people, dropped in on old buddies. By sheer luck, I bumped into Sergeant Belinda Wilkes, one of Rita’s best friends.”
“I’m sure you didn’t get anything out of her,” Charlotte said.
Rich exploded into his big, hearty laugh. “You’re thinking what you would do. Belinda’s just a naive kid. She couldn’t quit talking. I took her to a quiet little bar, kept the drinks coming. Flattered her. Acted like I knew the whole story and didn’t care. She spilled her guts.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Sounds dishonest.”
“Could be,” Rich said cheerfully. “One of Jerry’s partners dug into my pending divorce. There’s a pretty strong indication Rita forged my signature on some papers. If I ignore that, there could be a ruling as soon as today. Timing depends on the length of other cases.” He sighed. “There’s no community property left, no children, neither party contests. Jerry says Rita won’t appear and there’s no need for me to either.” He tapped the brakes. “Houston traffic gets worse every year.”
* * *
Lottie and Rich greeted each other like old friends. “I’m glad you made it in time for lunch,” Lottie bubbled. “You two must meet my friend Dora. She’s a Loyal Dove Duchess.”
Twelve people sat at each of the fifty banquet tables draped in royal blue and white. Conventioneers, servers, and carts of food filled every pathway. The air roared with the sounds of excited conversation, interspersed with the sounds of clinking glass.
Lottie saved a chair for her daughter, but the other seats at her table were taken. “I’ll find a place somewhere else,” Charlotte said, “if you’ll take care of Rich.” It didn’t seem right to put him with strangers. After searching for a while, Charlotte located a vacant chair halfway across the room. Conversations soon gave way to the sounds of silverware scraping against china, through a buzz of disjointed chatter. Fairly often, the group at Rich and Lottie’s table would explode with laughter. Other diners glanced in their direction. Charlotte did not have a clear view of Rich or Lottie, but she recognized Rich’s voice intermittently floating above the dining room noise, usually preceding another round of rowdy laughing.
After lunch, Charlotte asked about the location of her seminar room. There seemed to be some confusion.
Lottie guided Rich toward Charlotte. “I’ve been thinking, Charlotte dear. You’ve given your talk so many times. You should rest today. Rich could use your room to educate us about Air Force careers.”
Rich shrugged. “Whatever you two want is fine with me,” he said.
Which would the Doves enjoy hearing more—a dry
talk on psychological counseling or a rogue’s account of his jungle adventures? Charlotte tried to hold back, but lost the battle. Her laughter forced its way out.
“What’s so funny, Charlotte Marie?” Lottie demanded indignantly.
“Nothing, Mother. You’re absolutely right. I’ll sit this one out,” Charlotte said breathlessly, between giggles. “Thank goodness I wore something nice.”
“Yes, dear, you look lovely. You always do.” Lottie hustled Rich toward Seminar Room A.
Charlotte took her tea to the seminar room. A printed placard announcing Dr. Charlotte Phillips, Psychologist, was taped over with a sheet of tablet paper that read Rick Martin, Gorilla Fighter. Charlotte chuckled. Maybe that was supposed to be guerilla fighter. Then again, maybe not. Every chair in the room was filled. People, mostly female, stood single-file around the walls, three deep at the back of the room.
Across the hall, Charlotte noticed a distinguished gentleman facing an audience of empty chairs. She didn’t want to miss Rich’s performance, but she couldn’t bear the thought of the sad-faced man having no one in his session. Rich and Mom won’t miss me, she thought as she went in Seminar Room B. Charlotte assumed things would be informal, since it was just the two of them. Instead, Cecil Fenstermacher launched into his prepared speech on a career in parasitology.
Raucous laughter erupted frequently from Rich’s room across the hall. Charlotte had difficulty following the lecture on parasitic protozoa and helminths. Germs and worms, she thought. Perfect right after lunch.
When Fenstermacher asked, “Any questions?” Charlotte thanked him and beat a hasty retreat. Being considerate to others sometimes got her into trouble, but she knew she would do it again.
As Charlotte entered Rich’s seminar room, he excused himself from a knot of adoring women and hurried to her side. “We missed you.”
“I thought you gave up your room to someone from the zoo.” She enjoyed his amused chuckle. “Your room was full and that poor man across the hall didn’t have anyone who wanted to listen to him lecture on parasites,” she confessed, a little reluctantly. “I didn’t either, but you know how it is.”
He smiled that devastating smile again and looked directly into her eyes. “When you were a kid, did you bring home stray puppies?”
“Sometimes,” she said, embarrassed by the flush she felt creeping up her neck.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I hope you know the switcheroo wasn’t my idea,” Rich said as he and Charlotte drove west on Interstate 10.
“I know my mom well enough to know precisely what happened.” Charlotte assumed an exaggerated accent, the kind film actors imagine sounds Texan. “I think ya’ll got the shuck put on you, partner.”
“You mighty right, ma’am,” Rich said, falling in with the phony drawl. “I trust y’all weren’t offended.”
“Not at all. You were a big hit. Mom was happy and that was my goal for today. Thank you for stepping in.” She reflected for a moment. “I did wonder what was so amusing about your line of work.”
“Everything I said was true, minus the more gruesome details. Those ladies were fascinated by a description of my dinner with a tribal chief. They didn’t need to know the main dish was boiled dog.” When she didn’t comment, he went on. “Sometimes it’s how you tell the story that makes it funny or sad. For example, my trip home...” When Rich described his locked house, Charlotte laughed so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Tears rolled down her face as he mimicked the nervous rental car clerk.
She looked out the passenger side window watching the marshes, fields, and pastures roll by. She found Rich tremendously attractive. Something about him reminded her every minute that she was female. And he was a man. Stop it! She could never consider a relationship with a man who didn’t believe in God, a scoundrel, someone she couldn’t respect. Not that she would have the chance. Charlotte wondered if wife number five was already waiting in the wings. An exotic dancer this time, perhaps? This train of thought made her very uncomfortable and she willed herself not to examine the reason.
“Two miles to the Schwartzenburg exit,” Rich said, cocking his head toward the access road.
“Pie? Again?”
“To take home,” he answered.
Rich made himself at home in Glenn’s Restaurant. “Hey, Nelda, I’m Rich. Are my pies ready?”
“Sure thing,” the attractive cashier replied as she retrieved boxes from a shelf. “Apple, pecan, and cherry, right?”
Charlotte waited until Rich re-set the cruise control. “I didn’t hear you order pies this morning.”
“I used your mother’s cell phone to call from Houston,” he said casually. “We thought it would be nice to top off her birthday dinner with pie. She doesn’t care for cake, you know.”
Charlotte was dumfounded. What had her mother and this character cooked up? She stared at Rich and tried to think which question to ask first.
Rich faced the road. His eyes cut briefly toward Charlotte. “We were talking at lunch. Miss Lottie figured you would have family plans on her actual birthday. She accepted my invitation to dinner at my place Saturday evening. You and Chris are invited, of course. And thought I’d call Mar—”
“Chris may be busy,” Charlotte cut in.
“He told his grandma dinner at my place sounded great when she called him this afternoon.” He adjusted the sun visor. “I happened to mention my hobby was cooking. Your mom said I should make dinner for her sometime. One thing led to another and pretty soon it was all set.”
Rich glanced her way. “I really hope you will come, Charlotte.” The way he said her name felt like a caress. “Miss Lottie’s a hoot. Besides, I dread the thought of rattling around in that big old house all weekend with nobody but Buster to talk to.”
Rich was probably sincere about wanting company. What motive would he have not to tell the truth? Saturday would be a make-up work day. It would be nice not to have to worry about cooking dinner for Chris. “Yes, I’ll be there,” she was surprised to hear herself say. “After I see Dr. Stephens.”
“That name reminds me,” he said, turning serious. “What makes you think Dad wrote something I would want to read? As far as I know, he never kept a diary.”
Charlotte chose her words carefully. “Psychologists often recommend their patients write articles or letters to communicate what they would like to say to someone they can’t talk with directly. It can be therapeutic.”
“Did you give that advice to Dad?”
She hesitated. “I can’t answer that, Rich. The next question would be whether he wrote something, and if he did, what did it say? I can’t start down that road with you. I’m sorry. It’s difficult to separate what I can and cannot divulge.” After a moment she added quietly, “That’s why it’s so hazardous to mix friendship with business.”
“Who was the better quarterback?” he asked after a short silence. “Staubach or Aikman?”
“Mmm. Tough choice,” Charlotte said, relieved to change the subject. “Great leader versus a pure passer. I think I’ll go with Troy Aikman. All other things being equal, he’s more handsome.”
“You can’t use looks as a tiebreaker,” he protested.
“I’m sure you never have,” she said playfully.
“Ah, how sharp is the serpent’s tooth.” His reply confirmed what she already knew.
“Is it my turn to ask a question?” Charlotte ventured.
“Fire away.”
“You’re not going to hurt Rita, I mean physically, are you?”
“No,” he responded thoughtfully. “Abusing the weaker sex isn’t my style. Although Rita deserves it, after what she did to my dad. According to Jerry’s guys, her boyfriend slapped her around more than once already.” In response to Charlotte’s raised eyebrows, he added, “Police blotter. Domestic disturbance calls. Public information.”
After a pause, he added, “I wouldn’t be above scaring the daylights out of her, though. And I’ll break the boyfriend into littl
e pieces if he gets in my way.”
“But Rich, he sounds violent,” Charlotte said.
Rich laughed shortly. “With all due respect, madam, you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘violent.’ What’s-his-face doesn’t either, unless he’s Special Forces. If I survived the jungle, I think I can handle a slut and a sleazebag. To tell you the truth, I hope I get a crack at him. Any man who would hit a woman needs to be taught some manners.”
“You’re not going to Fort Riley, are you?”
Rich smiled. “Are you worried about me?”
Yes, she thought. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.” Why couldn’t she think of something clever to say?
Charlotte decided to try Rich’s tactic for shifting the subject to something more pleasant. “George Allen or Joe Gibbs?” she asked suddenly.
“George Allen! Is this football or ancient history? Gibbs was a cool-headed thinker, liked clean players. Allen was a bundle of emotion who took on other teams’ rejects. Similar overall records.” Rich pursed his lips. “Guess I’d go with Allen, since he was more effective against Dallas.”
“And you thought my tiebreaker was lame!” she joked.
A fast-moving SUV cut directly in front of Rich.
“Mark, look out!” Charlotte gasped. She hadn’t called someone by her ex-husband’s name in years. What on earth made her blurt it out now? Charlotte was mortified.
Rich’s lightning response prevented a collision, but narrowly.
“Do you ever see him? Your ex?” he asked conversationally.
“Every four or five years I run into him. He always paid child support, but he dropped out of our lives after the divorce, and his family followed suit. I used to call and remind him about Chris’s birthday. Most years he didn’t even send a card.” Charlotte stopped as she realized her description of Mark could fit Rich as well.
“I guess that left your son with some scars,” he observed.
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