by Peggy Webb
“I can’t go out there looking like this,” she told Ellie.
“What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him I’m sick, tell him I’ve gone to Mars.”
“The publicity would be good for the pageant.”
“Look at me, Ellie. I look like something the cat dragged up.”
“Maybe you could wear a scarf, and, I don’t know…pat some cream on the red bumps.”
“Maybe I could cover my head with a paper sack.”
“Well, we have to tell him something.”
C.J. could tell Ellie was disappointed. After all, promoting the dairy princess pageant was part of her job. The least C.J. could do was cooperate.
“Look, tell him I’m coming down with something. Tell him if he’ll stand out there in the hall I’ll answer his questions.”
“I’ll see what he says.” As Ellie left, C.J. glanced out the bathroom window. The drop-dead gorgeous reporter was riding a Harley. It figured.
“That’s an unusual request,” Clint said. Preposterous was more like it, but he softened his opinion because Ellie seemed like such a nice woman. A little like his mother, plain and sturdy, no frills, face full of character.
“I tried to talk her into coming out, but this is the best I can do. C.J. can be stubborn at times.”
“Okay, then. I’ll just pull up a chair and shout at her through the bathroom door.”
Clint followed along behind and didn’t make any bones about eavesdropping when Ellie slipped into the bathroom.
“What did he say?” Nice voice, he decided, definitely the dairy princess. Unless they had a whole gang of women stashed in the bathroom.
“He said okay. I wish you’d come out. He has a killer smile.”
Clint chuckled. He’d heard that before, but never from an older woman.
“I don’t care if he has a gold-plated you-know-what, I’m not letting him see me like this.”
She probably hadn’t put on her eye makeup yet. Beauty queens were like that. That’s just what he needed, another egomaniac beauty to follow around.
Furthermore, she probably had a bunch of silly, pat answers she would give no matter what he asked…unless he got her off balance first. Then he could take charge and do a real interview even if it was only about a local cow queen for a podunk weekly.
Ellie came out of the bathroom. “I’ll make tea while you’re interviewing her.”
As soon as she was out of earshot, Clint drawled, “It’s not gold-plated, Miss Maxey, but a few women have called it gilded.” He heard strangling sounds in the bathroom. “Miss Maxey, is everything all right in there?”
“Just fine, Mr. Garrett.”
“You can call me Clint.”
“Not Sir Clint the Gilded?”
She was fast on her feet. Tart-tongued, too. He liked that. Most women were trying so hard to impress him they wouldn’t risk being a smart-mouth. Maybe he’d found a rarity, a beauty queen who wasn’t a plastic Barbie doll.
“Only in the bedroom, princess.” That shut her up. “How old are you, Miss Maxey?”
“I don’t consider that a relevant question. Furthermore, I never trust a woman who tells her age or her weight.”
“Strike that question. How tall are you?”
“Five ten.”
“In three-inch heels?”
“No. In size-nine flat feet.”
“Dress size?”
“Are you going shopping for me, Mr. Garrett?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Then you don’t need to know.”
“I guess I can figure that out when I see you in a swimsuit.”
“The dairy princess contest is not that kind of pageant, and I don’t plan on going swimming with you, Mr. Garrett.”
Clint hadn’t been this entertained in a long time. He decided to goad her a little, see what she would do. “I interviewed some women up in Tupelo once who called themselves Kuties of the Kudzu Kourt.”
Was she laughing? He enjoyed people who had a sense of humor. Maybe this job of covering the dairy princess wouldn’t be that bad after all.
“They all wore hot pants,” he added. “Does the dairy princess wear hot pants?”
“Only in the bedroom, Mr. Garrett.”
“Touché, Miss Maxey. Your point.”
“Is this a contest? I thought it was an interview. What kind of reporter are you?”
“Not much of one, but I’m all you’ve got. I’ve been assigned to cover you, Miss Maxey.”
Silence. Good. He’d finally got the best of her.
“So far you’re not doing very well,” she said.
“Why don’t you come out here and tell me how? Better yet, you can show me.”
“I wouldn’t want you to catch what I have.”
“I think what you have is a streak of cowardice. I think you’re hiding something from me.” Dead silence from her side of the door. Bull’s-eye. At last he was onto something. “What is it you’re hiding, Miss Maxey?”
“Nothing. I’m completely open.”
“Then be warned…I’m fixing to plunge right in.”
Chapter Two
Erotic images spun through C.J.’s mind. Good grief, what kind of dairy princess was she? Certainly not the kind to make Ellie proud. If C.J. didn’t get her act together she would not only make a fool of herself but of the terrific woman who was like a mother to her.
She had to quit fooling around being a smart-mouth, and give Clint Garrett what he’d come for. She had to lie.
She took several deep steadying breaths.
“Miss Maxey? Are you all right in there?”
“Just a little light-headed.”
The door rattled. Good lord, he was trying to come in.
“Unlock the door so I can come in.”
“Why?”
“To put a wet washcloth on your head.”
“No, I can do that.”
Shoot, what next? Tell a little lie, and it leads to all kinds of complications. C.J. turned on the water and let it run awhile.
“I’m okay now,” she said.
“You sure? I know my way around a swooning woman.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
“You sound mighty feisty for somebody sick.”
“I’m getting over it.” And getting darned tired of the bathroom. C.J. was slightly claustrophobic. “What’s your next question, Mr. Garrett?”
“Tell me, what’s your platform?”
“I don’t have one. I’m not a politician.”
“I thought all beauty queens had platforms.”
There. She’d done it again. Ellie was going to wish she’d never seen C.J., let alone entrusted her with a title.
“Oh, well, yes, that. My platform is…”
C.J. was stumped. What on earth did beauty queens talk about? The only pageant she’d ever watched was the Miss America pageant five years ago with her friend Sandi.
Clint Garrett tapped on the door. “Miss Maxey…”
“World peace,” she shouted.
“What?”
“That’s it. My platform is world peace.”
“Innovative,” he drawled. “May I quote you?”
“By all means.”
“Tell me, Miss Maxey. How do you intend to achieve that goal?”
Boy, there was more to being a princess than she’d imagined. “When I’m riding around in convertibles in parades, I’ll smile a lot to spread the peace in my own heart to the crowds. They can pass it on. If everybody does that, pretty soon peace will circle the globe.”
“Impressive.”
She deserved his sarcasm. Maybe she could buy up all the Tribunes so Ellie wouldn’t be mortified.
“I need to take pictures,” he said.
“What?”
“You know, pictures. To go with the story.”
She could imagine it, her looking like a porcupine and the whole town laughing. Her daddy would be disgraced. Not to mention Ellie.
“I’m not up to that today.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“No, I won’t be up to it then, either.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell, that’s all.”
“How about the day after?”
Was he laughing? At least he had a sense of humor.
“That’s Sunday.”
“I’ll see you in church then.”
He would, too. Even through the door she could tell that Clint Garrett was not the kind of man to be put off forever.
“I won’t be in church. I’m…going to visit a sick relative.” No answer. What fresh hell was he thinking up now? “Mr. Garrett?” Still no response.
“He’s gone, C.J.,” Ellie said out in the hallway.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He came to the kitchen to thank me for the tea. Said he had to rush off to make his deadline.”
C.J. heard the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle. “Good.” She shoved open the door. “I thought I was never going to get out of here.”
“Here. Drink this.” C.J. sipped the tea Ellie shoved into her hand. Chamomile. Just what she needed to settle her nerves. “He said he’d be back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Let me take a look at those bumps,” Sam said, and C.J. moved into the circle of lamplight so her daddy could see.
“What do you think it is?” She was hoping he’d name something awful that would last six or seven weeks so she could give up her place in the pageant without hurting Ellie’s feelings.
This afternoon’s interview had been torture. There she was, sitting on the toilet in the small cramped bathroom while that gorgeous hunk goaded her from the other side of the door. It wouldn’t be so bad if one interview was all he wanted, but no, he was fixing to latch on to her like a duck on a junebug. From now till this fiasco was over, every time she looked up, Clint Garrett would be there.
“It’s hives,” Sam said. “A little cortisone cream will fix that right up.”
C.J. went to dig some out of the medicine cabinet, then she dunked her head under the faucet and shampooed her frizzy hair for the third time. The stylist down at Kut ’N Kurl had warned her not to shampoo for forty-eight hours. “It’ll take the curl right out, hon,” she’d said.
C.J. sincerely hoped so. With her hair sticking out every which way she looked like she’d been electrocuted.
Sam stuck his head around the doorjamb. “’Night, C.J. I’m going to bed.”
It was only eight o’clock. C.J. wrapped her hair in a towel and followed him down the hall. “Dad, why don’t we watch TV together? There’s a John Wayne western on The Movie Channel.”
“I’m a little tired. Fishing’s hard work.”
His attempt at lightheartedness didn’t work. For all the interest he took in life, Sam Maxey might as well have died with Phoebe six years ago.
A familiar guilt swept over C.J. If only she hadn’t wanted to go to the mall in Tupelo that night. If only she hadn’t asked to drive. If only she’d been in the passenger side when the car came out of nowhere and smashed into them. Her mother had lived three years after the accident, three long, tortuous years that wiped out their bank account and destroyed their dreams.
Although Sam had told her the accident wasn’t her fault, C.J. blamed herself. Phoebe hadn’t wanted to go that night. It was raining and she’d wanted to do some baking for the Christmas holidays.
But C.J. had insisted. When you’re sixteen, nothing matters more than a new dress for the prom.
The dress was still in C.J.’s closet, her hair shirt she called it, a constant reminder that she’d caused her mother’s death.
Was that why she stayed in Hot Coffee? Ellie said it was. Periodically she would say, “C.J., it’s time to move on. Sam will be fine without you.” But the lure of big cities and bright lights held no appeal for C.J.
All she’d ever wanted to do was get a degree in veterinary medicine and settle down to a small practice in Hot Coffee. But not alone. That was the other part of her dream. She wanted somebody to love. Somebody who would overlook all her flaws and love her right back.
All of a sudden C.J. was so lonely she could die. Here it was, Friday night and she was by herself in a chenille robe with a torn pocket. She picked up the phone and called Sandi for all the good it would do. Even in a town as small as Hot Coffee Sandi was always the center of a social whirl.
Sandi answered on the first ring.
“Want to come over and watch TV?” C.J. asked her friend. “There’s a good steamy classic coming on. Farley Granger and Lana Turner.”
“Sure. And you can tell me more about this dairy princess thing.”
“Arrgh!”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s worse,” C.J. insisted.
“I’ll be right there. Got any popcorn?”
“Plenty.”
C.J. flipped on the porch light, and within minutes Sandi emerged from the hedge that bordered their properties.
“What did they do to you?” she said the minute she saw C.J.’s wet, frizzled hair.
“I wanted to wait about going to the beauty shop till you got back from Jackson to supervise, but I didn’t want to hurt Ellie’s feelings.”
Sandi patted C.J.’s hair this way and that, studying it with a critical eye. She was an artist with both camera and brush, highly sought-after as both a professional photographer and a portrait painter. She’d just returned from the state’s capitol where she’d photographed a society wedding.
“I think I can fix it. Do you have any scissors?”
C.J. fetched them from the kitchen, and they watched the movie while Sandi snipped.
“I just love this part,” C.J. said, and they fell silent while Lana Turner walked into the room wearing a bathrobe and a towel on her head.
“Nobody looks that good with a towel on her head,” Sandi said.
“You do.”
“Don’t I wish.” Sandi put down the scissors. “There now. When that dries, just fluff it up with your fingertips. How about that popcorn?”
They made a big bowlful and had just settled down when a Harley roared up the driveway.
“Good lord, what is that?” Sandi said.
“The Tribune’s ace reporter chasing Hot Coffee’s hottest story.”
“You mean…the dairy princess?”
“Yes.” C.J. raced to the window while Sandi burst into giggles. “It’s not funny.” Clint Garrett in the moonlight in a helmet was a sight to see. A mouth-watering morsel she’d stand and drool over if she didn’t have to hide.
He was already coming up the sidewalk. Any minute now he’d be ringing the bell, then he’d be inside, in the living breathing flesh. If he saw her like this she’d be humiliated.
“Quick, Sandi. Stall him.” She streaked by her friend toward the hall, then backtracked for the popcorn. No sense suffering starvation, too.
“What will I say?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Just don’t let him know I’m here.”
“Okay. But you can’t hide forever, you know.”
“Maybe till I’m thirty and a kindly godmother sprinkles me with fairy dust.”
“C.J., you have lots going for you,” Sandi said, but C.J. didn’t stop to argue. This was war and the enemy was at the door. “All’s fair,” she yelled as she took the coward’s way out.
Clint was counting on the element of surprise. He hadn’t believed for a minute that Miss C.J. Maxey was sick, and he was here to prove it. Not only that, he was here to get answers. Real ones. Pictures, too.
Maybe he wasn’t with the Washington Post, but he had his pride.
He rang the doorbell. The princess was probably in there thinking up ways to avoid him. He was getting ready to press it again when the door swung open and revealed the most beautiful creature in the world. A real knockout. A blond bombshell with a pinup’s body and a face that belonged on the movie screen.
This was too good to be true. Why the hell had she hid in the bathroom? Obviously she’d been sick after all.
“Are you contagious?” he said.
“My third fiancé thought so.” Her smile lit up the whole countryside. Funny, though, he didn’t feel a thing. The dairy princess wasn’t nearly as exciting in person as she had been hiding in the bathroom sending barbs through the door.
“You’re engaged?” He thought that was against the rules.
“No, not currently. Won’t you come in?”
C.J. had never thought of herself as the kind of person who would eavesdrop, but here she was standing behind the door in a darkened hallway peeking through the crack while her best friend in the whole world charmed the greatest-looking man who had ever set foot in C.J.’s house.
Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t she be the one on the sofa making Clint Garrett laugh instead of cowering behind the door like a wet chicken?
She’d never considered herself the kind of woman given over to envy, but here she was turning green. Furthermore, from the looks of things it wouldn’t be long before Clint Garrett joined the long list of men besotted with Sandi.
Not that it was Sandi’s fault. She just naturally attracted men, that’s all. Besides, she was merely doing what C.J. had asked. She didn’t have a clue that Hot Coffee’s ace reporter was anything to C.J. except a nuisance.
And he wasn’t. Not really. It was just that C.J.’s breathing felt funny and she had a sudden urge to rush into the room and yell “STOP!”
Stop what, for Pete’s sake? Sandi and Clint weren’t doing anything.
Yet.
C.J. hated that sarcastic little voice in her head. She’d show it who was boss. Taking her bowl of popcorn she went into the bathroom with the full intention of eating every last morsel.
She dug in, certain the salty buttery taste would make her forget what was going on in her living room.
“Nothing’s going on,” she snapped, then she bolted off the toilet seat, wrapped a towel around her still-wet hair, smeared a ton of cream on her face, tightened the belt on her tacky chenille robe and marched into the den, blue fuzzy house shoes and all.
