MM03 - Saturday Mornings (3 page)

“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.

“You look mighty pretty in that party dress, Margaret Leigh. All bright and shiny like a brand new Christmas ornament.”

He flashed his winning smile at her.

“I love Christmas,” she said.

“So do I.” He reached across the seat and caressed the shimmery blue material over her thigh. “Nice. What's that fabric called?”

“Taffeta.”

“You'll have to speak up, pretty one. I'm used to bird dogs baying all the time. I guess my hearing's going bad.”

“Taffeta!”

“Taffeta. It has a nice ring. Like something good to eat.”

They stopped at a traffic light, and mercifully his rusty old brakes covered the sound of her nervous breathing. She made herself do a slow count to ten.
Think of him as another Harry Cox,
she told herself,
the safest, dullest man in all of Tupelo
. He never even held her hand without permission.

“Why don't you scoot a little closer?”

She jerked out of her semi-trance.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Scoot a little closer, Margaret Leigh.”

“I'm comfortable, thank you.”

“For me?” He gave her a heart-tugging smile. “My reputation is going to be ruined if folks see me going down the street with enough room to put a kindergarten class between me and my date.”

He looked so innocent, she gave in and inched a little closer.

“That's better.”

He slid his arm along the back of the seat and draped it over her shoulders. She'd never known that a man's arm could feel so alive, as if it were plugged into an electrical socket.

“Don't you think that's better?”

“Well... it's closer.”

Andrew laughed. It was a big, hearty sound that seemed to make the whole truck vibrate.

“You're a treat, Margaret Leigh. With those big purple eyes and that soft shiny hair and that pretty shy smile, I don't know why some man hasn't snatched you off the streets long before this. Why is that?”

“Some men don't appreciate the serious type.”

She was beginning to feel a little better. She hadn't done anything to disgrace herself. Not yet, anyhow. She certainly had the intelligence to carry on a conversation. She was even discovering the freedom to speak her mind. And it felt wonderful.

“Are you the serious type?” he asked.

“I've never really thought about what type I am. Have you?”

“I guess I'm a lewd and lascivious scoundrel.

“I probably shouldn't have said those things. That was very ungracious of me.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“You did? Why?”

“I've discovered that few people speak their minds. Most of them play word games, saying only what they think a person wants to hear. It's refreshing to hear the truth.”

“You are a puzzle, Andrew McGill.”

He turned toward her, and in the flash of the streetlights she saw a serious expression on his face.

“Solve me.”

He had to be kidding, of course. Why would a man like Andrew want a woman like her to delve deep enough to know the mysteries of his mind, the complexities of his spirit?

“Is that a new line? A way for men to keep a woman interested?”

He roared with laughter. “By George, Margaret Leigh, you have spunk.”

“On occasion.” She smiled at him. She was beginning to enjoy her date.

“I’ll see what I can do to make those occasions happen more frequently.”

“Why?”

“You're a pretty woman.”

“I'm not all that pretty. And I'm certainly not stupid. I'm not dumb enough to believe that a worldly man like you has more than a passing curiosity for a woman like me.”

“Curiosity leads to great discoveries. Columbus exploring America.”

“I'm not a new continent. And I'm not about to be explored.”

He laughed so hard, he almost rear-ended the car in front of them.

“If you'll scoot just a little closer, I promise that I won't try to explore you. At least, not yet.”

“Why do you want me to sit closer? I've already scooted over once.”

“Because we'll be at the Pirates' Den in about five minutes, and if I know Hooter and James Johnson, they'll be out in the parking lot, sitting on the tailgate of Hooter's truck, watching to see who's coming to the Saturday-night dance.”

“And your reputation will be ruined if they see enough room to stuff a balloon between us?”

“Right.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don't care what other people say. I just like to brag. I like to say that all women find me irresistible.”

She did. In the last fifteen minutes she'd found him totally irresistible, and she couldn't have said why any more than she could have flown to the moon without wings.

She was already close enough to feel his body heat, but what was the harm in moving closer? His arm tightened at the same time she made some slight movement. She found herself thigh to thigh with him, pressed tightly as a skin on summer sausage. Her heart thumped hard against her ribcage, and she imagined that he heard.

“Look over yonder.” As he pulled into the Pirates' Den, he nodded toward a sleek black Chevrolet truck. “Perched like two jaybirds on a limb. Hooter and James, the town's bad boys... except for me.”

Her heart did a quick fandango. She'd suspected it, and now he'd confirmed it. She was on a date with Tupelo's bad boy. Margaret Leigh Jones, the most inexperienced woman this side of the Mississippi, was set to enter the Pirate's Den with a man she couldn't handle if she had a whip and a chair.

She lifted her chin in a small gesture of determination. She'd just have to keep her wits about her, that was all.

“Well, looka here!” The voice echoed across the parking lot as she and Andrew got out of the truck.

“Hooter,” Andrew whispered in her ear.

“Looka what Andrew's got. Where'd you get that beauty, boy?”

“I don't tell trade secrets, Hooter.”

“It's ain't right not to share, Andy.” The gruff voice belonged to James.

“Look but don't touch, boys.”

Keeping his arm around her, Andrew quickly drew her into the nightclub. The encounter in the parking lot was nothing compared to the shock of entering the Pirates' Den. Smoke fogged the room, circling the naked bulbs like blue vultures. Skin was showing everywhere. Women with naked shoulders and skirts hiked up to show their mesh-stockinged legs were sitting at tiny tables with men wearing cowboy hats and snakeskin boots and smoking big, ugly cigars.