by Lynn Shurr
“Now, Trish. We should offer them some refreshments. We still have three uncut cakes in the kitchen. Put on some coffee for our helpers.”
Stymied by her father, she had no choice but to answer, “Certainly, cake and coffee in the kitchen.”
“I’ll start the coffee while the men put the furniture back in place. Looks good in here, ladies, very good. Thank you for coming,” Letty offered as if she owned the house.
Her temper rising, Tricia followed Mrs. Welch while the others began packing their cleaning supplies. She’d been bossed around by Layla for years and didn’t intend to suffer the same from this—this would-be usurper of her mother’s place. She placed a hand on the woman’s arm as Letty filled the percolator with water.
“Look, Mrs. Welch, only last night my father said he wasn’t ready to move on yet because no one can replace my mother, so save yourself the trouble.” Tricia released her grip and rummaged in the utility drawer for a knife to slice the cakes.
With an amused look in her nearly black eyes, Letty turned and confronted Cy’s daughter. “Individuals cannot be replaced, but others can fill the void. Cy and I saw our spouses through long illnesses. We were both faithful the whole time, but the experience gives us a lot in common. While I am ready now, I can wait a while longer. I only want to be first in line because every divorcee and widow in the county knows Cy Welles is a fine man who didn’t cheat on his wife and always does the best he can. You don’t let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers lightly. As for you, Trish, I wouldn’t reject what you have in the other room by trying to play at being your mother. Now, cut the cakes.”
Tricia looked at the bread knife in her hand, regretting it had no pointed edge. She threw it down and moved to the backdoor intending to seek the privacy of the hay barn as the women entered the kitchen. A few immediately remarked on the charred timbers of the old henhouse visible from the window over the sink. Opening the door, she allowed in a whiff of sweetish air before slamming it shut and running across the distance to the hay storage.
Inside the shelter, she leaned a cheek against one of the large rolls of dry grasses and breathed in a comforting scent from her childhood. Where else could she go or be of use but Iowa? She needed to move her belongings from Layla’s mansion in L.A. and supposed she could get an apartment and try for an acting career again. But seeing how the motion picture industry operated from its darker side, she had no taste for it anymore. Besides, Layla had the power to keep her out of any movie if she wished.
New Orleans? No place for her there unless she moved in with Rex and further destroyed his reputation. She didn’t care about her own. Staying here and getting her teaching credits still seemed the most solid plan. Someone moved through the first of the fallen leaves from the windbreak, and she straightened up. Rex held out the Sinners jacket he’d worn for the feed store run and put it around her shoulders, gently lifting her hair and placing a warm kiss on the back of her neck.
“Mrs. Welch said you’d gone outside without a coat and would make yourself sick.”
“Yeah, she wants to be my mama,” Tricia said, refusing to face him.
“Well, I want to be your husband. Come back to New Orleans when you’re ready. Let’s finish what we started. I won’t do it with anyone else, only you. But, I can wait a while longer.”
Strange how those words sounded so sweet coming from Rex and so sour on Letty Welch’s lips. Lips, Rex’s descended on hers and proved again he knew all the intricacies of kissing from the soft approach to the passionate entry, not neglecting detours along her jaw line and down her neck to the very top of her breasts—but not beyond. Such a pity commercial farmers no longer stored hay in lofts or they might have completed Rex’s sexual education right here—but nowhere to lie down and little privacy to be had.
Tricia raised his head from where he nibbled her collarbone and framed his face. “I am still amazed at how well you do that.”
“Lots of practice and a passion for it, just like football.”
“We should go back. I acted ungraciously.”
“You go on. I need a minute to, ah, adjust.”
Smiling, she went out into the sunshine fully noticing the gorgeous autumn day and start of color in the trees of windbreak for the first time since her homecoming. The cold breeze stung her face and neck a little where his beard had scraped, not that she’d noticed it at the time. Hope rose as high as the afternoon sun. Maybe she did have a future with Rex Worthy after all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The agony of the funeral over, the remnants of the Welles family gathered in the family room to watch the Sinners play the Bucs on Sunday. Still, the distraction of the game and the glimpses of Rex “riding the pine” as he described bench-warming could not entirely erase the memory of Tricia’s last viewing of her mother. Who was this skeletal woman with short hair so thin her scalp showed through?
Marty Welles was, had been, slightly younger than Letty Welch. Because of Layla’s schedule and demands, she hadn’t seen her mother in the last six months of her life. The men were prepared for the sight in the coffin, but not Tricia. She wept.
The funeral director suggested a wig might be added. Cy Welles said his wife found wigs uncomfortable and usually wore a bandana, but that wouldn’t look right. In the end, they decided on a closed casket with a picture of Marty in her prime atop it. They’d leave the gold cross in her hands and the wedding band on her finger. There never had been an engagement ring. Cy insisted Tricia keep the necklace, a simple strand of good pearls he’d given his wife for their twentieth anniversary shortly after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. Though neither said it, they’d worried about reaching their twenty-fifth, he told his daughter. Now, he was glad he’d gone to the expense even with medical bills looming. “Keep it to remember her by.”
Active in her church, the pastor knew Marty well and gave a moving eulogy. Other friends arose from the pews and recalled their memories, some evoking laughter. As the speakers thinned, Rex got up and walked to the pulpit, so handsome in his dark suit with his face freshly shaved that morning. He didn’t seek the limelight, but spoke simply and briefly.
“I didn’t know Martha “Marty” Welles, but I know her daughter, Patricia, and have met her family. If people are remembered by the good they have done, Marty Welles should be honored for the fine family she raised. Certainly, she is with God in heaven today. Amen.”
After the burial in the cemetery right behind the solid, red brick church with its classic white spire, people flocked to the Welles home fully restocked by the church ladies with additional chicken salad sandwiches, relish trays, fruit compotes, fresh hot dishes, and an abundance of new desserts. Toward evening, the same ladies cleaned up and wrapped the leftovers before departing.
Rex returned to New Orleans the following morning keeping his promise to show for the game on Sunday. He kissed Tricia good-bye in the way a man who had declared his intentions felt free to do. Colt blushed, maybe a little enviously. The rest of the day, Cy and Tricia packed Marty’s clothes in bags to be taken to the Salvation Army. “No sense in hanging on to good things people can use,” she’d directed her husband. What jewelry she had went to Trish along with any other keepsake she wanted. How spare her mother’s life had been compared to Layla’s excesses.
On Saturday night, the Welles family went to Cody’s home game where the eldest son played hard even though the Cyclones lost. Now, they watched another football game, comfortable with popcorn and pizza, soft drinks and beer, all of them hoping to see Rex play. The fourth quarter approached with Joe Dean Billodeaux still working his magic and the Sinners comfortably ahead.
Time for Rex to get some practice, but at the top of the fourth, an injury delayed the game. Commercials ran and commentators scrambled to fill airtime. The cameras panned the crowd picking out pretty girls waving second-line umbrellas, cute kids in oversized Number Seven jerseys, and a row of middle-aged men costumed as the Pope and offering blessings on the
team. They trolled the suites hoping for a celebrity sighting and got one. Scrawled across the entire length of a set of windows, someone wrote, “Put in Worthy You Fuckin’ Asshole!” Layla finished the sentence written in red lipstick and pounded on the glass to attract attention to her demand. The camera quickly veered away from the obscenity.
Rex sat with his head down and his hands between his knees, possibly praying, maybe to disappear. Coach Marty Buck’s back stiffened. He took off his headphones and combed his buzz cut into spiky white bristles with his fingers. No one told him what to do, especially celebrity types who knew nothing about the game. He was famous for once saying, “I’d rather have one of my guys date a prostitute than a movie star. At least the first one knows to leave right after getting paid.” He’d taken some flak for that, but didn’t really care. Rex would not play today.
Carson watched the incident unfold. “Layla isn’t looking too good. You think she’s drunk or high, sis?”
“Probably both. Poor Rex,” Tricia murmured.
“One good thing about being a humble lineman, you never get that kind of attention,” Cody said.
“I’d like it,” Colt insisted.
“No, you wouldn’t,” the others said simultaneously.
The game ended with a big victory for the Sinners. The men got up for a stretch and a bathroom break before the next match.
Tricia placed a phone call, not to Rex, but to California. Layla owned the house where she lived out there, all the furnishing right down to bathroom rug, so not much to pack, though she hated to impose on the housekeeper enjoying a break from their mutual employer.
“Hi, Juanita. It’s me, Pat—Patricia. I hate to bother you on a Sunday evening, but could I ask a big favor? I’m no longer employed by Miss Devlin. Could you pack up my room, it’s mostly just clothes and personal pictures. I’m getting a car service on Monday to drive the Prius to Iowa. The spare keys are in the desk drawer. Just put everything in the backseat and trunk if it’s not too much trouble.
“This I already know, Miss Patsy. Miss Devlin call and say to put your stuff out for the trash, but I don’t. You always nice to me. Is already packed. I watch for the car people, okay?’
“Thanks. You are an angel. Good luck to you.”
Well into the next game, her phone rang, not Layla or Juanita, but Rex. She went into the quiet of the parlor to talk, leaving behind the teasing comments of her dad and brothers. “Oh, who could that be with the jazzy New Orleans ringtone?” “Maybe it’s Louis Armstrong,” Colt said.
“He’s dead, man,” Carson corrected.
“I know that! Calling from the grave, I meant.”
Good to be home again.
“Rex, I’m so sorry you didn’t get to play. If I’d been there with Layla, that incident wouldn’t have happened.”
“Nothing unusual about me not getting in the game, but it got worse afterwards. I heard Layla trashed the suite. The Dome is cancelling her contract for the skybox. Later, she went to Mariah’s Place to see if I hung out there. The guys who did said she offered them a BJ in the men’s room if they’d tell her where I lived. She got pretty loud. Mariah had her bounced and told her not to come back because she ran a classy joint.”
“I hope you have no enemies on the team who would reveal that information.” Simply hearing his deep voice warmed her all over.
“I’m getting along fairly good with Jakarta. We work well together. But, Eric Blixen isn’t too happy with me since I don’t use the wide receivers as much as Joe. The Sinners won’t give it out, and you need a key to get in the lobby. I think I’m safe. I don’t want to talk about Layla. We have a bye-week coming up. I know it’s a lot to ask, but maybe you could visit for the weekend. We won’t be rushed and could—spend some time together.”
“You just want me to protect you from Layla.”
A laugh boomed out of him. “That, too. I’ll pay for the plane ticket.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll let you know when I’m getting into town. I guess Iowa can spare me for a few days.”
After that conversation with her father, Tricia believed she went to Rex with her mother’s blessing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As if a man that big could hide, Rex met her at the airport early Friday evening, his eyes hidden by shades and the rest of him dressed in an anonymous tan leather bomber jacket, plain T-shirt, jeans, and brown loafers worn without socks. He seemed a little let down that she’d only brought a carry-on with enough clothes for a few days, and the big black bag she was never without, but he took her baggage and tucked her under his arm happily enough. As they walked up the concourse past the newsstands and gift shops, Layla stared at them with mascara-ringed raccoon eyes from the front pages of the tabloids. Her blonde hair twisted into some kind of awful dreads and her clothes two sizes small, she did appear low class as the bouncers evicted her from Mariah’s Place. The headline screamed, The Stalking of Rex Worthy! Tricia turned her eyes away from the distasteful display. Rex said nothing about it at all. His nonchalant disguise must have worked because they arrived at his place without being exposed by the paparazzi.
“I thought we’d order some dinner in unless you want to eat out. I mean go out to eat in a restaurant.”
Touched by his sudden case of nerves, Trisha stroked his stubbled cheek. This time he hadn’t shaved. She liked the feel of roughness beneath her fingertips. “Sure, order some food.”
“Thai, okay?”
“Great. No too much of that in Iowa.”
She took her bag to his room, making no pretense of staying in the guestroom. On the phone, Rex ordered the spring rolls with peanut sauce, pho soup, shrimp pad Thai, and cow in grass, enough to feed a small Asian village as the selections rolled on. After the delivery, they shut out the world, phones off, television dark, music tuned to an easy listening channel, no news. At the dining room table, they viewed the cars crossing the steep bridge, the ships plying the river, the city lighting up and getting ready to party. With her fingers, she fed him a shrimp and licked away the sticky sauce. Rex impaled a tender beef cube on the end of a chopstick and returned the favor. Neither did justice to the abundance of food.
“I’ll put the leftovers away and then—”
“Leave it,” he said, suddenly commanding. Rex knocked over his chair in his ardor. He pulled hers away from the table, not like a courteous date, but more like a man in a hurry. Scooping her up, wide hands below her buttocks, he pressed Tricia against his groin. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He walked to his bedroom carrying her that way and fell to the covers still on top but taking care not to crush her.
The kissing began, but this time he explored below the neckline, working the bra clasp and stripping her top as he went, that lime aroma of his aftershave rising to her nostrils. His lips, warm and supple, went to her nipples, his hand delved into her slacks, loose from weeks of tension and grieving. He knew where to go and what to do now, recognized her readiness, and brought her to completion with a rapidity that astounded Trish, though she breathed too hard to say it.
“More later,” he promised, rolling aside to let her peel off his T-shirt and unzip his jeans, going commando, making it easy for her. The loafers thunked to the floor with the pants. Vaguely, she realized he’d dressed for the occasion as she took him in hand cupping and gently stroking an already urgent erection as he worked off her slacks, pausing only a moment to admire the revealed lace panties before they hit the floor, too.
“Can’t wait. Sorry, can’t wait.” He covered her as quickly as he would a loose ball and plunged deep, set up a rhythm so strong, Tricia felt those pleasurable contractions begin again, building and building. If he went first, she didn’t notice because Rex did not stop until she convulsed around him, locking him against her with her legs entwining his hips. They stayed exactly that way for one pulsing minute before he laid his bearded face on her breasts and rested.
“Good?” he asked, his breath ticklin
g her nipple.
“More than.”
Rex turned over, taking his weight off her body, and put his hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he pronounced, “This is the best free thing God ever invented.”
“Absolutely—when it’s with the right person.”
He raised himself on one elbow to watch her face. “Am I the right one?—because you are my one and only.”
Tricia started to tell him he shouldn’t assume the first woman he slept with was his one and only. For her, yes, no one could be more right, but when men enjoyed sex, they generally wanted to play the field. No doubt he loved the experience. “Rex, you should…” A low buzzing noise sounded from the living room. “What’s that?”
Rex raised his head. “Intercom. Someone wants inside. Layla?”
“Want me to answer it?”
“No, you stay here. I’ll tell her off once and for all.”
Wonderfully naked, he strode from the room. She admired that rounded, muscular backside as he went to chase away the dragon. Tricia gloated, just a little. Maybe she shouldn’t have. The Texas-sized voice reached all the way to where she lay, nude, filled with Rex’s seed, protected only by her birth control pills and the firm belief in his newly lost virginity.
“Honey Lamb, it’s your mama and daddy come to visit. Let us in before someone mugs us out here.”
“I’ll come down and meet you.”
“Make it quick. I don’t like the way that bum on the corner is looking at Honeybee.”
“Homeless person,” his sister corrected.
“You brought Rebekah, too?”
“Well, your grandparents said they couldn’t make the long drive. I brought a cooler of your favorite foods: my double cornbread, a smoked Texas brisket, and a tres leches cake. We won’t have to go out at all, just have a nice long weekend visit. Your daddy got a substitute preacher so we could surprise you and help in your time of need.”
