by Amy Faye
Marie took her time in closing the door. It would be a waste to wake him, now that he rested so soundly, at the last moment.
She let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding until just then. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears even still, pulsing in her fingertips. He was alright, and he would continue to be alright. That, at least, was some comfort.
Convinced, finally, that she might be able to sleep the rest of the way through the night, and with her eyes feeling increasingly bleary, Marie stripped off her jacket and skirt. Maybe it was improper to be running around in her underwear with a boy Jamie's age around, but then, she wasn't going to be sleeping in her clothes, either.
She laid down on the couch. She was a small woman, she reasoned, which usually came only with problems. She couldn't reach anything above the lowest shelf in the cabinet without having to lift herself up onto the counter top, which was sufficiently un-ladylike that she simply didn't do it at all.
And then there was the fact that her body was anything but over-strong.
Yet, in laying on beds, she had found something else that it served well, as her feet propped comfortably onto the opposite arm, without hanging too far off or having to rearrange her body to fit properly. That was the first thing she had found she liked her size. The first thing that she would admit to, at least.
The other time had been in this room, too, and it was not remotely a thought she was prepared to entertain. The size difference between a man and a woman was a simple matter of fact. There was no reason to take pleasure in it, and particularly no reason to think about it after the fact when the man in question was Chris Broadmoor.
She used her arm as a sort-of pillow and dug into corner where the seat met the back of the sofa. It was soft, there. Warm and comforting, like the couch was wrapping its arms around her. She caught herself when she felt her mind wandering in a direction it shouldn't have.
What, she wondered idly as her mind wandered—so long as it avoided the gutter, she found it always wandered before she let herself sleep—what had made the difference tonight?
Was Jamie too tired for dreaming? It couldn't have been enough time that he'd simply begun to get over it. She wasn't even willing to entertain the notion, because it was laughably wrong from the beginning.
The children, maybe. Being around the children, who'd been in high spirits after so many days of being away from school. Now they got to have time away from their families, away from chores, away from their everyday lives, and maybe that played some part in it.
Then again, she thought, maybe there was something else. When she'd gone outside, wondering where Jamie had run off to, she couldn't help noticing where he'd finally found himself. Sitting on the edge of the roof with Mr. Broadmoor.
She wondered what they talked about. But most of all, she wondered what Jamie thought about it, and wondered why she was so concerned about a bartender she barely knew.
Twenty
True—he had no reason to be doing any of this. There was a strong sense in his chest that he owed the Pearsons, for everything that had happened. And it was true that Jamie was tied up with Marie, now. It was a better plan to have the boy stay with Marie than it was to have the kid staying with him, surrounded by Sarah and her girls.
The sun beat down on him as he checked the tar again, to make certain it was thoroughly coated. It was drying quickly. That was good for the pace of the job, since it meant that he could move on to nailing down the roofing and getting all of it finished sooner.
It was bad, though, because it meant that he didn't have a long time to think about what he was doing, and he was well past the point where he was comfortable tarring roofs. He hadn't done the job in fifteen years and though the entire process was familiar enough that he didn't worry about forgetting the entire thing, he couldn't say the same for his level of comfort with it.
The little things kept jumping up and hitting him in the face, little mistakes that he'd never have made when he was apprenticed. What was he even doing? He wasn't cut out for this work. But something kept him coming back, day after day.
Chris let out a breath and put the thoughts out of his mind, leaned over and painted on a thick swatch of tar where he thought it looked a bit thin. Then he wiped away the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead and dropped the brush out of the way.
Reaching into his belt, he pulled a small handful of nails free and stuck them into his mouth, grabbed a short stack of roofing tiles, and got to hammering. The work went quickly and easily. Place it, check the placement, and rap the slat into place with a few easy strikes of the hammer.
The quickness of the work belied its complexity. That, at least, hadn't changed since he was young. The amount of tar that ended up on his face was something he'd forgotten until it started to happen, and then all of a sudden, in a scalding flash of memory, he realized that he'd had the exact same experience as a young man.
He didn't like to think about that time, any more than he liked to think about anything that had happened before he came here. But it was a skill that had proven useful. The thought had occurred to him more than once, sitting up on that roof, that he might be able to pick it all up again, if he so desired. All it would take would be a little bit of effort and some practice.
The notion of a real trade, rather than sitting in a smoky room pouring drinks all day, held an odd but undeniable appeal. It was the antithesis of everything he'd believed for such a long time, and yet now here he was seriously entertaining the notion.
Wouldn't it be nice, he seemed to think, to be able to come home with his hands covered in blisters for a wage that might only be ten cents more a day, rather than sitting around and talking with women who most men paid for their time.
The entire idea was laughable, and yet, it kept coming up, over and over. The sound of steps on the boardwalk below gave him a convenient excuse to stop work for a moment. The hammer was set aside, the sharp nails pushed out of his mouth and into the palm of a waiting hand.
There was a man below, rail-thin with a hat. Beside him was a woman who looked as if she could have fit two of him inside her. Her clothes were modest, but even still, the way that she moved drew attention to breasts that would have been extravagant on any other woman, but seemed proportional on her heavy-set and poorly stayed frame.
Where the man's expression was tired, hers was aggravated. And when Chris moved on the roof, she immediately looked up, like she'd been expecting him. One meaty hand rose to shield her eyes.
"Can I help you folks?"
She didn't respond with anything but a sneer. It wasn't unheard of, not with Chris, but it was unusual that someone would act that way so openly. Her other arm moved to poke the man beside her with one fleshy elbow.
"'Scuse me," the man said. "But I'd like it if you'd come down here, a minute."
Chris did so. The climb down the ladder wasn't much trouble, and the break would be worthwhile. So long as things didn't get too unpleasant, anyways.
"Is there a problem?"
The woman spoke, then. "Of course there's a problem. Harold—"
She cut herself off, then, and stared at the man beside her, as if he ought to have said something sooner. He pulled his face into a grimace before he spoke.
"My wife, well, my wife and I, we heard, I don't want to start any gossip, but—"
His wife evidently didn't like the way that he tip-toed around whatever problem she had, and elbowed him again in the ribs. Her prodigious bust swayed as she did it, and Chris had to turn his head to avert his eyes from it.
"I don't see what you're getting at, sir."
"Well, we came by to talk to the teacher, but I thought we ought to see you first, on account of the talk."
"What talk would that be?"
"It's all over town, the way you and her been gallivanting around," the woman cut in.
"We don't put no stock in rumors, sir, so I thought we'd come and put it to rest."
Chris took a deep bre
ath and closed his eyes.
"There's nothing to hear."
"That's not what the padre was sayin', and I wanted to hear it straight from you," the man said. He looked remarkably like he was going to be sick.
"But if you say there ain't nothing to the talk, then there ain't nothing to the talk."
"Talk is cheap," Chris said flatly. "If the preacher wants to know what's going on in my life, or in Miss Bainbridges, then he ought to come and speak to us directly about it. But since you came all this way, I'll put it real blunt for you: there's nothing to talk about. Now, class is in session, so if y'all don't mind, could you just keep on movin?"
The woman looked like she'd never been spoken to like that in her life. Well, if that was the case, Chris thought, then she ought to get used to it.
Twenty-One
Marie usually took note of anything that was going on. She wrote it down in a little notebook that she kept on the corner of her desk, if something happened during the day that needed to be addressed after classes ended.
The two outside, the ones that Chris had gone to speak with, didn't make the list. There wouldn't be any need to write it down, she knew, because she couldn't stop wondering about them long enough to forget to find out what they'd been there for.
Most of the time, she still didn't recognize everyone's face. The folks who she knew well, she knew well. But even in a small town like Applewood Junction, there were still faces she didn't recognize, from social circles she didn't move in. From circles she didn't particularly want to move in.
Marie may not have known the woman outside, or the man beside her, obviously her husband, but it didn't take a mind-reader to know how they were feeling. Even in New Orleans, people got angry. Out west was no different, and the people getting angry tended towards certain patterns. For example, most of the time when folks you didn't know showed up angry, they were angry over something stupid. And stupid or not, they usually had gotten themselves worked up to a fit without any sort of reasonable cause.
But they hadn't come in. In fact, after a few words with Chris, they'd left, and now that the big hole in the roof was patched over, aside from the rapping of the hammer above them, they couldn't hear quite so easily what was being said.
So all she had to go on was body language and the sure knowledge that they didn't come around to welcome her into town with open arms.
When the kids left, she checked the notebook. Nothing for the day. Nothing, because the only thing that she'd noticed, she knew she wasn't going to forget. She stepped outside into the afternoon sun, and as the door closed behind her, Chris pushed himself off of where he'd been standing by the door.
He made a habit, most days, of telling her what sort of progress he'd made that day, what was left to do, and how well things were going. It was a comfort, because the truth was that Marie hadn't the foggiest idea about carpentry, and being in the dark about the entire process wasn't her idea of a good time.
Beggars can't be choosers, of course, so if he was going to do the work for nothing, then she was going to take the status updates that she could get without complaint. That it happened to be daily was a bonus, but it wasn't a bonus that she deserved or even required. It was just something that she appreciated.
"The shingles are up. As far as it goes, the job is pretty much finished, at this point," he told her. "Unless there's something else needs doing."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you—"
"But there is something, then."
"Nothing really," she answered, trying to give him the hint that she wasn't interested in discussing it. Mr. Broadmoor had already done far too much for her, and she knew it would be some time before she could even imagine having the money to pay him for any of the work he was doing.
"Well, if you say so, then fine. I'm gonna go get ready for work. It's been fun, in a way, doing work like this again. I didn't know how much I'd missed it."
"Well, I'm glad you could find some enjoyment in it." She didn't realize until he'd stepped off the boardwalk and into the grass that she'd lost herself in manners and completely forgotten to ask about the ruckus outside. She stepped off and followed behind. "What was that thing about earlier?"
He didn't stop to answer. "Thing? I'm not sure what you mean."
"That couple. You talked to them for a few minutes, and they walked off all in a huff."
"Oh. That thing. Nothing, really. I dealt with it myself."
"What do you mean, nothing? Were they looking for you?"
"They were looking for you, I guess, but they settled for me. Had some questions, and I answered them."
"What about?"
Marie didn't like being ignored. She could stand being condescended to, if the need arose. She could deal with false praise, or neglect, or disbelief, or even disrespect, but being ignored was simply a bridge too far. And yet, the more Chris didn't stop to talk to her, the more that she dug in her heels.
"Not a big deal. You really oughtn't worry, Miss Bainbridge. You got enough on your plate right now, you don't need some country bumpkins getting you down."
"So they were there for me, then. I'm not a child, Mr. Broadmoor, I can deal with problems as they arise just as well as you."
He stopped, then, all of a sudden, and Marie near walked past him in her hurry to keep up. He turned easily and quickly on his heel, his jaw jutting out in defiance, and he looked her up and down with a mix of anger and blatant sex that sent a shock down her spine.
"No, I suppose you aren't," he growled, his eyes lingering for a moment. She knew that he shouldn't look at her that way. She knew that if she chastised him for it, he'd apologize, and he wouldn't do it again. So she didn't.
"So tell me what happened."
"There is some talk, around." He started moving again, turning into an alley headed around to the back of the bar.
"What sort of talk is that?"
"The sort you get when a man stays in your hotel room until midnight," he says with an air of resignation. "But I set them straight."
The alley was short, but provided enough seclusion that suddenly, Marie realized exactly how alone they were. She stopped. A few moments later, Chris realized she wasn't behind him any more and turned.
"What did you tell them," she asked idly. She leaned against the wall, hoping that he'd look at her again the way he just had a moment before.
"I told them it wasn't going to happen," he growled. "And I'm telling you the same thing."
He turned on his heel and a moment later, he was around the corner and out of sight.
Twenty-Two
Chris settled into his place behind the bar and put on a face that said he wasn't in the mood to talk. When customers started to come in, then it would be a problem, but as long as the place was more-or-less empty, then he didn't want to talk.
He didn't want to talk because he sure as hell didn't want to think too hard about anything, and he didn't want anyone asking him how his day had gone, or by God he might actually make the mistake of telling them.
What in the hell was Marie thinking about, acting like that? It was an insult to her to call it throwing herself at him. She wasn't quite so desperate as that, thank God, but he couldn't imagine what else to call it either, not when she should have been anything but receptive to anything he'd be able to offer her.
Yet there she was, without any sort of doubt, very clearly giving it a fair bit of thought. The way she had stood there looking at him, all—God. No way. He wasn't going to saddle a woman like that with his kind of problems, not if he could do anything about it. It was as much his decision as hers, and he had already made it for the both of them.
She didn't know the first thing about him, and there was a good reason for that. If anyone knew much of anything about his history, then they'd flip. He'd have to find some other place, settle in there, and hope to hell that they never started asking any funny questions about why he'd wandered into town one day.
There were a thousand things that he owed the Pearso
ns, but that was one of the biggest. They didn't ask unnecessary questions. Maybe they already knew, maybe they didn't care, or maybe they knew that they might not like the answers they got.
There were a thousand possibilities. Folks who came West after the war ended, and didn't want to talk about what color uniform they'd been wearing. Probably plenty of folks in town who knew someone who didn't want to talk about it. Maybe the Pearsons had been one of those, or maybe they hadn't, but whatever the reason, they hadn't asked and he hadn't told them, and he was more thankful for that than anything.
But eventually, if that teacher kept pushing, then he was going to have to come out with it, and he wasn't remotely ready to do that, not yet. Maybe not ever.
Folks started filing in, and Chris put on a face like he'd jump at the chance to talk to someone about how their cattle herd was going. Most faces were familiar, even in a town with a station like this one had. People came through every day, but only a dozen or so. Most of the business consisted of regulars that stocked the tables and waited around for someone with a bit of money to come by and try to take it.
As often as not, the folks who came by were the takers themselves, but try telling a half-dozen drunken men who fancied themselves card players that they didn't know the first thing, and watch how long it takes to get your nose smashed in.
Chris was particularly good at avoiding having his nose smashed. He could do it from a long way off, by not opening his fool mouth, a skill that he'd thankfully learned before it became real important, or he could do it on short notice, when a fist was already moving through the air and he had to move real quick to avoid it.
There are plenty of things that there's no reason to avoid. If he's good at figures, then a man can make a mighty fine living as a bank teller. If he's a good cook, then there's plenty of places looking for a cook. If he's got a steady hand, there's always room for one more apprentice in a worker's shop.
