The hellion

CHAPTER TWO

On the fourth morning following the funeral, Tommy Lee found little to smile about. He awakened sprawled on the sofa, still wearing a tweed sports coat, trousers, and tie, a foul taste in his mouth, and a head beating like a voodoo drum. Gingerly he rolled over, sat up, and nursed his tender head.

Upstairs things were a little better. The sun was already up behind the dogwoods and cedars and came cascading into his east bedroom and bath, bringing the sounds of spring birds from the trees.

Naked, he brushed his teeth, then straightened to study his reflection in the generous mirror above the vanity. His conclusion was the same as ever. You got to lose some weight, boy. You got to slow down with the women and spend a little time on healthier

activities. 39

But somehow he never did. Somehow the beer was always too cold to refuse, and the women too warm. Life had its compensations.

But out of the blue came the thought of Rachel, svelte and graceful, not an ebony hair out of place, smelling sweet, still beautiful. What would she think if she saw him this way?

Angrily he spit, drew a mouthful of water and tilted his head back while rinsing, spit again, but avoided looking in the mirror while he tossed his wet toothbrush onto the vanity top and flicked on the radio. From its speaker, WWWR announced it had been serving Franklin County and Northwest Alabama since 1949. Then a strong female voice musically advised Tommy Lee to "Blame It on Love."

The hiss of the shower cut her off in mid-word.

For three days he'd resisted the urge to drive past Rachel's store, but when he arrived in town later that morning he gave in, passing his own office and continuing north along Jackson Avenue, the main drag of town, until he came abreast of a small dress shop

on the left. Above the door hung a crisp sign bearing a distinctive stylized lily and the word "Panache." He recalled when she'd first opened the place, ten years ago, that he'd looked up the word to find it meant "dashing elegance." At the time he'd been amused. Russellville, Alabama-population 10,000-seemed ill-chosen as a town to be availed of dashing elegance. Nonetheless, she'd brought a touch of it here. Above and beyond this, Rachel was an astute businesswoman. The store had succeeded, then thrived.

Poised, well dressed, genteel, she'd set a fine example for the ladies of the town. By now, every woman in Russellville knew who Rachel Hollis was. She was the pretty one, the soft-spoken one, the one in the Evan Picone suits and the Vidal Sassoon nail polish, the one who gave something from her store to every fund raiser, attended the First Baptist Church on Jackson Avenue, drove a sedate four-door sedan, had her hair done regularly in Florence, and lived in an elegant home on the east edge of town. She was the wife of that nice young man who worked at the bank with Rachel's

daddy. She was Everett Talmadge's 41 daughter.

As Tommy Lee drove past Panache, he saw Verda McElroy approach the front door and open up for the day. For a moment he thought she'd turn and see the white Cadillac cruising past, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Verda brushed inside and closed the door without turning around. He drove two blocks farther, swung over to Washington and returned to his own office at the south end of Jackson.

He drew up before a small brick building with white shutters, the home of TLG Enterprises, Ltd. Tommy Lee really didn't need an office; he could easily have run his business affairs out of his home. But renting the building got him out of the empty house and gave him somewhere to go during the day. It also provided a place for Liz Scroggins to answer the phone and carry on the secretarial duties he required.

Liz was thirty-five and divorced, and one of the few women who'd ever sent out signals Tommy Lee had ignored. Oh, she'd never sent them overtly, probably never even realized she'd

sent them at all, for Liz was a perfect lady. She was a looker, all right, but too damn good a worker to risk losing at the end of a messy affair. So Tommy Lee always got his poon tangin' someplace else.

He gave her a smile as he sauntered in and stopped before her desk. Though he drove like a wild man, he never appeared to be in a hurry when on foot.

"Well, good mornin', Liz."

"Mornin', Mr. Gentry."

"Don't you look like a li'l azalea blossom today." His eyes scanned her neat pink dress and he saw her blush.

"You say that every morning, I swear."

He laughed, unaware of the inborn Southern charm he exuded as he idled before her desk. "Well, then, it must be true." He did, in fact, admire the way Liz dressed, never in slacks, her golden hair always freshly fluffed and curled, her makeup conscientiously applied. There were times when he thought it was a shame she was his secretary. "I'm expecting some quotes from Hensley in the mail today. Let me know when they come in."

She nodded and leafed through three written 43 messages, handing them across the desk, one at a time. "Muldecott called from the Florence Bank. A Mr. Trudeau called from Sheffield Engineering." Liz kept her eyes carefully downcast as she slipped the last message across to him. "And your daughter called and asked to have you call her as soon as you got in."

As he took the yellow slip of paper, Tommy Lee's eyebrows drew into a frown. "Thank you, Liz." Already he was moving toward his private office. The door was rarely closed between the two rooms, and he left it open now as he picked up the phone and dialed Muscle Shoals.

"Hiya, baby, it's Daddy."

"Ohhh, Daddy, you'll never guess what's come up. Marianne Wills is having this pool party and I've been invited, but Mother refuses to let me go because there are gonna be boys there, too. She says I'm too young, but everybody I know is going, Daddy, and they're all fourteen, the same as me. Will you talk to her and get her to change her mind?"

"Baby, you know your mother won't change her

mind because of anything I say."

"Pleeease, Daddy."

Tommy Lee rocked forward in his chair and wearily rubbed his forehead. "Beth, if I take your side it'll only make things worse. You and your mother will just have to fight it out."

"That's all we ever do is fight!"

"I know, I know…"

There followed a brief silence, then Beth's voice again, softer, more pleading. "Daddy, I hate it here. Why can't I come and live with you?"

"We've been over that a hundred times before."

"But, Daddy, she-was

"Your mother won't allow it, Beth. You know that."

Beth's voice suddenly turned accusing. "You don't want me. You don't want me any more than she does!"

Pain knifed through Tommy Lee's heart. "That's not true, Beth. You know I'd have you with me in a minute if I could." He knew Beth was manipulating him again, but the pain was real, nevertheless. As he always did, he sought an antidote. "Listen, honey, just in case she breaks down and lets you go to the party after all, how

would you like a brand-new bathing suit?" 45

"Really, Daddy?" By the quick brightness in his daughter's voice it was apparent to Tommy Lee that he was only adding to her problem by trying to buy her off, but he felt helpless, and the offer of a new suit eased his guilt. "There'll be a nice crisp fifty-dollar bill in the mail tomorrow. Now, will you try to make peace with your mother, and don't buck every decision she makes?"

"I'll try, Daddy, but she's-was

"She's doing the best she can, baby. Try to remember that."

Why did I defend Nancy? he wondered after he'd hung up. She's a nagging bitch and Beth has done well to live with her for this long.

Liz appeared in his doorway, leaned one arm against it, and studied him with a sympathetic expression on her face. "You know you shouldn't send her the fifty dollars again, don't you?"

He turned from the window, his unsmiling face masking a thousand hidden emotions. "I know. Don't nag me, Liz."

"If I don't, who will? My ex-husband pulls that on me, and for days after the boys visit

him, I'm the bad guy around home. Nothing I can do or say is right. The boys keep saying, but Daddy does this, and Daddy lets us do that. Sometimes I want to tell them, If you want to go live with your father, go."

He sighed. "Maybe I wish that's what Nancy would say."

"Do you?" she asked quietly. A man with your life-style-her expression seemed to say-what would you do with a fourteen-year-old daughter?

"That house is so big and so damn empty it echoes."

She assessed him silently for several seconds before adding softly, "When you're in it alone."

Surprisingly enough, Tommy Lee had the grace to blush. His relationship with Liz was unlike any he shared with any other women. They were aware of each other's availability, and a fine sexual tension hummed between them at moments like this. Yet they both understood that if it ever snapped, she'd lose the best job she'd ever had-and the friendship of a man whose life-style she should abhor, but for whom she instead felt a great deal of pity, because she could see beyond the ceaseless chasing to the loneliness it masked.

Liz pulled away from the door frame. "You wanted me to remind you that you were going to meet at eleven this morning with the people from the city about the zoning regulations on that apartment complex." The tension eased and they became merely boss and employee again.

"Thanks, Liz."

He watched her pink dress disappear around the corner and wondered what he lacked that he couldn't marry some nice woman like her and settle down companionably and work toward building a home with some permanent love in it, and think about approaching old age. Wasn't one woman enough for him?

His eyes swayed back to the window. Across the street and half a block away he could see the corner of the First State Bank of Russellville, the one Rachel's daddy ran, the one Tommy Lee shunned in favor of taking his business to the town of Florence, twenty-three miles away. He lit a cigarette without even realizing he was doing it, then sat mulling.

Staring at the bank, he thought, One woman would have been enough for me. But only one.

On his way to the eleven o'clock meeting at City Hall, Tommy Lee slowed the Cadillac to a crawl as he passed Panache, but nobody was about. When he emerged from the meeting with the assurance that the zoning restrictions had been lifted and the plans for the new apartment complex could go forward undeterred, he paused at the curb beside his car to light a cigarette and glance southward along the street. From here he could see the sign above the door of her store. A woman came out. Tommy Lee squinted, but from this distance couldn't tell if it was she or not. He sprinted around the car, hurriedly backed out, and made an illegal U-turn in the middle of Jackson Avenue, keeping his eyes riveted on the figure walking along the sidewalk ahead of him. He slowed as he pulled abreast, but even before he passed the woman, he realized it wasn't Rachel.

You damn fool, Gentry, you're acting the age of your own daughter! But the disappointment left him feeling deflated.

Back at the office, when he'd exchanged necessary messages with Liz, he went inside, flung the building-code regulations on 49 his desk, then moved to the window behind it.

Again he studied the bank, a burning cigarette hooked in the curve of a finger, forgotten. The smoke curled up and he took a deep drag while his eyes remained fixed on the building a half-block away. Then he anchored the cigarette between his teeth, crossed to the door, and closed it.

Liz looked up in surprise, frowned, but decided it was none of her business.

Tommy Lee reached for a ballpoint pen and wrote the telephone number on a yellow legal pad-he knew it by heart. He stared at it through the smoke that drifted up past his nostrils. His heart seemed to have dropped into his guts. His palms were sweaty and his spine hurt. After a full minute, he thrust the pen onto the desktop and wilted back into his chair, trying to calm his breathing. Come on, Gentry, what're you scared of? How many women have you called in your life? How many have refused you?

He reached for the phone, but instead his hand veered to the pen. He grabbed it and wrote the number again. Twelve times he wrote it… in the same spot… until it was pressed into eight sheets of the tablet.

The cigarette had burned low and he stubbed it out absently, reached for the phone, and actually picked up the receiver this time. But after five seconds he slammed it down without dialing, then ran four shaky fingers through his gray-black hair. Lord a'mighty, he hadn't faced anything this nerve-racking in years.

He grabbed the phone and punched out the numbers too quickly to give himself a chance to change his mind.

"Good afternoon, Panache."

Dammit, why couldn't she have answered?

"Is Ra-- Is Mrs. Hollis there?"

"I'm sorry, she's not. Can I help you?"

"No, thank you. I'll try again later."

He slammed the phone down as if it had bitten him. Then he sat with his face in his palms, shaking so hard his elbows rattled against the desktop. He dropped his forearms flat against the blotter, head drooped, while he sucked in huge gulps of air. Then his palms pressed his cheeks again and eight fingertips dug into his eyes beneath his glasses. You're insane, Gentry. Plumb nuts. What the hell would you have said if she'd answered?

But after two hours he felt less crazy and decided to give it another try. He went through the same ritual again, only this time he made sure he had a cigarette lit when he dialed, to steady himself.

"Good afternoon, Panache."

Goddammit, doesn't Verda ever go home? "Is Mrs. Hollis there?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't expect her in today. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you. I'll call again tomorrow."

"Can I tell her-was

Tommy Lee slammed down the receiver in frustration. No, you can't tell her anything! Just get the hell home so she'll have to answer her own damn phones!

When Tommy Lee lurched from his chair and flung the door open, Liz's head snapped up. But he only stormed past, throwing over his shoulder, "I won't be in till morning." A moment later tires squealed outside, and she shook her head.

Tommy Lee Gentry was a land developer. He knew every acre of every section of land within a

radius of fifty miles around Russellville. He'd owned the land on which Owen Hollis had built his house, had subdivided it into lots, contracted for the installation of improvements, then resold the lots to the builder who'd eventually put up the brick house where Rachel and Owen had lived. It was on the eastern edge of town in a hilly, wooded area called Village Square Addition, but there was nothing square about it. The streets curved and curled around the natural undulations of the land, making it highly desirable property lacking the dreary severity of rigidly perpendicular streets.

Hollis had done right by her, if the house was any indication. It was a rambling U-shaped thing of peach-colored brick, hugging a swimming pool in its two out-stretched arms. It had a hip roof that deeply overhung arched fanlight windows trimmed with eave-to-earth Wedgwood-blue shutters. At the base of each window an azalea bush formed a precisely carved mound, while between them the warm brick walls sported espaliered Virginia creepers, trained into faultless Belgian fence designs by a weekly gardener. At each corner and beside the center door, Chinese holly bushes stood guard while the shaded yard bore lush magnolias and live oaks, with not a fallen leaf to be seen anywhere. On either side of the house a high box-cut podocarpus hedge blocked out the sight of the backyard, overlapping at one point to create a hidden entrance, like that around a tennis court.

Tommy Lee knew the exact summer they'd had the pool put in. He'd been up at City Hall looking through some files when he'd come upon their application for a pool permit. As he approached the house now, he wondered if she might possibly have taken the day off and what she'd say if he simply presented himself at her door unannounced.

But in the end, he chickened out. Use your head, Gentry. She's only been a widow for a week.

He drove on by, made a U-turn in a circle at the end of her street, then left the area with a long lingering study of her house on his way out.

Once on the main road again, he angrily loosened his tie. Damn. He'd had such good

intentions of trying to make it through one night without any liquor. But he needed a drink worse than ever. Stinkin' dry Baptist county! He'd have to make the run up to Colbert County to buy his booze tonight.

He bought enough to get him through the weekend without having to make the trip again. Then he stopped and ate a fat filet mignon with all the trimmings, and hit the road again armed with an after-dinner drink in a plastic glass. He passed his office by rote, checking it cursorily before heading home. He timed his run, tossed out the empty glass just before the last turn, as usual, and pulled up before his black front doors showing a record time of eight minutes.

He gave a roaring rebel yell to celebrate.

But a minute later, when he entered the house, his jubilant mood vanished. The place was just as silent as ever, and just as disorderly. Even more so, for more garments had been added to the collection strewn across the sofa. I should clean it up. But for whom?

Instead, he mixed himself a double Manhattan in the hope that he'd get good and loose so that when

he picked up the phone and dialed her 55 number it wouldn't shake him in the least.

But his hand still trembled. His palm still sweat. And after seventeen rings it dawned on him that Rachel wasn't home.

Nor was she at Panache the next day when he called, or any of the days following that. But finally Verda McElroy disclosed that she'd gone to St. Thomas for two weeks, putting Tommy Lee out of his misery temporarily.

Rachel's father had been waiting at the Golden Triangle Airport, but even with him beside her, the house seemed eerie when she walked into it.

"Should I make us some tea?" she asked hopefully.

"It keeps me awake. I'd better not."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing. I'll carry your bags into the back, but it's late. I'm afraid I can't stay."

When he was gone, Rachel wandered listlessly from room to room, realizing that the trip to St. Thomas had only been a respite that delayed her acceptance of Owen's irreversible absence. Standing in the doorway of their bedroom, she chafed

her arms, shivering. Her nostrils narrowed. The room still seemed to smell of sickness. Perhaps it was only an illusion, but Owen had spent so much of his last months here and had slipped into death right there on the bed in the middle of the night while she lay beside him.

Again she shivered. Then she was besieged by guilt for dwelling more on the unpleasant memories created in this room than on the pleasant.

When the phone rang, she jumped and pressed a hand to her heart, then stared at the instrument on the bedside table. It rang again and she hurried to answer it, sure it must be Marshall.

"Hello."

But the low, masculine voice was not Marshall's. "Hello, Rachel."

"Hello," she repeated, hoping for a clue from his inflection.

"How are you?" Still she couldn't identify the caller and had a sudden wary prickling along her spine-might it be one of those obscene callers who preyed on new widows?

"Who is this?" she asked icily.

"It's Tommy Lee."

For a second she wished it had been only an obscene call. She wrapped her free hand around the mouthpiece and sank back onto the edge of the bed, her throat suddenly tight and dry.

"Tommy Lee… I…" I what? I went away to mourn my husband's death and thought more of you than I did of him? "I certainly wasn't expecting it to be you."

"Oh? Who were you expecting?"

"I… nobody." After a breathless pause, she repeated, "Nobody."

"You've been gone."

"Yes, to St. Thomas."

"And how was St. Thomas?"

Her voice was falsely bright. "Oh, lovely. Lovely! March is their dryest month. No rain, and highs in the eighties." But once the weather report was finished she fell silent, that silence greeted by a matching one from the other end of the line. The strain grew between them until Rachel felt it between her shoulderblades. When her voice came again it was low and subdued. "I didn't expect to see you at the funeral."

Again there followed a long pause, as if he was measuring his reply. When it came, it was as tightly controlled as hers. "I didn't expect to be there."

"You shouldn't have come, Tommy Lee."

"I know that now."

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful." She swallowed, eyes closed, both hands gripping the phone. "It did mean a lot to me to see you there."

A full fifteen seconds of silence followed, then, "Rachel, I want to talk to you." His voice sounded tightly controlled, and she could hear his raspy breathing now.

"I'm here."

"No, not on the phone. I want to see you."

The very idea brought fresh pain to Rachel, laced with a hint of panic. "What good would it do?"

"I don't know. I…" He sighed deeply. "Don't you think it's time?"

She hugged her ribs tightly with one hand, bending forward slightly. "Tommy Lee, listen to me. It would be a mistake. What's done is done and there's no use reviving old regrets. We're different now. You… I don't…" But she was stammering, voicing hollow words, unable to reason very well. "Please, Tommy Lee, don't call me anymore. I have enough to deal with as it is right now." She hadn't realized tears had been welling in her eyes until they slipped over and darkened two spots on her skirt. Staring at them, she wasn't sure if they were for Owen or Tommy Lee.

"Rachel, I'm sorry." He sounded as if his lips were touching the mouthpiece of the phone. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you. I just called to see how you're doing and let you know I've been thinking about you… and…"

"Tommy Lee, I… I have to go now."

They listened to each other breathe for endless seconds.

"Sure," he said at last, but it came out so softly she could scarcely hear the word.

"Good-bye, Tommy Lee." She waited, but he neither said good-bye nor hung up. Finally she replaced the receiver with utmost care, as if not to disturb it again. Huddled on the edge of the bed, she hugged herself harder, squeezing her eyes closed, rocking forward and back, seeking to blot out the loneliness that always stemmed from thoughts of what could have been. She saw Tommy Lee again as he'd looked at the cemetery. Older, so much older, just as she was. She fought against recalling the facts she'd gleaned about him over the years, the events of his life that had aged him, those that had brought him happiness, wealth, sadness, hope.

You've got to stop thinking about him. Think of anything else… anything at all. The bedroom! If the bedroom is difficult for you to face, have it redecorated. Think of colors, textures, furniture… anything but Tommy Lee Gentry.

But in the end, as she wandered off to sleep in a guest bedroom again, the memory of his face and his voice on the phone was her lullaby.

It was busy at Panache the following day. Spring had arrived and the seasonal fashion change brought a flurry of shoppers. Verda had managed beautifully while Rachel was gone. Sales had been good. New stock had come in. Rachel was tagging a shipment of swimwear when Verda remembered, "Oh! Some man kept calling for you while you were gone."

Rachel's head snapped up. "Who?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't give his name, but I'd recognize his voice if he called again."

A premonition of dread struck Rachel. Could it have been Tommy Lee? The last thing she needed was to have Verda aware that he had called. With his reputation, eyebrows would rise in no time.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, just kept saying he'd call back, and I finally told him you'd gone to St. Thomas and would be back today."

So he'd known when she'd get back. That's why his phone call had come immediately upon her return. That meant last night's call hadn't been impetuous, as she'd hoped. But she'd made it clear she didn't want to see him or talk to him again. Surely Tommy Lee wouldn't force the issue.

He didn't. For two weeks.

But during the third, after suffering sleepless nights and haunted days, he knew he could put it off no longer-he had to see her.

He left the office at the end of a balmy spring day and made the run home in the usual nine minutes, bounded into the house and began stripping off his jacket before he hit the stairs to the living room. If he'd been planning to see Bitsy tonight he would have been whistling. But as it was, he found his mouth dry, so he washed a glass from the kitchen sink and mixed himself a martini to carry with him upstairs to the bathroom.

In the shower he thought of Rachel, becoming conscious once again of the twenty-five pounds he should lose. When he'd finished shaving, he paused in the act of patting after-shave on the slack skin about his jaws, scowling into the mirror. Brushing his hair, he wished he'd used something to cover the gray, but it was too late now. He recalled the ducktail he'd worn all those years ago when he and Rachel were teenagers. And she'd worn a long black ponytail, and sometimes a high-placed doughnut circled by a ring of tiny flowers to match her blouse or skirt. Lord, she'd come a long way since then. Her stylishness alone made Tommy Lee quaver. So when he dressed, he chose carefully: an expensive pair of trousers in oatmeal beige; a coordinating belt with a shining gold buckle; a blue-on-blue dress shirt; and a summer slubbed-silk sports coat the color of a coconut shell. He debated about a tie, decided against it, and, as he slipped his billfold into his back pocket and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror, decided this was the best he could do. But when he drained the last of his martini and clapped the glass on the dresser, his hand was shaking. He was scared to death.

Rachel's house looked closed up and forbidding as he pulled the Cadillac up to the curb and glanced at the arched windows. Yes, it was a beautiful house, he thought, continuing to study it as he slowly got out and slammed the car door. The click of his hard heels on the concrete walk sang out like rifle shots. The front door was windowless, painted Wedgwood blue to match the shutters. Facing it, he quailed again, but adjusted his shirt collar, drew a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell. Inside it chimed softly while he waited, his heart clamoring and a thousand insecurities making his stomach jump. Unconsciously he ran a hand over the crown of his head, then half turned toward the street, hoping to appear nonchalant.

But at the first click of the latch, he swung back eagerly. The door opened and all the rehearsed greetings fled his mind. The hundreds of yesterdays came back with a nostalgic tug - how many times had he appeared at her door, invited or uninvited?

She was more beautiful now than she'd been at seventeen, and her loveliness struck him like a blow, made him stand speechless far too long, taking her in.

She wore soft lavender tapered trousers with tiny-heeled shoes to match. Her lilac silk blouse had long sleeves and buttoned up the front to a classic open collar that revealed the tips of her collarbones and a fine gold chain holding a gilded giraffe suspended at the hollow of her throat. At her waist was a thin gold belt that made no pretense of holding up her slacks, but only accentuated the flatness of her stomach and the delicacy of her hipbones. She paused with one palm on the edge of the door, the other on the jamb, her sleeves softly draping, brown eyes startled yet somber.

When he could breathe again, he said, "Hello, Rachel."

She sucked in a surprised breath while her face took on a look of utter vulnerability. He wondered if she always wore soft rose-colored lipstick when she was home alone at night.

"Hello, Tommy Lee," she said at last. Her voice was quiet in the evening shadows and held a tinge of nervousness. She stood unmoving, guarding the entry to her house, while the smell of it drifted out to him-floral and tangy and woodsy all at once. Or maybe the smell came from her-he couldn't tell.

"Could I come in?"

Her expression grew troubled while she deliberated. Her glance flickered to his white Cadillac at the curb and he could read her hesitancy quite clearly-suppose someone she knew saw the car there? Still, he held his ground, waiting. At last, almost wearily, she let her hand slip from the edge of the door and stepped back.

"For a minute."

He moved inside then turned to watch a graceful hand with long painted fingernails-the same shade she wore on her lips-press the door closed while her head dipped forward as if she were arming herself to turn around and face him. The back of her short black hair seemed to spring into natural waves that no amount of professional attention could quite subdue. When she turned to face him she slipped her hands into her trouser pockets and drew her shoulders high, emphasizing the thinness of her frame as the blouse draped more dramatically, scarcely rounding over the vague swell of her tiny breasts. For a moment, as their eyes met, neither of them knew what to say, but finally Rachel, with her exquisite sense of correctness, invited, "Would you like to come in and sit down?"

She led the way into the elegant living room whose fanlight windows he'd viewed many times from outside. The room's pastel colors were as tasteful and proper as those of Rachel's clothing and skin. The lamps were lit, and she waved him toward a quilted sofa, then took a seat on a small chair directly facing him, a marble-topped table between them. She crossed her knees, curved her hands over the front edge of the chair seat, and leaned forward, again with her shoulders drawn up in that off-putting way.

She wasn't going to make this easy for him.

So, all right, he'd play it her way.

"It's been a long time since I was in a Talmadge house."

"My name is Hollis now."

"Yes, I seem to remember that at regular intervals."

"I asked you not to come."

"I tried not to, but it just didn't work. I had to see you."

"Why?"

"To satisfy a long curiosity."

"About what?"

His eyes dropped to the pair of rich brass giraffes on the table between them. "About how life has treated you." His glance continued idly about the room, and when it came back to her his voice softened. "About how he treated you."

"As you can see, both life and he treated me just fine." She settled back in her chair, letting a hand fall casually on the far side of her crossed knees, wrist up.

No, she wasn't going to make this easy for him. But suddenly he realized she was just as scared as he; in spite of the loose-flung wrist, the nonchalant pose, she was undeniably tense. And she meant to keep him contained in this showplace of a living room that looked as if not one hour's worth of living had ever been done in it.

"Yes, so I see. You seem to have everything." He glanced left, then right. "Except an ashtray."

He enjoyed making her move. When she did, he could watch her covertly. As she walked the length of the room toward the dining room beyond, he noted again her thinness, but it was classy, not brittle. He'd never before known a woman who wore lavender shoes. On Bitsy they would have looked like a whore's shoes. He watched them as Rachel opened an йtagиre, withdrew an ashtray, then softly closed the glass door. Returning, she placed the heavy crystal piece on the table, resumed her seat, then watched as he reached inside his sports coat and drew out a pack of cigarettes. When he unexpectedly looked up at her, she dropped her eyes to the toe of her shoes, only to see his hand appear, extending the red and white package with one cigarette half cocked.

She met his eyes nervously. "No, thank you, I quit years ago."

"Ah, I should have guessed."

He lipped the cigarette straight from the pack -a memory from the past-and she saw that his mouth had not changed at all. The evidence of aging that marked the rest of his face had not reached his lips. They were crisply etched, generous, as beguiling as ever. When he suddenly stood, her heart leapt. But he only fished for a lighter in his trouser pocket, then sat on the edge of the sofa again while she watched him light up. He scowled as the smoke lifted, then threw back his head on a heavy exhalation as he slipped the lighter into his breast pocket. At last the ritual was through, and he rested with his hands pressed butt to butt between widespread knees, the cigarette seemingly forgotten in his fingers. He studied her until it took great effort for Rachel to keep from begging him not to.

"So, Rachel, where do we start?"

His question startled her, though she tried hard not to let it show.

"I think you know the answer to that as well as I do. We don't start."

"Then maybe I should have asked, where do we end?"

"We ended years ago, Tommy Lee. I really don't know why you've come here."

He glanced around. "I wanted to see your house from the inside for once. It's a beautiful house, what I can see of it. Owen must have worked out fine with your daddy."

A faint blush heated her chin and cheeks. "Yes, he did. He worked his way up to vice-president at the bank."

"Yes, I know," he said softly.

"Yes, I suppose you do. There's probably very little we don't know about each other."

"There's no such thing as a secret in a town this size, that's for sure."

She shot him a sharp glance, but he was studying his cigarette, and when he raised his gaze she hurriedly dropped hers. "I understand you live out on the lake now."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled with a touch of irony. "Got a big house out there." He chuckled quietly. "Folks called me crazy when I built it, but now they drive by in their boats and stare at it, and I think a few of them actually like it."

She couldn't help smiling for a moment, but she knew all the other things they said about him, too.

"Do you enjoy being… unconventional?"

"Unconventional?" He glanced up with a crooked, sad smile. "Why, I'm as conventional as the next one. What you're meaning to ask is if I enjoy being the hell-raiser they say I am, isn't it, Rachel?"

"You said it, Tommy Lee. I didn't."

He seemed to consider the question a long time, all the while studying her closely. When he answered, he sounded resigned. "No, I don't enjoy it much. But it kills time."

Rachel bristled. "Is that what you consider three marriages and three divorces-killing time?"

He flicked his ashes into the crystal ashtray and answered as if to himself, "Well, it was killing anyway. But then we all can't be lucky like you and end up with a marriage made in heaven, now, can we?"

"You've grown cynical over the years."

"Hell, yes. Wouldn't you if you tried three times and failed?" She glanced aside as if appalled by his admission. "Does it bother you, Rachel, the fact that I've been married all those times? Is that why you're so tense?"

Her eyes snapped angrily. "I'm tense because I've just been through two grueling years watching my husband die of cancer. It would make anybody tense." She jumped to her feet and he followed, catching her elbow above the marble-topped table.

"Rachel honey, I'm sorry."

She carefully withdrew her arm. "I'm not your Rachel-honey anymore, and I begin to see what it is people object to about you, Tommy Lee. You had no business coming here like this so soon after Owen's death, and especially after I asked you not to."

Their eyes clashed for long seconds. Then she turned her back and walked to one of the arched windows, where she stood staring out at the fading twilight. He leaned down, studying her back while he stubbed out his cigarette. Then he crossed to stand behind her. He caught her scent again, the Rachel-scent, the lingering of fine, costly powder caught in her clothing and on her skin, and it created a maelstrom in his senses.

"I didn't come here to upset you, Rachel. Not at all. But my life is in a hell of a mess and I don't think it's going to get straightened out until I can talk to you about what happened." He touched her shoulder, making sure he didn't touch too hard. "Rachel, turn around. I've been thinking of this day for… for years. And now you turn away. Please, Rachel."

She dropped her chin, sighed, then turned very slowly, allowing him to look at her at close range while similarly studying him. They were strangers, yet they knew each other well. Their past was best forgotten, yet it never would be. Time should have kindly seen to it that they no longer appealed to each other, yet they did.

"Jesus, you're more beautiful than ever. Did you know that?"

One of them had to be sensible. She carefully hid the pleasure brought about by his words and replied, "I'm forty-one years old, and I'm told constantly that I'm too thin. And the last two years, the last six months in particular, have put road maps on my face. It's not Rachel Hollis you think is beautiful, but Rachel Talmadge, the girl I stopped being twenty-four years ago. She's the one you came here to find."

"No. I didn't come here looking for her, only to talk about her and find out where she went and why. And why I never heard from her afterward."

Her eyes closed and he saw the flawless violet makeup tremble on her lids while he battled the urge to draw her into his arms, hold her close, and comfort her. And himself. But if he touched her, he knew she'd flee. Her deep brown eyes opened again and she asked quaveringly, "Why, Tommy Lee? Why now?"

"Because I couldn't wait another year. I've wasted too many already."

"But Owen-was

"Owen is gone. That's why I came."

She made a move as if to turn away, but he blocked her with his shoulder. "Rachel, I'm sorry if my timing is bad. I'm sorry if I haven't given you the proper time to mourn him, but I've put this off until I can't anymore. I'm forty-one, too, Rachel. Please understand."

She was afraid she was beginning to understand all too well. What he seemed to be saying was too shattering to contemplate this soon after Owen's death. He shouldn't even be here in her house, with his distinctive car parked out front where anyone and everyone could see it. Nor should he be broaching the subject that had been carefully avoided since they were seventeen years old.

"I want to know what happened to you, Rachel."

She met his eyes squarely and challenged, "Ask your parents, Tommy Lee. They were in it with Daddy and Mama."

"I asked them years ago, but they would never tell me anything. Then after just so long, I stopped asking altogether. It's been years since I've talked to them."

"I know that, too." Impulsively she reached out to touch his arm, understanding fully what the estrangement must have cost all of them. "When will you decide you've made them suffer enough?"

"Never!" he spit out, and spun away, for her nearness brought too intense an ache. "Just as they've made me suffer all these years. I guess I'm not as… as magnanimous as you are, Rachel. I can't forgive them and be their loving son again, like you forgave your parents."

The bitter feelings she'd had the day of the funeral, while gazing out the bedroom window, came back again, rife and fresh. It was rare that she let them take precedence, but they did now, and when they'd lodged like a thorn in her heart, she asked, "Don't you think there are times when I feel bitter? When I still blame them? There are times when I have to guard myself against… against hating them for what they did to us." Once the truth was spoken, Rachel realized how heavy its burden had been all these years. She'd never said it aloud before, but then, there was nobody but Tommy Lee to whom she could have.

He turned, and as their eyes met and held, it struck them both that they'd suffered many of the same things over the years, in spite of the different roads their lives had taken.

"You, Rachel?" he asked, as if unable to believe it of her. She nodded, dropping her eyes to the fingers laced over her stomach. "But you and your daddy have always stood by each other. You seem so close."

"On the surface. But there are undercurrents."

Once again Tommy Lee felt a compelling urge to touch her. Instead, he backed away a step. "This room makes me uncomfortable, Rachel. Could we sit at your kitchen table or somewhere else?"

She hadn't expected him to stay that long. Still, looking up at him now, wondering many things about the man whose eyes she could only half make out behind the glasses, she realized that talking about everything-at last-was something they owed each other.