“Wipe the greasepaint off your nose.”
“Oh, man. Forgot.”
Bandy’s laugh set his blue wig to bobbing. “I made that up about being afraid of armadillos. My biggest fear is that I won’t live long enough to see you finally get the important stuff figured out.”
19
“It’s a protein source. You have my word,” Jack promised, thoroughly enjoying Riley’s pleasure—and the sprinkling of caramelized sugar on her chin. It was the exact shade of her hair.
She groaned. “You said that about Bandy’s cream cheese frosting. Now I’ve had a cupcake for breakfast and . . .
mmm
.” She squeezed her eyes shut, savoring the last morsel of praline. “You’re a horrible influence, Dr. Travis.”
Jack’s laugh riffled the surface of his coffee. “Trying my best.”
He
was
trying. And until this moment would have argued that nothing compared to the taste of Tia Rosa’s pecan pralines—the best medicine for what ailed a man, hands down. But watching Riley Hale devour one was like a miracle cure. He’d felt the same way when she showed up at the Sunshine Center that morning.
But Jack had been nervous too, about more than picking children’s tunes on his guitar. If he’d been forced to be honest in that sharing circle, he would’ve had to say, “I’m afraid I’ll scare Riley away.” It was the truth. And he was trying his very best not to.
Because I need her . . . for the clinic,
he reminded himself hastily. And since Riley needed him—the clinic—for her own career goals, they should be able to work around their differences and accommodate each other. He had a plan in mind, and when the timing was right, he’d move forward with it. In the meantime, he’d avoid subjects like religion, the controversy surrounding the clinic, tragedies in their pasts . . . and what happened between them at Fiesta. He’d keep it light.
They’d already agreed on the pecan pralines. So far so good.
“Great hole-in-the-wall bakery,” Riley pronounced, her gaze skimming the tiny
dulcería
. Its very air was buttercream thick with the aromas of coffee, cinnamon, and burnt sugar. Piñatas, lacy paper flags, and string after string of dusty Christmas lights and twisted streamers festooned the too-low ceiling. Jack had to duck to escape a crepe paper cut. Strains of Mexican music from a scratchy old radio floated from the direction of the kitchen.
“And,” Riley continued with a smile, “no decor is complete without one of those.” She pointed to a stuffed armadillo standing upright on the bakery’s glass counter—wearing a cowboy hat and miniature gun belt.
“You bet,” Jack said, thinking of what Bandy had said earlier. That it wasn’t armadillos he was afraid of; it was that Jack would never figure out the “important stuff.” He had an uneasy hunch that the rodeo clown had meant far more than simply a teasing comment about the paint on Jack’s nose.
“This morning at the Sunshine Center . . . ,” Riley said over the rim of her brightly painted cup. Her gaze met Jack’s, all teasing gone from her eyes. “It’s good what you’re doing there, Jack. Important.”
“It’s . . .” He started to say something about Abby, stopped himself. “It’s all Bandy. He’s a natural with kids.”
“Does he have family?” Riley asked.
“A married son. Up near Austin. And a granddaughter. He spends Sundays with them. Bandy and his son were estranged until recently, so it’s all fairly new.”
“And Bandy’s wife?”
“Divorced him years ago. She couldn’t deal with his lifestyle, and Bandy says he can’t blame her.”
“The rodeo?”
“And the booze,” Jack added, knowing Bandy would freely admit it. And then find some folksy way to segue into an applicable message from Holy Scripture. “It took its toll on his health—and his wallet. That last heart attack essentially put him out on the street.”
Riley shook praline crumbs from her napkin into her coffee. “I’m surprised his son doesn’t insist he come live with them.”
“They’re looking at a home foreclosure. Bandy’s son lost his job six months ago. There’s another baby on the way and they’re struggling to get by. Bandy feels bad that he can’t help financially and would never add to their burdens.”
Riley nodded. “How’s his health now?”
“He doesn’t complain, except when I make him put on an exam gown for our internist. Gives me that old ‘not afraid to die ’cause I know where I’m going’ spiel.” He hesitated, wondering if he’d already managed to offend Riley’s faith. Navigating the mountain bike trail was easier. “Anyway, I prescribed some pain pills for the arthritis, but he says they make him too sleepy.” Jack shook his head. “I doubt Bandy has ten bones that some bull—or lousy street thug—hasn’t pulverized. Has to hurt like the devil every day of his life. But he doesn’t complain.” Jack’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “I don’t know how I’d do this without him.”
Riley was quiet for a moment. “He admires you, Jack. For reaching out to people who might otherwise have no place to turn. And because of how much you obviously care about them. But Bandy’s concerned about what’s going on with The Bluffs neighbors. And—” she met his gaze—“about how you deal with that. He’s concerned you’re not leaving room for compromise and that you’re trying to shoulder all the responsibility—”
“Compromise?” Jack’s coffee sloshed as he set it down. “And what would that be? Turning the clinic back into a thrift shop? So someone could peddle crocheted toaster covers and Andrea Nichols’s cast-off handbags?” He grimaced. “Yeah, sure. Maybe Bandy could learn to make those cucumber sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off and pour tea.”
“Jack . . .”
“No, wait.” He had to make her understand his point—needed her to see the truth. “Those neighbors won’t be satisfied until they’ve torn down my clinic. And don’t try to sell me that load of bull Rob Melton is shoveling: that they’re good people who are scared. The only people who should have any claim on fear are folks like Gilbert DeSoto and Stacy Paulson. Who’s going to ‘shoulder the responsibility’ for protecting them if I don’t? Those neighbors? Or God, maybe?” Jack told himself to stop, not to cross the line, but it was too late. “The same God who left Abby in the trunk of a car? And allowed some maniac to nearly choke you to death in that parking garage?”
Riley flinched, glanced down at her hands. Somewhere in the distance, the Mexican radio station scratched out a rendition of “La Paloma Blanca”—“The White Dove.”
“Old melancholies, things of the soul . . .”
“I’m sorry, Riley. I . . .” Nothing he could say would help now. Somehow he’d managed to cross every line he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. Except kissing her. And Jack had as much chance of that happening again as that stuffed armadillo had of blending into Andrea Nichols’s home decor.
“So . . .” Riley looked up, brows pinching. “When did you stop trusting him?”
“Trusting who?”
“God.”
Great.
He should have kissed her. Far less risky.
* * *
Vesta slid into the Mercedes’s driver’s seat, telling herself to concentrate on the softness of the upholstery and its scent: buttery leather mixed with a faint trace of Riley’s perfume. Or the cool heft of the chaplain’s key chain—a pewter and crystal cross. She reminded herself to appreciate the speckled morning sunlight filtering through the trees to light the garage. Sensory details—as many as Vesta could absorb—might distract her from the beginnings of an anxious hum in her ears, dampening palms, and a wave of nausea.
No . . . I’m okay. I’m fine.
All the symptoms could be related to the fact that her blood sugar was still hovering close to 200; she’d left a message at the doctor’s office.
Vesta took a slow breath and managed a smile, recalling the license plate on this vehicle:
TYGRR
. There had to be a story in that. And in the verse on the plate’s frame: 1 Corinthians 16:13.
She’d opened her Bible, looked it up:
“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.”
Riley’s favorite verse, perhaps.
Vesta had no problem relating to the Scripture’s advice regarding caution. The fact that she locked the door to her house every time she ventured into the yard to fill the bird feeders proved that. But
“be courageous . . .”
The keys rattled in her trembling fingers and Vesta lowered them to her lap. Courage had become a fair-weather friend.
The last time she’d been in a car was when her neighbor drove her home from the hospital, the return trip after she’d traveled lights-and-siren to the ER. But the last time Vesta actually drove a car herself was more than two years ago.
She took a slow breath, rested her hands on the sun-warmed steering wheel. It had been an Audi. Red, with a sheepskin seat cover and a favorite wedding photo tucked into the sun visor. Her little terrier, Corky, rode beside her, hanging his head out the window and loving the wind in his face. They did that often, visiting friends, traveling to the flower-lush grounds of Wildseed Farms, ordering car-delivery burgers at Sonic. Corky ate her pickles, squinting his eyes like a little comedian. She’d felt almost free then, finally hopeful, even after all that had happened.
And then Corky died. A malicious rash of antifreeze poisonings, the vet had said. Pets lured by the sweet but deadly fluid. She tried to believe that his death was one of several in the county, a cruel act by misguided kids, and that she hadn’t been targeted personally. After all, there had been no middle-of-the-night phone calls for years. And even the source of those was uncertain. But the nightmares started up again anyway. Horrible memories of that night fifteen years earlier. She’d been driving a Camry then, and—
Her heart slamming against her ribs, Vesta whipped around to stare at the window, expecting to see the face staring at her through the glass. The angry eyes, wild hair. In moments the terrifying cycle began. The acrid stench of smoke and gasoline. The shouts of
“Grab her! Don’t let her get away!”
And the frantic memory of slamming the Camry into gear, flattening its gas pedal to the floor. Roaring away, praying aloud, nearly blinded by fear. Seeing only a narrow tunnel of light in inky darkness, her headlights on the black asphalt.
And then that other man, staggering along the side of the road, face bloody, blinking into her high beams and waving his arms as if to flag her down. She’d sped on, survival the only priority.
She’d told no one. Traded in the Camry. Moved. Changed her phone number. Moved again and again and again. And now . . .
She had no dog. No car and . . . Vesta moaned. And no right to sit in the car of a young chaplain who so beautifully exemplified the Bible verse on its license frame:
“. . . stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.”
God knew Vesta’s weakness. And she knew there was no magic number on a glucose meter or treadmill, no series of visits from a social worker or even from a dedicated and caring chaplain, that could make her free again. Nothing could erase her fear and guilt. Or forestall the dangerous possibilities if that murderer was really back.
Vesta’s landlady had mentioned a visit from an investigator, asking questions about the clinic and about Jack Travis. He’d be digging into the past.
Are you there, God? What am I supposed to do?
* * *
“I’m making you uncomfortable.” Riley thought of the photo of Jack and the Pamplona bulls. He’d looked far less anxious then.
He gave a short laugh. “When did I stop trusting God? That’s a loaded question. You know, like the old ‘When did you stop beating your wife?’ routine.” He scraped his fingers along the side of his jaw. “A question that assumes I did at some point trust God. Believe in him.”
“Yes,” Riley admitted, noticing that there was still the smallest bit of red makeup on the side of Jack’s nose. She thought of his boast in the skit:
“Not afraid of nothin’.”
He didn’t look so sure right now. “When we were talking that night at the River Walk, you said something about sparing me your doubts about God. So I thought . . .” She watched his expression, not sure if his faint wince had to do with her mentioning that night or with her questions. Then she reminded herself that it didn’t really matter.
Jack’s eyes met hers. “My family went to church. I can’t remember a leg of chicken that didn’t get prayed over. Or a touchdown. I sang in the choir for a couple of years.” He scrounged up a smile. “You could probably tell that at the Sunshine Center. But . . .”
Riley realized she was holding her breath.
It does; it matters to me.
Pain flickered across Jack’s face. “It took a year for the cancer to finally take my father. I watched him sort of wither away. A football coach, six-foot-three, two-fifty pounds. Big guy, bigger heart.” He swallowed. “I carried him from the couch to the bedroom those last few weeks; he was light enough that I could hold him in my arms. It seemed so impossible. I couldn’t understand how it could happen. I started to think God wasn’t listening, you know?”
Riley nodded, her throat tight.