Random pots scattered the flagstone. Some were already filled, while others still awaited the tomato plants sitting in plastic cartons on the porch.
“Because we’re using a moisture-binding potting soil. It’ll help the plants stay succulent when summer gets here.” Rick shoveled more soil into the pots. His tanned hands patted a hill in the center of one pot before cupping a hole in the center of the mound.
She and Rick hadn’t spoken about the night at Cooley’s even though she could feel the strings of tension tightening between them. She still wanted him with an intensity that surprised her, and he still fought against the magnetism between them, but they had other things to deal with. Rick’s clients had arrived and Kate spent the past few nights making polite small talk with Vera and Justus at the dinner table. It was enough to set her on edge and make her grind her teeth as she slept. The only thing that got her through those evenings was the truce she and Vera had arrived at that night in the garden.
“My grandmother never planted anything until after Easter. It’s already thundered in February, you know,” she said, pulling a tender tomato plant from the plastic container.
“What does that mean,
bruja?
”
“Stop calling me witch,” she grumbled, gently breaking apart the roots of the plant the way Rick had showed her earlier.
“You mean you don’t know?” Georges, one of the clients, called from across the patio. “If it thunders in February, it will freeze in April,
cholo.
”
Kate smiled at Georges. He was the only guy who showed any openness toward the staff at Phoenix. The other four were eerily silent, almost sullen, as if they already regretted their choice to come here.
Carlos, Joe, Brandon, Georges and Manny had arrived by a church van, each hauling a makeshift suitcase and a scowl. Or at least that’s what Rick had told her.
Only Georges had abandoned his serious demeanor for some lively teasing. He’d had Trudy pitching a fit when she’d found everything on her desk moved cock-eyed on the second day of GED classes. He’d also held an actual conversation with Rick, rather than merely grunting his replies.
“Well, that’s why we’re planting them in these containers. They’ll be easy to move to the cover of the back patio if we get frost.” Rick patted the soil around the plant Kate had set in the hole. He sat back and assessed the planting critically, narrowing his brown eyes as he studied his handiwork.
She watched as he rose and retrieved anther plant, handing it to Manny without a word. The plump gang member wrinkled his nose at the container.
“So why we gotta plant these things, anyway? This seems stupid if you ask me,” Manny said, setting the tiny plants beside the wooden pot and studying the other members sprawled about doing much the same.
“I didn’t ask you,” Rick said, returning to her side.
Georges snickered. “He already told you, dude. We’re gonna grow our own vegetables. It ain’t that bad. You ain’t shoveling horseshit or nothin’.”
“Shut the f—”
“Guys, you’d do well to note there is a lady present,” Rick cautioned.
“What lady?” Kate joked, looking around. She hit Rick with a smart-ass grin.
He rolled his eyes. “Seriously, let’s start watching the way we speak to others. Part of this program is learning to present yourself as a new person. We’re letting go of who we once were to find a new path.”
“Now
there’s
your horseshit to shovel,” Joe said, tossing a trowel onto the patio. It clanked against the rock before scuttling toward Manny.
Rick stiffened beside her. She placed one hand on his forearm in warning. There was going to be resistance. There was likely going to be out-and-out rebellion before Rick could make any true progress.
“The trowel will probably work, though I notice Georges puts out a lot of bullshit. Might need a shovel for his,” Kate joked, squeezing Rick’s arm. She could feel him take a deep breath, feel his forearm relax under her fingers. She liked the way he felt, warm from the sun, strong from the labor he performed. He was no milk-white accountant in a knockoff designer suit. He was full-on man, and even though they were far from being alone, Kate felt a familiar heat surge inside her body along with the buzz of aggravation that it would go unfulfilled.
Georges laughed, interrupting her wicked thoughts. “You know it,
muchachos.
”
Manny pulled a face and slid the trowel toward Joe. “Just plant the damn tomatoes, man.”
Joe looked at the garden instrument, then looked away, his jaw set. “Whatever. I’m out.”
He rose from the patio, hitched up his sagging pants and headed for the center where Trudy stood at the side of the house, motioning a woman wearing a circus costume their way.
Rick sighed and pulled away from her. She felt the frustration coming off him in waves.
“Uh-oh,” Kate said, watching as the woman in what was actually not a circus costume but a hideous Western skirt headed their way. “Betty Monk moving in at 12:00.”
“Who’s Betty Monk?” Georges asked, shielding his eyes against the rays bearing down on them.
“Yoo-hoo,” she called, her brightly patterned skirt swishing around her red cowboy boots as she balanced a basket on one arm. “Hiya, boys!”
Betty Monk was the coproprietor of The Curlique Beauty Salon in Oak Stand, where Kate had worked each summer to earn extra money. All that was left of the bouffant Betty used to wear were faded wisps of rose-colored hair held in place with Aqua Net above her penciled-on eyebrows and road-mapped face. Bright red lipstick matched the boots she wore, curving into a Texas-size smile.
“Look what I brought you boys—muffins. Right from the ovens of the Ladies Auxiliary,” Betty said, shooing Banjo away as she maneuvered toward the patio.
No one said a word as Betty tousled Brandon’s hair, which was as absent as her own since he wore a buzz. Brandon ducked his head and moved away, but it didn’t deter Betty.
“Why, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. If it isn’t my favorite gal, Katie Newman. What in the blue blazes have you done to your hair, girl?” Betty handed Georges the basket. He immediately lifted the gingham cloth and peered within.
Kate brushed the dirt from her hands. “Hello, Mrs. Betty. The color is Fire two-oh-three, if you want me to do a little touch-up for you.”
Kate gave the woman a brief hug, but the older woman wanted much more. She clasped Kate into a bear hug, which was remarkably easy for a woman who was descended from good Norwegian stock and stood five foot ten in her stocking feet. “The devil take me if I wear anything that bold, child. My color has been ravishing red for twenty-some-odd years, and that’s what it’ll stay.”
Rick walked over and extended his hand. “Hello, Mrs. Monk. I appreciate your being so neighborly and bringing us some home cooking.”
Betty took his hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Some folks didn’t want me to do it, but I’ll be hanged if I listen to a bunch of narrow-minded deacons’ wives. That Sally Holtzclaw is plum hypocritical, and I’ve just about—”
“What kind did you make?” Kate interrupted before Betty could dredge up every wrong done her by her archrival and former best friend Sally. They’d been feuding for years, ever since Betty’s design-challenged niece had reupholstered the Baptist church’s choir chairs in teal satin, causing Sally to slip off the seat and show the whole congregation her girdle. One would think the two friends could have gotten past the bad feelings, but showing her undergarments to the township had stirred Sally to retribution. And so the battle had waged out of control for three years.
“Oh. I brought blueberry—Nellie’s grandmother’s recipe. Used the last of the frozen blueberries my grand-baby picked me over in Linden.”
“Very kind of you,” Rick muttered, looking a bit puzzled. It was a common reaction to Betty who name-dropped, subject-hopped and dredged the past with dizzying speed. Not many could follow her, let alone figure her out. Not even her dear departed Ed had tried. He’d always called her his Gordian knot. And he never claimed to be Hercules.
“Well, aren’t you sweet.” Betty beamed. “I’ve always liked you. You’re a most handsome fellow, even with all those tattoos.”
Rick looked at Kate before looking back at Betty. “Thanks, I think.”
“No problem.” Betty took Kate’s elbow and moved her out of the hearing range of the guys cramming muffins in their mouths. “Now, Katie, Nellie told me you’re staying with Justus Mitchell. I guess that not-so-secret secret is out front and center. If that’s so, why the devil are you staying with a man who never bothered to claim you as his own? I’m a forgiving woman, but even I couldn’t cotton to pardoning that sin.”
Kate wanted to laugh. Betty could meddle with the best of them, and after putting up with temper tantrums and tears from the many who’d unloaded their problems in her salon chair, she didn’t mince words. So Kate shot her straight. “Who said anything about forgiveness? I want his money.”
Betty cackled like the old hen she was and clapped her hands together. “Damn right. No one messes with my Katie.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “Are y’all related?”
“Not by actual relation,” Betty said. “Here’s the way it is, handsome—this little girl thinks she belongs only to herself, but she belongs to Oak Stand. To all of us.”
Kate shook her head. She’d never felt she belonged in Oak Stand. She’d always felt second-rate. Nothing like the way she felt in Vegas. There she had control. And no one knew her past. But Mrs. Betty had meant her remark as a kindness, and it struck Kate with its tenderness.
“Whoa, these muffins are good,” Georges mumbled, his mouth half-full.
“Of course they are. I made them, didn’t I?” Betty said, moving toward him. “Now, let me show you the right way to plant tomatoes. You’ve got to have a little bit of bonemeal.”
Her words faded into the background as Kate fought the dampness gathering on her lashes. Rick noticed and moved toward her. He took her hand and brushed some dirt from it. “I like your hair. It suits you. And I didn’t know Oak Stand owned you.”
Kate loved the feel of his hands on her. Loved it too much. “No one owns me. Especially not this town.”
She stepped away from him, sensing her words had jabbed him, hurt him in some way. But what did it matter? He’d made it abundantly clear several nights ago when she’d thrown herself at him.
He didn’t want her.
Just like Justus hadn’t.
Just like Oak Stand hadn’t.
She didn’t belong here. She belonged in Vegas, with Jeremy and her friends. She belonged to a city that didn’t sleep, where no one called her Katie.
She belonged to herself and she needed to get out of the place that made her feel as though she didn’t.
But, as Vera had said, some things you can’t leave undone.
Kate grabbed the empty cartons and headed to the side of the house where the garbage cans sat. From the corner of her eye she saw Vera pull up in a Lexus sedan. The older woman stepped out of the car, looking quite pretty with her hair tied in a low ponytail with a scarf and wearing a lime-green jacket over her factory-worn designer jeans. She carried a large bowl and a bag from a fancy gourmet store that was definitely not located in Oak Stand.
“Kate,” she called, stopping on the front pavers. “Will you give me a hand?”
“I’m filthy,” Kate called back, but walking toward her anyway.
“Just grab the sacks from the trunk, if you don’t mind. You can set them on the porch.” She headed inside without waiting for Kate to agree.
“Fine,” she said to no one in particular as she approached the car. The trunk was unlatched and she lifted the bags out and set them at her feet. Under the last bag lay a halter. She lifted it out. It was a strange item to be sitting in the middle of a perfectly clean trunk.
“That belonged to Ryan’s horse.”
Kate dropped it in the trunk, wondering if Vera had gotten the therapy she needed after Ryan’s death. Carrying this kind of stuff was creepy. “Oh.”
Vera’s touch was a light caress on her back. “That was how he died. On his horse.”
Kate had never thought to ask about how Ryan had died. Things had felt too heavy to think about much beyond the cold silence with Justus and the hot pandering for Rick. “He fell?”
Vera nodded. “Rick found pot in the ashtray of the Mustang. It wasn’t Ryan’s. Or at least he swore it wasn’t, but Rick was hard on him. I guess because of his own mistakes. Ryan got angry because he didn’t believe him and took off in a gallop on his quarter horse, Tolstoy. We don’t know what happened really. Tolstoy came back and Ryan didn’t. Rick found him crumpled in a ditch out by the ruins of the Spanish mission.”
Sadness lurked in Vera’s eyes, but she told the story in a matter-of-fact way. As if she’d told it the same way many times before.
“I’m sorry.” It was all Kate could say.
Vera nodded, looking at the halter. “Justus shot that horse. Loaded the rifle, went out and killed him. It was Justus’s way of dealing, as extreme as it was. But Rick…” She sighed. “Rick went crazy. He thought it was his fault.”
“Why?”
Vera shrugged and shut the lid. “He kept saying ‘I should have believed him’ as if that would have prevented it. But it wouldn’t have. It was a freak accident. I guess I knew. What’s that saying? ‘Only the good die young’?”