All About Charming Alice

by J. Arlene Culiner

  His eyes searched hers, less confidently now. As if something might go terribly wrong at the last moment. As if he were afraid that her words to him on the phone had meant less than he wanted them to. “You did say that, didn’t you, Alice? About us living together?”

  “Oh yes!” she breathed. “Oh yes, I said that. I meant it. Most definitely.”

  He grinned with relief. “Thank goodness for that. This morning, after we spoke, I called the University. Told them I’d be flying out here to discuss the details.”

  “Flying?” she said vaguely. It was still hard for her to take in the reality of this conversation, of this whole situation.

  “Well, it’s only an expression we folks use up there in the big city. Technically speaking, the airplane did the flying. I just sat in it.” His green eyes mocked her.

  “Oh, Jace.” She blinked, took a deep breath.

  “You feel like coming over here to the settee? Talking about this at closer range?”

  “I reckon I do.” Her throat was so tight she could barely squeeze out the words. She wasn’t sure that her ankles and knees would support her all that distance. They didn’t have to. In one swoop, he was beside her. Sweeping her into his arms. Sending her thoughts into a slow spin.

  “It feels like years since I’ve been here,” she said softly.

  “I know,” he whispered, his lips warm in the softness of her hair. “It was hell being away from you. We’re going to make this work, aren’t we?”

  She pulled back slightly in order to look into his eyes, wanting desperately to find all the answers there. “I’d like that.”

  “If we’re willing to take a chance.” His hand crept up her back under her blouse. “Or perhaps I’m just excited by herpetologists. A kinky sort of thing, I admit. What do you think?” His lips found the lobe of her ear and began teasing it.

  “Jace!” She tried desperately to stifle the sparks of excitement that had begun coursing through her belly. “Jace, please. Wait. We have to discuss … ”

  “What is it you want to discuss?”

  She swallowed hard. “You’ll hate it here eventually. You know you will. No concerts, no awful art exhibitions with chicken wire sculpture, no pollution, no traffic jams. Dinner parties with Ma and Pa Handy. Protests against snake shows.”

  Shaking his head, he touched her lips with the tips of his fingers. Silenced her. “What I want is you. Just you and me, right now. Doing things together. Okay. So maybe one day I’ll want a broader horizon. Maybe. Who knows? But if I do, we’re going to work out the right way to manage it for both of us. Together.” He paused, searching her face for answers. “So what do you say now?”

  Wordlessly, she stared up at him for a few seconds, her mind buzzing. He was right. Of course he was. If he’d been willing to dream up this latest crazy scheme so it could work for the two of them, then why fight? “No objection. No argument.” Not now.

  “Good woman.” He laughed softly. “Now we can move on to things that matter.” He brushed his lips over hers longingly, lingeringly. “Things like living for the moment. God, I’ve missed you.”

  “Have you?” She laughed up at him, her pale gold eyes meltingly soft.

  Like his were. Meltingly soft, and sweet, and filled with love.

  Jace smiled down at her. Then looked over her head. Took in the broad, endless plain rolling its bumpy way out to an evening sky scratched by pink cloud. The air was soft, tangy with the scent of dust and new buds out there in the scrub.

  Good. Everything was going to be all right now.

  “I guess I really have found home, after all.”

  About the Author

  J. Arlene Culiner, born in New York, raised in Toronto, has spent most of her life in England, Germany, Turkey, Greece, France, Hungary, and the Sahara. She now resides in a 300-year-old former inn in a French village of no real interest. Much to everyone’s dismay, she protects all living creatures — especially spiders — and her wild (or wildlife) garden is a classified butterfly and bird reserve.

  She can be found at: www.j-arleneculiner.com

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Heart Trouble by Tommie Conrad)

  That damned rooster was crowing again.

  Brandt Conner pulled the pillow over his head and tried, in vain, to catch another five minutes’ worth of winks. When the rooster sang again, he cursed, slid the pillow aside, and glanced at the clock. Day was breaking outside, and his father would already be at the kitchen table poring over the newspaper and sipping his morning coffee. Brandt struggled from the warm blankets and, naked save for his underwear, plodded toward the closet. He pulled on the first pair of jeans he found — they were neatly folded so he figured they were clean — and quickly buttoned a flannel shirt across his chest. Socks and Western work boots completed the ensemble. In the bathroom, he did his business, finger-combed his hair, and yawned all the way down the stairs.

  It was never quiet in the old ranch house. The stairs squeaked, the ancient nails shifting in and out of the risers with each footstep. The walls settled and groaned at all hours of the day. The place was well-insulated behind the lath and plaster — it’d been blown in just two years earlier — but nothing could stop the march of time, the floors sloping here and there as the stone foundation settled beneath antique floor joists. Brandt knew it’d take a gut job to fix all that was wrong with the place, but his father insisted the house had great bones and would outlast them all. A noncommittal “maybe” was the only answer Brandt could ever muster in most situations.

  Mitchell Conner sat in his regular chair at the kitchen table, the one he’d repaired with nails and wood glue more than a few times. It squeaked and groaned like everything else in the house. He shared his son’s brown hair, though it’d gone grey at the temples a long time ago, matching his weathered face. He sipped from his coffee cup — he drank it black, stout enough to walk on its own, never adding milk or sugar. Brandt had tried that once, and found out quickly that he’d rather drink tar or crude oil than to ever again try coffee without milk.

  “Good afternoon,” Mitchell joked. Brandt considered a rancorous comeback for a moment before he reconsidered. It was just his father’s way, he knew — he’d been trying for twenty-five years to turn his only child into an upright man, and maybe he’d succeeded. Brandt still lived at home and helped take care of the ranch, despite his college degree. The degree was superfluous, however, because Brandt had never wanted to be anything but a cattle rancher. Being a cowboy was as easy as breathing; being a dutiful son was more difficult. Brandt took a seat at the table, and kept his thoughts to himself. His mother, Laura, was a tad gentler, a more sympathetic counterpoint to her gruff husband.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her back turned to him. She stood over the range, the newest appliance in the house, and plated breakfast for him. She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she set eggs, toast, and bacon before him, joining it a moment later with a glass of milk.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Brandt said before he picked up his fork and dug in. This was usually the calmest, most serene part of his day: dishes clinking together, the rustling of the newsprint as his father flipped through it. His father read the paper deliberately, quietly, and Brandt could never remember him voicing an opinion over its contents. He and Laura made small talk as she ate her own breakfast, and that was that.

  “Brandt.” Mitchell folded the paper closed and father and son locked eyes.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Don’t forget I need you to head into town this morning and pick up that new roll of fence at the farm store.”

  Brandt chewed for half a minute before he answered. “You don’t need me to check the herd this morning?”

  Mitchell shook his head quickly. “I’ll get Rawlings to help me with that. Besides, you need a better rapport with people. Most everyone finds you a little … ” Brandt’s mouth dropped in a frown at one corner. “Broody.”

  Brandt lifted an eyeb
row. “Okay. As soon as I’m done eating, I’ll head into Layton.” He cleared his throat. “Is it on your tab or … ”

  Mitchell pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and passed it across the table — five twenty-dollar bills. “That oughta cover it.” He shoved his chair back, its legs scraping the pine boards, and stood. “Drive safe, son.” He pulled his hat from a hook near the back door and left without another word.

  “He’s not trying to be harsh,” Laura insisted, and Brandt knew it was to his benefit to listen. “He’s just from a different generation. Warmth is not his strong suit.”

  Brandt nodded and finished his breakfast. “I know,” he replied, shoving the bills in his jeans. He stood, grabbed his cowboy hat, and nearly had it slung atop his head before he remembered to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Later, Mom. Don’t work too hard today.”

  She smiled up at him warmly, both hands locked around her own cup of coffee. “I’ll try not to, sweetie.”

  The Conner ranch covered not quite forty-five acres on the outskirts of Layton, a town where everyone was a farmer, a future farmer, or a farmer’s daughter. This was the section of Kentucky that featured gently rolling meadows, a safe respite from the rocky foothills and limestone canyons that dotted points north and east, the verdant pastures and meadows providing ample land for cattle grazing. Other farms featured a passel of hogs, goats, even sheep, but the Conners never cottoned to anything but beef cattle and poultry. And that was just fine with Brandt — cattle were enough work, and he’d been dragging pails of milk and baskets of eggs in the house since he was big enough to walk. It was a lifestyle that both his parents were born into, and complaining about it wouldn’t have done much good — he had an advantage on both of them, having been indoctrinated in the importance of a college education by his parents from an early age. He’d read Shakespeare, researched in that big library until his eyes had gone crossed, learned all about the difference between the philosophies of Aristotle and Plato, and earned that four-year degree. There were times, when he was alone with his thoughts, that he couldn’t understand why all of it was so important — it wasn’t like he’d ever had to recite a sonnet down at the farm store. You asked for feed, or fence wire, or iodine. You paid the clerk or had it put on your father’s tab. Not exactly rocket science.

  There was some advantage to being an only child, and primary beneficiary of his parents’ affections. If Mitchell was somewhat gruff and distant, Brandt had never wanted for anything. His closet was full of flannels and jeans, and he had plenty of nice boots and warm coats. Good gloves that kept his hands from getting raw and chapped in the winter. A few nice Stetson hats. A black truck that was in his name and still under warranty. His dad paid only the insurance, and upkeep otherwise fell on his shoulders. As hard as ranch life could be from time to time, Brandt figured he was luckier than most — how many kids got to live out a childhood dream every day of their adult lives?

  It was early spring, the world outside the truck windows greening back to life. The redbuds were still colored with their bright blooms, the green leaves a few days away from bursting forth. Brandt cracked his window long enough to get a taste of the chilled air, then powered it back up and into place. It was a few miles into Layton, and this was the biggest stretch of quiet he ever got to experience. There was no silence to be found on the ranch, whether in or out of the house. There was always something more to do, something else to worry over, someone yelling for you to get your muddy damned boots off the back porch …

  Here in the truck, though, he heard nothing but the hum of the engine and his subtle breathing. He rolled on toward town, past the high school with its brand-new bleachers and running track paved in broken asphalt. In his years there, he’d consistently baffled the track coach, who couldn’t figure out why someone with a sprinter’s legs didn’t try out for the team. Brandt had always shrugged it off; he’d outrun a few bulls in his time, mainly because he didn’t listen to his father’s carefully-worded warnings not to piss them off. No matter — he’d never been injured on the ranch, aside from Mitchell reaming him up one side and down the other. Laura always defused conflict before it reached critical mass, a better peacemaker than anyone at the Ambassador’s table.

  Brandt had always been closer to his mother, from the time he was born. Mitchell had taught him everything there was to know about ranching, how to brand a cow or inoculate a calf, even how to turn a bull into a steer, but so much of that was technical, distant, as though the elder Conner was keeping his son at arm’s length. “Do this, not that. Stand up straight, don’t pout.” And so it went. Maybe that was the real reason he’d been marched off to college, he considered, pulling his truck into a diagonal space at the front of the farm store.

  To keep him and his father from coming to blows.

  • • •

  Different day, same routine.

  In the week since Marissa Sloan had started her job at Layton Farm and Supply Company, she’d done the same tasks each day: swept the floor every morning before they opened for business, but not before she’d inventoried and straightened all the shelves, wiped down the checkout counter, and started the coffee in the employee lounge that was little more than a cubbyhole between the restroom and storeroom. The manager, Mona Larkin, was a longtime friend of her mother who’d secured this job for her. The only stipulation was that she had to move from her hometown, not quite fifty miles away, which was no hardship — she had nothing holding her there, and thus far her college degree had proven useless. She was now renting the apartment above the farm store, the one that always smelled like seasoned lumber and feed corn. As she put away the broom, she gave the store a once-over — the interior was covered in aged wood, and looked like it would turn into a tinderbox if she breathed on it too warmly. Mona had given her a customary greeting as she unlocked the front door before heading back into the sanctuary of her office. Mona would never have made manager without a strong degree of nepotism — she didn’t display a whole lot of friendliness outside of superficial greetings: “Hi, how are you?” or “How is your (insert family member’s name here)?” was about as deep as she ever went. Still, Marissa was exceedingly grateful for this job, and the opportunity to earn a paycheck. She’d been without both for too long.

  She was settling in for another standard day, her butt planted firmly on a stool beside the cash register, when her world was knocked sideways. He ambled into the store, coughing as dust motes filled the air, a hitch barely noticeable in his gait. The white Stetson was pushed low, shielding his eyes from view. As he stepped close to the counter, she looked up into his gaze.

  Her eyes swept over a wiry, rangy frame, his jeans and shirt well broken-in. He pushed up the brim of his hat and she caught her first glimpse of those green eyes — darker than an oak leaf, closer in hue to a blade of grass. His face was lightly tanned, nearly blending in with his brown hair. He had a sharp jawline but little else to distinguish an otherwise handsome face. When their gazes met, the back of her neck went hot, and she was suddenly relieved she’d worn her hair down that day. He cleared his throat and gave her a small smile.

  “Good morning,” he said in a roughened timbre.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “I’m here to pick up an order,” he murmured.

  “Okay,” she said, a little taken aback by his abruptness. She rifled in her pocket until she found the key that opened the storage locker under the counter, the usual place where special orders were housed.

  “Haven’t seen you around here before,” he continued, and she noted he’d shoved his hands in his pockets. Don’t look at his pockets, she chided herself. Don’t look anywhere but his eyes — beautiful, green, mysterious.

  “I just started this week … ” she said, trailing off as Mona entered the corner of her vision. She’d undoubtedly heard the whoosh of air when their first customer arrived for the day and come to supervise. Marissa reminded herself once more that she needed this job and would slowly have to
earn Mona’s respect.

  “Brandt,” Mona said, somewhat tersely.

  “Mrs. Larkin,” he replied.

  “I noticed your mama wasn’t in church Sunday. I hope she’s feeling okay.”

  He nodded politely, but Marissa noted the square set of his jaw, as though speaking required great effort for him. “She was feeling a little under the weather. She’s fine now.”

  “Good,” Mona replied. Marissa set the bundle of electric fence atop the counter and Mona shot her a mildly exasperated look. “Don’t forget the insulators, Marissa. They should be right alongside the fencing.”

  Marissa found the bag of yellow plastic insulators immediately and laid them next to the fence. She was perceptive enough to notice the uncomfortable pose displayed by manager and customer, standing far apart on the other side of the counter, as though a chasm had opened between them. She wondered what that was all about, and then realized it was none of her business.

  “Brandt,” Mona said in a measured tone, “this is Marissa Sloan. She just started working for us.” He extended his hand across the counter and she shook it. His handshake was firm, the skin warm and work-hewn.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” she replied. She noted quickly that he couldn’t speak to anyone without meeting their eyes. Eye contact wasn’t her strong suit but this cowboy or whatever he was had her seemingly hypnotized. Their hands parted and he looked down at his purchases before meeting her eyes again.

  “How much do I owe you?” She totaled the items, told him the price, and money and change was traded.

  “Do you need a receipt?”

  He nodded. “Tax purposes. You understand.”

  “Of course,” she said, playing along. She dropped the receipt in his bag and he started to go. “Have a nice day,” she quickly remembered to say.

  He gave her an appraising look, then spared another smile. “You too, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. She watched him the whole way, only breaking her stare when he disappeared and the door closed behind him. She felt the blush creep along her neck again, her insides turning molten. She met Mona’s eyes — she swore they were black, a totally unnatural color for anyone’s irises — and found them staring back at her hard.