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“I don’t believe in karma, but I do believe Hank will put a knot on my head if I don’t get back outside and finish unloading. We still have a full day of moving ahead of us.”
“If you need anything…”
“Actually, I was wondering about the churches in this area.”
“Sorry, that’s not my strong suit. But if you’re looking for an ice-cream shop—” she patted her hip “—I’m your resource.”
“I’ll remember that.”
He picked up the two cups and backed away from the counter, not really wanting to break eye contact with this intriguing woman. He shifted his body, but not his face, toward the door. Finally, as he turned to make his exit, a cascade of ivy blocked his view and he smacked his head into a hanging basket.
He ducked just as the plastic bucket made a second sweep in his direction.
Jessica steadied the swinging plant. “Did you hurt anything?”
“Only my pride,” he admitted, rubbing his temple.
He stared into the enchanting face as her expression changed from concern to humor. Suddenly she burst into laughter. Throwing a hand over her mouth, she shook her head in apology.
“I’m sorry. You just looked so silly with that ivy draped over your head.”
She followed him through the living room, unable to draw a breath without breaking into fresh giggles.
As he opened the door and stepped over the threshold, her infectious humor caught up with him. Just before he pulled the door closed behind him, he puckered his lips and blew her a noisy kiss.
Out in the hallway Drew stood still, appalled at the very personal gesture. The impulsive motion was completely out of character for a man who believed God had sent him on a mission to reconnect with a woman from his past.
During a brief college romance with Amelia Crockett, she’d proposed a deal.
When you get tired of playing army and want some real excitement, come find me in Atlanta. I’ll be the perfect political partner for you.
A dozen years and a nearly fatal training mission later, he was prepared to take her up on the offer.
The heavy exterior door swung open. Hank carried an armload of clothing through the vestibule into the hallway. Several garments slid off the stack, falling into a soft heap on the floor.
“I’ve got it,” Drew called, hurrying to close the space between them. He set the cups down carefully and then reached to recover his favorite wool suit, a starched dress shirt and two expensive cashmere sweaters. He brushed at the dark grains on the white shirt, but the motion only turned the small specks into streaks.
His nose twitched at the slight odor. Bending to the pristine broadcloth, he sniffed. Mingled with starch and laundry detergent was the unmistakable smell of…
Manure.
Chapter Three
Jessica was trapped, struggling for breath. She kicked frantically at the sheets that bound her in the semi-conscious state. Her groggy mind cast back to a room filled with skinny fifteen-year-old girls.
She stood out from them like a marshmallow in a bowl of pretzels, with thirty extra pounds on her body and a number forty-seven pinned to her back.
The instructor began leading the young dancers through combinations. Many struggled to keep up, but some caught on quickly. Jessica caught on. She fixed her attention on the movements, intent on copying and remembering them. When the pianist added music, the combinations became fluid, purposeful motions with a destination.
After the first hour a judge called out thirty numbers. These girls would continue the audition; the rest were free to go.
Number forty-seven made the cut.
The pace quickened as the instructor switched from basic ballet to moderately difficult jazz. It was obvious which dancers had the ability to cross over from classic to contemporary.
At the second break, fifteen more mothers packed up their daughters and headed for home. Jessica was grateful to be among the survivors, waiting for round three to begin.
The last part of the audition was modern dance, incorporating difficult leaps. The liability of her weight was evident in Jessica’s landings.
Finally the audition ended and the girls were dismissed. There were only five scholarships available for the summer workshop. Ten losers would be spending the steamy days in small Texas towns, baby-sitting and watching MTV, while the winners worked with seasoned professionals.
Jessica swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and headed for the ladies’ room. As she stood in line outside the door, she overheard the number forty-seven mentioned by a young, high-pitched voice. The discomfort reflected on the face of the girl directly in front of Jessica was no preparation for the blows that followed.
The shrill voice echoed inside the tiled walls. “What a country hog! I heard there were some big ones over in east Texas, but she’s gotta be a blue ribbon winner.”
Laughter followed the comment as another anonymous girl chimed in, “My mom says they have to let a few porky ones audition every year just so nobody can claim discrimination. If you ask me, it was just a waste of two good dance positions on the stage!”
The girls exited, laughing at their crude comments. Turning the corner, they came face-to-face with the butt of their jokes.
A very slender brunette gaped wide-eyed at Jessica. Embarrassed at being caught, the girl burst into nervous laughter and sprinted the distance to the auditorium. Jessica had heard the ugly words before, but they’d never penetrated in quite this way.
Inside the audition hall, the final results had been posted. Number forty-seven was not one of the scholarship winners, but neither were the numbers of the two from the rest room. Bittersweet, but small consolation.
Jessica bit a quivering lip and lifted her chin as a lone tear slipped down her cheek. Mama said God gave her a beautiful body and it was precious in His sight. But there was nothing precious about a girl called “porky.”
Jessica jolted awake in a flushed panic, unable to shake the dream. It was always the same. And why not? It was more than a dream. It was a memory.
Nature had played a cruel trick, giving her a craving for sweets and a body that efficiently turned sugary comforts into lumpy cellulite. All the years of physical work and self-denial were for nothing. She was right back where she’d started.
The old digital clock clicked as the plastic numerals for 6:25 dropped into place. She tossed off the covers, pulled back the heavy drapes, cranked open two sets of louvered windows and slid back between wrinkled sheets.
At the foot of the bed, Frasier contentedly gnawed his sock monkey. She rolled across the king-size mattress to stroke his silky ears. The contact was reassuring.
Suddenly his head popped up. He appeared to listen for signs of activity outside the windows. He began to bark just as she picked up the strong downbeat. She struggled to her feet while Bruce Springsteen informed the world he was born in the U.S.A.
A glance at the parking lot below gave no clue as to the music’s origin, but it was so close. And so loud. It seemed to come…right through the wall.
“Rambo! I knew it! I knew that guy was going to be trouble.”
She yanked on the flowered chenille robe Becky Jo had bought at a thrift store for seventy-five cents.
With a firm grip on her cane and Frasier hot on her heels, she took the stairs in record time, flung open her front door and closed the space between the two homes. As she drew back to pound on the door, it opened, placing her face-to-face with silver-haired Hank Delgado.
Frasier scooted past the long legs and slid across the polished wood floor. He made a muffled “umph” sound as he nose-dived into a leather ottoman.
“Good morning.” Hank cocked an eyebrow at Jessica as if he wondered what she looked like with her hair combed.
“It was, until somebody gave the order to crank it up.”
“The boy gets up at the crack of dawn, and he does like his music loud.” He nodded agreement, pressing hands against his ears in an exaggerated fashion.
She tried her best to seem angry. It didn’t work. She dropped her head to hide the smile that threatened. Acutely aware of her bare feet, she imagined how foolish she must appear, standing in the hallway in the ancient robe.
“My mama had a housecoat just like that. I think she donated it to the thrift store over on Peachtree,” he said with a reminiscent smile.
Jessica didn’t even want to consider the possibility.
“Hey, man, it’s the welcoming committee,” Hank shouted to his partner.
Drew glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. He gave Jessica’s robe a nod and a cheerful thumbs-up.
So much for yesterday’s vow never to leave the house again without clean clothes and makeup. She realized that for the third time this guy had caught her at her worst. Of course, he was spit shined and polished already. It wasn’t fair for a man to look so well put together this early in the morning.
“I know I said I’d have you over, but I thought you’d at least give me a day to unpack,” Drew called.
Hank reached for the stereo to turn down the volume.
Drew moved into the doorway to greet his visitor. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He motioned with his hand. “Come on in.”
She stepped into his home for the first time, admiring the deep muted tones of the rugs and furnishings, the rich smell of new leather and the bookcase filled with handsome volumes. A worn Bible lay atop the sofa table.
“Did you really move in less than twenty-four hours ago?” She noted how few boxes remained unpacked.
“I believe in a place for everything and everything in its place.” Drew smiled with pride. “Hey, I just happen to have a fresh pot of Colombian decaf.” He stared pointedly at Jessica’s bare feet. “But isn’t it a little early for you to be paying a social call?”
“Isn’t it a little early for you to be playing your stereo so loud?”
“You don’t like the Boss? I suppose you’d prefer something different?”
“As a matter of fact, Springsteen is one of my all-time favorites. But at this hour of the morning, I do like my music a little more soothing.”
“For instance?” he asked, stooping to inspect his considerable collection of compact discs.
“Well, for instance…” She groped for something to catch him off guard. “Rachmaninoff appeals to me in the mornings.”
“Is that right?” he asked in a “gotcha” tone.
Selecting a CD from one of several towers, he dropped it into a multidisc player. Within moments the room swelled with the sound of a single keyboard accompanied by a section of violins. He reached to increase the volume, stopping short, hand just above the control.
She’d never have admitted it at that moment, but he’d impressed her.
“You like classical music?” she questioned with disbelief.
“Music lessons were not optional at my house. My sister and I had to choose an instrument in the sixth grade and stick with it through graduation. I chose the piano.”
“Because of all the great composers?”
“No. Because I figured since it was too big to carry around with me, I could keep the guys at school from finding out about it. I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before.”
“I promise not to tell your dark secret, as long as you promise to watch the decibel level of your stereo.” She fixed him with an accusing stare. “At least before nine o’clock in the morning.”
Drew ducked his chin, appropriately contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so loud.”
“The heck, you say!” Hank stepped down from the kitchen. “I told you it was gonna wake somebody up, but you were too busy singing along to care.” Hank turned to her. “You ought to hear how loud he has Jimmy Buffett blasting through the showroom down at Metro.”
Drew’s eyes widened. “All you had to do was say something.”
Hank gestured toward the stereo. “But that stuff right there is kinda nice. Why don’t you bring that CD down to the shop with you tomorrow?”
“Well, I’ll just have to do that.”
She glanced from one man to the other, thinking what an odd but colorful team they made, the fifty-something laid back and the thirtysomething uptight.
Hank offered his mug in salute. “Jessica, I owe you one. Come on down to Metro Muscle and I’ll make you a good deal on an old car.”
“Thanks, but I already have an old car.”
“If you change your mind…” He smiled and headed back to the kitchen.
She turned to leave.
Stepping between his guest and the door, Drew reached for the knob and then paused.
“By any chance would your old car be that rusty station wagon with all the gardening supplies stacked next to it?”
Her trouble sensors went on full alert. She was torn between pride in the beloved vehicle and suspicion for why he was asking. But she answered honestly.
“That’s my Ruby.”
“Ruby?”
“Sure, that’s her name. Ruby Red.”
He squinted, confusion etched on his face.
“You seem to care a lot about automobiles. I bet that blue car has a name,” she said matter-of-factly.
Drew glanced over her head toward his partner. Jessica followed his gaze to see Hank busy with the installation of the clothes dryer. Her neighbor looked back at her, leaning in closer.
“Okay. Normally when I tell this to someone, I have to kill them. But I think I can trust you.” He lowered his voice. “When we’re alone, just me and the hot rod, I call him…” He glanced toward the laundry room again and whispered, “Rambo.”
She gasped, first embarrassed, then angry. The big goon burst into loud laughter. She made a fist and gave a solid punch to his shoulder. His face registered surprise at the strength of the blow. He winced and rubbed the spot, but continued to enjoy his laugh at her expense.
“Who told you?” She demanded an answer.
“You mean more than one person knows about my nickname?”
She couldn’t help noticing when he laughed that there were twin dimples in his tanned cheeks. It only made him more attractive.
