T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (31 page)

T
uesday morning, ten o’clock, the breakfast crew gone, the lunch rush over an hour away. Lyla was doing a steady gasoline business, had sold two hunting licenses, and wondered if she had so upset Sam that he’d not even call. Her self-restraint was close to the breaking point when something red flashed past her front doors and seconds later, a familiar voice was greeting Shep. She hopped off the stool and was standing between the lunch counter and the checkout when he entered.

“Didn’t know if you’d still be speaking to me.” She smiled at him, realizing as she did it, that what she’d hoped would be a Mona Lisa hint, was close to a grin.

“Didn’t know if you’d be alone.” His smile was broad, but he stopped his advance on her about a foot away. He danced on the balls of his feet and clenched his fists, never took his eyes from her.

Lyla quickly crossed the space between them. Encircling his neck with her arms, she drew his lips down to hers. He warmly welcomed her, drew her into his embrace, kept his hands at her waist. Their breathing was ragged as their lips parted. “Sha-zam, girl,” he commented as he bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “It’s obvious you can’t be left alone more than twelve hours or your circuits might blow the next time you’re hooked up.”

She laughed at him. “I sensed some overload on your part, too.” She pushed gently at him and he reluctantly released her, groaning while he did so.

“C’mon, can’t you close up for just an itsy-bitsy piece of time?” he pleaded as she took his hand and led him down the counter. He plopped down on a stool on the customer side, while she reached for a folding chair and made herself comfortable on the other.

“No.” She drew the word out. “You know I can’t.”

He nestled his chin in his hands and stared at her. “Party pooper.”

“Well, now, I bet that’s a line you’ve used before.”

“Don’t you know it.” He reached behind him and pulled a sheaf of paper out of his back pocket, began unfolding it. “Look at this,” he said as spread it across the counter. “If you won’t close down and play, you can just work. Read this. See if it’s anything like what we played the other night.” Finishing, he sat back down.

Lyla started at the beginning; Lyla’s Song, sweet, one-fingered, as Wes had written it and she had played it Sunday night while she sat between his legs and both gave to and took energy from him. Automatically, her fingers rose to the edge of the surface and she silently tapped out the notes. It got complicated when he split the page between what she had played and what he had. Their hands had moved not so much together, as in concert. “How did you ever remember all this?” She raised her eyes to his.

“Had to find something to occupy my time—and my hands—last night. It may not be a good job. What do you think?”

“Come play with me.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” He rose quickly and scurried around the far edge of the counter. Standing behind her, he spread his arms out on either side of hers, rested his chin on the top of her head. “I don’t mean to be picky, but what if someone comes in? Madam Shopkeeper, this borders on being a compromising position.”

“Shut up and play.”

“Where are you?” She pointed it out. “I’d rather start at the beginning.”

She heaved a sigh. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy.” She dropped her hands to her lap, then let out a deep breath, lifted them and began to mimic the keyboard at the beginning. He joined with her at the appropriate spot. They were three-quarters through the piece, a smile on each face, when the front door opened and Mar-Mar noisily entered.

“Lyla, turn on the damn pump! I’ve been standing out there for five minutes…” Her voice trailed off.

At the sound of Mar-Mar’s voice, Lyla and T froze. The longer she stood there gaping at them, the more like a tableau they became. Finally, T caught his breath and straightened. Lyla shook herself out of the musical reverie.

“Sorry, Mar-Mar, we—we were just—just” —this was going to sound even more ridiculous than it was— “playing the piano.”

“I see.” She looked from one to the other. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Like she needs an introduction, Lyla thought. “Mar-Mar, huh, Marji Marie Johnson, I’d like you to meet Sam Thomas. Sam, Marji Marie. Sam is renting my house for a few weeks. Sam, Mar-Mar is Tib’s mother.”

Oh, Christ, T thought, but he smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.” There was sufficient distance between them that no hands needed to be extended.

“Oh, and you,” the older woman said. T thought her eyes might cross, she was staring at him so hard. Finally, she involuntarily shivered and turned her attention to Lyla, who now stood behind the cash register. “The pump, Lyla.” She unfolded the ten-dollar bill from where it was clenched in her fist. “That's all I need, right there.”

“Sorry about that, Mar-Mar. I’d had a real rush up until a few minutes ago.” She flicked the button.

Mar-Mar cocked an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve still got one.” She was out the door before Lyla could respond.

Lyla and T looked at each other, burst into laughter. “Tib’s mother!” T was incredulous. “They actually go together?”

“Well, Tib was by husband number one. At least, that’s what she says.”

“That number two isn’t the father.”

“No, that they were married.”

His grin broadened. “This is almost too good.”

“Now don’t go getting judgmental about Tib and Marji Marie. She has a good heart and a giving spirit.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And she’s given and given and given.”

He peered out the front windows as Mar-Mar tried to hit the ten-dollar mark at the gas pump exactly. “She’s a regular customer?”

“First time I’ve seen her as a customer in six months. She lives closer to Red’s. Have no idea what brought her here today.”

They watched Mar-Mar finish pumping, close the tank, and drive off.

T looked back down at the music. “Are we going to have to start over at the very beginning?” she asked.

He nodded. “Now I’ve lost my rhythm. Never be able to get it back.”

“Likely story.” She scooted off the stool and sat back down in the chair. “One more interruption and we’ll have to continue this later.”

He grabbed the sheet music and folded it up. “Done! Your place, or your place?” He smiled at himself.

“See you about two.”

“I’ll count the minutes.”

*  *  *

Damn! Fletch muttered under his breath as he reached the top step up from the dock and saw the garage door up, the place empty. He should have taken the keys with him, instead of trusting them to the bottom of the sock drawer. T wasn’t beyond overturning everything Fletch had in his quest for them.

He shifted the weight of the sacks and trudged through the open garage to the kitchen door. Unlocked. Oh, fine, let Lyla come back to a ransacked, burglarized house.

Setting the Oklahoma sacks on the counter, he began unloading them into the refrigerator. The beer for the band went on the bottom. There was plenty of room, now that they’d eaten through most of their supply of nutritious food. He wasn’t going to lay in a stock of anything but booze until he knew once here, they would stay. Besides, he probably did need to disappear for a while and let the dust settle between T and the group. Between T and C. Shopping would fill that niche.

At least he had the bass boat back now. Bertie and someone described as ‘an old fishing buddy’ had shown up at seven o’clock. God-awful hour. She’d banged on the door until he’d awakened, told him the boat was below. He’d trailed her to the top of the steps, seen her get into another small boat and take off, heading out into the middle of the lake. Fishing poles hung over the side and there were two bait buckets. Even if he lived to be that old, he’d never be able to stand up to her routine.

He was folding the last sack when he heard the Mercedes pull into the garage. Fletch mentally noted T’s progress out of the car, up the concrete steps, through the utility room, into the kitchen. T flipped him the keys as he passed through to the living room. “Mind telling me where you were? How about how you found the keys?” he shouted after his retreating back.

“You know where I was!” Fletch heard the piano open, the stool push back. Books were stacked. He followed the noises. “Your sock drawer? Jeez, Fletch, get an imagination.”

“I have an imagination. You left the house unlocked.”

“I knew you’d be back soon.” T was spreading out the music he’d brought into the house with him.

“Finally do some work?”

“Spent all last night. Lyla’ll be up to help me finish it this afternoon. I expect you to be gone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, oh. Go run around on the Osprey.”

“Who died and made you boss?”

T turned to stare at him. “It’s more like who’s going to die if I don’t get to be boss.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be.” He sat down, ignored Fletcher, began to play. “What’s for lunch?”

Various colorful answers raced through Fletch’s mind, from humble pie to crow to “Hey, you’re the boss, you fix it.” Instead, he ignored T, went back to the kitchen, started to fix his own.

*  *  *

“You know, in order to remember this, we have to be in exactly the same positions we were in Sunday night.” T indicated the piano bench for Lyla, smirked slightly.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a dirty old man.”

“No, he’s out on the Osprey. I exiled him.”

“However did you do that?”

“Sheer strength of will. And I tied him up.” Lyla laughed. “No, I didn’t, really. He went to be a good sport.”

“Somehow I doubt sportsmanship had anything to do with it.”

He shrugged as Lyla moved to the bench, let her hand lovingly touch the wood. She sat down on the bench edge at middle C, placed her hands in her lap the way she was taught. So much of the power of the piano was the grace of the hands.

T straddled her, moved his body to fit snugly with hers. He laid his hands on his knees, waited for her to start.

Lyla breathed deeply. The song affected her strongly, always had. Now, strangely, it was the link between the two men she had ever loved with her whole heart. Playing it was both an emotional bond and an emotional release. She placed her hands on the keyboard and began.

Sweet, sweet music. Played with constraint, then with passion. They went through it twice without stopping. When Lyla finally put her hands back into her lap, she involuntarily leaned against T. She was exhausted.

He circled her with his arms, rested his chin on her shoulder. He felt dazed. He’d gone beyond wanting to own this music for the sure awards it presented. His need was deeper now. To own it and show it would be just the start of the display of his love for Lyla. It would be more than an announcement. It would be a catharsis of his soul, proof to her of his redemption and her part in it. That in her mind the melody might tie him to Wes didn’t occur to him.

“The middle’s wrong.” It was a flat statement. She didn’t even stir to make it.

“That’s why I had you come up.”

“Only reason?”

“Of course.”

“Liar.”

He nuzzled her ear, then reached for a pencil. “Fix it.” He paused. “Like you tried to fix my new one.”

She smiled slightly at him, and they began to work on the middle, the complicated four hands.

It was thirty minutes before she liked it. Another ten before he did. She was extremely good at this and he told her so. “You used to do it all the time, didn’t you, Lyla?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

“Why did you stop? Talent like this just doesn’t stop without a reason.”

“I had my reason.”

“Will you tell me?”

She twisted to look at him. “Tell me, Sam. Do you believe in redemption?”

*  *  *

“Hello, Mr. Fletcher, what you doing?” Harrison’s shrill child voice drifted along the houseboat to reach Fletch’s ears as he cleaned the wheel on the top deck.

“I’m cleaning house, Harrison. Your mother know where you are?”

“No.” The boy trudged up the ladder. “But since she’s in the house with Sam, I figured it was okay if I came and saw you.”

“How do you know she’s in the house with Sam?”

The boy grinned. “Like I can’t see the Jeep there? Anyway, I heard the piano. It was like they had two pianos in there ’cept I know they don’t.” He looked around. “It sounds like the tapes do.”

“What tapes?” Fletch continued polishing, playing along. Harrison was a veritable gold mine of information.

“When she was a student. She’s got all these recordings of her playing classical stuff. Sometimes I catch her listening to them.”

Fletch mentally inventoried the CDs on the bookshelf. There was nothing with her name on it. “Where was she a student?”

“North Texas. It’s big. She took me over once. And then she got to go to Boston, but she said she was lonely for Daddy so she came back and had Hannah and then me.” Harrison swung his legs, rhythmically bouncing them off the vinyl bench. “You caught any fish yet?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you getting tired of that? Didn’t you listen to anything I said?”

Fletcher turned and saddled the boy with a look of disgust. “Harrison, anyone ever tell you you’re just like your mother?”

The boy shook his head. “Most folks say I’m the spitting image of my daddy. Bertie says I even act like him and if that’s not—not,” he stumbled over the next words, “Nature being true or is it nur—nurture? Is that a word, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I think she’s saying you can’t help being like your father.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He settled down on the cracked cushions. “Grandma says Hannah was like Mama. Hannah was my sister. But I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe you did.” And how confusing that was, Fletch remembered. Was that only a little over a week ago? Why did it seem like they had been here forever?

“See you got our bass boat back.”

“Bertie brought it this morning. She was going fishing with someone else in their boat. Who would that have been?” His curiosity had been rife.

“Well, if it was a woman it was probably Sunny, that’s my music teacher Melinda’s husband’s mother. They’re old friends.”