The hellion

CHAPTER FOUR

During the days that followed, Rachel tried to put Tommy Lee out of her mind. Her father and Marshall helped tremendously. Everett had taken to popping in unexpectedly in the evenings, and Marshall, whose two daughters were already grown and married, found it easy to do the same. On her three days a week at Rachel's house, Callie Mae always stayed until Rachel got home in the late afternoon. She would cast a droll eye on Rachel's slim profile, remind her there was a chocolate pie-or some such calorie-filled delight-in the refrigerator, then chastise, "If you don't put some meat on them bones, you gonna quit castin' a shadow, Miss Rachel."

Rachel would smile and tease, "You won't rest until I'm wearing a size sixteen, will you, Callie Mae?"

But Rachel's appetite remained paltry, and eating alone seemed to decrease it even more. But if Rachel often passed up Callie Mae's offerings, Marshall never did. He came often, to share a meal, to check on Rachel, or to "get her out of the house," as he put it. Having shared many of the same friends for years, it seemed quite natural that together they'd round out a table at bridge, attend backyard barbecues or an occasional movie, and even go shopping for the new furnishings for the master bedroom, which Rachel had decided to have redecorated.

Owen's life insurance had come through, and Marshall solemnly delivered the check shortly after Rachel's return from St. Thomas, then, together with Everett, mapped out the investment plan they deemed most prudent.

The three of them fell into the habit of driving up to one of the nicer clubs in Florence for dinner each Friday night, and though Rachel was most often grateful for their company, there were times when she felt smothered by them. Marshall was very much like Owen in many ways-quiet, steady, sensible, but, to her dismay, a bore. She grew tired of listening to him talk about his chief pastime-taking meticulous care of his yard. And of her father talking about his chief pastime-money and its management. Often when she was with them she found herself withholding sighs: Bermuda grass, investments, azalea bushes, interest rates, annuities, pruning, IRA accounts… The two of them droned on about the same dull subjects while Rachel grew listless.

But whenever they were not there Rachel found herself wishing she had children. How different these days would be if she could return home each day to the sound of their voices in the house, perhaps the blare of a stereo from one of the bedrooms, the clatter of a tennis racket being dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, even the sound of adolescent bickering. She could imagine one of them coming to her, complaining, "Mother, will you tell him." Or her…

Don't think about Beth. Don't think about her father.

But every time she walked into the newly decorated bedroom, she thought of Tommy Lee. The room had been repapered with an airy yellow and white bamboo design, and the furniture was pristine white wicker-fresh, bright, a breath of springtime brought inside. Colorful silk flowers adorned a miniature dressing table, above which hung a wicker-framed mirror. The bed was strewn with the whitest, ruffliest spread she could buy, and piled high with yellow and white throw pillows. She'd dappled the room with potted palms and pothos, and changed the scents in the closet and drawers to a brisk herbal that complemented the new look. It was the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl now, as bright and different as Rachel could make it. But when she viewed it, she often thought with silent chagrin, "Is this my `Sue Ann Higgenbotham`?"

And at night, when she lay with the new woven wood shades lifted clear of the sliding glass door, she studied the reflection of the moon on the surface of the pool and took stock of her life, the void, the boredom that was becoming oppressive. She wondered if she would simply drift into her fifties, then her sixties, accepting Marshall's and her father's company as her social mainstay, because the town was small and offered little more.

But it offered one other whom she could not erase from her mind.

She pictured him as he'd looked the night he'd come to the house, wearing the new glasses that made him seem half a stranger, knowing in her heart that he was scarcely a stranger. She remembered the pain in his eyes as he'd told of his failed marriages and his lasting feelings for her. She recalled his lips, as familiar as they'd been years ago, and found herself wishing she had kissed him again, then felt guilty for making such a wish when Owen had been gone such a short time. But Owen's illness had depleted him so rapidly during the last half-year that their sexual relationship had been nonexistent. While he was alive, she'd been too preoccupied with concern for him to rue the lack, but now, alone in bed at night, memories of Tommy Lee and the past came crowding back, leaving her restless and unsatisfied.

Thank heavens she had the store to fill her days. She loved it and was tremendously proud of its success. It had taken ten years to endow the business with its current йclat-a Dun and Bradstreet rating of over $100,000 a year -and almost as long to acquire the eclectic fittings that made the setting at once genteel and warmly welcoming. Oddly enough, Panache was the antithesis of Rachel's house, where each item had its place and where neatness reigned.

The front door boasted a stained-glass window she had found at an auction. Apple-green carpeting created a soothing backdrop for well-chosen touches of pink in the accoutrements.

An elegant French provincial sofa of shell-pink velvet sat before the front bay window, surrounded by hanging ferns. At the rear of the store a tall French armoire spread mirrored doors wide, its illuminated interior highlighting the current display of Giorgio Sant'Angelos and Gloria Betkers draped artistically over the gaping doors and tilting from willow hangers.

At one rear corner was the fitting room: nothing more than a length of fringed French moirй, again in pink, shirred on a circular brass rod. Inside was a delicate wicker chair that matched the chest just outside, where a mountainous burst of spruce-green eucalyptus exploded from a fat-bellied pot in bleeding shades of rose. The spicy fragrance blended with that of herbal soaps, bath salts, and sachets displayed in an open curved-glass curio cabinet and the central display of Flora Danica fragrances.

The opposite rear corner housed Rachel's prized Louis XIV kneehole desk and matching chair with its gilded legs and rose damask seat. There was only one rectangular showcase in sight, and that housed jewelry and scarves in the center of the store. Otherwise, clothing was displayed hither and thither: on an antique butterfly table, hanging from the doe-foot supports of an oval shaving mirror, strewn with an artful eye on the graduated shelves of a whatnot, and slipping from the drawers of a provincial lowboy with graceful acanthus-leaf pulls. Around the walls, dresses hung on charming brass extenders, alternating with the array of wall decor that brought the green-and-white trellised paper to life: miniature Renoir prints, framed cross-stitch embroidery, sprigs of feathergrass bound with green and pink ribbons, toadstools and unicorns on knickknack shelves, decoupage fancies and gold-beaded neck ropes. The handmade crafts interspersed with couturier labels lent Panache that look of artful clutter only the most talented can successfully achieve. And the store managed to reflect its owner: cool, elegant, tasteful, and always, always fragrant.

Rachel's workdays followed a routine: up at seven, open at nine, paperwork at her corner desk in between helping customers, post office at eleven, lunch at twelve-thirty-usually a piece of fruit or a carton of yogurt at her desk while perusing Women's Wear Daily. The afternoons were slightly more varied: dust the furniture, water the ferns, steam the wrinkles from any newly arrived garments, tag incoming merchandise, straighten the stacks, rehang the tried-ons, then, at exactly quarter to four, walk down to the bank with the day's deposit before returning to the shop to help Verda close up for the day.

Given this regimentation, the biyearly clothing markets presented an inviting change of routine for Rachel. It was on a Wednesday in early April, when she and Verda were discussing the upcoming market in Dallas, that the phone rang on Rachel's desk. Verda, who happened to be standing right beside the desk, automatically picked it up. A moment later, wide-eyed, she covered the mouthpiece with her palm and announced in a stage whisper, "It's for you! It's him!"

Rachel's head snapped up. "Who?"

Verda's eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. "It's the one who kept calling you while you were gone to St. Thomas. The one who'd never give his name."

Rachel's stomach did a somersault, but she gave away none of the trepidation she felt as Verda handed over the phone, then stood listening, making no effort to appear as if she weren't.

"Hello?"

He needn't have given his name; this time she recognized the voice. There followed a long pause, and then Tommy Lee's voice came again. "I've been thinking about you."

With Verda right there, Rachel measured her reply carefully. "Is there something you wanted?"

"Yes. I wanted to know if you'd like to come out and see the lake rise. The dam's been opened for two months, and the water level's finally coming up at my end of the lake."

"I'm really sorry, but I won't have time."

"How do you know? I haven't told you when yet."

Verda now had her ear cocked like a robin listening for a worm. Unable to dream up an evasive reply, Rachel was forced to ask, "When?"

"Friday afternoon. I thought we could drive out together after we're both finished with work."

It sounded so much more appealing than dinner with her father and Marshall, but she quelled the urge to accept. "I'm sorry. I have plans for that night."

"I don't believe you, but that's okay. I'll try another time."

"That won't be necessary, T.." She caught herself just short of pronouncing his name.

"I know. But I'll try just the same." Then he ended softly, "Bye, Rachel."

"Good-bye."

Verda followed every motion as Rachel hung up the phone and slipped her large, squarish reading glasses back on her nose.

"Well, who was it?" the clerk asked point-blank.

Rachel managed to exude an air of total indifference as she relaxed against the chair with one slim wrist draped over its rim. "Oh, just someone I knew years ago who heard of Owen's death and wanted to express his sympathies."

"That's not what it sounded like to me. It sounded like somebody asking you out on a date."

"A date?" Rachel pushed her glasses low and peered at Verda over their rims, hoping she didn't look as shaken as she was by the sound of his voice. "A date? With a widow of less than two months? Don't be silly, Verda." Then she returned to her study of the calendar and the market announcement. "I'll make my flight reservations this afternoon." The subject of the phone call was set aside while they discussed the upcoming trip.

But that afternoon when Rachel made her three forty-five walk to the bank, Tommy Lee was standing in the doorway of his office building as she passed on the opposite side of the street. When she saw him, her navy-blue high heels came to an abrupt halt and she clutched the zippered bank pouch more tightly against her ribs. She'd been passing his office for ten years, and the few times he'd happened to come out while she was directly across the street he'd moved to his car with no indication of having seen her.

He raised a palm now, silently. While she acknowledged it with a silent nod, she mentally calculated how many people up and down Jackson Avenue might have witnessed the exchange. Then she hurried on, breathing freely only when she reached the comparative safety of the bank lobby. From inside, she turned to see if he was still there. He was, studying the bank steps, his expression unreadable from this distance. He found a cigarette, lit it, tossed his head back in that masculine way she sometimes pictured when she thought of him- late at night when she couldn't sleep-and turned, then disappeared into his office.

Rachel spun around, her eyes zeroing in on her father's glass-walled office. He was sitting behind his desk, watching her with a disapproving look on his face. Had he seen Tommy Lee? A disquieting memory came back to her at that moment. She'd heard it said that when Tommy Lee graduated from college and returned to Russellville to set up his business, he had come to the bank to apply for a small-business loan, and her father had personally seen to it that Tommy Lee's application was turned down. Odd that the recollection had come back after all these years.

Her father watched her like an eagle as she turned toward the teller's window to make her daily deposit. She felt his eyes auguring into her shoulderblades and became angry that he should still have a modicum of control over her where Tommy Lee was concerned.

But when her business was completed, she squared her shoulders, put on a false bright smile, and clicked into his glass office, seeking to confirm their Friday night date so she wouldn't feel tempted to take Tommy Lee up on his invitation after all.

"Hi, Daddy. Are we still on for Friday night?"

"Of course. Just as usual."

But Friday night sounded more lackluster than ever. Stepping back onto the sidewalk to make her return walk to Panache, Rachel glanced immediately to the red-brick building half a block away. But Tommy Lee had not come back. His car was parked out front, though, and she had the disturbing feeling he was watching her through the window.

The following day Rachel was folding some silk scarves at the jewelry display case when she absently glanced up to see the tail end of a white Cadillac cruising by at a sloth's speed. Her heart seemed to slam into her throat and she snapped a glance at Verda. But Verda was busy with a customer and hadn't noticed.

Tommy Lee Gentry, don't you dare!

If only he drove some mundane mid-size car in everybody's blue! But everyone in town could count the times he cruised past in that Cadillac. And if he started making a habit of it, what would she do?

Before two days were up she understood… he'd started to make a habit of it. How many times had she glanced up to see the car easing along the street at far less than the thirty-mile-an- hour speed limit? Adolescent tactics! Yet each time she saw it her heart fluttered and she felt hot and weak.

On Friday when she stepped out of the bank with the empty pouch in her hand, she again came up short. There he was, on her side of the street, visiting casually with three other businessmen as if they'd just happened to meet on the sidewalk. The quartet broke up just as Rachel stepped abreast of them. Tommy Lee turned and fell into step beside her quite naturally.

"Well, hello, Mrs. Hollis."

"Hello, Tommy Lee."

"You're looking exceptionally pretty today."

She walked a little faster and kept her voice low. "Tommy Lee, what on earth are you trying to prove, waiting to ambush me on the street? And who do you think you're fooling, calling me Mrs. Hollis when everyone in town knows we grew up on Cotako Street side by side!"

He grinned down charmingly. "Sorry, then. Hello, Rachel, you're looking exceptionally pretty today."

Good Lord, how long had it been since she'd blushed? But it was impossible to be unaffected by his nearness, his compliments. "Tommy Lee, stop it! And stop driving past my store at five miles an hour ten times a day!"

"Today I only drove past six times. Can I see you sometime this weekend?"

"No, I have plans."

"I don't believe you, Rachel. And if you don't want me to grab your elbow and drag you to a stop you'd better do it yourself and act as if you're giving me a civil time-of-day." They were directly across the street from his office now, and Rachel obediently halted, then lifted her flustered eyes to his. "Who are you going to see tonight?" Tommy Lee demanded, standing before her with both hands in his trouser pockets, shirtsleeves rolled to mid-forearm and tie loosened over an open top button. Looking up at him gave her that strange familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach, just like years ago when he'd stop her this way in the halls at school. It struck her that he was handsomer than either Owen or Marshall, though the thought appeared out of nowhere to rankle her.

"My daddy. He's taking me to dinner in Florence."

"Oh." He scowled, glanced toward the bank and thrust his lips out in a peculiarly attractive fashion.

"Yes. Oh. I can hardly tell him I'm sorry but I'm breaking our date to go out with Tommy Lee Gentry, can I?"

"What about tomorrow? The water's up enough that we could go out on the boat."

It sounded absolutely wonderful. "Tomorrow I'm working. I gave Verda the day off."

"Sunday, then."

"Sunday I'm going to church. You remember church, don't you, Tommy Lee? That big red-brick building down there on the corner where you used to go?" It was as close to snide as Rachel had ever come as she pointed to the First Baptist, several blocks away. But the more she was exposed to him, the harder she had to fight to remind herself that he wasn't exactly parlor fare anymore.

"Sunday afternoon?"

She sighed heavily and looked slightly crestfallen. "I'm sorry, Tommy Lee. I can't see you. Please don't ask me again."

Their eyes locked for several electric seconds; then Rachel resolutely turned and continued down the street.

That night over supper she was distracted and forlorn. Everett and Marshall carried on a dull conversation about how investment institutions were slowly usurping the bank's role as chief money holder for many private individuals. While Everett expounded on the droll subject, Rachel tried to keep her mind off Tommy Lee, but he slipped into her thoughts time and again. I could have been with him at this very moment. She wondered what his house was like, and if he'd invited someone else to go boating and, if so, who she was. She recalled the sun sparkling off the dark hair on his arms below his rolled-up sleeves, and the inviting shadow cast on his throat by the loosened collar and tie. She imagined another woman enjoying his company and shivered with a sudden inexplicable wave of jealousy.

Later that evening when Marshall saw her home he seemed worried about her.

"You seem rather blue tonight, Rachel," he noted as they stood in the entry, preparatory to his leaving.

"Blue?" She tried to put on a gay expression, but failed. "No, just tired. It's been a long week."

There came into Marshall's eyes a look she'd never seen there before, and as he took her gently into his arms she sensed a difference in the pressure of his hands on her back.

No, not Marshall, she thought in a panic.

But as he leaned back to look into her face, she saw a flicker of emotion that went beyond fraternal care. "You've been doing great. Pushing ahead, getting on with life. I'm very proud of you, you know." He touched her cheek and she wanted to shrink back, wary of allowing him to think for a moment that she wanted any kind of relationship with him other than the one she had. He bent his head to touch his lips to her cheek. She was already searching for the proper words to fend him off when he straightened, gave her arms a platonic squeeze, and said good night.

For some reason the experience with Marshall made her wonder how she would have reacted had it been Tommy Lee who'd given her such ardent glances and pulled her into his arms that way.

Dangerous thought! She promised herself she'd stop dwelling on Tommy Lee this way, and the next time she saw him, she'd walk straight on by with nothing more than a polite hello.

But the next time she saw him she couldn't walk away. It was the following Friday at four-thirty. Verda was running the vacuum cleaner over the carpet prior to closing, and Rachel was seated at her desk, putting away the empty bank pouch.

The door opened, Rachel looked up and froze.

He was dressed in an open-collared black sport shirt topped by a gray sports coat a shade lighter than his trousers. His hair was tousled by the wind, and as he closed the door his eyes were already seeking her out.

Her stomach went fluttery and she felt fifteen again. This time I'll end up saying yes.

The vacuum cleaner wheezed into silence and Verda greeted him. "Well, howdy, Tommy Lee. Now, what in the world are you doing in a place like this?"

He carefully avoided glancing Rachel's way and sauntered farther into the store with a charming smile for Verda. "I need to buy a present for someone."

"Well, now, I'm sure as eternity not going to ask who it's for. I might not like the answer."

He laughed and looked down at the rectangular glass showcase in the center of the store, studying the accessories arranged there, fingering silk scarves, poring over a basket of earrings. Rachel sat watching him, her pulse hammering out a warning in her throat, but he scarcely gave her a glance. Momentarily, Verda spoke up again. "Y'all just take your time looking while I finish up this floor. If there's anything you like, maybe Rachel can help you."

He looked up as if only now realizing Rachel was there. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hollis. Never been in your store before." He glanced around, drummed four fingertips on top of the glass cabinet. "It's very nice. Classy." His eyes returned to her and he flashed a quick smile. "Smells good, too."

It smelled of Rachel. It was no particular scent and all scents lingering together in a potent mixture that spoke of things delicate and feminine. Her eyes dropped to the desktop and she busied herself writing something, sitting at a chair almost as delicate as she, her legs crossed and the hem of a melon-colored skirt riding just above the knee. In the cleft of her white embroidered collar lay a collection of chunky coral and brown beads.

Her eyes met his again as the vacuum cleaner cut off the possibility of further talk, but he noted the quick rise and fall of her breasts and the tendons of her right wrist standing out boldly as she clutched the fountain pen. Who but Rachel still used a fountain pen? he wondered. Then he dropped his eyes again to the jewelry counter and she turned away. Covertly he glanced up from time to time to see if the pen moved over the paper, but it was held poised while Rachel's back remained stiff, her head dropped forward.

It struck Verda then who belonged to the voice on the phone, and the vacuum stopped moving, though the brushes still whirred against the carpet. She glanced up sharply at Tommy Lee Gentry, then at Rachel. But Tommy Lee was flicking through the earrings, and Rachel wasn't paying him the least attention.

Rachel wasn't paying him the least attention?

Since when did Rachel ignore a customer? But Verda turned back to her task, deciding to stretch it out as long as possible, to see what Rachel would do.

After some minutes he signaled and she rose to help him. Verda turned off the machine, fussed around putting away things left in the fitting room, and listened.

"Those little red ones," he was saying.

"These?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"These are for pierced ears. Does she have pierced ears?"

"Well, now, I'm not sure I ever noticed," he drawled.

"Most women do these days."

"If she doesn't, could I bring them back?"

"I'm sorry, pierced aren't returnable. State law."

"Oh. Well, it's only nine dollars. If hers aren't pierced, maybe she'll have a friend."

Rachel was incensed, and having a hard time hiding it. How dare he come in here and buy baubles for his tootsies! The shop had grown incredibly quiet. Rachel was aware of it, and of Verda coiling up the vacuum cord and of Tommy Lee studying her own trembling hands as they removed the red button earrings from the case and began scraping the gummed label from the back of the card with a perfect long peach-painted nail.

"Do you want them wrapped?" Rachel asked, braving a glance at his face to throw Verda off balance. See how unaffected I am by him? But the moment she raised her eyes, she realized her mistake. Once their gazes met she felt heated and uncomfortable and angry all over again.

"You do that here?"

"Yes. It's a customer service. No charge." The words were difficult for Rachel to say, given the fact that she wanted to sling the red earrings in his face. It angered her further to realize that she couldn't help wondering who they were for. But then, according to the gossips, he had innumerable female friends to whom he might offer such a gift. Rachel's fingers were still shaking as she placed the jewelry in a small apple-green box, wrapped it in green paper, and placed a pink lace bow on the cover.

Tommy Lee had wandered to the armoire and stood studying a midnight-blue slip displayed there with matching bikini panties and a scanty brassiere. He reached out to finger the lace edging at the hem of the slip, and as he moved, his face became visible in the mirror. He looked up, caught Rachel studying him, and had the audacity to smile! She waggled the box in the air.

Immediately he turned. "All wrapped?"

"Yes. That'll be nine dollars and sixty-three cents."

"Do you take Visa?"

"Yes, Visa will be fine."

The two of them moved toward the end of the glass case, where an enormous brass cash register reared its curlicued head. Tommy Lee extracted a card from his wallet and she dropped her eyes; there was something masculinely attractive about a man pushing back his jacket to reach for a wallet. Throughout the exchanging of the card and while she ran it through the imprinter and he signed it, Rachel searched her mind for one of the countless inanities she usually exchanged with a customer at a time like this, but came up with none. She watched his dark hand scrawl a signature while the expensive diamond ring flashed, and again she wondered who the woman was, and damned him for coming here and putting her through this.

"There you go." Smiling, he handed her the pen.

Verda pushed the vacuum cleaner off into the back room just then, and the moment she disappeared through the doorway, Tommy Lee bent across the counter and whispered, "Do you work tomorrow?"

"No…" Then, realizing her mistake,

Rachel amended, "Yes."

"Want to go water ski..." The ping of the ancient cash register bell cut off the rest of his question and the drawer sprang out at the same moment Tommy Lee reached across the counter and grabbed Rachel's wrist.

"Rachel, come out to the house, please." His mouth looked intense and sincere.

How dare he come here and do this to her! Verify the fact that there were other women in his life while inviting her to become one of them!

"No!" Her eyes veered toward the back room. "Please, Tommy Lee…"

From the rear of the building came the scrape and thump of Verda putting away the machine. Rachel's wrist strained against his hold.

"Sunday?" he asked quickly, his fingers tightening.

Her startled eyes held both anger and an undeniably tempted look, so he hurried on. "Beth will be there, so we wouldn't be alone. I want you to meet her."

Verda's footsteps were coming back and he was forced to drop Rachel's wrist. When the clerk emerged from the doorway Tommy Lee was putting his credit card away and Rachel was dropping the gift into a tiny floral paper sack.

"Thank you for stopping in," she said cheerfully, handing him his purchase. "And have a nice weekend."

Tommy Lee carefully wiped his feelings from his face and brought forth a lazy smile. "Y'all do the same, Mrs. Hollis, and you, too, Verda."

He nodded to the clerk, who called out the customary "Y'all come back." Then he strolled from the store without a backward glance.

The moment the door closed behind him, Verda propped a hand on her hip, raised one eyebrow, and said, "Mrs. Hollis?" Her shrewd eyes homed in on Rachel. "What's going on?"

"Going on?" Rachel busied herself arranging the scarves on top of the showcase. "Nothing's going on, Verda. Whatever in the world do you mean?"

"I suddenly put a name with the voice on the phone. It's his. Tommy Lee Gentry." She peered closely at Rachel. "He been pestering you?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Verda, don't be silly. What would Tommy Lee Gentry be doing pestering me?"

"What does Tommy Lee Gentry do pestering half the women of this town?" She glanced toward the door. "Which one of his doxies do you reckon those earrings were for?"

The question shot a flash of cold through Rachel. She wanted to cringe and defend him simultaneously. Why should she care about his indiscretions or what the town thought of him because of them? Yet the fact remained that she did. She always had.

"Do you want to stand there wondering about it all weekend, or would you rather lock up and go home?" Rachel forced an amused smile to her lips, as if she, too, were curious about the woman whose ears would be decorated with the red beads.

"You sure it wasn't him?" Verda couldn't resist asking one more time, scrunching up her eyes and studying Rachel closely.

"Tommy Lee Gentry?" Rachel turned away casually, heading for the light switch by the armoire. "I swear, Verda, if I have to put up with any more ridiculous questions from you I'll begin to wonder if I've given you enough time off lately." Rachel's low laugh followed, and Verda gave up.

"Oh, all right, but I could've sworn it was him when he walked in here and started talking."

Duplicity was not Rachel's long suit. When she'd locked up and was on her way home, safely away from Verda's inquisitive eyes, she pulled over to the curb along a tree-shaded street, crossed her wrists on the steering wheel, and dropped her forehead on them.

Rachel Hollis, get the man out of your mind. See what people think of him? And just what do you think they'd be saying about you if you were seen with Tommy Lee Gentry when Owen is scarcely cold in his grave?

But it hurt, having to lie about Tommy Lee. She felt she was injuring him more, yet what else could she have done with Verda all ears and eyes? But she remembered his wind-whipped hair, his fingers on her arm, the soft invitation in his voice as he leaned across the counter. And his lips… those lips that hadn't changed a bit in all these years. And she thought of the empty house, superimposed on images of herself in a boat, or on water skis, or riding off somewhere beside him in the white Cadillac to have dinner.

But then, remembering how many others had done those same things-and more-with Tommy Lee, she shook his image from her mind and continued home to the waiting, silent house.