It wasn’t exactly a ringing declaration of undying love. Not that she expected one. Their relationship was, if not in its infancy, certainly in its awkward toddlerhood, stumbling around in circles, full of enthusiasm but lacking direction. At least, that’s how she’d thought of it. But Goat dismissing it so easily—that stung.
“Let me tell
you
something, mister,” she said, pushing back the chair and standing to her full five foot six so she could stare down at him. “I care about justice every bit as much as you do, maybe more, and I don’t care for you implying otherwise. The minute I have anything to say to you that’s gonna make any of this mess right, I’ll be in here saying it. Meanwhile, if you want me back again, I guess you’ll just have to arrest me, ’cause I got better things to do than sit here and let you scold me.”
She grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and stomped to the door of the office. Before yanking it open, she spun around and added, “And that dinner invitation? Don’t you worry yourself over it. I’m sure you got way more important law-type stuff to do than have dinner with a bunch a your lowly constituents.”
She slammed the door behind her and stalked across the lobby, managing a little wave for Irene, who was kneeling on the floor in a pair of purple polyester slacks and a fuzzy yellow sweater, taping decorations to the front of the counter.
EASTER,
Stella couldn’t help noticing, was at a decidedly crooked angle to
HOPPY,
and the paper daffodils were curling and drooping under their own weight.
* * *
Stella stopped by Walmart
on her way home. Cream cheese, chili sauce, green onions, shredded cheese … heaven on a cracker. She tossed in a few bags of snack mix, the good kind with the crunchy Cheetos, and added a fresh soldier—a liter bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Might as well be well prepared, and she did have a nice stack of cash in her wallet, what remained of her half of the money they took off Jake and Lawrence. A twelve-pack of Miller High Life—Stella paused and wondered if lesbians were more likely to prefer fancy beer or plain, before giving up on the question as beyond her experience—a few bottles of wine and eggs and butter for the corn bread, and then she headed toward the registers.
Through the men’s section.
Past the stacks of nubby sweaters, the racks of flannel overshirts with corduroy collars, which Stella paused to smooth with her fingers, imagining how they might look on Goat.
Then she remembered him chastising her like she was some vagrant Mike and Ian had dragged in, and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She steered her cart back toward the front of the store.
Paused at the book aisle. Cast a sidelong glance down the neat rows of best sellers. She used to love to read, her bedside table stacked with thrillers and mysteries and historical romances from the library. Once Ollie was dead, she treated herself to an occasional hardcover—she loved the feel, the smell, the sensation of letting the pages flutter against her fingertips. Only, ever since she’d taken up the banner in defense of the defenseless, it seemed like her days ended in the kind of exhaustion that didn’t do well with reading a chapter or two.
But that didn’t stop her from wondering what Goat might like. Was he a history buff? Maybe one of those types that liked biographies—Stella found them dry as dust, but her father always had one on the little table next to his easy chair, his place marked by a crisp dollar bill.
She passed up the page-a-day calendars and a coffee table book featuring classic cars of the ’70s without a second glance. At the end of the aisle were the travel books and there, squeezed in between a bedraggled stack of atlases and a copy of
Midwest Capitals on Twenty Bucks a Day
was a slim volume titled
Wonders of the Yukon.
Stella picked it up. On the front was a gorgeous photo of a crystal blue lake laid out in front of a range of pristine, snowy mountains. On a peak in the middle distance, a man in hiking gear raised a hand to shield his eyes, while a brilliant sun peeped out through a layer cake of yellow and pink and orange sky.
All that was missing from that picture, Stella thought, was this rugged yet sensitive man’s woman, dressed in a slimming pair of hiking trousers and a nice fitted parka that showed off her curves, maybe in a lovely shade of violet. They’d hike through the morning and have a romantic lunch of elk or something at a rustic lodge before climbing into a log bed to make crazy love all afternoon long under a puffy down comforter, until night fell and they watched the northern lights sparkle up the sky as snow fell around them, naked under a bearskin blanket, arms around each other.
Reverently, Stella placed the book in her cart. Not for Goat, of course. Not after that little display in his office. Unless maybe he came to his senses and … but no, Stella Hardesty did not wait around letting men walk all over her. The man on the book, why, he could be anyone. He could be the man around the next corner, someone she’d never even met yet, who would turn out to be rugged and hot and clever and funny and just a little devilish.
Just like Goat,
the little voice in her mind whispered.
Not,
she thought fiercely as she gazed down at Mr. Yukon—who was assuredly
not
Goat—and imagined how bear fur might feel on her behind as he rolled her on her back in order to take her to delicious new sensual heights.
And plowed her cart into a display stand of Windex Crystal Rain.
“Stella Hardesty, is that you?” a deep voice bellowed from down the aisle as the plastic bottles tipped and wobbled on their cardboard shelves. Stella looked up to see Big Johnson Brodersen rushing toward her just as the first bottle crashed to the ground.
Then things went a little slow-mo as BJ and Stella both attempted to forestall a Windex disaster and ended up crashing into each other and sending the display toppling over, Stella tripping on one of the bottles and causing it to burst and puddle on the floor. She scrambled to stay on her feet, but in the end there was nothing to do but clutch a handful of BJ’s faded denim shirt and hold on for dear life as she fell.
BJ’s generous frame softened the impact, and she found herself sprawled on his burly and surprisingly comfortable chest before they managed to disentangle themselves from each other and the litter of bottles and shelves.
“Sorry I wasn’t quick enough,” BJ said, getting to his feet and offering a hand. “I saw you wasn’t lookin’ where you was going—got your mind on something?”
Stella put her hand in BJ’s and allowed herself to be helped up. “Nothing important.” She gave him a big smile as she straightened her top and dusted herself off. “What are you shopping for?”
“Pickin’ up a curtain rod. Doing a little fixin’ up at the bar. Fact, you were on my list of people to call. You think you could find me someone might want to sew up some curtains? Nothin’ fancy, I just got so sick of lookin’ at them plaid things, I think they been there since they built the place.”
Stella didn’t doubt that was true. BJ’s Bar was a homely place, a tavern favored by folks who liked to do their drinkin’ and carryin’ on in an austere environment, without any frippery or frills. You could get Bud or Miller or Michelob on tap, your basic well drinks—if someone ordered a Tequila Sunset or a White Russian, a riot would probably break out.
Stella found herself at BJ’s on business from time to time, hunting down some ne’er-do-well or other who’d been abusing his relationship with a loved one. Over time, she’d become friendly with BJ himself. He was a good-sized, powerful man with scarred-up knuckles and a brush cut flecked with silver. He’d flirted with her a time or two, and while Stella had never followed that trail to see where it led, she snuck a glance at the man on the cover of the Yukon book and thought that he did, in fact, resemble BJ a little, if BJ were a bit more rugged and narrower and illuminated by the magical glow of a northern sun.
BJ had taken hold of her shopping cart and looked ready to steer it wherever he was told. Unlike that stubborn Goat, who did not strike Stella as the sort of man you could drag around on a shopping trip. Not to mention the fact that she couldn’t exactly see Goat leaping to her aid when she was about to collide with cleaning products—he was more likely to stand back and laugh his ass off.
Suddenly an old-fashioned kind of gentleman didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.
“I might could find you someone,” Stella said. “Chrissy’s probably looking to make a little extra cash. Here, let me help you with your rod.”
Then there was a long and horrifying moment when Stella realized what she had said. She could feel her face turning all kinds of pink as BJ suddenly got something stuck in his throat that seemed to require a fair amount of coughing to settle down. Stella grabbed the front of the cart and dragged it—and BJ, who was hanging on to the handle—to Home Fashions. By the time she grabbed the first rod she saw and thrust it into the cart, BJ had mostly recovered.
“Do you need anything else?” Stella asked with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Nope, that’s it for today. I’m a man of simple needs,” BJ said, wheeling the cart gallantly out of her way so Stella could precede him down the aisle. As she headed for the front of the store, Stella dug in her purse for a mint and popped it in her mouth and just generally appreciated BJ’s nice manners.
“Ooh, you fixin’ that chili cream cheese dip?” the checker asked, running her groceries over the scanner. “Havin’ a party, are you?”
“I guess I am, even though I was the last to know,” Stella said. “My daughter’s done invited half the town already. Um, BJ, I’d sure be pleased if you could stop by.”
“I’d like that,” BJ said, helping pile her purchases on the checkout conveyor. An appealing flush stole over his cheeks. “What can I bring?”
“Not a thing. Once I get going, I’m usually good for quite a spread.”
By the time Stella realized what she’d said, BJ was well on his way to another coughing fit.
Chapter Twenty-one
The house smelled strongly of chemicals mixed with something fruity, and the kitchen sink was tinged a faint green, but any other evidence of Noelle’s beauty projects had been cleaned up and the girls were gone. Stella put the groceries away and put the frozen chili in a pot on the stove to start thawing, and then she spotted a note on the table.
Gone shopping for the party,
it read in Noelle’s loopy scrawl.
Will get beverages etc. Be home soon to help with dinner. Love you!
It looked like the girl had done a little party prep on her own. The house was picked up and dusted and vacuumed, and the dining room chairs had been dragged into the living room for extra seating. Plates were stacked on the kitchen table, buffet style, and Noelle had wrapped silverware up festively in paper napkins and tied them with snips of silver ribbon and stacked them in a basket. Plastic cups were arranged in neat rows.
Things appeared to be under control. Stella glanced at the kitchen clock—barely two.
Plenty of time for one more errand.
She made a quick call to Chrissy and asked her to look something up for her. By the time she put the groceries away, the girl called back.
“That was no kind of challenge,” she said, sounding miffed.
“Well, I pay you the same either way,” Stella said. “Might as well enjoy your leisure.”
Chrissy snorted. “Leisure? Tater and Evvie got into Mom’s closet and unwrapped the boxes she was fixin’ to send to the boys overseas with her church group. She got a hell of a deal on these NFL belt buckles on Overstock with the Rams logo—I tried to tell her, ain’t nobody backin’ the Rams these days, but they were dirt cheap so she bought ’em out. She and Aunt Busty boxed ’em all up the other night while they was drinkin’ that nasty port someone brought, and it didn’t look like much, I got to say—only now it’s a hell of a mess and we got to get them all wrapped back up. Dad said just ship ’em out like that, and Mom pretty much told him he could go drag his communist ass out on the driveway and sleep there if he didn’t want to get into the patriotic spirit and support the armed services. And now they’re all bickering, and guess who’s in charge?”
“You,” Stella guessed.
“Yeah, as if I don’t have enough to do with these lamb costumes for the twins for the Easter play. Do you have any
idea
how hard it is to sew on that fake fur? I probably won’t even get to go over to the U-Pub tonight. Why, it’s been weeks since I had any of that kind a fun.” She sighed audibly over the phone. “Hippity Hop, my ass.”
“All righty, then,” Stella said, and hung up hastily. Maybe it was better to do the afternoon’s outing solo, she thought as she headed back across town.
As she rounded the corner onto Salty Mingus’s street, he came barreling toward her in his truck. He didn’t notice her, since he was busy checking out his hair in the rearview mirror. He was going at a good clip, but Stella managed a neat little U-turn and followed half a block behind.
He didn’t go far, as it turned out, only to the strip mall by the Home Depot that housed a Baskin-Robbins as well as DumBelle’s gym. Salty fussed with his gel-slicked hair the whole way, trying to get it to camouflage his bald spot was Stella’s guess. She was surprised at his choice: there were two gyms in town, and this one tended to be favored by ladies. It featured pastel walls and carpet and a variety of equipment gathered in a friendly circle with peppy music playing so you could chat or shake your booty in a sassy fashion while you did your squats or lat presses.
Salty stepped out of the car carrying a tidy navy gym bag, but Stella was ready for him, having inserted herself between his car and the gym.
“Well, hey, Salty,” she said. “Imagine meeting you here. Going to take one a them Pilates classes?”
He swallowed. “No, I just, uh. Your assistant ain’t along with you, is she?”
“She was busy today. How’s the project going?”
Salty shifted from one foot to the other, looking like he had to pee bad. “Fine, I guess. I mean I ain’t done a whole lot more since the other day.”