by Cindy Myers
“You drove? In a moving truck?”
“A small one. And I stopped on the way and spent the night in Wichita Falls.”
“But how did you find me?”
“I figured in a town this small someone would know where to find a woman from Texas who was living in a cabin on the side of a mountain, so I stopped in the first café I saw and asked.”
“That would be the Last Dollar.”
“Yes, and the woman there told me where you lived but said I didn’t want to drive up here in a moving truck, and then she sent the other young woman to fetch Jameso and he loaded everything into his truck and drove me up here.” Barb leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Now, he is exactly what I imagine when I think of a sexy mountain man. And he seemed more than happy to drive up here and see you.”
Maggie fought down a blush. “That’s because he’s nosy and wants to see what I’m up to.”
“Where do you want this?” The man himself spoke from the doorway, from behind a stack of cardboard boxes.
The women rushed to relieve him of his burden. Maggie set the first box on the table and ripped off the tape, then pulled out a waffle iron? Maggie stared at her friend.
“I wouldn’t want to live without mine,” Barb said earnestly.
Maggie set the waffle iron aside and dug deeper into the box. Jeans, her favorite University of Houston sweatshirt, and a long, fluffy robe more than made up for the waffle maker. Other boxes contained her stereo, CDs, books, and her laptop computer. “Though I don’t know what good that computer’s going to do you if you don’t have DSL or even a phone line up here,” Barb said.
“Don’t bother helping to unload the truck or anything, ladies,” Jameso said as he delivered another stack of boxes.
“You don’t look like you need our help,” Barb said. “This way we get to stand back and admire your muscles.”
“That’s not all I saw you admiring,” he said with a provocative twitch of his ass.
Barb and Maggie dissolved into laughter. “Where is the moving truck now?” Maggie asked when she’d caught her breath.
“Jameso’s going to turn it into the dealer in Montrose for me,” she said.
“He’s going to turn—woman, what did you do to him?”
“I can be charming when I want.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Plus, I offered to pay him twenty bucks.”
“With Jameso, I have a feeling the money was a better persuader than your charms.”
“You’re either underestimating me or Jameso,” Barb said.
“Never mind that,” Maggie said. “How long can you stay?”
“I figure I’ll hang out with you as long as you’ll have me; then I’ll fly home.”
“Or as long as you can stand to stay in a place without central heat and cable TV.”
Barb’s smile dimmed a few watts. “You do have indoor plumbing, don’t you?”
“The finest composting toilet money can buy.”
“A composting—” Barb waved away the words. “I don’t think I even want to know. “
“It looks just like a regular toilet, but you don’t flush,” Maggie said.
“Oh God, this is sounding worse all the time.”
“You just drove over a thousand miles in a moving van to see me,” Maggie said. “You’re tough enough to deal with a composting toilet. At least you don’t have to hike to the outhouse out back.”
“You have one of those, too?”
“I do. Apparently my dad kept it because it was convenient.”
“Your dad sounds like quite the character. I can’t wait to hear more about him.”
“I’ve got plenty of stories to tell, though I’m not sure I believe half of them.”
“This is the last of the load,” Jameso said. He deposited two suitcases by the door. “If you’re all set, I’ll be going now.”
“You don’t have to run off,” Barb said. “Stay and have a drink.”
“I don’t have anything here to drink,” Maggie said. Except for the rest of the whiskey she and Jameso had shared her first night here.
“There are several bottles of wine in one of these boxes.” Barb gestured to the packing cartons scattered around the room.
“That’s okay, ladies, I’ll leave you to it,” he said.
“Be that way, then,” Barb said. “Thanks for all your help.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Maggie said.
“Any time.” His eyes met hers and she felt again the flash of heat.
“He’s definitely hot,” Barb said when he was gone.
“He’s full of himself,” Maggie said.
“There’s a lot to be said for a man with self-confidence,” Barb said. “There’s a lot to be said for a man.”
“I’ve spent half my life tied to a man,” Maggie said. “Let me enjoy being single for a while.”
“I never said you had to marry the guy,” Barb said. “I’m talking about enjoying being single.”
“I’m not interested in Jameso.”
“You two are a real trip,” Barb said. “I can’t decide if you’re dying to jump each other’s bones or you can’t stand each other.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Maggie felt her cheeks heat. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way he looks at you,” Barb said.
“He doesn’t look at me any particular way.” Did he?
“I’ll bet you look at him, too,” Barb said.
Yes, Maggie had looked. But she wasn’t about to admit this to Barb. Some things had to be kept secret even from best friends.
Barb insisted on opening the bottle of wine right away and helping Maggie unpack the various moving boxes. “You must have brought half my storage unit with you,” Maggie said as she hung clothes in the closet. She had no idea when she’d ever have use for the dresses Barb had packed, but she wouldn’t hurt her friend by saying so.
“You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” Barb gestured to the four largest cartons. “I brought the Steuben.”
Maggie stared at the cartons, which she could now see were clearly marked: Glass. Fragile. “Why did you bring those?”
“Because I know how much you love them,” Barb said. “I thought maybe you could put them around the cabin. To, you know, dress things up. Remind you of happier times.”
The Steuben glassware would remind her, all right. Of all the times when she’d thought her life had been perfect, when she thought it would go on being that way. “Thanks.” She gave Barb a faint smile. “We’ll leave them packed for now, until I decide the proper way to display everything.”
“I wanted you to have everything you needed,” Barb said.
“I do have everything I need now that you’re here,” Maggie said, happy to change the subject. “Tell me how everything is going back home.”
“Jimmy is busy as ever. We’re thinking of taking a cruise after the first of the year. Michael is dating a nice young woman; I think it might be serious this time. My hairdresser is pregnant and wants to stay home with the baby, so I’ll have to find someone new. And I have some other news you’re probably not going to like.”
Maggie froze in the act of unwrapping a ceramic teapot. “What kind of news?”
“I saw an announcement in the paper a few days ago. Carter and the Rich Bitch are getting married.”
“Oh.” Maggie couldn’t say the news was unexpected, but before it had merely existed in the realm of possibility, not as fact. Knowing that Carter would have another wife hurt more than she’d expected. It wasn’t that she wanted him back, not after all he’d done. But hearing this news made her feel the pain of his rejection all over again. She’d spent twenty years identifying herself as Mrs. Carter Stevens, and now she wasn’t good enough for that anymore.
“At least now you don’t have to worry about him asking you to take him back,” Barb said. “You’re well rid of him.”
“Barb! I thought you liked Carter.”
“I love you and you loved him, so I learned to put up with him, but I always thought he was much too concerned with his image and his own comforts. You know good and well the only reason he’s with Francine is because she has all that money.”
“We don’t know that,” Maggie said. “Maybe he really loves her.” She coughed, trying to clear the knot in her throat.
“Carter only loves himself. Getting rid of him is the best thing that ever happened to you, you’ll see.” She patted Maggie’s arm. “Let’s have some more wine.”
“The bottle is almost empty.”
“Then we’ll open another.”
Lucille was minding the counter at Lacy’s, but she had on her mayoral hat. She’d spent the morning trying to reach someone from the state to get an explanation for a letter she’d received that, as far as she could tell, reduced funding for highway maintenance in the area—again.
“That’s Eureka,” she said to the third person to whom her call had been transferred. “In Eureka County. This is not merely a local issue—we have thousands of tourists driving these roads every year, and the state’s happy to take their cut of the sales tax money from them. I don’t think it’s asking too much to get part of that money back to maintain the roads.”
To which the bureaucrat informed her the person to whom she needed to speak was out of the office for the week.
Lucille slammed down the phone and was massaging the bridge of her nose when the string of cowbells on the back of the shop door jangled and Olivia walked in. Lucille had scarcely seen her daughter since she’d arrived in town. She worked most nights at the Dirty Sally. When she wasn’t working, she was there as a customer, or off somewhere else with the new friends she’d made. She was asleep when Lucille and Lucas left in the morning. Though she’d managed to get the boy enrolled in school, Lucille was the one who drove him there on her way to work. She’d told herself this was an opportunity for her to get to know her grandson better, but Lucas answered her questions with grunts and single syllables. He wasn’t sullen or irritable, merely uncommunicative.
“I just got a call from the school,” Olivia said by way of greeting. “Lucas is in trouble.”
Lucas? In trouble? The boy was so quiet. Not the type to fight . . . but he did have a smart mouth on him. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lucille said. “Are you on your way to the school now?”
“Yes, and I want you to go with me.”
Lucille wondered how much those words had cost Olivia. She had never been one to ask for help, especially not from her mother. “Of course I’ll go. Though I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do.”
“You live here. You’re the mayor, for God’s sake. You ought to have some influence.”
Lucille laughed. “You wouldn’t think that if you could have heard me on the phone with the state just now. In Denver, they don’t even know where Eureka is.”
“The people at the school will know you. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”
Olivia drove, Lucille in the passenger seat of the big black SUV. The seats were leather and the vehicle still smelled new. “Have you heard from D. J. lately?” Lucille asked.
Olivia’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No.”
“So he has no idea you have his car.”
“Let it go, Mother. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lucille pinched out a brief flame of anger. No sense starting an argument she couldn’t win. At school they found Lucas sitting in the front office, reading a book. He looked fine. No black eyes or signs of tears.
“What happened?” Olivia asked.
Before he could answer, the door behind him opened and the principal emerged. Dennis Kinkaid was a slim, balding man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and the perpetually exasperated look of a man who dealt with teenagers for a living. His gaze flickered over Olivia, then shifted to Lucille, eyes widening in surprise. “You know this boy?” he asked.
“Lucas is my grandson.”
Kinkaid held the door wide. “Come into my office.”
The three of them filed inside. “I want you to tell me what happened,” Olivia said.
Kinkaid sat behind his desk, his expression grim. “I don’t know about the situation where you lived before,” he said. “But we don’t tolerate troublemakers at our schools in Eureka.”
“Lucas is not a troublemaker.” Olivia’s spiky hair practically vibrated with indignation.
“He disrupted his classroom this afternoon. We won’t stand for that.”
Olivia turned to her son. “What happened?” she asked.
“The teacher was wrong.” He looked stubborn.
“Wrong about what?” Lucille could keep quiet no longer. She looked at Kinkaid. “What exactly happened?”
“Lucas’s teacher, Mr. Brewster, was teaching a history lesson. Lucas apparently didn’t agree with his explanation.”
“He was wrong,” Lucas said. “He said the Spanish were the first to mine gold in the area, but that’s not right. The Ute Indians knew about the gold before the Spanish ever got here. I told him so.”
Lucille could imagine how Lucas had told him. The boy was nothing if not blunt.
“You can say what you want about your school, Mr. Kinkaid,” Olivia said. “But I’m not impressed when my son is smarter than his teacher.”
“The smartest thing about your son is his mouth,” Kinkaid said, his face reddening. “He was rude to Mr. Brewster in a classroom full of students and he owes him an apology.”
“Why should I apologize when I’m right and he’s wrong?” Lucas protested.
Olivia put her arm around Lucas’s shoulder and Lucille knew she was gearing up for another defense of her son. Lucille put one hand on each of them. “Lucas, you owe Mr. Brewster an apology because he is your teacher. He may have been mistaken about this one matter, but he deserves your respect. If you believed something wasn’t right, you should have addressed him in a respectful manner.”
“I don’t think—” Olivia began.
“We can discuss what you think later,” Lucille said. She focused on Lucas. “Part of getting along in this world is recognizing when something is worth a fight and when it isn’t.”
“A teacher is supposed to know better.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me you’ve never made a mistake.”
“I think Lucas and I should talk to Mr. Brewster.” Olivia glared at her mother. “Alone.”
Between Olivia’s short fuse and Lucas’s reluctance to sensor his own emotions, their “talk” with the teacher was likely to be a disaster. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Lucille said.
“I didn’t ask your opinion.”
But she’d asked Lucille to come with her this morning. Why? Because she’d thought Lucille would back her up in her determination to thwart authority?
Mr. Kinkaid ushered Olivia and Lucas out of the office, presumably to meet with Mr. Brewster. When he returned, Lucille was pacing the small room—four steps across, four strides back, her head pounding.
“Your daughter has some very definite opinions about how things ought to be done,” he said.
“Olivia has always been headstrong. Not that that’s always a bad thing.” Having done her own time as a single mother, Lucille knew the kind of strength and courage that took.
“No, I’d say she comes by her stubbornness honestly.” He seemed to be trying not to smile.
Lucille stopped in front of him. “Lucas was wrong to call out that teacher,” she said. “But what are you doing hiring teachers who don’t know their subject matter better than a seventh grader?”
“I think it’s safe to say Lucas is not your average seventh grader. Mr. Brewster is a good teacher. But even good teachers can’t be experts in every area.”
“I know Lucas needs help with his social skills,” Lucille said. “He’s had a . . . a difficult childhood.” She had very little idea what kind of childhood he’d had, but it certainly couldn’t have been easy. Ol
ivia had moved a lot, and been involved with several different men. “He hasn’t had a lot of stability.”
“Maybe now that he’s here with you he will have that stability.”
“I hope so. I don’t know how long Olivia plans to stay.”
“It can be tough on everyone when grown children come home again,” Kinkaid said. “I hear it’s happening more and more in this economy.”
“I’m glad to have her here, but I don’t know how happy she is.”
“Maybe the town will grow on her, if she can figure out how she fits in. The boy is smart; he just needs to learn how to get along with people. You can help him with that, I’m sure.”
Lucille wasn’t sure about that at all. She had done a poor enough job with Olivia; whatever the girl had made of herself had been as much in spite of Lucille as because of her. “I’ll do what I can to help Lucas,” she said.
Kinkaid was called to the phone, leaving Lucille the option of either resuming her pacing or sitting. She sat and looked out the window at a grove of aspen trees, like dancers in lacy green skirts. Summer came to the mountains in a rush of breathtaking brilliance, the hills awash in twenty shades of green, wildflowers like jewels scattered everywhere. It was Lucille’s favorite time of year, all the more precious because its tenure was so short, the warm days giving way to cold once more after only two and a half months.
The door opened behind her and she turned to see Olivia and Lucas, followed by a tall young man with glasses and a goatee so black he looked like a boy playing dress up with shoe polish on his face. “Dan, this is my mother, Lucille Theriot.” Olivia’s cheeks bloomed with bright spots of pink and her eyes sparkled with an excitement that seemed out of place in this drab office.
“Hello, Mrs. Theriot. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dan Brewster.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Brewster.” Lucille shook his hand, but watched her daughter. Olivia tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and straightened the collar of her shirt, glancing every few seconds at the man at her side. The teacher, likewise, could scarcely keep his eyes off her. Lucille had to fight to keep from laughing out loud. Olivia and Dan Brewster might have been two teenagers, for all the hormones on overdrive in the room. She turned her attention to Lucas, who was retrieving his backpack from the corner. The dark cloud had lifted from over him and he looked less sulky.
