The Sweet Spot (14 page)

“So I told him, I am
not
leaving my mother—”

“… right in the PTA board meeting. Can you believe it?”

Char tore the check out of the book and handed it to Penny.

“You heard she was thrown out of that grief group over at Saint Luke’s, right?”

Penny’s eyes skittered to Char’s, then away. She took the check, a red stain flooding
her face.

“After all she’s been through, we shouldn’t be surprised, bless her heart.”

“Betty told me that hussy solicited her husband at the feed store. Something’s got
to be done.”

No mistaking Toni Bergstrom’s strident whisper. Char felt Bella snap to attention
at her side.

She flicked her glance to the mirror. Bella’s delicate eyebrows gathered over the
storm in her eyes.
Now that’s enough.
Char reached in her purse and pulled out the car keys. “Hon, would you mind starting
the car for me? I’ve got one thing to take care of, and I’ll be right there.”

Bella shot her a rebellious look.

Char returned it, saying under her breath “My ’hood, remember? I’ll handle it.”

Bella snatched the keys, turned, and put an extra roll in her hips as she strolled
slowly to the door, holding the eye of every woman brave enough to stare.

The door closed behind her.

Righteous anger pounded in the pulse banging through the veins of Char’s neck. “Hey!”
Char’s strident voice silenced the room. “
Ladies.
” She inhaled a deep breath, then recited the Pledge of Allegiance in her head to
calm down. Yelling would only give the biddies more gossip fodder. Besides, it wasn’t
needed. You could hear a hairpin drop in the salon.

“I am not going to stand here and preach to you. I’ll leave that to the church y’all
will visit tomorrow.” She shot a meaningful look around the room. Several women had
the grace to look away. “I’ve known most of you my entire life, and there are way
too many glass houses here for all the rocks flying around.” She shot a pointed glance
at Toni Bergstrom, who flushed but held her stare. Char’s brave tone faltered. “God
knows, I’ve got way too much glass of my own to be throwing them.

“When I first met Bella, I judged her like ya’ll are doing right now: the outrageous
too-young clothes, her loud Yankee accent…” She smiled and shook her head. “That hot
body.”

Toni Bergstrom opened her mouth but closed it when Char pointed at her.

“Bella Donovan is a
married
, caring woman who moved to our town four months ago. In all that time, not one of
us deigned to speak with her. In spite of that, she helped me when I didn’t know how
to ask for help.” She put her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m proud to call
her my friend.” She held her chin up as she strode the gauntlet of chairs to the exit.

A bell tinkled as she pulled the glass door open. “So if you need somebody to talk
about, you can talk about me. There’s enough meat on that bone for you to chew on
for weeks, I’m sure. But give her a rest.”

A
nd this is your room.” Wiley walked through the open doorway to the screened-in porch.

JB looked around the box in his arms, careful that he didn’t trip over the step down.
Added as a pleasant haven from bugs on warm summer evenings, the porch did double
duty as a storage room. Bicycles leaned against the house, mud boots and discarded
outdoor shoes lined up next to the step. Opaque storage containers marched along the
knee-high outside perimeter, screens stretched above them to the sloping ceiling.
Two plastic webbed lawn chairs faced the yard, a scarred white table between them.
Tucked against the wall to his right sat a narrow fold-down cot, made up neatly with
a faded patchwork quilt.

Wiley set his box in a corner and dusted his hands. “It’s not much, I know, but we
used the spare bedroom for the baby.”

JB dropped his box of clothes on the bed. “Are you kidding? With the pretty summer
we’ve got, you’re going to want to trade rooms with me.” He crossed the patio bricks,
hand extended. “I’m sorry as hell to barge in on you like this, partner. It happened
so fast.” He let the lame excuse dangle.

“You’re welcome for as long as you want to stay, JB. We’re proud to have you.” Wiley’s
firm grip underscored the welcome. He turned his head at a muffled infant’s cry from
the back of the house. “Well, there’s the dinner bell. Why don’t you wash up? We’ll
bring in the rest of the boxes after we eat.”

Ten minutes later, JB stood beside a chair at the plastic-tablecloth-clad dining room
table.

When Dana bustled in, put a plate of biscuits on the table, and sat, JB pulled out
his chair and did the same.

“Sorry for the informality, but here lately, if it’s not easy to clean up, it’s put
up.” Dana smiled. Her husband deftly avoided his son’s grasping hands to fasten a
bib around his neck.

JB had met Dana before but had always found her a bit different: an owl in a henhouse.
A tiny thing, with short spiked hair and an athlete’s body, she owned the local gym
and training center in town. The gym made good money, so when they decided to start
a family, Wiley offered to be Mr. Mom, staying home with the baby during the day,
traveling weekends to PBR events. It seemed odd to JB, but Wiley appeared content.

Dana filled two bowls with steaming stew, then passed the dish to him. Wiley waved
a spoonful of orange goop in front of the baby. “Come on, Monty, you know you love
this repulsive stuff.”

JB passed the biscuits to Dana. “He may need to do some growing into that name. Where
did you come up with it?”

“Dana’s family name is Lamont. We named him after her side.” Monty decided he did
like the mush his dad put in his mouth and smacked his fat hands on the high chair,
demanding more. Dana set Wiley’s plate at his elbow.

JB took a spoonful of stew. He’d been expecting beef, but the heavy, rich taste of
goat filled his mouth instead. “This is wonderful.” The stew tasted spicy and exotic.
“The goat I’ve had in the past was kind of tough and didn’t have much flavor.”

Wiley looked up from the baby. “That’s because you haven’t eaten
my
goats before, bubba. I raise them on corn; that’s the difference.”

Monty took advantage of his father’s inattention and slapped his hand in the baby
food bowl, upending it and spattering squash-colored mush on the table, himself, and
Wiley.

At Wiley’s horrified look, Monty broke into a gale of giggles. Dana joined in the
laugh at Wiley’s expense.

Wiley mopped the baby’s face. “Oh, little man, little man, what to do with you?”

JB now understood the roll of paper towels perched on the end of the table.

Dana pulled off several sheets, walked behind the baby, and began the cleanup. Dana
knelt beside Wiley’s chair. “Now you.” She caught his chin in her hand and pulled
his head around. She studied his face, then swiped at a few spatters. “You’re good.”

She was halfway to her feet when Wiley hooked his arm around her waist and pulled
her into his lap. “Only
good, am I?” He leaned her back over his arm. “I’ll show you good.” He growled and
lowered his head to kiss her. Her arms came around his neck as she opened to him.

JB knew they had forgotten they weren’t alone. Want fired in his chest. Not lust,
but an aching, empty
want
. Everything JB had lost lay before him: a warm kitchen, a good meal, a tight family.
Memories superimposed over his vision. This could have been Char and him, back when
Benje was a baby.

After the wave-break of memory, the emotions crashed: the smug satisfaction with life,
pride in his home and family, the peace that came from reaching his dreams. As he
watched the baby, the wanting tightened his chest until only shallow breaths could
fit around it. Benje’s coloring was lighter, and he was longer, less chubby. But the
goofy all-in grin was the same. JB’s vision blurred. He blinked to clear it.

Monty, suddenly realizing a target was within reach, twined his fingers in Dana’s
short hair and pulled. “Unnngh!” Dana broke the kiss, laughing. “Ow, Monty, stop!”
Wiley pulled the baby’s hands away, laughing down into her face.

They both looked up, across the table at JB. Had he made a noise? Must have. Mortification
spread heat to his face. He ducked his head to wipe his mouth, then scooted his chair
back and stood. “I’m going to get after the rest of those boxes in the truck.”

Dana’s brow took on a mother’s concerned furrow. “You don’t want more dinner, JB?
You hardly ate.” She stood.

“No, ma’am, thank you. The dinner was great.”

Wiley’s face flashed a mixture of guilt and pity. When
Dana would have taken a step toward JB, he caught her hand, twining his fingers in
hers. “We’ll be right here, JB.”

He cleared his throat, spun on his heel, and escaped.

It was full dark by the time JB carried in the last of his stuff. He dropped the box
and locked the door behind him. In the silence of the kitchen, he could hear the tick
of the clock on the mantel in the living room. The Galts had retired early to the
bedrooms at the rear of the house. JB hefted his burden one last time and walked to
his room, hearing the lilt of a muffled radio and a low chuckle from the hallway he
passed.

He stepped down onto the porch, stacked the box on top of the pile sprawling over
half the room, and closed the door to the house. He stretched, vertebrae popping.
Bugs ticked on the screens, trying to reach the small yellow light of the Tinkerbell
lamp on a box at the head of his bed.

God, he was tired. He sat on the edge of the bed and worked at pulling his boots off.
This was not the kind of tired that a night’s sleep could fix. It felt more like a
lead blanket of weariness weighted his soul.

Work
. The first order of business tomorrow would be to stop by the feedlot and see if
Junior was still willing to take him back. He couldn’t even afford pride lately. He
shucked out of his shirt and jeans, laying them on the plastic chair. Twenty-one years
of work, and all he had to show was a porch full of boxes and a championship belt
buckle.

He clicked off the light, shoved the blanket to the end of the bed, and crawled under
the sheet. A metal bar under the mattress pressed into his back. He stretched his
arm up to rest his head on it.

The night poured through the black screens, reclaiming its rightful territory. Homing
beacon gone, the bugs stopped worrying the screen, and crickets in the yard tuned
up a night song.

The fresh smell of damp grass in the dark reminded him of walking with Charla the
other night. They hadn’t spoken, just walked along together. Charla had never felt
the need to fill up a pretty moment with words; it was one of the things that had
drawn him to her, way back in high school. She wasn’t one of those chatty, giggly
girls; if Charla spoke, it was because she had something to say.

He’d almost forgotten how rare and wonderful they’d been together. Or maybe his own
guilt made him shove it all to the back of his mind, so he could live with himself.

JB stared into the dark, his thoughts a projection screen for his memories. Char,
dressed prim and proper for church after a night of hot loving. Mighty Mouse, bucking
hard, tossed a rider over his head. His gut twisted. Benje. Sun glinting off his copper
hair, squinted up at him, hero worship clear as the freckles on his nose.

He whispered to the dark, “Lord, I know you don’t throw more at a person than they
can bear, but you do get close to the line sometimes.”

JB knew from experience that when he got a headache from ramming his head into a problem,
it was because he’d stopped listening. As he rolled to his side, the support bar dug
into his ribs. “You got my attention, Lord. I’m all ears.”

No reply.

The cricket concert slowly released the day’s tension from his body, but sleep didn’t
come as easily.

Bella cleared her throat. “I just stumbled across it online.”

“Don’t you hate how you can’t surf the web nowadays without hitting pop-up ads for
bull trainers?” Char chuckled. “It’s okay, Bella. I’m not going to call New York and
tell them you’ve taken an interest in ranching.”

“Look, do you want it, or do I chuck it?”

“Oh no, I want it. I appreciate you thinking about me.” Char jotted the number on
the pad at her elbow and hung up. Clever Bella. It would have never occurred to Char
to search online for a trainer.

It felt so darned good to take her life in her own hands and do something instead
of cowering, waiting for the next disaster to hit.
Maybe I’m finally beating my way out of the weeds and onto the road to recovery that
the grief counselor talked about.
She hadn’t had a pill in four weeks, two days, twelve hours. The chores, formerly
an unending series of pratfalls, were becoming routine. The cattle were fat and sleek,
grazing on the spring grass.

Thank you, Great-Grandma.
The china had sold for more than she’d dreamed. She’d banked enough money to fund
a trainer for a year, at least. Char glanced to the china hutch, filled now with her
mother’s colorful collection of floral patterns. Smiling, she whispered, “Good to
have you back in the kitchen, Mom.”

She ripped the trainer’s number off the pad. There was more than one bull trainer
in Texas. She tucked the scrap of paper in the back pocket of her jeans as she walked
to the living room.

Her dad napped in the rocker, and Rosa stood at the sliding back door, speaking into
her cell phone. “I’d say
it’s going very well. His condition is advancing, of course, but he’s adapting and
seems calmer.” She turned and started, seeing Char. “I have to go now. I’ll call you
later with a full progress report, all right?” She snapped the phone closed and slid
it into her pocket. “That was a relative, calling about another patient.” Still watching
Char, she reached for her purse, perched on the edge of the table. The back of her
hand hit it, knocking it to the floor. She grumbled and bent to retrieve the scattered
contents.