Hank went to the kitchen and found Pepsi sitting at the table, tapping her finger against the wood. She was dressed in her Sunday best, preparing to leave for church. They greeted each other good morning and then she laughed.
“Let me guess…cranberry juice, two aspirins, and my famous white chocolate coconut macaroons?”
“That sounds about right.” Hank saw the cookies laid out on the counter on a chipped plate.
“Figured as much.” She tapped her finger harder. “You want some coffee, Hank? Delilah made it for me this morning before she went to her room. I love that she has a gas stove here. She thinks about just everything. If the lights go out from the storm, she always has a place to cook her food and warm her place. It brings back memories for me. We always had gas stoves growing up. I even love the smell of it. It smells like home to me.”
Hank nodded, taking a deep breath. It did smell like home. A woman’s delicate perfume danced in the air, laced with a tinge of natural gas and chicory. “My Granny used to have them. We used to roast marshmallows over them, even when it was raining in the summer.”
Pepsi watched with kind and knowing eyes as Hank moved to the cabinet with all those plates, searching up and down. He pulled out a chipped one and cut his finger on the jagged edge. He put it back in the cabinet, careful not to get his blood on anything.
“Why doesn’t she throw these away?” He put his finger to his lips, sucking the blood from the wound. He could feel the split and taste the iron in his blood.
“Choices, I guess. She likes to have choices.”
Hank nodded but didn’t fully understand. Still, he chose an older one, just without the cracks. Pepsi pointed to the fridge for the juice and the cabinet for the aspirin. Everything had a place; everything was neat, organized, the exact opposite of her office.
Pepsi made agreeable noises under her breath, her eyes firm on his work after he had filled the glasses. “You done real good, Hank. Real good, baby.” Then her eyes drifted to the storm. “Delilah likes to say there isn’t any rest for the weary. I just don’t know about that. Maybe rest escapes the weary, maybe it truly does, Hank. But what I’d like to know is, what about the living? Does rest escape them? Only some people are weary, but the way I see it, everyone on this earth is living until that last breath is taken.
“I often wonder, while I’m sitting here looking out this window—” she thrust her chin toward the glass “—why is it that some find such peace in their lives, and others, a lot of others, mind, just can’t seem to grasp it? Is it slippery, Hank? Like a fish? Does it struggle so fiercely that one gives up on it? Or is it just so wet and slick that some people can’t help but drop it? I don’t know, really, I don’t.
“As old as I am, I can’t say that I know anything for certain. Well, that’s not entirely true, but some of the broader questions, they lead me down unending roads, if I have the courage to try and travel them. I suppose the good Lord above intended it that way. But what I’m guessing is, we all have to find the thing that gives us peace. And once we do, even the weary will find rest. One needs to find the strength, the best way they know how, to hold onto it, that’s all.”
She waved as if she was dismissing an idea that had come to mind. She stood from her spot, opened her arms to Hank, and hugged him real tight. She promised him she’d be back soon and said if she was going to die in a storm, at least she was headed to church. Her good intentions were there, and that’s got to count for something. She promised she’d be back to make Sunday dinner like she always did, and then walked out, head under her hands, into the storm.
Delilah’s door was still open when Hank made it back. This time, she was sitting up in bed. Her hair was a holy mess, sticking up behind her head. She was propped up against her pillow, the blankets covering most of her. She smiled when she saw him, but Hank could see the weariness in her eyes. To him, it seemed like it took every last ounce of what she had left to smile at him like she did.
He handed her the juice and aspirins, leaving the cookies next to the bed. He picked up an old sepia-tone picture from the table. It was a little girl with eyes like Delilah’s. The little girl was standing in the middle of a cotton field. It was the only photo in her room.
Hank held it up. “Is this you?”
She studied it with eyes that carried her away to a secret place, someplace in that dreamy realm she often retreated to. “Some days. I don’t really feel much like her anymore. I love the picture, though. When I start to miss her, it’s there to remind me she’s still here.”
Delilah’s arms were bare, and when she turned to put the cup back on the bedside table, he could see her bare breasts and the bright white of lacy underwear, barely peeking out. Heaven help me, Hank pleaded. Not even all the rain in the south could cool the desire he had for her.
“She’s very beautiful.” He closed his eyes tight and kissed her on the head.
“Hank, will you stay with me, please?”
He nodded and went to sit on the edge of the bed. She shook her head, moved the covers, and patted the spot beside her. He crawled into the spot, covering up. She scooted closer, breathing easily next to him.
“Is this what you do on Sundays?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Hank grinned. “Every Sunday?”
“Every Sunday. I get real tired, Hank. Real tired sometimes, and I find Sundays are the easiest day to rest. The rain is just an added bonus. Still, sometimes I can’t sleep. So, Freud and I, we just couch around, eating trash foods and watching ridiculous movies.”
The house brightened with a hoary shock of lightening. Thunder cracked so loudly, Freud’s ears shot up and he stood, looking around. He jumped at the bottom of the bed and got comfy.
“You want to watch a movie?” Hank said.
Delilah happily agreed, and they watched three movies in a row. They ate Pepsi’s cookies and then Delilah pulled out a bowl of creamy mints covered in soft chocolate. They shared out of the same bowl, watching old flicks and hoping the lights wouldn’t go out just yet.
While they watched, Hank noticed for the first time how cynical Delilah could be about love and romance. Hank wasn’t the most romantic of guys, but he still believed in the notion of it all. She complained how ludicrous it was that the woman always lusted after the bad guy. Why not pick the nice guy?
Delilah rambled on about how if the girls would start picking the nice guy, then maybe the rest of them would be forced to change. Nothing changes if the same old behavior is accepted time and time again. Hank had to agree with her there. But she always seemed to expect the worst endings, no matter what.
He also noticed in the scenes where the man abused the woman, she watched with frozen eyes. They were present, but forced. He felt that she was forcing herself to watch, like someone forces themselves to get into an elevator when they’re claustrophobic.
As the ending of Gone with the Wind played, Delilah stood and walked to her bathroom. Before she made it to the door, Hank cleared his throat.
“Delilah, do you believe in marriage?”
It took her a moment to answer. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore, Hank. I truly don’t.”
As the door shut, Hank took a deep breath and moved his body to her side of the bed. Damn. How good her pillows and blanket smelled. Like the scent of a beautiful woman, tender and strong, exposed with midnight secrets waiting in the wings. Hank inhaled and groaned when he released his breath. Something about being in her bed, her bare breasted, him pulsating with a wild need, nothing in between but the storm was just about maddening.
She opened the door and walked slowly from the bathroom. Their eyes meet, but Hank’s roamed up and down, following the length of her body. Her breasts were perfectly shaped, juicy like passion fruit, so firm, and sitting high without any support. He imagined her skin, soft and gentle like the cotton in her room. He knew her smell and imagined how she would taste. He wanted to rip her underwear off with his teeth. But when she smiled, her eyes were so d
amn tired.
He held out his arms for her and she went to him, that warm wind sending delicious waves through his humming blood. The lights quivered just for a second before they went dead. He pulled her close and she curled her body into his. She fit so perfectly next to him that he wondered how he ever made it without her this long. She had always been with him. That he couldn’t deny. But there was a missing piece and he couldn’t deny that either.
Pistollette was there in the darkness, in that storm, in that room. She had somehow become the point of the love triangle. Something about her linked everyone together, and the three of them felt as though they were complete. Hank felt guilty about that. Why couldn’t he just let her go? Maybe Pistollette wasn’t the one broken, like he had first accused. Maybe it was him.
Delilah reached over and turned on her old radio. It had an antenna and ran on batteries. Like Pepsi had said, she was always prepared. She pressed play and another one of those old country songs started to fill the space the storm wasn’t taking. Even though it was enough cheddar to make you shake your mouth, he loved that about her. He loved that she loved what she loved. That she would walk around with her hair a holy mess on Sunday because it was her day to be lazy.
He loved that she was confident enough to lie beside him without a thing between them. He loved that she had a dog named Freud (who was just as much a gentleman as any southern man), a best friend named Pepsi, and an uncle named Hennessey. He loved how she laughed like no one was watching, somehow making madness endearing. He didn’t know why, but he loved that she had a million plates, chipped ones and all. He loved that she was the unsung majority, and you either took it or left it. She seemed to make no apologies for who she was and what she stood for.
As he listened to the song, he understood. She was playing it for him. Hank couldn’t help think of the irony—it was an old Diamond Rio song. REO, Hank thought. And he was gone.
“Delilah.”
“Yes, Hank.”
“My perspective or yours?”
“No questions, Hank, because I don’t have any answers right now.”
Hank tucked his finger under her chin and brought her face closer to his. More lightning and thunder, the steady stream of drip, drip, drip…moving slowly, his touch so soft, all she felt was the tender caress of his fingertips, he moved them up and down her arms. He gently kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, breathing evenly, but quicker.
He kissed the tip of her nose, and then he hesitated when he came to her lips. They were turned down, that scowl on her face more apparent than ever. He could feel her cool, sweet breath against his—she smelled of fresh mint and melting chocolate. When he put his lips to hers, a trace of tears slid down her cheeks.
She pulled away, rested her head against his chest. “Hank,” she whispered, “I’ve seen a lot of things in my thirty years. I’ve beaten a lot of things, and I’ve done them mostly on my own. There are just some things we have to do on our own, you know? But the one thing I’ve never been able to beat, or capture, is being lonely. Deep down, there has always been a part of me that’s been lonely. And it’s the one thing, the only thing that can sometimes control me. Nothing else. I have no fear of death, or anything else really. Loneliness, can you believe it?”
“Why are you lonely, darlin’? You have so many people around you all the time. Your sisters, your family.” He tightened his grip around her and breathed deeply when she relaxed into him, like she was sinking into her own bliss.
“I know, Hank. All I can figure is, none of them are you. That’s why I’ve always been this lonely. When you’re around, I don’t feel so lonely anymore.”
Hank wanted to tell her then that he loved her. It’s all he wanted to say, but instead he kissed her again and left his words where they’d come from—in his heart. He didn’t want to break the rules.
Delilah yawned, tucked her head right under his chin. He could feel her body drifting, the way you do before you fall into a peaceful sleep.
“Hank.” There was a pause. “It’s a good thing we went fishin’ last night. I bet those ones who didn’t take the bait, they’re mighty happy today. They have one more day. And the ones who did, well, I truly hope they had a day like this before they were caught. That’s what I’d want. You’d be the kind of day I’d want. It’s all I’d want.” There was another long pause, while the house shook, and the music continued to play. “Hank, I’m real tired. I’m going to sleep now. Stay with me.”
“One more day, Delilah?”
“One more day, Hank. Just one more day.”
“Good night, darlin’. Get you some rest.”
Delilah fell asleep in Hank’s arms, her breathing easy. It was a lullaby to Hank’s ears. After he was sure she was asleep, Hank closed his eyes. He listened to the song again, his heart aching, matching the steady beating of the rain and wind against the creaking house.
Hank bowed his head and cried. He cried until he fell asleep. It was the most either of them had slept since the day they met.
Hank & Delilah landed on California soil way behind schedule. The connecting flight they had was delayed, and then they had a small argument in front of the ladies’ bathroom in the airport. Hank had stated his case quite clearly.
“Bathrooms in airports are the worst place a woman can change her clothes, Delilah. I don’t feel right about you changing in there. Someone can take you. Stop laughing at me. I’m serious. You need to read statistics. And there is no Hank & Delilah without Delilah. Then it would just be…Hank. And I promise you just Hank is no fun.”
She finally relented, and Hank felt like he had won the case of his lifetime. Forget frying big-time murderers; changing Delilah Turner’s mind after it had been set was like getting a pardon two seconds before the execution. It was a miracle. She agreed to change in the back of the car. Their rental was practical, and Hank was thankful for the chance to drive.
The sun was beating down on them like it was drying leather. Hank was glad he’d worn his hat to shield some of the glare away. After two hours or so of steady driving, they finally made it to the small town two hours from where Gillian’s place was. It was a dry little desert town. It reminded Hank of the gold-rush days. All it was missing was horses and wagons.
Delilah stepped out the car, a siren in the California sunlight, wearing a tailor-fitted red lace dress she put on in the car. It stretched to fit her body perfectly in all the right places, and those heels gave her just enough height to give her an undeniable aura of confidence. She moved that body like one of the rocks from the mountain being rolled by the wind.
The realtor, Amore Porta, was waiting when they arrived. The property was rustic, all wooden, with brass touches here and there. Across the street sat an older-looking bank. Amore Porta showed them the property, a bright white smile on his coco-butter face. All swaggered out in his expensive black suit and purple tie, he tried to hypnotize Delilah with words like prime location, breathtaking views, situated right in the heart of a rugged but eloquent town that would be the perfect host to a new Pistol Fanny’s.
He tried charming her with his smile. Each and every time a new room would be shown to its prospective buyer, he would stop, turn his palm forward, and allow her to enter the room before him.
Delilah and Hank had gone over the prices of the comparables in the area on the plane. They studied the town, the demographics, and what was a reasonable price to pay for the place. But after they arrived and Amore Porta saw who was greeting him, the price went up.
Delilah went along with him, making all the right noises in all the right places. She asked simple questions, and he would give her complicated answers. Finally, when the tour had ended, and she seemed to be deliberating, Amore Porta looked at Hank and said, “Who are you again?”
“Hank Rivers.” They shook again. “I’m Ms. Turner’s attorney.” Hank smiled.
“Do you always travel with your attorney, Ms. Turner?” Amore Porta asked.
“No, not always. Onl
y the ones in my pocket.” She winked. Then she excused herself to use the ladies’ room. Since the water wasn’t turned on in the space, she ran across the street to the bank to use theirs.
Hank and Amore stared at each for a moment.
“Are you and Ms. Turner more than just…business associates?” Amore said, his accent lightening just a bit in light of Delilah’s departure.
“Depends.” Hank leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
“On?”
“Why you’re asking.”
“I was hoping to ask her out. For a drink or two.”
“On a date?”
“That’s what we call them in California.”
“Then the answer is, sì. That’s how you’d say yes in Italian, no?” Hank smirked, a wonderful feeling of possessiveness rising in his chest.
Delilah came into the property then, hiking her skirt down and fanning her face. “It sure is arid out west.” She walked between the two men and fiddled with the papers a bit. She turned her face to Amore and fixed her glasses. “I’ve thought it over, Mr. Porta, and I want the place. I won’t, however, take it for what you are trying to sell it to me for. My accent might cause me to seem slow, Mr. Porta, but I can promise you, my brain works just as quickly as your pretty little mouth does. Now…” She started going over facts and figures and the comparables she and Hank discussed on the plane. After she was done, Amore Porta looked a little pale. “Are you willing to give me a fair deal? I’m not asking for nothin’ absurd. What’s fair is fair. I won’t pay a penny over. Take it or leave it.”
Porta took it. And on the way to Gillian’s, Hank asked Delilah on a date. He wanted to take her out to celebrate her business deal. She said yes, a lovely smile playing on her face. They arrived at Gillian’s around four—still hot, but the cool ocean air was starting to bring the heat down.
Gillian’s place was nestled in the Malibu hills. It overlooked the ocean, the entire structure made of nothing but cream stone and sparkling glass. The walls were made of stone, stretched by an expanse of glass walls, taking in every view of the surrounding area.
Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah Page 17
