Authors: Jacqueline Diamond
“I never
doubted it.” He believed she’d do her best. While her life might be messy, she
seemed honest.
“I’ll go call
that lawyer right now.”
“Don’t let him
put you off,” Carter advised.
“I won’t.”
Stiffly she turned and headed toward the house. As she went, her straight
shoulders slumped and her proud stride slid into a skulk.
She looked so
vulnerable that Carter ached even more strongly to help her. He didn’t see how
he could write off a thousand dollars in parts, but he could throw in his labor
for free.
The problem
was, if he cut her too much slack, he’d be in big trouble once the gossips
found out. Soon the townspeople would be demanding the same kind of treatment
every time they got a little tight on funds. Before he knew it, he’d be out of
business.
With luck, her
lawyer would come through with a court order or who knows what. Buffy lived in
a different world, Carter reminded himself, a world in which money ebbed and
flowed.
He hoped a
tsunami was just over the horizon.
*
Buffy hung up
the kitchen phone with a sinking feeling. According to the lawyer, Roger
claimed he was virtually penniless. He refused to pay for one more diaper, let
alone a rebuilt engine.
She supposed
that, if she told Carter why she’d really come to town, it might spur him to do
the work for free. He possessed an old-fashioned sense of chivalry.
It went
against the grain to take advantage of him. She wasn’t a deadbeat like her
husband. And both he and Allie deserved better than for her to treat such
important information as a bargaining chip for car repairs.
The worst of
it was, Roger had to be lying. That jerk didn’t act miserable and depressed
enough to have lost all his money. The last time she’d spoken to him, he’d
sounded annoyingly upbeat.
If only she
could prove he was lying. Impossible, from so far away and with so few
resources. Besides, right now, she couldn’t even get out of Nowhere, a town so
rustic that a few minutes ago her cell phone had stopped picking up a signal.
Or was that no
coincidence? Horrified, Buffy sank into a chair. Roger had cut off her phone.
First her money, then her ability to communicate, not to mention ready access
to the Internet. How low could a person stoop?
Despair washed
over her. For an L.A. woman, she had reached the doomsday scenario. No cell and
no credit card.
Also, her car
didn’t work.
She felt like
Dorothy in reverse, blasted from bright-hued Oz to the sepia tones of
Depression-era Kansas or, in this case, Texas. She would spend the rest of her
days washing dishes by hand and eating Finella’s Spring Salad. And that lawyer
had considered her life messy before this?
Soon she, too,
would wear a peasant skirt and vest. She would set up a table by the highway
and stand there, barefoot, selling.. .what? Tumbleweed? The clothes off her
back?
Or, maybe, the
clothes off Finella’s back. Now, there was an intriguing notion.
Before Buffy
could pursue this thought, the screen door opened. “The tornado shelter’s a
wreck,” said Zeppa. “You can’t expect me to move into it while it’s in this
condition.”
“What’s wrong
with it?”
“Are you
coming or not?”
It seemed
easier to comply than to try to convince this woman that she wasn’t the
landlady. Besides, Buffy was curious to see the tornado shelter. “Sure.” She
carried the baby and the blanket onto the rear porch.
Unlike the
front yard, which was rather sparse, the back resembled a discount builder’s
warehouse. Tires, boards, garden equipment and car parts were arranged in
tarp-covered piles along crisscrossed paths.
The orderly
effect was marred by a weedy patch beside the porch and by an open cement trap
door set near the center of the yard. Also by a large mixed breed dog shambling
along one of the paths.
It regarded
Buffy with mild curiosity, then flopped onto the weed patch as if it lacked the
energy to come closer. After scratching one ear a couple of times, it yawned
and dropped its head onto its paws.
“This—” Zeppa
led the way toward the concrete slab “—is the entrance to my home.” She rattled
a shopping cart mounded with clothing, books, papers and knickknacks. “It’s
dusty, musty and rusty. No decent human being would expect me to live there.
Make me another offer.”
Carter would
be furious if Buffy allowed Zeppa into the main house. Still, even from above,
she could smell the staleness of the air. “It does need freshening,” she
conceded.
“I’m too old
for this sort of thing,” the woman declared. “I draw the line at heavy
cleaning.”
So did Buffy,
usually. But she was already presuming on Carter’s hospitality by staying here.
She could hardly interrupt his work and demand that he tend to another
uninvited guest. “I’ll figure something out. Listen, Zeppa, is there a dress
shop in Nowhere?”
“They sell
something that passes for clothes at Popsworthy’s,” scoffed the older lady.
“Mostly jeans, one-size-fits-all denim overalls and gingham housedresses.
People go to San Antonio or Austin to shop.”
“That seems
inconvenient.”
“Not much
choice, unless you sew,” Zeppa said. “Some of the women do that.”
This sounded
promising. “Does anyone sell what they make?”
“There’s a few
that try,” the woman said. “But their stuff is so plug-ugly, who’d wear it? Too
frilly and flowery. Baggy, as well.”
“They’d do
better if someone supervised the selection of patterns and fabrics.” Like
Buffy herself. “Your dress is rather nice,”
she added. “Did you make it?”
“Who, me?”
scoffed the woman. “I bought this at Neiman Marcus, back in my la-la days.
Never mind about that. You hand over that little baby and set to work. She and
I’ll
start on her education. Has she
learned her ABCs yet?”
“She’s barely
babbling.”
“Never too
early.” Without waiting for a response, she snatched Allie from Buffy’s hip and
carried her toward the porch. “Move it, Rover,” she growled, and the dog
shifted a few inches out of the way.
Buffy sighed.
There had to be a mop, a broom and some air freshener around. Perhaps too, if
she were lucky, a pair of those one-size-fits-all denim overalls.
*
In the middle
of the afternoon, Carter couldn’t find Buffy in the house. He went onto the
back porch and nearly tripped over Mazeppa, who had stretched out her legs from
the willow rocker. He had to grab the door frame for support.
Instead of
apologizing, she said, “I reserve the right to relax on this here porch, since
you’ve exiled me to the backyard. I suppose you plan to complain about that,
too.”
She was
holding the baby in the crook of her arm, he saw as he weighed his response.
Allie sure did have bright eyes. She reminded Carter of someone, but he
couldn’t think who.
“You’re not
exiled to anywhere. You have reasonable use of the kitchen and the hall
bathroom,” he said. Thank goodness he’d installed a second, more private
bathroom several years ago. “Where’s Buffy?”
The older
woman jerked her head in the direction of the yard. Turning, Carter spotted a
cloud of dust wafting upward through the open door of the tornado shelter.
“I figured her
for a Miss Fancy Pants, but she’s a regular person,” said Mazeppa. “Pitched
right in to clean up for me. If you own any sense, Carter, you won’t hurry
about repairing that car. Encourage her to stick around.”
“I don’t
recall writing to Miss Lonelyhearts for advice,” he grumbled, irritated that
she’d touched on his own inclination.
Carter strode
across the yard until he could see down the concrete staircase into the
shelter’s front room. Buffy must have replaced the bulbs, because the place was
lit up. “I have to go out shopping,” he called. “Fix yourself dinner if I’m not
back in time.”
“Oh, good,
there you are!” A cheerful face wreathed in a silk scarf appeared below. “You
know, Carter, the bed down here’s nearly shot. What would you say to buying a
tatami mat?”
He wasn’t sure
what that was. “I don’t think they carry them at Popsworthy’s.”
“You could
order on-line. They do ship to Nowhere, don’t they?”
“Costs extra.”
He wasn’t keen on spending money for Mazeppa. On the other hand, a sore back
wouldn’t improve her bad temper.
Whipping off
the scarf, Buffy hauled a mop up the stairs. “Where are you shopping, by the
way? Is there a regional mall?”
He couldn’t
answer both those questions at once. Besides, the temptation to touch this
merry whirlwind was so powerful that Carter caught her by the waist and hoisted
her up the top two steps.
The oversize
coveralls she must have found in a closet hung clownlike from her slender
frame. Far from being humorous, the effect reminded him of how easily she could
step out of it. And out of a few other things, while she was at it.
She smiled at
him, inches away. A smudge of dirt on one cheek and her shiny nose failed to
distract him from the shapely pink lips and inquisitive gaze. What she needed,
he decided, was to be kissed decisively.
But not with
an audience. And not by him.
Carter set her
down. “I have to take supplies out to my father. He doesn’t drive anymore.”
“Good plan.”
Buffy untied her apron. “Allie loves car rides. Let’s all go.”
“I refuse to
visit old Murdock,” said Zeppa from the porch. “He’s too crabby. You can leave
the baby with me.”
“No, she
won’t,” Carter was surprised to hear himself protest. “You heard what she said.
Allie loves car rides.”
It wasn’t that
he didn’t trust the old lady. She’d baby-sat Billy and Willie’s kids often
enough. For some reason, he simply enjoyed being close to the little girl.
“Also, she’s
likely to get hungry soon,” Buffy added. Carter was admiring her devotion when he
remembered that feeding the baby involved partially undressing.
Well, who
would see anything out in the country? As for Carter, he’d keep his attention
right smack on the road.
He refused to
start thinking about Buffy’s breasts, round and soft as they might be. Or the
rest of her, either. He already had enough shameful indiscretions—two, anyway—
stuffed into the closets of his memory.
It didn’t
relieve his mind a single bit that one of those indiscretions might possibly
involve her.
Zeppa released
the baby. “You keep her out of the sun.”
“Absolutely.”
Buffy kissed the older woman on the cheek. “The place is ready for you to move
in. Be careful on the stairs.”
It was the
first affection Carter had seen anyone in Nowhere show toward Mazeppa. She
opened her mouth twice, but no words came out, and she closed it again without
speaking.
If people
realized it would render her silent, he thought, they’d be hugging and kissing
Mazeppa all day long.
*
She ought to
blurt out the truth right now, Buffy reflected as the tow truck bounced along
Cross Street, past the square brick courthouse. The longer she withheld it, the
madder Carter was likely to get.
Perhaps she
should break it to him gently, she decided as they turned onto Main Street.
“You may not remember this,” she began, “but we met before.”
His back
stiffened. “I thought I recognized you. You’re the lady from the, the, the
donation bank.” Since she’d never before heard him stutter, this must be a
sensitive topic.
“It was a dumb
job for me,” Buffy admitted. “I was supposed to be the clinic’s spokeswoman,
kind of like a model and a public relations representative rolled into one. As
if I knew anything about medical clinics! They should have sent a nurse to sign
up donors.”
Carter showed
no reaction. In profile, he reminded her of a Roman sculpture—pale, icy cold
and probably equipped with a massive sword.
No, you don’t mean that.
Buffy plunged
ahead, chattering to clear her mental cobwebs. “My husband Roger didn’t think
it was prestigious enough for me to open a dress shop, which is what I always
wanted to do. See, when I met him I was working as a buyer for a department
store. I was a big fan of his fashion designs, which blinded me to what sort of
man he was underneath all that flash and talent.”
“A buyer?”
Carter repeated. “They paid you to buy clothes?”
She laughed.
“In a way. I would review the designers’ new lines, go to the fashion shows,
all that fun stuff, and pick out what I thought suited the store’s clientele.
That’s how I met Roger.”
“Your ex?”
“Right.” They
were approaching Gigi’s Grocery Store when she noticed a small boarded-up shop.
“What’s that place?”
“Used to be a
pet store,” he said. “Until everybody in town got as many pets as they had room
for.”
A former pet
shop would require a lot of renovating and sanitizing, Buffy thought. The last
thing she needed were changing rooms that smelled like wet dog. If she intended
to open a consignment dress shop, which was the only way she could think of to
make money, she’d have to find somewhere else.
Still, she
couldn’t help imagining a sign dominating the storefront. What would she name
her store? A Touch of L.A.? Lovely to Look At?
Oh, heck, in
this town, people went straight to the point. She’d call it Buffy’s Boutique.
It was truthful and both words started with the same letter, which seemed
classy.
Weinbucket
Real Estate lay alongside the bank. Someone there might know of a place
available with no money up-front, she thought, and decided to consult an agent
later.
Carter halted
the truck in front of Popsworthy’s Dry Goods Store. “You can stay in the truck
if you’d rather.”
“Why would I
do that?” Buffy’s penniless state made it all the more fun to watch someone
else shop.