Love in a Small Town

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  Rennie stood there a moment longer and watched Molly pull her robe back around herself. She felt guilty. She still hadn’t told Molly that the real reason she had stayed all night was that she had been frightened of going home. She didn’t think it would help to confess that now. She kissed Molly’s cheek, then got behind the wheel and started slowly away, intent on protecting the roses. She wasn’t as foolish as Molly to give up two dozen roses, no matter who they came from. One of Rennie’s fantasies was to soak in a sunken tub surrounded by masses of roses whose petals fell into the water to scent it.

  Molly stood back, one hand across her middle while waving with the other. Then, feeling suddenly bereft, she walked back inside the cottage.

  The table looked strangely empty without the huge bouquet.

  For a moment Molly thought she might have courage enough to call Tommy Lee, but her courage deserted her as soon as she lifted the telephone receiver. She did take the telephone into the bathroom with her, though, and set it on the floor while she showered.

  She paused, gazing at herself in the mirror. She had decided on a course, she thought. She hadn’t really decided what she should do, but she had decided what she was not going to do.

  Chapter 19

  Early Summer Rain

  Light rain sprinkled the windshield. Rennie found herself crying, and when she saw the rain, she cried harder, which made absolutely no sense. She wasn’t the one who was estranged from her husband and who had just turned away a lover’s advance.

  Rennie knew then what she was crying over—she wished there was a man crazy enough over her to send her two dozen roses. Having two dozen roses now riding along beside her, given to her by her sister, simply served to point up the fact that the only man in her life at the moment wanted to knock her teeth out. And the only man who had ever given her an enormous bouquet of roses she had turned away from because she’d been so afraid of having her heart broken. Being afraid of having a broken heart had made her jump ahead and make certain she had one.

  With a blurred windshield and blurred vision, she pulled into the Texaco station. Intent on caring for the roses, a few of which were rubbing on the seat back, she drove so slowly that a car behind her honked angrily. This made her jump and glance in the rear-view mirror, and in doing that, she then bounced the rear tire up over the curb. The vase of roses wobbled precariously, and she reached out to grab them and almost ran into the gas pump island before she got stopped.

  Heart beating fast and tears startled away, Rennie sat there a moment to catch her breath. Then she pulled up to the front pump, filled her tank, since she was right there, and went in and paid and got the cigarettes, bottle of juice, and two packages of peanuts she had stopped for in the first place. When she came out, there was Sam Ketchum, just getting out of a brown Bronco parked right behind Rennie’s Mustang.

  Rennie stood there a moment, in the humid, after-rain air, with the sudden thought that it was like something out of the movies. There was Sam, standing on the wet blacktop, looking at her. Tall, lean, every inch a man to grab a woman’s eye and make her long for his touch.

  And here she had his roses—roses he had given another woman—in her car. Here he was smiling at her and saying hello in that sexy way of his. Of all the people she would happen to run into, here he was, coming over to speak to her, holding the door for her as she slipped into the seat. Surely he’d see the roses through the windshield.

  “We need this rain,” he said.

  “I suppose,” Rennie answered. “I still don’t like it. It makes everything sticky.” He was looking down at her, not through the windshield.

  Then he asked about Molly, casually but with an intent look in his eye.

  Rennie said, “She’s okay, I guess.”

  Just then he crouched down, and his gaze went past her and right to the roses. Rennie watched his dark eyes focus on the flowers and saw the shadows of confusion and pain there. Her heart squeezed. Then he looked questioningly at her.

  “She loved the flowers, Sam. She took them as a comfort from a friend, but they can’t be anything else to her. Her heart’s crowded right now.”

  It was the best Rennie could do. She bit back saying she was sorry, which she didn’t think would do anything but add to hurt pride. He was the saddest-looking thing, and she ached to take him into her arms and nestle him against her breasts.

  A dismal crooked smile crossed his lips and he kind of shook his head. “Some things just aren’t meant to be, I guess.”

  “Seems like it,” Rennie said with a large sigh, thinking of how many times she’d said that to herself. She had felt the same pain and wished so very much that there was something she could do to ease him.

  Then they were looking at each other, sharing, frankly and sorrowfully, and then curiously.

  Rennie said, “My heart isn’t crowded at all, Sam, just in case you’d like to know."

  His dark eyes sort of jumped, as if she’d startled him. Then he said, “I appreciate the information.”

  She thought she saw possible interest. She really did think so, maybe.

  “If you get at loose ends, you call me, Sam. I’m in the book.”

  He gave a little nod. “I’ll remember that.”

  They said good-bye, and as she drove away, Rennie found sight of him in her side-view mirror. He was gazing after her. She smiled, remembered his words:

  “I appreciate the information.” Not many men would have come back with such a turn of words.

  When she got well out of town, she pulled over, flipped open her cellular phone and dialed Molly.

  Molly answered breathlessly, expectantly, making Rennie say, “It’s me, Molly, I’m sorry.”

  Rennie told her about running into Sam and him seeing the flowers.

  “How did he seem about it?” Molly asked, intense and melancholy at the same time.

  “He took it okay. Disappointed, but okay.” Rennie didn’t tell Molly that she had told Sam to call her sometime. Maybe she was afraid that despite everything, Molly wouldn’t like it. Or maybe she didn’t want to seem silly about the hope that had suddenly begun to grow again in her heart. She’d been so long without hope.

  Chapter 20

  Wild Angels

  After being so stubborn about having her own office, Molly could not get herself together to get to it. She awoke before the alarm went off and lay there, thinking that she had to get dressed and off to work. But there seemed to be little point to it, or even to breathing. Why breathe? Tommy Lee didn’t want her, so why want herself? There was a part of her spirit that got very impatient with this selfish attitude, but that part of her spirit still couldn’t seem to get her to the office. She was yet wandering around the cottage in her robe when a car came down the drive, horn blaring like a tornado siren.

  Peering out the window, Molly saw that it was her mother driving her black Lincoln, and Kaye was on the passenger side. Startled, Molly clutched her robe around herself and raced out to see what the matter was.

  Mama poked her head out the car window. “Get in."

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Bending, she looked across at Kaye, who was frowning darkly.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Kaye said. She gestured at Mama, who was in her fuchsia robe. “Good Lord, am I the only one in this family who believes it is necessary to get dressed in the morning? It’s after ten, for heavensakes. Maybe you’re self-employed, Molly, but you need a routine.”

  While Kaye was going on, Molly glanced down in the seat and saw the Hardee’s bags. “Mama . . .," Molly started, but Mama gestured.

  “Just get in. I have somethin’ to show you.”

  Molly got in the backseat. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” Mama said mysteriously.

  “Oh, Lordy, yes, you’ll see,” Kaye said. “It’s important enough for Mama to race back home and get you but not take time to put on clothes. You both should put clothes on, Mama.”

  “A robe is classified as clothes,”
Mama said.

  She was backing at breakneck speed, turning and making marks in the lawn. Molly braced herself in the seat and hoped that her mother didn’t intend to show her something where she had to get out of the car. It was one thing for stately and eccentric Odessa Collier to go around town in a fuchsia robe that went from neck to feet and quite another for Molly, not nearly so stately and, until now anyway, not known as eccentric and whose robe was thin cotton and only came just below her knees anyway.

  She wished very much for her sunglasses as Mama drove down Main Street toward the end of town and pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the VFW hall.

  “Look,” Mama said, and at first Molly thought she meant the VFW hall, which Molly didn’t want to look at because looking at it made her feel nauseous. But then she saw Mama pointing in the opposite direction.

  Highly curious, Molly followed the line of her mother’s finger, which pointed across the street and upward . . . at the water tower. Men working, sanders going, half of the tower down to metal. Then . . . there in faint red lettering were the words TOMMY LEE LOVES MOLLY.

  Molly peered harder, making certain she did see what she thought she saw. The words were faint, uncovered from the years and layers of paint but readable, just like the memory now floating up from the deep recesses of her mind.

  She recalled the girls at school: “Did you see?” “We saw on the way to school.” “Gosh, Tommy Lee must really be wild for you.” Tommy Lee never said a word. He would only grin.

  When Molly could get away at lunch, she had raced the two blocks east, where she had a good view of the water tower. Even when Tommy Lee would not say the words to her, he had painted them up there, for all to see. She had cried over it.

  Kaye’s voice broke through Molly’s thoughts, ". . . terrible, havin’ words like that up where little children and old ladies can see. It would have gone faster if they could have sandblasted, but Walter said Dave Hawkins advised against it.”

  The four-letter words had been painted in black, while the TOMMY LEE LOVES MOLLY and the GARY LOVES PATTY and the GO TIGERS had been in red, green, and orange respectively.

  “I imagine most kids and old ladies are familiar with those words,” Mama said, then added, “Tommy Lee sure used good paint. He always was a man to know quality.”

  It had been lead paint in those days, and Tommy Lee had put it on with a brush, not a spray can like kids used today. Molly’s heartbeat raced, and her eyes teared, and she kept on staring even after Mama began to pull back onto the street.

  * * * *

  Tommy Lee was coming out of Ryder’s Auto Parts when he passed Walter going in. This was a surprise, because Tommy Lee had never known Walter to have any need of an auto part. Tommy Lee would not have thought that Walter could identify an auto part.

  “Hello, Walter.”

  Walter’s eyes met Tommy Lee’s briefly, then skittered shyly away. “Hi, Tommy Lee.” He bobbed his head, rubbed his finger aside his nose. “How you been?” He took the door Tommy Lee held for him.

  “Okay, I guess. Are you havin’ trouble with one of your cars?”

  Tommy Lee was about to offer to fix it. He always felt like he wanted to be nice to Walter. It seemed like Walter being married to Kaye should be enough for any man to take. In fact, that Walter could hold up under Kaye made Tommy Lee have a great deal of respect for the man.

  “No . . . no,” Walter gestured, “Ryder’s on the town council.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . well, have a good one.” Tommy Lee continued on down the steps, but at Walter’s call, he stopped, turned, and looked upward. He really hoped Walter wasn’t going to say anything about him and Molly, but seeing the way Walter pulled vigorously at his ear, he figured it was going to be some sort of condolence.

  But Walter said, “Uh, have you seen the water tower recently?”

  “No . . .” Tommy Lee answered, curious.

  “Well, you might want to drive down that way and take a look at it. There’s somethin’ there you might want to see. Uh . . . you might better do it right away."

  “Okay, Walter,” Tommy Lee said, puzzled. He started to ask just what it was he was supposed to see when Walter bobbed his head and slipped quickly inside the store, as if he suddenly felt the need to run.

  Curiosity tugged at Tommy Lee. What could Walter think was interesting about the water tower? Walter was somewhat of an odd and simple fellow, he thought as he headed his old pickup out onto the street. Maybe the water tower simply being there was enough to captivate Walter. Sometimes at gatherings with Molly’s family, Tommy Lee and Walter would chat a bit—Walter was about the only one Tommy Lee ever really did talk to—but even that wasn’t a lot of conversation, because most of Walter’s interests in life seemed to center around fruit trees and classical music, and Tommy Lee didn’t know much nor care about either.

  He spied the water tower through the Chevy’s old dirty windshield. Men were working on it, which he had seen before. Maybe that’s what Walter had wanted him to see.

  Then he saw it. TOMMY LEE LOVES MOLLY.

  He leaned forward and peered hard through the glare and film of the glass. The lettering was patchy and faded, but still readable.

  The next instant he saw the rear end of a station wagon approaching at a fast rate of speed. He jammed on the brakes, then sat there gripping the wheel with sweaty palms and berating himself for poor driving.

  Keeping his eyes on the road, he drove past the water tower and pulled off onto the shoulder. He twisted and looked through the back window . . . up at the water tower, hazy in the sun and with old paint whizzing off it.

  He had been fifteen, almost sixteen. The days of his invincible youth. He had climbed up the tower ladder with a half-filled gallon of paint, and the wire handle had cut into his hand. It had been just after midnight, in the summer like now, although he didn’t recall the date. Man, how sweaty his hand had gotten on the rungs of that ladder. If he had thought at all of the possibility that he might fall to his death, the thought had been a fleeting thing. He had been intent on impressing Molly. He could still remember the look of surprise and awe on her face when she had seen what he had done. The way she had looked at him, like he was next to God. After all these years, covered over by several layers of paint, the words remained: TOMMY LEE LOVES MOLLY.

  As he watched, a workman began sanding away the T.

  Turning forward, he shifted into gear and headed back out on the road. The next thing he knew, he was turning the Chevy into the gravel lot of Smith’s Fruit Stand and Nursery. He had gone four miles and not remembered anything along the way.

  He came to a stop in front of the stand’s red-and-white awnings flapping in the wind and found himself staring at lines of flowering plants. He got out, went over, and walked down a row of tiny bushes, until he came to some with small yellow flowers. Really pretty delicate flowers. Molly liked yellow flowers.

  “You wantin’ some roses?”

  Tommy Lee looked up. A withered old woman almost hidden beneath a straw hat came toward him. She looked more like a man, dressed in overalls and with a mustache, but he decided she was a woman because of her voice and the pink shirt.

  “Is that what these are?” he asked. He’d thought so, but he wasn’t certain. They looked so small.

  “Yes, siree. Miniatures. Keep ‘em on the porch or in the house, or most anywhere.” That she could lift the pot so easily amazed him. “These’s my favorite. Ain’t they the prettiest thing? Dainty and refined, yep, my favorite. Hello, there, little honey.” The old woman tilted her head, talking to the plant now, telling it how beautiful it was and how she loved it.

  Tommy Lee bent and snatched up a plant. “I’ll take this one.”

  He drove off with the little thing on the floorboard. Every now and then he looked down at it. It shimmied with the motion of the old truck. It had cost him under eight dollars, another eight for the fancy basket he’d had the woman stick it in, all of which was a far sight less than the cost of tw
o dozen big red beauties. But this bush was a living thing. When those big red beauties wilted, this would still be blooming. Molly liked living plants.

  He took the plant in and sat it on the workbench in his shop. He turned on the radio, but the plant seemed to quiver, so he turned down the sound and moved the plant away from the speakers. Debating the wisdom of giving the little bush to Molly, he went to work on the engine for which he’d bought the parts. The plant sat there and seemed to keep waving to him. He got worried about it dying in the heat, so he closed the shop up and turned on the air-conditioning.

  He couldn’t see himself simply going up to Molly and giving her the plant. That certainly wasn’t much, after she’d received two dozen red roses, delivered. The memory of how he’d climbed up to paint the water tower all to impress Molly kept playing at the edges of his mind.

  It occurred to him that he had not set out to impress Molly in a long time. Impressing her had gotten covered over by a lot of living, he guessed. And the truth be known, he didn’t see that a man should have to keep impressing the woman he married. Apparently, however, these things were important to a woman.

  Maybe they were important to a man, too, he thought. Maybe it was all these crazy little things in life that kept the life in a person.

  Finally he threw down his tools and wiped his hands and went into the house to shower and change. Then he got the little rose plant and set it on the floorboard of the Corvette. When he drove past her office and saw she wasn’t there, he was at first relieved because he didn’t want to try to give the plant to her in so public a place, in case she threw it at him or something. Molly never had been one to throw things, but then she never had been known to break dishes, either. He simply didn’t know where he stood with her.

  As he drove on out to the cottage, he began to get worried that she wouldn’t be there. Maybe she was out with Sam. He might have to shoot Sam, he thought.