What Happens in Texas

by Carolyn Brown

  “I promised sandwiches and beer,” Trixie said.

  She handed him the beer and collapsed on a chair, her head in her hands, sobs wracking her body.

  “Did Marty die?” Jack asked.

  “No, and not Cathy either.”

  “Agnes?”

  “I’m crying, not laughing.”

  “One more. Darla Jean?”

  “Nooo,” she said. “I need a friend, and they’re all gone or busy. I can’t bother Darla Jean when she’s working on tomorrow’s sermon, and besides”—she hiccuped—“she’d tell me to forgive and forget and I want to kill him, not forgive his sorry ass.”

  Jack sat down in the other chair and threw his arm around Trixie’s shoulders. “I’m your friend, Trixie. I’ve always been your friend.”

  She leaned over and cried on his shoulder until she didn’t have any more tears. “I’m sorry. Agnes just told me that Andy is cheating with the dispatcher down at the station.”

  “I can’t talk about Andy, Trixie. He’s my boss,” Jack said.

  “You are my friend, not his, tonight. And I’ve been your friend longer than he’s been your boss anyway.”

  “I’m your friend but I can’t talk about my boss. It’s not right.”

  He wanted to tell her. God only knew how much he wanted to name names, places, and times that he was positive about, but he couldn’t. It went against everything he’d been taught about respecting the chain of command and protecting your officers.

  She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Everyone in town knew about his flings, didn’t they?”

  Jack patted her on the shoulder. “It’s over, Trixie. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why didn’t someone tell me? Did you all think I knew?”

  He hugged her tightly.

  “Agnes wasn’t just trying to rile me up, was she?”

  “Agnes doesn’t like you, but she’s not trying to rile you up,” he said.

  There. He’d given her an answer, but he hadn’t said a word about his captain.

  She reached over to the workbench beside her, peeled off two paper towels, blew her nose, and tossed the soiled towel into the trash can. “Thank you. You are a good friend. My fifteen minutes of whining is up. Show me how I can help.”

  Trixie wiggled out of his embrace and flipped the tab off a beer can. She took several long gulps and nodded toward a plate of roast beef sandwiches.

  “You eat and then we’ll work,” she said.

  Jack smiled. At least she hadn’t asked him about the voting shit. There would be nothing left of Clawdy’s but ashes and jars of picante—that damn stuff was hotter than flames—if Trixie found out that Marty had voted for Anna Ruth. For the life of him, Jack couldn’t figure out why in the hell she’d done such a thing anyway. Marty had wanted to put out a hit on both Andy and Anna Ruth when Trixie caught them in bed together. And then she’d gone and voted for Anna Ruth to be a member of the club. That was the ten-thousand-dollar question that didn’t seem to have an answer.

  Chapter 8

  Derek came into class all dressed up that Wednesday night. The Stetson was strong enough that she knew he’d shaven not long before, and a couple of water droplets still glistened on his black hair. He sat down at his desk, picked up the booklet, and began to work after he flashed her a brilliant smile. Evidently, the cowboy had a date as soon as class was over.

  Marty opened a brand-new page on her laptop and got ready to write. Maybe the next crew that came through her class would have a fireman or a weight lifter in it, but right now she worked with the muse she had and that was Derek. She put her hands on the keyboard and started typing, the words flowing from brain to keys as she imagined what her female character would like to do to that cowboy and have him do to her.

  When the class ended, she gathered up her things and was locking her door when her cell phone rang. She groaned when she saw Agnes’s number. If someone was attacking Trixie, Agnes had a damn gun; she could take care of it and hopefully she hit her target this time and didn’t shoot a hole in the ceiling.

  “Hello,” she said cautiously.

  “There are no leftovers from today’s lunch? I thought you had pecan tarts on Wednesdays. There’s always a few left and I wanted them to serve at my Sunday school class meeting tomorrow. Where are they?”

  “We sold out,” Marty said.

  “Where are you? It’s time you were home. If you were here, you could make a dozen for me tonight,” Agnes told her.

  “But I’m not home, and I’m not going to make pecan tarts at this time of night. Grab a package of Oreos from the pantry and serve them at your meeting,” Marty said.

  * * *

  Cathy had donned her overalls that Wednesday, glad that Ethan, Violet, and Clayton were at a Kiwanis or maybe it was a Masons group meeting so he could speechify about his campaign. She needed to unwind, to stop worrying about that damned prenup.

  The weatherman said there was a cold snap coming the next week with frost, so it would be the last of the yard work for a few months. She would always maintain the beautiful lawns at Clawdy’s, but she looked forward to landscaping her own yard when she and Ethan got married. And she wasn’t visualizing the Prescott place, either!

  She dumped the bag full of clippings into her compost pile at the back of the garage and stirred them down into the mulch with a garden rake. She gathered up her small tools to dig about in the small garden with the pepper plants on the east side of the house. They’d almost quit producing, but she’d kept a jar full of seeds to plant the next year and maybe by then she’d figure out what kind of fertilizer her mother used.

  Cathy was ready for a long soaking bath when she put away her tools and went into the house. She wanted to read, but unlike a paper book, an e-reader could not go to the bathtub. Dropping a book into the water would ruin it. An e-reader slipping out of Cathy’s hands would be equivalent to losing a whole library of hot erotic books.

  It was either take a long bath without a book, since she seldom bought anything other than ebooks anymore, or a quick shower and curl up and read until bedtime. The shower won. Afterward, she donned her favorite old worn cotton-knit nightshirt and locked her door.

  She piled the pillows up against the headboard of her bed, picked up her e-reader, and started reading where she’d left off. She’d barely gotten a page done when her phone rang.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “This is Agnes. I’m downstairs and I called Marty, but she won’t come home and make me a dozen pecan tarts for tomorrow’s committee meeting.”

  “Aunt Agnes, there are a couple of bags of Oreos in the storage room. Help yourself to however many you need. I’m reading,” Cathy said.

  “Well, hell! You ain’t goin’ to make me any either, are you? You’ll be sorry when I leave my house to the church. I swear to God, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d act like your sister.”

  “Call Trixie. Maybe she will make them,” Cathy said.

  “I’d rather eat dog biscuits than ask her for shit. She’s up there cutting out paper dolls or painting some gawd-awful ceramic owl or something. Read your damned old book, and I’ll take what I can find,” Agnes said.

  “Good night, Aunt Agnes. Lock the kitchen door on your way out.”

  “The hell I will. You want it locked, you come do it. It was open when I got here, and I’m not locking it.”

  “Now, Aunt Agnes, don’t be angry.”

  “I ain’t angry. I’m pissed because I wanted pecan tarts and there ain’t a one down here. Next week you tell Marty to make an extra dozen in case I need them.”

  Cathy started to say something else, but the phone went dead.

  One more page and the phone rang again.

  “Aunt Agnes, I’m not making tarts,” she said without looking at the ID.

  “I’m not Agnes.” Ethan laughed.

  He had a nice deep laugh that went with his voice. That, with his brilliant smile, would go a long way in his c
ampaign. But neither made Cathy’s heart race like reading about good old hot sex.

  “Hello, darlin’. Did the meeting go well?” she asked.

  “Hasn’t started yet. I had five minutes, and Clayton wants to know what you and your lawyer decided about the prenup. I really want this thing out of the way so we don’t have to think about it anymore and can concentrate on the wedding. Did you see the newspaper?”

  “No, not yet. Do we look good?”

  “Yes, we do. Now about the prenup. Can I expect you to bring it all signed on Saturday night? Mother has invited Clayton to supper and we can take care of it before we eat. After that maybe I’ll whip you at Scrabble and we’ll all have a good time.”

  Her idea of a good time involved time spent with him alone, not sitting at the table with Violet finding fault with everything she said, did, or wore. And surely not freezing to death under Clayton’s ice-cold glares.

  “Well?” Ethan asked.

  “Tell you what, darlin’. There are a couple of issues I’d like to visit with you in private about. So how about you meet me at the Dairy Queen tomorrow night. We’ll have a cup of coffee on neutral grounds and make a few adjustments, then Saturday night it will all be done,” she answered.

  “I suppose that’s doable,” he said. “Until tomorrow night then. Sleep tight.”

  Oh, yeah, like that was going to happen after finishing the book she was reading.

  Two more paragraphs and the back door slammed. She must have made a believer out of Agnes.

  Then Marty’s high heels rat-a-tatting on the steps stopped at her door and she heard sobs. She bailed out of bed and heard what sounded like a dying cat on the landing crying, “Caaathy! Open your door. I need a friend.”

  Marty would never sound like that. Neither would Trixie, and Agnes cussed when she was upset; she did not cry. She opened the door carefully and Anna Ruth fell into her arms, sobbing and flailing around like she was going to faint dead away.

  * * *

  Trixie looked at the scrapbook. Should she use the heart punch or the scalloped scissors for the wiggly piece on the side of the picture? A heart appliqué was on the hip pockets of her jeans so it made better sense to use the heart punch.

  Cathy’s phone had rung and she could hear her talking but couldn’t make out the words since both of their bedroom doors were shut. Then Marty came home.

  No, those weren’t Marty’s footsteps. She’d worn flats to her class that night. Black ones with cute little stones glued to the front. Trixie had commented on them. What she heard was the definite rat-a-tat-tat of high heels.

  She had the paper lined up just right and was about to push when she heard the pitiful wailing in the hallway. She put all her might behind the punch so the edges would be crisp and pinched a blood blister on her forefinger.

  “Son of a bitch! Whoever the hell you are, you’d best be dead when I open this door.” She stuck her finger in her mouth, and when that didn’t help, she slung it around, stopping long enough to look at the blood blister on the way across the floor.

  Nothing helped the throbbing, and the sobbing got louder and louder. She slung open the door to find Cathy in the hallway, holding Anna Ruth up as she carried on like a wounded banshee.

  It was a beautiful sight!

  Anna Ruth caught sight of Trixie and pointed. “I thought you were screwing him on Wednesday nights.”

  Lying was a mortal sin, so Trixie shrugged as if she didn’t have any idea what Anna Ruth was talking about.

  Anna Ruth wailed even louder. “I blamed the wrong woman. It’s been that tart with the bubble butt down at the station all along. I’m so stupid. Aunt Annabel said if I could steal him away from his wife, then someone could steal him away from me. And the sad part is I just did it to prove that I could love a man other than… Oh, no!” She slapped a hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes.

  Poor Cathy! She was wedged in between a rock and a hard spot with no place to crawl out. Trixie felt sorry for her but not enough to help hold up that weeping bag of bones.

  She did not have an ounce of pity for Anna Ruth. She’d already cried her tears over that cheatin’ son of a bitch. Anna Ruth could cry hers all on her own. At least Anna Ruth had only given Andy a few months of her life and not fourteen years.

  Suddenly Anna Ruth stopped moaning and her blue eyes flew open so wide that they looked unreal. She untangled her arms from around Cathy’s neck and pointed toward Trixie’s bedroom door.

  “God Almighty!” she whispered.

  “Yes, he is,” Darla Jean said from the top of the stairs. “The back door was open and I heard someone cryin’ their poor little soul out. What is going on up here?”

  “Would you look at that mess?” Anna Ruth raised her voice and shook her finger toward Trixie’s bedroom. “No wonder Andy kicked you out of the house. He was right! You are a slob.”

  Trixie forgot all about her own throbbing finger. “Want to come in for a better look? I just sprayed yesterday so the roaches should all be dead by now and surely six mice were all there was holed up under my bed.”

  Anna Ruth shook her head. “How could he ever live with you? I was an idiot to think he’d ever screw around with you. He couldn’t stand to be in that room long enough to have sex.”

  Trixie opened her mouth to name times and positions but clamped it shut.

  Cathy managed a weak smile. “Let’s go downstairs and have some coffee. Darla Jean will be glad to visit with you.”

  Bless Cathy’s heart. She would befriend a rabid skunk.

  Anna Ruth swung her pointed finger around to stop just inches from Trixie’s nose. “I hate you. I thought if I was the opposite of you, he’d love me and I’d learn to love him as much as I do…”

  Trixie slapped her hand away. “As you love who?”

  Anna Ruth let out a scream that echoed off the walls worse than Agnes’s shotgun blast. If there hadn’t still been a hole in the ceiling for it to escape up through, it would have scared the hell out of Trixie and made an angel out of her right there in the crowded landing.

  “Don’t you ever touch me!” Anna Ruth yelled as she yanked a fistful of Trixie’s hair with one hand and scratched her upper arm with the other one. Her skinny arms flew every which way as she tried to get a hold on anything that belonged to Trixie’s body.

  Trixie had a blood blister on her finger, a bleeding arm, and now was about to be snatched bald. No way was she letting Anna Ruth do any more damage. Trixie opened up her hand and slapped the woman right across the face.

  Lord, it felt so good that she had the other hand open and on the way to put a matching red print on the other side when she checked herself and said, “Get a hold of yourself. Andy is rotten but you are acting like it’s the end of the world. It’s not, believe me. The sun will come up tomorrow morning.”

  Anna Ruth went back into wailing and flailing, falling into Darla Jean’s arms that time. Darla Jean looked at Trixie who said, “Watch those fingernails. They’re sharp as knives.”

  Agnes pushed past Darla Jean right into the middle of the mess. “What in the hell is going on up here?”

  Anna Ruth straightened up when a new audience entered the tiny landing. “Oh, Agnes, he’s cheated on me.”

  “Well, hell, woman, what did you expect?”

  “And Trixie hit me right in the face,” Anna Ruth said.

  “Can’t say I blame her,” Agnes said.

  Trixie grinned. Some days couldn’t get any better. She winked at Darla Jean. “She’s all yours. I’ve got scrapbooking to do.”

  Cathy fidgeted.

  Suddenly, Trixie could have kicked the woman down the stairs for putting Cathy in such a spot. Poor Cathy didn’t need all this drama added to what she was enduring at the hands of Ethan and his mother.

  Agnes threw up her hands. “I’m going home. I thought someone had died and hoped it was Trixie.”

  Trixie sighed. Good times don’t last forever. You had to seize the moment and enjoy the memory
of it after it was gone. She turned around and went back into her room. “Cathy, I’d like your opinion on something I’m working on for Mamma. I bet Darla Jean can take care of Anna Ruth and her soul.”

  Darla Jean nodded toward Trixie and led Anna Ruth down to the kitchen.

  Trixie pulled Cathy into her room and shut the door firmly behind them.

  “Lord!” she said. “What a night! Too bad the whiskey is downstairs!”

  “Amen to that,” Cathy said.

  * * *

  Marty hummed all the way home, but it changed into a cussing fit when she saw Anna Ruth’s new little bright red Mustang sitting in front of her house. Nothing that had a thing to do with Andy was welcome to visit her house. She might get away with eating at Clawdy’s, but she’d best keep her sorry ass away from Trixie after hours.

  Agnes met her at the truck door. “I had to come break up a fight between your friend who is going to ruin your place with her reputation and that sleazy niece of Annabel’s. I don’t know what they were fightin’ about, but I’ll tell you right now that sorry Andy Johnson ain’t worth Trixie getting scratched up. I’m not a bit surprised there’s fightin’ and carryin’ on in the house, but it’s a shame to see a couple of grown women acting like hookers fightin’ over a dick.”

  “A John, Aunt Agnes.”

  “I said what I meant,” Agnes told her.

  “And what does Anna Ruth look like?”

  “Darla Jean’s got her in the kitchen and she’s got a pretty red handprint on her cheek. She deserves it just because she made me put on my house shoes and rush over here. I was ready for bed already when I heard the screamin’ goin’ on.”

  Marty threw up her palms. The great night was over.

  She grabbed the doorknob and Anna Ruth ran out so fast that Marty had to step aside or get knocked down.

  She pushed right past Marty without so much as an apology and said, “Forgive, hell! I’m not forgiving him and I’ll never forget this. He’s ruined my reputation. I thought he’d marry me. Aunt Annabel and I were already planning the wedding. Your friend in there can go preach to someone else. I’m not interested,” she fumed.