“Not if he’s been hammering shingles onto a roof all morning,” Brad observed. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told Bitty she’s got to start serving platters with ham, eggs, hash browns, toast, and butter if she expects my crew to eat at the Pop-In. We don’t mind her not having chairs and tables. We’re used to sitting on the back of a pickup with our sandwiches and water coolers. But I can buy four or five of Pete’s hot dogs for what I’d pay for one of Bitty’s veggie wraps. Besides, who wants to eat eggplant and alfalfa sprouts for lunch?”
“Might as well go out to graze,” Charlie agreed. “In my day, we’d step off the back porch and gather a few turnip greens or plantain leaves. Maybe some spinach if we were lucky. Mother would fry up a mess of greens for us, and we’d eat that along with ham hocks or whatever she happened to have on hand. We didn’t pay a nickel for any of it, either. Those were the good old days, and I mean that for a fact.”
As the men went on chatting, Pete began a surreptitious survey of the women. He hadn’t seen Patsy since he left her for the watermelon wagon. She ought to stand out with her blonde ringlets and those red, white, and blue sparkly stars in her hair, but the whole lakeside was a sea of patriotic clothing. If folks didn’t have on a plain red T-shirt, they wore something with the St. Louis Cardinals’ red baseball logo. In the Ozarks, rooting for the Cards was considered as patriotic as saluting the U.S. flag. Even the kids had gotten into the spirit of the celebration, waving sparklers as they chased each other back and forth alongside the swimming area just off the shore.
Pete spotted Derek Finley’s twins, Luke and Lydia. Cute kids. Too bad about the boy having diabetes, though it didn’t appear to be slowing him down any. He was racing after his sister with a red water balloon, and she didn’t stand a chance.
On a bench under a tree, the Hansens’ two knockout daughters sat watching the kids play. Brenda had brought them with her to Pete’s place when she was buying gas the other day. The Hansen girls were blonde, trim, and as sweet as pecan pie. Hard to believe one of them was planning to become a missionary.
What was a missionary, anyhow? Pete wondered as he continued his search for Patsy. Some kind of religious work, Brenda Hansen had told him. Her daughter was going to study at a training center nearby and then head off to live with a remote tribe in the jungle. Pete thought missionarying sounded more like a man’s job than something fit for a pretty young lady. Jennifer Hansen had explained that she wanted to tell the natives about Jesus Christ. She hoped to bring them the message of salvation so they could be born again.
Born again. That phrase.
Pete borrowed Charlie’s flyswatter and slapped it down on a particularly pesky fellow that had been bothering him ever since he joined the men near the grills. As he handed the flyswatter back to Charlie, Pete had to admit to himself that he’d been doing some thinking ever since Patsy had told him he needed to be born again. And the fact was, he’d botched up his life so bad the first time around that he didn’t have the heart to start all over. Oh, sure, he was doing his best not to repeat his previous mistakes. But there was simply not much hope for a man with his past.
“Whoa!” The exclamation escaped Pete’s lips the moment he spotted Patsy standing near the salad table. Mercy, that woman looked good in a pair of shorts and high heels.
“Something wrong?” Steve Hansen asked, elbowing Pete. “Or did you just notice Patsy Pringle?”
The other men guffawed as if this were the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
Pete leaned back in the lawn chair and grinned. “As a matter of fact, I believe I do have my eye on the prettiest gal in Deepwater Cove.”
“Now, hold on there,” Steve spoke up. “Patsy’s pretty all right, but I’d have to vote for my beautiful Brenda as the belle of this ball.”
All the men focused on the lovely blonde whose smile shone like the summer sun. Brenda was obviously talking to the other women about her daughters as she gestured toward the two young beauties who favored their mother to a tee.
Pete agreed that Brenda Hansen was very attractive, and he was glad to hear her husband speak up for her. But Patsy Pringle—
“Aw, come on, Steve,” Brad Hanes said. “My Ashley’s the hottest hottie out here. Look at those long legs on my woman.”
The men shifted a little uncomfortably as they all made an effort not to look at the young redhead’s legs. Pete began to wish the topic of women had never come up. Brad shouldn’t have drawn the fellows’ attention to his wife’s legs. Not even Pete was that ignorant, and he decided it was time to steer toward a safer topic than a comparison of one woman’s attributes with another’s.
“A pretty lady will get my thumbs-up any time and any place,” he said. “In fact, I think this little corner of the world has got the pick of the crop. Look at those gals. Esther, Brenda, Ashley, and Patsy—fairest flowers of the land.”
“Speaking of pretty women, where’s that mother of yours, Derek?” Charlie Moore asked. “And come to think of it, I don’t see Kim, either.”
Pete glanced over at Derek, who was shifting a little uncomfortably in his lawn chair. “They, uh … they had a little problem in the kitchen. Kim’s bringing one of those seven-layer dips.”
“Got in a fight about which layer went first, huh?” Brad asked with a laugh.
The look on Derek’s face told Pete that was exactly what had happened. Charlie gave an awkward harrumph and pretended to search for his wife. Steve reached across his grill with a pair of tongs to turn over his pork steaks. Who would have thought a bunch of good-for-nothings like these fellows sitting around on the Fourth of July could manage to make each other so uncomfortable?
Pete knew women talked nonstop and everyone felt just peachy when they parted company. Before he had built a soundproof wall between his tackle shop and Patsy’s salon, Pete had heard the women next door jabbering away day after day. In fact, their constant chitchat had been partly what prompted him to start up a chain saw every now and then. Anything to drown out that racket.
But men? Men didn’t really know how to talk to each other. They couldn’t very well admire each other’s hairdos or trade chicken soup recipes. What this bunch needed was a woman to sit among them and stir up some cordial conversation. But as it was, the men fanned themselves with their flyswatters or checked their grills until Pete finally brought up what everyone was thinking.
“How about them Cardinals?”
“I couldn’t believe the pitcher in yesterday’s game,” Brad Hanes muttered.
“Did you fellas see that drive down the right-field line?” Charlie Moore asked.
And that was all it took. They discussed the ins and outs of the game, weighed the players’ talents, mentioned statistics from the past, and generally talked the subject half to death.
That was okay with Pete. He focused on Patsy Pringle, who was balancing on her high-heel wedges as she picked her way across the grass toward some destination Pete couldn’t see. Adjusting her gold ringlets, she began to smile as if she’d just gotten a glimpse of heaven itself. Slightly disturbed at what might have captured Patsy’s attention other than himself, Pete leaned forward. The plastic webbing under his backside crackled a little as he scanned the scene, and finally he noticed goofy ol’ Cody Goss half skipping and jumping toward Patsy.
“Hey, Patsy,” Cody cried, clapping his hands as he greeted her. “You have stars in your hair!”
“It’s the Fourth of July, honey!” she exclaimed.
“Happy America!” he said, dancing around her. “Merry Independence! Long live July!”
Patsy laughed and hugged on Cody like he was her long-lost best friend. Then she turned and pointed out the watermelon wagon, the shore where all the kids were playing, the tables lined with salads and desserts, and finally the grills. As her eyes settled on Pete, he decided he’d heard more than enough about baseball. He beckoned Patsy and Cody.
“Look, there’s Pete Roberts!” Cody called out. “He makes hot dogs at Rods-N-En
ds. Hi, Pete!”
“Hey there, Cody ol’ fella; how’re you doing today?” Pete pushed himself out of the lawn chair and ambled over to them. “I see you’re wearing a flag T-shirt.”
“This is the USA flag,” Cody explained, laying his hand on his chest to indicate the printed banner. “Brenda and Steve gave me this shirt. The flag has stars like in Patsy’s hair. I like those stars. Do you?”
“I sure do,” Pete said. “Patsy always looks pretty as a picture.”
“A picture? She’s prettier than a picture, because this is really her.”
“Aw, Cody,” Patsy murmured, blushing like some shy schoolgirl. “You are so sweet. And you’re handsome, too! Look at that clean-shaven chin. Gracious sakes, young man, who would ever have thought it!”
“Pete should shave, huh, Patsy?” Cody asked. “You told me he looks like a shaggy bear.”
Cody glanced from Patsy to Pete, assessed their expressions, and then covered his mouth with his hand. “Oops,” he said. “I think I just did bad social skills.”
“It’s all right,” Patsy told Cody, patting his arm. “Pete knows how I feel about that awful beard.”
Suddenly grouchy, Pete combed his fingers through the thick mat of dark hair that had been with him since he couldn’t remember when. He snorted and hooked his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “A person ought to be able to see beyond a little facial hair, is what I say. Looks aren’t everything.”
“Oh, really?” Patsy retorted. “Seems you’ve been doing plenty of looking in my direction today, Mr. Roberts. If you want me looking back, you’d do well to shave off that musty old clump hanging from your chin.”
Cody cackled and slapped his thighs. “Musty old clump! At least you don’t have mice in your hair like I did when I first got to Deepwater Cove, Pete. Hey, look who’s coming now! It’s Mrs. Finley and the other Mrs. Finley.”
Sure enough, here came Kim and her mother-in-law, Miranda, each carrying a clear glass bowl of seven-layer dip across the lawn toward the gathering. Pete didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but he noticed right away that neither woman looked the least bit happy about making an appearance at the Deepwater Cove Fourth of July celebration. As Kim and Miranda set their bowls on the chip-and-dip table, Pete left Patsy’s side and wandered over to fetch himself a plate of appetizers. No point just dawdling around when there was good food to be had.
“Afternoon, Miz Finley,” he greeted Derek’s mother.
Both women looked up at the same time and gave pained smiles.
“Hi, Pete,” Kim Finley spoke up first. “Glad you could make it to the celebration.”
“Try my seven-layer dip, Pete,” Miranda Finley suggested, spooning a dollop onto a paper plate and giving it to him. She dug a handful of tortilla chips from a bag, ran one through her dip, and pushed it between his lips. “I always put the sour cream on top, because that way it’s the first flavor to hit your taste buds. Sets the mood, don’t you think? With guacamole, cheese, and refried beans all in perfect order under the sour cream, you can almost picture yourself lounging on a Caribbean beach.”
Pete tried to talk around the bite of chip and dip Miranda had put into his mouth, but he couldn’t manage it. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter to him which came first, because eventually the flavors all blended together. But as he started to speak, a sliver of chip flew down the wrong pipe.
As Pete began to cough, he noticed what Kim was doing. Standing beside her mother-in-law, she pursed her lips tight and ladled a large helping of her own seven-layer dip into a bowl. Swigging down some soda to clear his throat, Pete noted that Kim had put the shredded cheese on top, followed by layers of beans, guacamole, olives, and—somewhere down at the bottom—sour cream.
Grabbing a bag of chips under one arm, Kim carried her dip toward the men gathered around their grills. Pete could see the battle unfolding right before his eyes. If anyone declared Kim’s appetizer to be delicious, it would undercut Miranda’s before she’d even had a chance to show it off. And no doubt those sweaty gents in their barbecue aprons were going to dig into Kim’s dip with gusto.
As she realized her daughter-in-law’s ploy, Miranda let out a whimper of dismay. She snatched up her bowl of dip, seized a second bag of chips and marched toward the men.
Pete took one look at Derek Finley’s face and realized that this unfolding conflict would put the poor man in the hot seat, no matter what. “Hey, Patsy!” he called. “Yo, Patsy!”
If only he could get the blonde in her wedgy sandals and sparkling stars to saunter over to the grills, she might just be able to distract everyone. Then maybe Patsy’s kind demeanor and sweet words could defuse the oncoming clash. Determined to keep peace, Pete hurried over to where the salon owner was helping Bitty Sondheim and Opal Jones arrange carrots and sweet pickles in neat rows on a glass tray.
“Patsy,” Pete said, sidling up and whispering in her ear. “You’ve got to come with me right now, and I mean it. No dawdling around, gal. There’s trouble afoot.”
Before she could respond, Pete took her arm and ushered her toward the battlefront.
“What are you up to now, Pete Roberts?” Patsy challenged him. “Bitty and I were helping Opal fix her relish dish! You know how bad Opal’s arthritis gets, and she asked us to—”
“Patsy, get over there and eat some dip,” Pete instructed as he propelled the woman across the grass. “Try ’em both, and then talk about something else like hairstyles or whatever comes to mind.”
“Pete, let go of my arm this minute! Why, I ought to—”
Patsy caught her breath as Pete pushed her down onto the lawn chair he had recently vacated.
“Look who’s here,” he said. “It’s Patsy.”
Pete was turning to scoop dip from the two rival bowls when the unmistakable sound of ripping plastic caught his ears. He looked back in time to see the webbing give way beneath Patsy Pringle’s ample backside and drop her right through the aluminum chair frame onto the ground.
Patsy let out a shriek that would curdle milk as her wedge-heeled feet flew into the air, and her sandals sailed over Pete’s head.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Pete never would have guessed it possible, but the woman folded into that aluminum framework like a hymnbook at the end of a church service. Her legs stuck straight up, her arms waved back and forth over her head, and those sparkly stars went sailing out of her hair.
“Help!” she hollered, bare feet kicking. “Somebody help me! Pete Roberts, I’m gonna kill you!”
Horror-struck, Pete couldn’t move for a full second. In fact, it seemed as though the entire Deepwater Cove gathering fell silent and turned to stare at the woman wedged into the frame of the collapsed aluminum folding chair. And then—before Pete could do his part to rectify the situation—Officer Derek Finley bent over and extricated the helpless victim from the jaws of death.
“Are you all right, Patsy?” Derek asked as he pulled Patsy to her feet.
Her blue eyes shot straight to Pete. “No, I am not all right, thank you very much! I am furious! Pete Roberts, what on earth was that all about? I ought to string you up by your thumbnails!”
“Good gravy!” Charlie Moore exclaimed. “For a minute there, I thought we’d been hit by mortar fire!”
Brad Hanes burst out laughing. “It was a blonde bombshell, all right!”
“Did you see those shoes go airborne?” someone else cried.
“I saw shooting stars right before my eyes!”
By now, all the men were grinning as they grabbed the bags of chips and dug into the identical bowls of dip. Feud obviously forgotten, Kim and Miranda Finley circled around Patsy, helping to fix her hair and find her sandals. Somehow a long curlicue had come unpinned, and Pete picked it up.
“Uh, I think you lost this,” he said, holding out the blonde ringlet like a peace offering.
Patsy snatched it from his hand. “You’d better explain yourself this minute, Pete Roberts. What did
you mean by jerking me away from helping Opal with her relish tray and slinging me into that broken chair?”
“Well, I was …” Pete gulped. “I thought maybe—”
“You made me the laughingstock of the whole place! Everyone saw me make an idiot of myself.”
To Pete’s horror, the feisty woman’s blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. He reached out to her. “Aw, now, Patsy—”
“Don’t you dare touch me, Pete Roberts!” she said, knocking his hand away. “You’re pushy and mean and forward. You’re just a bully is what you are! Ever since you moved to the lake, you’ve done everything in your power to make my life miserable. But this is the last straw. You intended to make me out to be a fool, and you succeeded—and that’s the last you’ll be hearing from me till the cows come home!”
“Now, listen here, Patsy,” he began again.
But the sound of a child’s scream drowned out his words. As Pete focused in the direction of the cry, he saw Kim and Derek Finley’s young daughter sprinting toward them.
“Mommy, Mommy!” she was hollering as she ran. “Come quick! Luke fell down, and he’s not moving!”
CHAPTER NINE
Kim knelt in the damp, rocky sand beside her son. Luke’s brown eyes fluttered as she pressed the emergency number on her cell phone. Next to her, Derek was checking the boy’s pulse and airway.
“I need a clean towel—his head is bleeding. I’m guessing he gashed it on that big rock.” Derek glanced at Lydia. “What were you kids doing?”
“Just playing around, I swear!” Lydia was jumping up and down, shaking her hands, crying, and elbowing away all attempts to comfort her. “Luke told me he was dizzy and he felt like he was going to throw up. Then he started staggering down the beach, but he only got this far before he fell and his head hit that rock. Do something, Derek! Fix him! Fix my brother!”
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