by Caryl McAdoo
Preston rolled his neck then rubbed his ears. “Thinking about it still hurts. Seems to me too many bands think loud and good are one and the same.” He looked again into the past.
“Anyway, the lady on my right hip scooted her chair closer and winked. ‘How about a real drink?’ She had a husky voice. Sure thing, ma’am, I say. What’s your poison? She cuddled my shoulder. ‘Old Scotch and big, well-mannered men.’ I stood, but she grabbed my forearm. ‘Make it a double.’
“After that one, another double, then one last real slow trip around the dance floor, I figured I’d found that night’s girlfriend. For the next hour, while the other two ladies danced, I plied her with more Scotch and sweet words. Just as we’d about talked ourselves into going to my hotel, someone stormed up to the table, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me around. ‘Take a hike, Buster,’ he tells me.
“I found center then jumped to my feet. A guy a good foot shorter than me stood with his hands on his hips glaring. I stuck out my hand. Winston Preston, don’t believe I know you. Shorty nodded toward the lady. ‘That’s my wife.’ That so? ‘Yeah, now beat it.’ I looked over my shoulder to the woman. ‘He telling the truth?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s only wishing. I left the bum on account of I don’t like getting beat up.’ I faced him. She’s with me tonight.
“The smaller man shook his head. ‘Take a hike, Winnie, or you’re gonna be sorry.’ I got one word, don’t, before Shorty pulled out a knife and swiped at me. I jerked back then countered with an upper-cut to his chin. The guy crumpled to the floor.”
Preston stopped his narrative and searched the eight ladies’ faces. He detected no condemnation or disbelief. Marge’s color had softened, almost returned to its normal shade.
“Anyway, that’s what happened.”
* *
Vicki nodded in agreement. She studied her sculptured nails for a second before looking squarely at the older man. “Mr. Preston, I'm the one who told 'em that you killed a guy for calling you Winnie." She let one side of her mouth creep up, hoping his stern expression would tender and encourage her to finish the smile, but the muscles in his jaw flexed. Did she catch a twinkle in his eyes?
She evoked the memory of when her only childhood pet, an orange tabby, died in her arms then squeezed a tear out to trickle from the corner of her eye. “I'm sorry, Mr. Preston, really. I shouldn't have shot my mouth off.” She leaned back and crossed her legs. Her heart boomed in her ears. “I know I have a problem sometimes about saying things I shouldn't.”
She glanced at the woman across the table from her on Preston’s right. “It was wrong to make you out to be some kind of murderer. I should have explained that the other guy cut you first, and that you only hit him once.”
Marge put a hand on top of his. “You killed that man with one blow?”
Preston nodded.
Vicki looked down the table. Everyone seemed to hang on her words. “The grand jury no-billed him, and that was the end of it. Right, Mr. Preston?”
He tossed his head back and stretched his chin. “Except for the dreams.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “You're not going to send me home, are you?”
He scanned the women then nodded once to the far end of the table. “Amigo, what do you think?”
She ducked her head while Jorje rattled something in Spanish.
“And you ladies?”
Several spoke at once, but Dorothy raised her voice and continued, so the others relinquished the floor. “I think a week of cooking and kitchen detail should teach her a lesson in decorum.”
Vicki glared at the woman then turned back to Preston, pleading internally. Please not that. Anything but cooking. She gritted her mind, willing him to say no.
“Dorothy thinks kitchen duty’s appropriate. Any other ideas?”
Marge took a deep breath then sighed. “Well, she said she was sorry. Since I’ve made a mistake or two of my own, I say forgive her. To my mind, repentance is enough.”
“The lady leans toward grace.” He nodded in Marge’s direction. “Anyone else?” No one said anything. He scooted his chair away from the table. “Well, I like Jorje's idea. Vicki, if you want to stay in my employ, I want you to have a fresh pot of coffee ready for me when I get up everyday this week.”
Vicki's stomach relaxed, and the lump in her throat disappeared. She put a thumb up and smiled. “You've got it. No problem! Coffee actually happens to be one of my specialties.” She caught Marge's eye and mouthed thank you. The older woman acknowledged with a single nod, but she had a look of having just lost her best friend. Then maybe she figured she’d lost a rich husband by being too gracious to the competition.
Preston patted Vicki's shoulder. “Good.”
“Mr. Preston, may I have a word in private with you?” Holly asked.
“Sure.” He ushered the woman out of the room toward his office.
Vicki grabbed her plate and an empty serving bowl. She scraped the contents into the pile of scraps and flipped on the hot water. She squirted a generous portion of liquid soap into the filling sink while Audrey carried the scraps outside for the cats.
Dorothy put her plate on the counter. “Why, Vicki, you're full of surprises tonight, aren’t you? I thought you didn't do domestic.”
Vicki ignored the loudmouth, handed a wet plate to Marge, and regulated the water.
“Hey, I'm talking to you.”
Vicki spun. “And I’m ignoring you.” She flicked soap suds at the older woman as Audrey came in the side door. “Get a life, Dorothy." Vicki smiled when the skunk’s cheeks flushed red.
Chub wiped the suds from her chin. With one fist on her hip, she fumed, breathing loudly. “Why, you - you - little tramp.” She whirled and marched out of the room.
“Whatever.” Vicki laughed then returned to the dishes.
Audrey set the empty plate next to Vicki. “I must admit, I didn't want him to send you home.”
“Yeah? That’s so sweet. Why not?”
“Without you, this place wouldn't be half as much fun.”
She looked at Audrey. “So are you saying you’re here for the fun of it alone?”
“Well, that’s definitely part of the reason I accepted. Guess I was looking for fun. Maybe to spice up my life a little.” She swished her fingers in the soapy water, reached around Vicki, and wiped them on Marge's dish towel. “I was stuck in a boring job, working with a bunch of boring people. It had been months.” She sighed. “Actually, years, since I'd met anyone interesting like W. G.”
“Jorje?”
Audrey jumped at the sound of Preston’s voice then turned in unison with Vicki. The dark man sprang to his boss' side then nodded as his employer whispered into his ear. He looked toward Vicki, grinned, and walked back toward his office. “See you in the morning. Say four-thirty?”
Jorje left through the side door.
“Did he say four-thirty?”
Audrey raised both eyebrows. “This morning Marge got up at four forty-five, and he had already made the coffee.”
“That’s true, I’m afraid.”
Vicki frowned, pouted out her bottom lip, and faked a cry. “And I thought he let me off light. A whole week! Do either of you have an alarm clock?”
“I do.” Marge smiled. “And you’re welcomed to it. I'll get it for you when we're through here.”
After drying the last dish, she handed Vicki the towel. She wiped her hands then followed the older woman to her room. Pulling her suitcase from under the four poster, Marge rummaged through the half-packed Pullman until she came out with an old windup clock.
“You’re not all unpacked yet?”
“I’ve been unpacked a couple of times.” She gave Vicki a look of slight reprimand. “Wasn’t certain I wanted to stay under the same roof with a murderer.”
“Sorry. I really am.” While Marge checked her wristwatch and fiddled to set the clock, Vicki studied the room. “W. G.'s wife sure did a great job decorating. Don't you think?"
Her
advocate extended it toward her. Two silver bells topped the old relic. “Nancy must have been a lovely woman.” Vicki took hold, but Marge didn't release it. Instead she covered Vicki's hand with her other one. “It took a lot of courage for you to admit what you had done. I’m proud of you.”
Vicki laughed. “Well, you sure shocked the doo wah diddie out of me the way you barged into that room telling him what for. I’ll have to watch what I say a little more carefully around you.”
The woman laughed with her, released the clock, and pulled her close into a hug. The gesture startled Vicki. She couldn’t remember the last time a woman had hugged her. It made her uncomfortable, and she responded stiffer than intended. It warmed her insides though and misted her eyes.
“Four a.m. comes awful early.” Marge dabbed at her eyes looking like she might start crying herself. She led her toward the door with a hand on Vicki’s shoulder. “Better try and get some sleep, honey. I'll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks for the clock.”
“You're welcome. Good night, dear.” The kind woman closed her door and left Vicki standing in the hall.
She meandered back to the kitchen and peeked in. Holly and Audrey were laughing over a card game. Everyone else had disappeared. She walked on through and poured herself a half of a glass of milk then sauntered to the ladies’ table. She looked from one to the other then shrugged.
“You tell me we're not in competition.” Holly laid down three tens and discarded. “I heard Preston say we were the same as everyone, but only one of us will be walking beside him to the altar.”
“Oh, I figure he's already made up his mind.” Audrey laid down three eights and a ten and played her last card face down. “Gin. I think he's known who he wanted from the start.”
Vicki made herself keep a straight face as Betty Crocker continued. She knew who he’d already chosen. There was only one choice from the lot of the women—her!
“He's only going through the motions, having a little fun. Bet he gets a kick out of seein' how we all interact.”
“You really think so?” Holly shuffled and reshuffled. “I haven't gotten that impression at all.”
Vicki gulped the last swallow of milk. “So who is it you think he's already picked?”
“As if you didn't know.”
“No, really.”
The cook grimaced. Silicone Peaks returned the deck to its box then stretched. “I say so what? You girls can stay up all night discussing who's going to be the next Mrs. Preston, but I'm going to bed.” She rose and started out the door.
“Myself.” Vicki rinsed her glass and followed on Holly’s heels. “I've stayed up until four-thirty before, but I don't ever remember getting up that early.” She laughed at her humor remembering the morning at the Hyatt. Could that have possibly only been two days ago? She rolled her head around, and her neck popped several times. “Night, y'all.”
She closed the door then dive bombed her bed. “Yes! I knew it! W. G. decided the minute he met me. Woo hoo, money, money, money! I'll never have to worry about it again.”
CHAPTER SIX
Journal entry - March 3rd
I never expected it of her. How’d I ever make it when I didn’t have rabbits in my life?
The hombre followed Preston into the office. While his right hand man melted into the wingback that guarded the massive oak desk, Preston contemplated the situation. He loved having the ladies around, but how in the world could he decide on who to send home first - or second for that matter?
He nodded toward the fridge. “How about a cold one, amigo?”
Jorje shook his head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You’re out of limes.”
“So? We can drink a beer without limes.”
“No limes, no beer. It’s un-Mexican.”
“Something else maybe?”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted a beer, but –”
“If you’re going to whine about it.” The man stood “I’ll get you a beer, but you will drink alone.”
Preston smiled so his friend wouldn’t get the total last word then pulled out his journal. Only the second day, and he already had half a page or more on each of the women, except Virginia. So far, she’d done nothing worthy of notation, but could that woman move. He wrote her name and grace personified.
The Mexican plopped back into the chair in front of the grand desk then sat the beer down out of Preston’s reach. “What’d that gal with the—he cleared his throat—want with you?”
“Well, when I hired her, they weren’t that big. Can’t believe she had that ridiculous surgery, probably spent my money on it, too. Anyway –” Preston looked at him, then glanced at the bottle, but didn’t reach. “She could be your Missie Boss someday. I’d not be referring to her that way if I was a hired hand like some people I know.”
“Si, senor, a thousand pardons. Que lastima.” Jorje grinned. “Possible future wife, huh? What’d she want?”
“If you must know, she’s concerned about Virginia.”
“Who?”
Preston let the shapely brunette dance across his mental stage then smiled. “The tall, graceful one.”
Jorje nodded. “Si, senor. Muy bueno.”
“I know. They all are.”
“Not all.” His face puckered. “Not the skunkie one called Dorothy. You sick that day or something?”
“She’s good looking.”
“Maybe once. But –”
Preston waved him off. “Beat it. This is my deal, not yours. And you’re going to get yourself in trouble if you don’t quit insulting the ladies.”
He stood. “Bueno, pero no cry to me when you pick wrong.”
This time Preston let his friend have the last word without even a grin. He wanted to get the day’s events sorted and recorded. This deal promised to be tougher than he thought, but a lot more fun, too.
* *
Exactly fifty-six steps northeast, Vicki also sorted and mentally recorded the day’s events. Waiting for sleep, she replayed the evening's conversations. Audrey's encouraging words warmed her heart, but the sadness in Marge puzzled her. What little she knew of the older woman, she didn't seem moody or prone to depression. Sure took that little stunt Vicki played to heart, and she hated that. No doubt the lady regretted lambasting Preston.
In the rhythm of the old timepiece, she allowed the day to settle over her. Snatches of conversations and sly looks played and replayed, first adding depth and texture, then full-blown Technicolor to her remembrances. Sometime between the tenth and eleventh rewind, and in spite of the clock's loud metallic ticking, sleep overtook her.
Thoughts and visions of the other women fled, leaving only the man. She dreamed of a life with him, or more precisely, his money.
Before she ever expected, wanted, or imagined, the ancient striker beat against the little silver bells. How rude! And awful. And totally wrong. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since she drifted off to sleep. She stumbled out of bed, wrapped her robe around herself, and found her fluffy rabbit house shoes.
The sight of them brought a smile and a tug at her heart. They had been the last gift from her mother. An overwhelming loneliness of having no living relative threatened her again. She looked up and stared at the bed, wondering what woke her and why. “Oh, yeah. Coffee.” She gathered herself and forced the bunny shoes down the hall toward the dark kitchen.
Feeling along the wall, she found the switch that lit the kitchen area then fanned six cabinet doors before finding the one that housed the coffee. “Couldn’t’ve asked where everything was last night and made anything easy on yourself, now, could you?” She scuffled around, pulling out drawers and muttering to herself. “Where are those blasted filters?”
A man sized shadow caught her eye. Her heart leapt to her throat. She squealed as the coffee can fell to the floor with a loud clang, bounced twice, then settled on the flagstone with a little metallic ting.
&
nbsp; “Woe, darlin’. It’s only me.” He rose from the table in the far corner.
“What are you doing hiding over there in the dark like that?” She retrieved the rolling can. “You scared the fool out of me.”
“Sorry. Just waiting on my coffee. Wanted to see how you look first thing in the morning, too. And if I did scare the fool out of you, wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
“What time is it? I thought you said –” She paused and bit her lip. “Well, what do you think?” She twisted her hips out, throwing one hand back and the other high in the air. With her wrists bent, she curtsied Betty Boop style.
He chuckled, his laugh easy and genuine. “Love the shoes. Takes a special kind of woman to wear rabbits.”
She laughed then busied herself with the coffee. Her mind raced. Oh, she knew well enough how to get a man into bed, but had no clues for moving one to the altar. Twelve again, trying to entice the older boys to notice, but her intuition convinced her such tactics wouldn't work with this guy.
As soon as the pot looked half full, she scabbed a mug for him. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
She filled two cups and sat one next to him. “What’cha thinking?” She used her little girl voice.
“Right now, about the orchard, planning my day.” He sipped the hot brew. “Not bad.”
She turned her face sideways, holding her chin up. “So you weren't admiring how radiant I look in the middle of the night?” She stuck out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.
“I admit, you look pretty good, even for the middle of –” He tilted his head down a notch and looked from beneath heavy eyebrows. “– the morning, but you could say I’m a bit preoccupied. Got a problem with my trees.”
She tested her coffee’s temp with the tip of her tongue then blew on it before sipping, then for the next hour, encouraged him to talk about his orchard. Each time he finished a thought, she asked another question then hung on his every word, even found herself laughing at his dry humor. Sometime between the first and second pot of caffeine, an unfamiliar emotion surged through her.
