Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

  The small car chugged around the bend and disappeared in a puff of dust.

  “What would happen,” Andrew mused, “if I trained both of you?”

  He chuckled at the thought. Teaching Margaret Leigh how to have fun might be just the thing to add some spice to his Saturday mornings.

  o0o

  As soon as Margaret Leigh was around the bend, she pulled off the road and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. She couldn't believe herself. She'd actually carried on with that man like a brazen hussy—letting him rub her cheek and calling him a scoundrel. What in the world had gotten into her? She should have taken her dog and marched right out of there. And that was another thing. She'd actually left Christine with the rogue.

  Of course, he was a well-respected dog trainer.

  She took a handkerchief out of her purse and carefully wiped her perspiring palms. Southern ladies didn't sweat. Aunt Bertha had always told her that. So had Aunt Grace.

  Southern ladies didn't smoke standing up, either. She and Tess used to laugh over that bit of maidenly aunt wisdom. They'd get behind the barn with a pack of cigarettes Tess had swiped from Grandpa Jones and smoke standing up just to see if it made them feel like floozies. It never had.

  Of course Tess had gone on to become the family floozy—three divorces and singing in juke joints. At least, that was the family's opinion. It made Margaret Leigh as mad as... well, nearly as mad as hell.

  She drew a deep breath. There. She'd thought it.

  “Hell.” She even said it out loud. And it felt good.

  If she had had a cigarette, she'd have climbed out of her car and smoked it standing up just for the heck of it. Maybe she was turning into a floozy. The strange thing was, it didn't feel bad, not bad at all.

  She cranked her car and headed home. She knew her bold and reckless feelings were only temporary. Shy all her life and content to live in Tess's shadow, she was something of an anachronism, a woman with Victorian manners and morals in an age of easy sex and instant gratification.

  Driving away from Andrew McGill's cabin, she wished she were different. She wished she wore bleached hair and leather skirts instead of a French twist and sensible gabardine. She wished she knew the art of banal banter and sexual innuendo rather than how to make Southern fried chicken and how to get dog piddle out of the rug. She wished she knew how to flirt instead of how to blush. She wished she preferred French kissing to French cooking.

  Of course, she didn't wish any of that as a permanent condition, just on a short-term basis, just long enough to deal with the likes of Andrew McGill. She sighed. Maybe she'd feel more like herself after she raked the leaves.

  Chapter Two

  Andrew watched Margaret Leigh drive away until the last puff of dust had settled behind her car. Then he looked at the small dog in his arms.

  “Now, what in the devil have I done?” His impulses were always getting him into trouble.

  Christine whimpered, and he patted her head.

  “Don't mind me, sweetheart. It's not that I don't like you. I do. I love all animals, even ones that wet the rug.”

  Andrew chuckled, remembering Margaret Leigh's earnest expression when she tried to explain her dog's problem. Maybe it was her face, rosy with embarrassment, that had made him take on a poodle right when he was in the middle of Mississippi Rex's intensive training. There were only five months until the National Field Trial Championships. He couldn't afford to lose even one week of training. Heck, how was he going to train his bird dog to hold point with a nervous poodle looking on?

  From his backyard came the sounds of his dogs howling.

  “Hear that, Christine? They know somebody new is on the premises. Let's go back there and get you acquainted before they decide to take matters into their own hands.”

  Christine didn't like the bird dogs, and they didn't like her. Andrew had known that would happen. But he'd given his word, and he never backed down on his word. He'd just have to be patient, that was all.

  He decided to take Christine inside and get her accustomed to her temporary home. The dogs bayed their displeasure at his leaving.

  “Quiet down, old boys. This is Christine's day.”

  The back screen door popped behind him, and the poodle shivered.

  She doesn’t like loud noises. He could almost hear Margaret Leigh talking in that earnest way, though why everything about her fascinated him was beyond understanding.

  “Sorry about that, Christine.”

  He set her on the kitchen floor and turned on the radio, keeping the volume low.

  “What is your pleasure in music? Pop? Classical? Country and Western?” He turned the dial as he talked, listening briefly to the offerings of the local radio stations. “No? My feelings exactly.”

  He switched to an oldies channel, smiling as the relaxed strains of Glenn Miller's orchestra filled the room.

  Christine squatted down next to him.

  “No, you don't, young lady.”

  He got her outside just in time.

  By afternoon, he and Christine had reached an uneasy truce; she gave up squatting in return for scratches behind the ear, exorbitant praise, and small doggie treats. If he had been the impatient kind, he'd have run out of patience about the same time he ran out of doggie treats. But Andrew McGill was as relaxed and comfortable as an old chamois shirt after too many washings.

  Stretched on his hammock with Christine resting across his stomach chewing her latest doggie treat, he watched two squirrels chase each other through the branches above his head. Nature was an endless delight to him.

  “Look at that lady squirrel up there, Christine.” Andrew scratched under the dog's fluffy chin. “She's a little con artist, pretending she's not interested when all the while she's dying to be romanced by that cocky old Don Juan. I've known lots of women like that. Playing hard to get, leading me a merry chase. Con artists, every one of them.” He chuckled. “And I love them all.”

  Christine flopped her manicured tail and shook her pink hair ribbons as if to say, “Any fool can see that.”

  “Of course, every now and then I like a little variety. Take your mistress, for instance. I'll bet she's never tried to con a man in her life. Heck, I'll bet she's never even flirted with a man.”

  The idea intrigued him, and the more he thought about it the more intrigued he became. He thought about the way she had blushed and called him a scoundrel. He thought about her unusual eyes and the softness of her skin.

  All the women he'd chased lately were alike—bright, witty, sophisticated, lovely to look at and lovely to touch. But they all wanted the same thing: they wanted Andrew to show them a good time, to take away the pressures of the hard-scrabbling, competitive lives they'd mapped out for themselves. They weren't like Margaret Leigh Jones. Not at all like Margaret Leigh with her old-fashioned manners and her old-fashioned virtues.

  Another idea took hold. Variety. That's what he wanted. He left the hammock and tucked Christine into a small towel-lined wicker basket on his kitchen floor.

  “Take a nap, little girl. I'm going courting.”

  o0o

  Margaret Leigh raked and hummed, while Aunt Bertha sat on the front porch knitting and watching and occasionally commenting.

  “Margaret Leigh, you missed a spot, honey.”

  “Don't worry. I’ll get to it.”

  Bird song and soft humming and the clack of knitting needles punctuated the long October silence. Then the needles stilled.

  “Margaret Leigh, did you know that little Crocker girl?”

  “Yes, Aunt Bertha. But she's hardly a girl. She's twenty-five or so, if I remember correctly.”

  “Well, she's in the family way. And her not even married. It's a sin and a disgrace.”

  Margaret Leigh gave the leaves a good whack. Sometimes her aunt's outmoded ideas grated on her nerves, but she was immediately contrite for thinking even one bad thought about her family. She loved them, eccentric though they were.

  “We s
houldn't listen to idle gossip,” she called over her shoulder. “And anyway, it's none of our affair.”

  “Well, still and all...”

  Aunt Bertha fell into silence and Margaret Leigh hummed and raked. A while later, the knitting was shoved aside once more.

  “Your hair is coming loose, honey. Maybe you ought to come inside and tuck it up.”

  “I'm almost finished. Aunt Bertha.”

  Margaret Leigh leaned against her rake and tried to tuck her hair back into its pins, but the task was impossible. Her hair was heavy, and the autumn breezes plus the exertion of her work had caused it to slip its bonds. Finally, she gave up and let it do what it wanted to do. Mouse hair, that's what it was. The dull, commonplace brown of an old mouse's coat.

  Tess's hair was glorious. The red gold of an October sunset. Margaret Leigh had always admired her sister's hair. But she had never envied her. Envy was as foreign to her as cussing.

  She lifted her rake once more and dragged the fallen leaves to her ever-growing pile. She picked up her song again where she had left off, an old hymn, one of her favorites, “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”

  She was right in the middle of “We will meet on that beautiful shore,” when she heard the truck coming. It was noisy and old, backfiring as it started up at the red light down the street.

  Looking up, she shaded her eyes. She knew the truck. She'd seen it just that morning, a rakish, impossibly red Ford pickup truck sitting in the yard of none other than Andrew McGill.

  She tidied her hair and her face with one hand. Not that he was coming to see her, for goodness' sake. Why on earth would a man like that be coming to her house on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, when Tupelo was full of gorgeous, sophisticated women who probably knew how to French kiss and more?

  The noise grew louder as the truck came down Allen Street. And wonders of wonders, it stopped at the curb right in front of her house. Andrew McGill stepped out, as big as life and twice as jaunty.

  “Margaret Leigh, that man is coming to our house!” Aunt Bertha exclaimed.

  Margaret Leigh couldn't say a word. All she could do was cling to her rake and stare.

  “Good Lord, Margaret Leigh. He's wearing a leather jacket. Only hoodlums wear leather jackets.”

  Andrew McGill heard that remark. Margaret Leigh could tell by the way he grinned. He enjoyed it, too. Gracious, what a man!

  He came across the yard, not stopping until he was so close she could see right through his blue eyes. She knew how Alice must have felt when she'd tumbled through the looking glass.

  “Hello, Margaret Leigh.” His voice was a rich baritone, deep and very formal. He was smiling like the devil come to claim a lost sinner. “Don't you look fetching with your hair falling loose?” He reached out and caught a strand of her hair between two fingers. “It looks like polished mahogany.”

  “Oh.” It was all she could say. To make matters worse, she blushed again. She could feel the heat in the roots of her hair.

  He tucked the strand of hair behind her ear and crammed his hands into his pockets, though the Lord only knew how he got them in there, tight as his jeans were. How did such a big man get into such a small pair of pants?

  He chuckled. She'd been caught staring. One hand tightened on the rake and the other flew to her face.

  “How—” Her voice came out a croak. She cleared her throat and started over. “How's Christine?”

  “Like any woman who gets her way. Content.”

  “Margaret Leigh.” At the sound of her aunt's voice, Margaret Leigh turned toward the front porch. She had completely forgotten about Aunt Bertha. “Who is that man?”

  'The dog trainer. Aunt Bertha.”

  “Goodness gracious!”

  That's what Margaret Leigh thought, too. Goodness gracious. Andrew McGill turned toward the porch, all golden skinned and mannerly.

  “Hello, there. I feel as if I know you already, Aunt Bertha.”

  His manners were as smooth as molasses pouring from a jar. Before anybody knew what had happened, he was on the front porch, bending over Aunt Bertha's hand like some star out of a forties' movie. His lips barely brushed her skin. Then he smiled.

  “How charming you look in pink. It makes your skin just as pretty as magnolia blossoms.”

  “Well, I do declare.” Aunt Bertha fluttered her eyes and flashed her fake diamonds.

  Margaret Leigh propped her rake against a tree and joined them, selecting a straight-backed chair with a good view of her unexpected company.

  “Won't you sit down?” she said to him. “Aunt Bertha, this is Andrew McGill. He's come to tell us about Christine.”

  “How sweet.”

  Andrew straddled a chair and grinned at them. “Actually, I've come courting.”

  The hiss of Aunt Bertha's breath was loud on the front porch. Margaret Leigh sat very still. She didn't know what to do or to say.

  It wasn't that she'd never had offers. Over the years, she'd had a few. But never from anyone as bold and reckless as Andrew McGill.

  “I have dancing on my mind. Do you dance, Margaret Leigh?”

  She wasn't about to admit that she hadn't danced since the high-school prom.

  “Everybody dances at some time or other.”

  “Good. There's a great place down Highway 45. The root beer is cold, the band is better than most, and the owner doesn't cotton to fighting. What do you say we shake a leg around eight o'clock tonight?”

  Margaret Leigh glanced from Aunt Bertha's pursed lips to Andrew McGill's wicked smile.

  “I have some professional reading I need to do tonight.”

  Aunt Bertha relaxed a little, but Andrew leaned closer and winked.

  “I’ll bet I'm more interesting than anything in your library.”

  Margaret Leigh would bet the same thing. Temptation took a strong hold, and she almost yielded. Almost, but not quite.

  “Mr. McGill, your offer is kind, but I can’t accept.”

  “Kind? Kind?” He began to chuckle, and then the chuckle became a roar of full-bodied laughter.

  “What's so funny about that?” Margaret Leigh was close to being miffed.

  “I didn't invite you out of kindness. My motives are far less pure. And a lot more fun.”

  Andrew gave her a smile of such persuasive radiance that she felt like melting into a little puddle at his feet. She rallied her resistance for one more protest.

  “Your motives are probably most improper.”

  “If you call an urge to dance improper, they are.” His smile gathered force, picking up radiance until he was positively gleaming.

  She yielded a little. “Of course, the weather is gorgeous, and it's going to be such a nice night for dancing.”

  Beside her, Aunt Bertha sounded like a fat party balloon that had just lost its air. Andrew kept gleaming at her. That's the best word she could use to describe him. It wasn't merely his smile: it was his teeth and his skin and his hair.

  He gleamed all over. He was hard to resist. She took a deep breath and talked very fast, before she could change her mind.

  “I guess I could do that reading later. Yes, I'll go with you.”

  “Margaret Leigh, I'm going to show you the time of your life.” Andrew stood up, all grace and charm and ease. “Be ready at eight, pretty one.”

  He turned smoothly to Aunt Bertha and took her hand once more.

  “Don't worry about your niece. I plan to take good care of her.”

  The two women sat on the front porch, stunned, while he took his leave. His jaunty whistle echoed across the yard as he sauntered toward his pickup truck. The old door creaked when he opened it. With one foot on the floorboard he saluted. Then he rattled and banged down Allen Street and out of sight.

  “What in the world came over you, Margaret Leigh?”

  “An urge to dance, Aunt Bertha.”

  “But with a man like that. Did you see all that skin he had showing above his shirt? It's not decent.”

  �
�Golden and gorgeous is what I would call it.”

  “Margaret Leigh!”

  Margaret Leigh stared dreamily into the distance. What had come over her? She didn't know, and she didn't want to question. All she wanted to do was go dancing with Andrew McGill.

  “Did you notice? He called me pretty one?”

  “And it took the brains right out of your head. Now don't look at me with those big wounded eyes, honey. A man like that could be an ax murderer for all we know.”

  “He’s a dog trainer, remember? You’re the one who hired him.”

  “Of course, I did. And I’d approve if you were the one wetting the rug.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors.” Margaret Leigh exploded into laughter.

  “Oh, shush, it’s not funny. A nice girl like you has to be careful.”

  “I've been careful all my life.”

  “Still and all...”

  “It's not that I'm going to go out and turn wild. I've been good all my life, and I can't see any reason to change that. But Aunt Bertha, I'm missing something by only going out with dull men.”

  “Nice men. Safe men.”

  “Dull. Dull as dishwater.”

  “But the dog whisperer! He looks like he belongs on the cover of one of those magazines you have to keep under the bed. Lord, Margaret Leigh, promise me you'll be careful, honey. I'd die if anything bad happened to you.”

  “I'll be careful. And anyhow, Aunt Bertha, what could possibly happen on a dance floor?”

  o0o

  By the time eight o'clock came and she was sitting on her side of Andrew's pickup truck, feeling scared and hugging the door handle, she decided that more than she bargained for might happen on a dance floor. More than she'd bargained for was happening to her right there sitting in a pickup truck.

  For one thing, Andrew McGill looked delicious in the dark. With the streetlights shining through the windows, he looked as polished as a gold saint. But there was nothing saintly about his smile, or his voice, or his conversation. Gracious, it was enough to make her quiver.

  She kept her hands tightly clasped so he wouldn't notice. She'd be darned if she'd quiver like some unused little shrinking violet. Even if that's what she was.