“Let me introduce you to Stan,” Gabe said as both his sisters melted into the crowd.
“Gabe, you old son of a gun,” his brother-in-law said, holding out a long-fingered hand. He wore a red-striped shirt, a straw boater, and a blue satin garter around his arm. “Old Milwaukee still your favorite?”
“I’ll just have a Coke,” Gabe said, shaking his hand warmly. “What’s with the barbershop look? I thought this was supposed to be a sixties party.”
Stan pulled a tall frosted glass from under the counter and scooped ice into it. “As you can see, no one here paid any attention to the queen bee’s dress code. She gave
me
an ultimatum, though—it was this or a gold lamé Nehru jacket she found in a Wichita thrift store.” He turned to me and lifted his hat. “You must be Benni. Welcome to the Ortiz clan. First and only piece of advice from a fellow prisoner of love—they are much more amusing after a couple of double Scotches.” Gabe tossed a pretzel from the bowl in front of him at Stan. Stan caught it one-handed and popped it in his mouth.
At the other end of the bar, Gabe’s buddy Dewey Champagne stood quietly watching the two men. He seemed, not bigger than the pictures portrayed him, but sturdier, more . . . substantial. He wore sharply creased Wranglers and polished brown Ropers. The sleeves on his navy blue Western shirt were rolled back, showing tanned, muscled forearms and square hands with white-scarred knuckles. He and Gabe pointedly ignored each other. Stan gave me a conspiratorial wink.
Dewey ran a finger down his dripping beer mug. “Stan, you old peabrain, don’t you have
any
standards for your parties? You havin’ to go down to Navy recruiting and pick up
swabbies
to fill in the guest list? Why not just go to the nearest silo and flush out a few fat old grain rats?”
Gabe faced him and said something in Spanish, his expression as revealing as a concrete slab.
Dewey slowly grinned. “When pigs fly,
compadre
.”
Then they burst out: “Semper fi, do or die, gung ho, gung ho, GUNG HO.” They fell into each other’s arms, laughing and hugging and pounding each other on the back in that simian way men show affection to each other.
“Hey, cowboy, this is Benni,” Gabe said after they’d finished their reunion ritual. “My wife.” I smiled, still enough of a newlywed to enjoy the sound of the word.
“So you’re the lady who actually captured
El Diablo
.” Dewey’s dark brown eyes narrowed. He rubbed a rough thumb across his bottom lip. “What kind of bait did you use?”
“El Diablo?” I looked up at Gabe and raised my eyebrows.
“Just an old nickname,” he said, giving me an embarrassed grin.
“Benni, at one time, your old man here was one mean son of a . . . well, I’ll just say no one messed with the Diablo or any of his buds. There was this one time when he and Crazy Dog and me were on R & R in Saigon, and these Army jerks were pretending to talk Spanish and—”
“For pity’s sake, don’t get him started, or we’ll be hearing his dang war stories all night.” The voice interrupting Dewey was sharp and nasal, pure Oklahoma Panhandle. The woman behind the voice appeared to be in her early twenties with the starched platinum-streaked long hair of a rodeo queen. She wore a cropped yellow satin top with guitars embroidered around the plunging neckline and butternut-colored jeans so tight you could see her panty line. If she’d been wearing any, that is. Her raspberry-tinted mouth pursed in a pout that would have been annoying on anyone less pretty. She rolled her turquoise eyes at Gabe, then leaned over and patted Dewey’s cheek. “Not everyone is interested, darlin’. Some people weren’t even
born
then.”
“I’ll hold her down, you smack her,” Dewey said good-naturedly, reaching over and pulling her to his side. “In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, this is my new lady friend, Cordie June Rodell. The next queen of country music, mark my words.”
“Oh, Dewey, hush.” Cordie June giggled and trailed her long sparkly gold nails through his dark hair. He ran his hand over her rump, his brown eyes gleaming with amused indulgence.
“Gabe, you look great!” A fortyish woman with silver-streaked black hair and a wide, friendly smile walked up and threw her arms around Gabe. Next to her, his friend Lawrence grinned from behind a reddish-gray beard. He was still as lanky as a teenager and wore the type of plaid sport shirt and gray slacks that made Mr. J. C. Penney a multimillionaire.
“Janet, you haven’t changed a bit,” Gabe said, hugging her and shaking Lawrence’s hand. “Hey, buddy, how’s the nightclub business?”
“Don’t ask.” Lawrence grimaced. “Cocktail waitresses, cooks, bouncers, the liquor license board. Musicians and girl singers. It’s enough to drive a man to drink. Fortunately I can count whiskey as a business expense.”
“Oh, pipe down,” Cordie June said, sticking her tongue out at him. “You know you love it.”
Janet gave me a friendly look. “Benni, right? I can’t believe you captured our elusive Gabe here. After his divorce, we didn’t think
anyone
was capable of that.”
“I’m just now realizing what an apparent coup it was,” I said, glancing up at Gabe and rolling my eyes.
“I keep telling her how lucky she is, but she won’t believe me,” Gabe said. A collective groan erupted from his friends.
“Then she’s smart
and
pretty,” Dewey said.
“Well, look what happens when Kansas opens the borders. All kinds of riffraff blows across the prairie.” Rob Harlow eased around Dewey and Cordie June. His dark blond hair had turned just gray enough to take the edge off his boyish handsomeness. He flashed an audacious grin capable of seducing any woman in the room from eight to eighty. He was the kind of guy your mother dreamed about having as a son-in-law—until he turned out to be a serial killer.
“You must be Benni,” he said, bestowing his smile upon me.
“Must be,” I said, wondering why in the world my thoughts crept to serial killers upon meeting this perfectly nice man.
“Nice to meet you.” He held my gaze just a couple of seconds longer than necessary before turning to Gabe. “You haven’t changed a bit, buddy. Still busting lowlifes in the mean streets?”
“I’m a suit now,” Gabe answered mildly. “The only thing I bust these days is patrol officers who take too many sick days.”
“You wrangled this depraved old
hombre
off the streets?” Rob said to me, his mouth turned down, impressed. “I didn’t think anyone could do that with the wild man here. His first wife sure couldn’t. What did you lure him into your lair with?”
“Lucky me,” I said sweetly. “He was already semi-tame when I captured him.” I was getting more than a little annoyed at the continued references to a nefarious past I knew nothing about.
Becky walked up and clapped her hands for attention. “Everyone find a seat. Cordie June and Tyler are going to sing for us.”
Next to the jukebox, Cordie June stood talking to a petite woman dressed in tight black jeans and a black silk tank top. The woman had pale blond hair cut tomboy-short and spiky. They started fiddling with the switch on a microphone hooked into Stan’s stereo system. The blonde turned and called for Stan’s help. Lawrence got there before Stan and took care of the problem. She rewarded him with a flawless smile.
“Is that the Amish woman?” I whispered to Gabe. I set my Coke down on the small table next to the red plaid easy chair he’d claimed, and perched on the chair’s padded arm.
“Appears so.” He picked a stuffed cherry tomato off my plate of food and popped it in his mouth.
“She’s beautiful.”
“No surprise there. Homely women were never Rob’s forte.”
Not much taller than my five feet one, her only accessory was a pair of long silver and turquoise Navajo earrings. I searched her fluid, small-featured face and sensual gray eyes, trying to picture her clothed in the shapeless dress and white apron of an Amish woman.
To warm up, they did a twangy country version of Bonnie Raitt’s “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.” Then they moved quickly into Wynonna’s “Girls with Guitars” and Trisha Yearwood’s “I’ve Been Living on the Wrong Side of Memphis.” They continued through a repertoire of popular country-rock songs I guessed came from their act at Lawrence’s club. They harmonized easily, Cordie June singing an energetic if slightly reedy soprano and Tyler belting out a voice that didn’t match her delicate looks at all—a deep, throbbing alto. Cordie June sang a spirited rendition of “I’ll Always Love You” trying, I imagined, for Dolly’s sincerity and Whitney’s soul. Her voice was young and clear and vibrant. But it was when Tyler ended the impromptu concert with Alabama’s melancholy ballad “We Can’t Love Like This Anymore” that it became obvious who had that elusive quality that makes a person a star. Accompanying herself with only a battered acoustic guitar, Tyler held us breathless with a smoky voice that was a heart-rending mixture of tough and tender. When the last note of the song resonated through the warm room, we were struck silent, captured by the spell of her remarkable voice. A voice that, for that instant, caused each of us to relive a time when love walked away from us before we wanted it to. I glanced at Cordie June, and for just an instant a look of anger darkened her face, then disappeared like a swift Kansas storm cloud.
“Anyone besides me need a cold beer right now?” Stan suddenly called out. Everyone laughed, and the party started up again. I stood up, and Gabe grabbed my hand, pulling me down into his lap.
“Want to go across to the Christmas tree farm and make out?” He buried his face in the hollow of my neck.
“Here’s a cold drink, Friday.” I pointed to my Coke. “I told you, you’re on C-rations for two weeks.”
“What’s this about C-rats?” Dewey walked up, a bottle of Beck’s in his hand. “Stan’s got a secret stash for us purists. Better get one before they’re gone.”
“Coke’s fine,” Gabe said, picking up my glass and taking a sip.
“What’s with him?” Dewey asked me. “Gabe here used to drink us all under the table. You got him on a short leash or something?”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’ve never even seen him drink.”
“Hey, bud, you doin’ the twelve-step boogie these days?”
“Nah,” Gabe said, nudging me to stand up. “I’ve finished everything on your plate. Let’s go see what else Becky fixed for this bash.” He walked away without looking to see whether Dewey or I followed.
Dewey gave me a curious look. “What was that all about?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Excuse me, I need to find the ladies room.” I walked away, uncomfortable about discussing Gabe even with someone who’d been his friend as long as Dewey. And I was embarrassed that there was yet another piece of Gabe’s life I knew virtually nothing about.
After a couple of hours of the incessant jukebox and the loud, raucous voices of people already halfway to horrendous hangovers, I wandered upstairs for some peace and quiet. I’d met so many people that evening, their names and faces had already softened to a huge blur. Fortunately the living room was empty. I walked around the room, enjoying the quality and variety of Becky’s quilt collection. I was standing in front of a large turquoise, red, and black Amish Shoofly quilt next to the fireplace, losing myself in the serenity of its bold, simple pattern and intricate stitching when the sound of angry voices drew me over to a front window. I stepped to the side of the window and unabashedly eavesdropped. Looking through a gap in the curtain, I could discern a tiny figure in black etched against the moonlit front porch.
“Quit following me,” Tyler said, her sultry voice harsh. “You have no rights in my life anymore.” Her earrings swung and flashed, catching the pale light.
A man’s voice gave a low, urgent reply. He stood back in the shadows, out of my viewing range. Though I strained to make out sentences, I could only hear single words—“home now,
Hochmut
, Hannah,
Gott
.” His voice had a foreign sound, almost guttural. Like German. An Amish man?
“I don’t care, I don’t care.” Her voice sounded desperate now. “Go away. There are police officers here, you know. They could arrest you.”
“You would have me arrested, Ruth?” the man spat out. Then he muttered a short sentence in the foreign language again, turned, and ran down the porch steps. His figure was a dark outline, his hat and his clothing cut in the style of an earlier century. He was Amish. Obviously someone from Tyler’s past. He threaded his way through the parked cars to a small white car idling out on the dirt road in front of the house. He climbed into the passenger seat, and the vehicle sped away, kicking up dust.
The front door opened, and I moved hastily back to the Amish quilt and resumed studying it. Picking up a corner of the quilt, I started counting the stitches, hoping Tyler wouldn’t guess I’d overheard the argument.
“Twelve,” she said behind me. “And I should know. I put every one of them in myself. Though I’d catch heck from my father for bragging about it.”
I turned to face her. Her voice sounded husky, as if on the edge of a sob. Her pink-rimmed eyes blinked rapidly, but the practiced smile of an experienced performer prevailed.
She held out her hand. “I don’t think we were officially introduced. Tyler Brown. Isn’t this party for you and your husband?”
“Benni Harper,” I said, taking her hand. Her handshake was firm and confident. “The party’s more for my husband, Gabe. He’s Becky’s brother and grew up with most of these people.”
“Homecomings,” she said, her voice ironic. “A mixed blessing, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m impressed with your stitching. I’ve never been able to do more than eight per inch.”
“Actually, I’ve seen fourteen. My sister, Hannah, is incredible. But then she works at it a lot more than I do these days.”
“You don’t quilt anymore?”
She stared up at the quilt, an almost pensive look coming over her face. “I don’t piece, but I still quilt occasionally. If gigs are slow and I need the money.” She picked up the edge of the quilt. “This was my last quilt before I left the community. I sold it to Becky to help pay for studio time to record a song I wrote about a barrel racer who cheats on her husband with a bull rider. Her husband was the rodeo clown.”