The hellion

CHAPTER SEVEN

The reform of Tommy Lee Gentry began in earnest the very next day. He arose earlier than usual, put on a pair of shorts that were too tight around the waist, and went for a jog down his curving driveway as the sun sent splinters of pure morning through the leaves. But he scarcely noticed. He was absolutely miserable- sweating, side-aching, leg-cramping miserable. He hadn't gone fifty yards before he had to stop, lean against a tree, and pant. Fifty yards! Lord a'mighty, in high school the coach sent us ten times around the track! He made it to the end of the driveway with six stops, then had to walk back to the house, clutching his left side. The waistband of the shorts was nearly slicing through his skin by now. He kicked them off with a foul curse and ran down to the lake buck naked, dived off the end of the dock, and found out why they call it a belly flop.

Cursing again, he determinedly plowed through the water in a formless crawl, the muscles of his arms and legs aching from yesterday's unaccustomed workout.

With the lake right here, you should swim every day, Tommy Lee. Remembering Rachel's words he forced his arms through the water and thought, I'll show you, Rachel!

Dammit, he loved that woman, and he'd get into shape even if it took a full year of this misery to do it! But as he slogged from the water after a torturous four-minute swim, panting so hard his throat hurt, checking his bright red stinging belly, he wasn't too sure he didn't dislike her intensely.

Back in the house he dressed in faded blue jeans and called Liz Scroggins to say he wouldn't be in till later, then faced the horrendous job of housecleaning. Standing at the edge of the living room, he grimaced, cursed again, and attacked the job like a belligerent child whose allowance has been withheld pending an improvement in cooperation and attitude.

All through that wretched morning, while he forced his sore muscles to do tasks they abhorred, while he suffered a hunger such as he hadn't known in years, while he returned time and again to his empty refrigerator searching for nourishment that wasn't there, Gentry ranted. He worked for hours, then took a break to search again for something to give him sustenance, but all he could find was beer, hard liquor, and limes. He drank a glass of despicably bitter lime water, picturing Rachel's skinny little ribs, and puckered up his face, then cursed again while vowing, Damn you, Rachel Hollis, you'll kiss me next time without a fight.

But the housecleaning was scarcely half done. Thinking of all there was yet to do he slammed several cupboard doors hard enough to break the filaments in the light bulbs, then gave up, strode out to the car and drove to Catfish Corner.

"Daisy!" he bellowed, slamming through the deserted bar area toward the living quarters in the rear. "Where the hell are you?"

Daisy's smiling face appeared around the corner. "Uh-oh, what I done now?" she teased.

"Daisy, I need two things, and I need 'em fast. A maid who can cook and something to eat that hasn't got any calories in it!"

Daisy fed him some summer squash that nearly gagged him, then called her sister-in-law, who called her married daughter, who called her first cousin by marriage, who said, sure thing, she'd be happy to work for Mr. Gentry, but taking a job for a holy terror like him was kind of risky, so she wanted two hundred a week, the first week in advance, and a room of her own-after all she wasn't made of money and didn't have a car, so how was she supposed to get back and forth to that no-man's-land of his? She'd live in or she wouldn't do it at all. And she wanted Saturdays and Sundays off, and a ride back to town so she could spend them with her family and could attend her own Baptist church, then she'd need a ride back out to the country no earlier than 9:00 P.M. on Sunday night to give her plenty of visiting time.

Daisy stood with one hand on her hip, dangling the receiver over her shoulder, smirking across the kitchen at Tommy Lee while on the other side of the room Sam smiled behind his hand. "What should I tell her?"

"If she can cook better than you, tell her yes, I'll meet her outrageous demands, but if she ever puts summer squash in front of me she's fired on the spot!" He glared at Daisy and added for good measure, "And ask her what the hell ever happened to slavery!"

Daisy moved her shoulders saucily, but her face was all innocence while she spoke to Georgine in an exaggerated Uncle Remus accent. "Mr. Gentry, he say yes, two hunnerd a week is nuttin', and if he too busy entertainin' his ladies to carry you home, you jiss plan on fetchin' yoself in one o' his big fancy cars. He says he know how all us black folk like big fancy Cadillac cars."

Tommy Lee came half out of his chair. "Daisy!" he roared. "A simple yes will do!"

Before the day was out Georgine was installed in Tommy Lee's house. She was given a pretty little guest bedroom and the keys to the Blazer so she could drive into town and stock the cupboard shelves properly. That night when Tommy Lee sat down to supper he demanded to know what the hell she'd spent a hundred and twenty dollars on when all he found on his plate was turnip greens and a piece of broiled, butterless fish that'd leave a medium-size cat howling for seconds!

Georgine replied with a wordless pursing of her lips as she whipped her apron off and headed determinedly for the front door. Tommy Lee was forced to plead with her to stay, though when he bit into the tasteless fish he had no idea why he'd bothered.

Later that evening he wanted a martini so badly he went up to his bedroom, where Georgine couldn't see him, and tried to do push-ups to take his mind off the drink-only to find out he couldn't do push-ups anymore. When in the hell had that happened? He sat in a dejected heap on the floor, staring at his traitorous biceps and hating them. He'd been intending to call Rachel that night and apologize for treating her so roughly and for telling her to shut up, but after the failure of his body to perform, he was too angry with both himself and her to pick up the phone.

He ended the night starved, thirsty, and suffering through twelve of the most painful sit-ups he'd ever performed in his life.

On Tuesday he called Panache, but Verda claimed Rachel wasn't in.

"Humph!" he snorted, and slammed down the receiver with typical dieter's temper.

On Wednesday he managed the downward stroke of a push-up, but after quivering in the suspended state for thirty seconds, still could not push himself back up. He called Panache again, and this time, when he was told she wasn't in, barked, "Well, how the hell can she run a business when she's never there!" Then he hung up again.

On Thursday he made it to the end of the driveway without stopping. But when he got there he threw up. None of his calls to Rachel's house turned up an answer and Tommy Lee raged inwardly. How dare she ignore him when he was suffering like a blue bitch-and all for her!

On Friday his arms ached from the pair of six-pound "executive dumbbells" he'd bought the day before and had overused in an effort to strengthen his traitorous biceps, which would only push him up once. His stomach growled constantly, and every time it did, he pictured a plate of Big Sam's catfish and hush puppies. And tried phoning Rachel again. And got angrier. And finally stalked into Panache to confront her personally only to find her out, and himself forced to buy another pair of earrings as an excuse for having come in.

Meanwhile, Rachel was spending a long tiring week in Dallas at the Trade Mart, meeting with the representatives of the various clothing manufacturers at appointed times, trying to determine what would sell and what wouldn't next fall. "Going to market" was always harrowing. A poor decision was costly, and since her merchandise turnover was limited, it was imperative her choices be prudent. Nor could she buy in quantity. In a small town no woman wanted to confront her newest designer dress walking toward her on another woman.

Discounts were discussed, haggling done, the autumn line of garments viewed.

Dallas was hot and dry and very lonely. At night she returned to her hotel room to think about Tommy Lee and try not to cry. She remembered the evidence of his abject loneliness and her heart broke for him. That house-oh, Lord, that house. It was a monument to what they'd once had, and thinking of it again stirred her in a heart-wrenching way. What kind of devotion drove a man to build a house for a woman who was married to someone else? And what woman could see it, recognize it, and not be moved by it?

She thought of him living in that beautiful place, dreaming his dreams while years rolled on and made him older, more lax about the direction his life was taking… and the tears gathered in her throat. Had he really been waiting for her to be free again? Unbelievably, it seemed to be true.

The house itself gave evidence to that fact.

She remembered them returning to it after their swim, and how he'd paused on the stairs above her on his way to his room to change. He'd looked back down and said, "You can't imagine how many times I've dreamed of you being here in my house, looking exactly the way you do right now." She had clasped the door frame and stood gazing up at him, feeling again the magnetic appeal he still had for her. It was one of the rare uncomplicated moments she'd experienced that day. She'd held all extraneous circumstances in abeyance and had allowed herself to admit that she still had-probably would always have-deep feelings for him.

It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him she recognized "their house," but if she had, she wasn't sure she could have kept from asking to see the bedroom. And that would have been a mistake.

For the longer she was with him, the more her thoughts wandered in that direction. How odd that in spite of his flaws, in spite of all the other women he'd known, she still looked upon him as her Tommy Lee. And when she thought that way she felt prickly and decidedly female.

Lying sleepless, huddled in a lonely bed in a Texas hotel room, thinking of Tommy Lee, she again felt the sensations creep along her skin. It did little good to remind herself of his bad reputation, for it held an odd attraction all its own. He was forbidden, thus tempting. She supposed with all the practice he'd had, he was a superb lover by now.

Shouldn't that repel rather than entice her?

She tossed restlessly, trying to put him from her mind. But her body was exerting demands of its own that had gone unsatisfied for months and months. She thought of his kiss, of their bare limbs brushing silkily beneath the water, and knew again the sweet yearning of arousal.

But in the end she was forced to ask herself the question that was weighing more and more heavily on her mind as the days passed. Was she attracted to Tommy Lee as he was today or as he was remembered by a lonely, childless middle-aged woman who'd been spending altogether too much time lately dwelling on the past?

Rachel returned to Russellville on Saturday, exhausted and in a bad mood, only to learn that he had called more than once during the week, and that Tommy Lee Gentry had been in yesterday to buy another pair of earrings. Hot pink ones this time.

And once again her anger flared. How dare he tread a second time on the hallowed ground of her business world? And to buy hot-pink earrings yet! The look in Verda's eyes stated very clearly that she knew Tommy Lee and the caller were one and the same man. In an effort to escape those speculative looks and to cool her own anger, Rachel went for a shampoo and styling by her own Selma. It felt marvelous to have the Texas dust washed away by competent hands that knew her hair better than the strange beautician in the Dallas hotel.

In the late afternoon she carefully arranged herself on an inflated plastic raft, making certain her meticulous hairdo stayed dry, trailing only one foot in the water as she closed her eyes and drifted lazily, shutting out all thought.

She was dozing peacefully when an angry voice brought her head up sharply off the raft.

"You don't believe in answering bells, do you!"

The buyer of hot-pink earrings! She pushed her sunglasses down on her nose and scowled over the frames at the last person in the world she wanted to see. He stood with his hands on his hips, pushing back the jacket of a tailored suit, while above his white shirt and tie he wore a bulldoggish expression.

"How did you get in here?"

"I walked through the damn hedge, that's how. After standing at your front door ringing the bell for five minutes."

She lowered the glasses and lay back as if he wasn't there. "The air conditioning is on. I didn't hear the bell through the sliding glass doors."

"And what about the thirty-seven phone calls you didn't answer? Were you out here floating on your air mattress all week?"

Let him think what he would. She didn't reply.

"Rachel, dammit, how do you get off ignoring a person who's trying to get in touch with you?"

She dipped a hand into the water and spread it on her chest while he watched and felt his stomach begin to hurt more than any hunger pains had caused it to ache during the past week.

"Rachel, talk to me, dammit!"

"I didn't invite you here. Please leave."

"Go to hell, Rachel," he said with the coolest tone he'd displayed since arriving. "Are you going to Catfish Corner with me tomorrow?" But the invitation was issued with all the warmth of a general ordering his troops to open fire.

She peered at him over her glasses for a moment and found him standing as before, like an angry samurai. "Catfish Corner?"

"Sam invited you, too, you may recall." She fell back, eyes closed behind the sunglasses, not a hair out of place, and every rib showing while Tommy Lee glared at her and recalled the past week of aching muscles and abstinence, all for her. And now she refused to open her eyes and glance at the results. He'd lost five pounds, and was as proud as if it were fifty! He wanted her to notice, dammit!

When she calmly went on ignoring him, his anger freshened. "Rachel, I was trying to call you all week to tell you I was sorry for acting like a caveman last Sunday, and for all the things I said."

She didn't flinch.

"Dammit, Rachel, will you come out of that pool and talk to me?"

"I just got here."

"Rachel, you smug, supercilious… socialite! I'm trying to apologize to you, dammit!"

"Do you know how many times you've said dammit since you got here?" This time she scooped the water onto her midriff. The lazy movement was like a wave of a matador's cape before a bull. Tommy Lee glared at her for a long minute, then the expression on his face turned fox-like while he methodically slipped off one loafer, then the other, calmly removed his billfold from his pocket, and descended the steps into the pool. As he struck out in a crawl he noticed that it didn't even hurt him to swim anymore. He was already experiencing a jubilant feeling of accomplishment as he reached the raft and unceremoniously tipped it over.

Rachel went sprawling onto her belly while she let out a surprised squawk, accompanied by an ungainly thrashing of arms and legs. The shriek was severed as her head went under, sending up a series of bubbly glugs. She emerged coughing, hair straggling into her eyes, water streaming into her mouth, while she blindly reached for the raft and began swearing a blue streak.

Some of the more choice words that fell from her tongue made Tommy Lee's eyebrows shoot up in gleeful surprise as he struggled toward the shallow end followed by the doused Widow Hollis. Finally she pushed her hair back, snorted the water from her nose, and glared at him. "You… you damn crazy no-'count redneck jackass! I could kill you!" Tommy Lee reared back and laughed uproariously. She slammed her fists into the water and yelled, "Go on, laugh, you damn hyena!" Then she rolled her eyes upward and wailed, "Ohhhh, my hair!" and clasped her head in despair. "I just paid twenty-five dollars to have it done and look at it now!"

But he was still roaring with laughter, standing in water up to his armpits, his tie floating on the surface and a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit puffing out around his body.

"Get out of here!" she screamed. "Get out of my swimming pool!"

When he could talk again he perused her with an insufferable grin on his face. "The last time I made you that mad was when we were about thirteen years old and I asked you if you'd started your period yet and you slapped my face and told me to grow up, then went off bawling and said you hated me and would hate me to my dying day. And it wasn't a year later I was kissing you crazy, and you loved every minute of it."

Rachel stood outraged, watching him turn and slog toward the steps, blissfully unconcerned about his expensive clothes.

"You're a despicable, crude… yokel!" she shouted at his back, ramming her hands onto her hips, shaking with anger.

He only tipped his head back and laughed again while mounting the steps, then turned and pointed at her cheeks. "Your mascara's running, Rachel."

Angrier than ever, she shouted, "You're exactly what they call you, you hellion! And I can't for the life of me see what all those stupid women find to chase after!"

He took one warning step back into the pool, grinning wickedly. "You want me to show you, Rachel?"

"You just stay away from me, you egomaniac!"

He gave her an assessing glance and shrugged uninterestedly. "No, I guess I won't. But maybe if you'd put a little meat on those bones I might give it some thought."

"And maybe if you took a little meat off yours, I'd let you!" she retaliated.

His expression soured. He crossed the patio, then leaned sideways from the waist with practiced nonchalance, plucked up his billfold, extracted some bills and dropped them on the patio table. "Twenty-five dollars, you say? Here, have your hair done again. It was worth every cent."

Then Tommy Lee calmly picked up his shoes and disappeared, leaving a sputtering Rachel behind to pound the surface of the water and promise herself she'd never speak to him again.

Rachel was so incensed that tears of frustration stung her eyes. She stormed into the house mopping her ruined hair and vehemently denying all the tender thoughts she'd had in Dallas.

Of all the nerve! Were there actually women who put up with treatment like that and came back for more? And he hadn't been content to tip her into the pool, he'd implied that she was skinny… skinny! She stepped before a mirror, scrutinized her reflection… and burst into tears. Lord, she was so mixed up about him. He had been trying to apologize, and the least she could have done was accept his apology gracefully. She thought about his anger, the names he had flung at her. All right, so she was a… a smug, supercilious socialite. But she couldn't help it. She'd been raised to believe that one's public image was important. Did he think she should blithely open her door to him one day, then ring up his hot-pink earrings the next?

On Monday a package arrived for her at Panache. She opened it to find an electric blow dryer and a note: "Learn to fix your hair yourself so you can be prepared for the unexpected."

She raged inwardly and swore she'd have him put under lock and key if he kept pestering her this way. Then she wrapped the hair dryer and mailed it back to him with a note saying, "You'll need this to dry your suits when you stumble into the next woman's pool."

The following week Rachel got home one day to find an enormous bouquet of white roses and leather-leaf fern on the dining room table. The card read, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I found out you were in Dallas. And you're not too skinny. Please have dinner with me Friday night at my house. We'll be well chaperoned this time."

So what was he doing now, going around town asking people questions about her comings and goings?

Callie Mae watched Rachel's face closely as she read the message. She noted the scowl, then the dismissing look Rachel gave the flowers before tossing the card down and never looking at it again.

"Mighty pretty flowers," Callie Mae remarked. "Expensive, too." But her curiosity was not to be satisfied. Neither Rachel nor the card gave any clue as to who they were from.

Tommy Lee waited several days for her to answer his invitation but soon realized she wasn't going to.

He tried to run the disappointment out of his system. By now he could jog to the end of the driveway and back with no trouble at all, and as the days passed he worked himself up to four miles a day. He ran to the beat of her name-Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Every day he swam, too, and worked with the weights and did sit-ups. His muscles tautened, his stomach began to flatten, and even his chin grew firmer. The exercise, coupled with Georgine's parsimonious cooking, soon gave his skin a healthy elasticity that seemed to dissolve the webs from about his eyes.

But it mattered little, for Rachel had neither answered his invitation nor thanked him for the flowers. Weeks passed and he stopped driving past Panache, hoping it would help evict her from his thoughts. But nothing helped. Nothing.

There were times when he grew righteously angry, thinking, The world is full of women, why do I waste my time mooning over one who keeps saying no? There are plenty of nice women in the world, and how do I know one of them wouldn't please me just as much as Rachel? Hell, I haven't been with a really decent woman in years!

He was in precisely such a mood one day as he stepped to the doorway between his office and Liz's, glancing up to ask her about an invoice he was holding. But she was on the phone so he stood for a moment, waiting for her to finish the conversation.

She had a pleasant way about her when doing business on the phone. She never got upset or impatient, and she laughed readily, as she did now, at something being said on the other end of the line. She lifted her eyes to Tommy Lee and gave him an I'll-be-done-in-a-minute signal.

He stood listening and watching while she concluded the conversation, realizing once again how attractive she was. Her blond hair was shorter now for the summer and she wore a fresh butter-yellow suit as tasteful and attractive as anything Rachel might wear. Come to think of it, she was a lot like Rachel. She was nice, decent, and infinitely respectable. She dressed and acted like a lady at all times, was poised, efficient, and friendly. No matter what his own mood, hers remained cheerful-and he realized he'd been grouchy more often than not lately.

Liz hung up the phone and said, "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

And out of the clear blue sky, Tommy Lee answered, "You can go out to dinner with me tonight."

Liz's eyebrows rose in surprise. "To dinner!"

"Well, it's about time, isn't it? You've worked for me six years and I've never even treated you to a night out. And you deserve it. I've been a regular bear lately. I don't know how you put up with me."

She laughed and replied, "Come to think of it, you have."

"Does that mean yes?"

"I'm sorry. The boys will be home and I probably can't find a baby-sitter on such short notice."

"How about your parents?" He saw her waver momentarily and pushed his advantage. "Come on. Help me celebrate-I've lost over half the weight I've set out to lose."

"And you want to celebrate by putting some of it back on? A real friend would say absolutely not."

"I'll pick you up at seven-what do you say?" She chuckled and was already turning toward her typewriter as she gave in. "Oh, all right, but if you don't let me get back to work I'll still be here at seven."

They had a delightful meal at a Mexican restaurant in Florence, and afterward talked all the way back to Russellville. Their years of working closely with each other put them very much at ease, and they found themselves readily able to converse on a variety of subjects, laughing at Liz's amusing anecdotes about her boys, discussing the personalities of various people Tommy Lee did business with, and reaching back into their ample store of high school and college stories to come up with the most outrageous pranks they had pulled in their youth.

When they reached Liz's house he walked her to the door, their spirit still bright, feeling relaxed and easy with each other.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Gentry. The dinner was delicious and I had a wonderful time."

"That goes double for me, but you could drop the formalities and call me Tommy Lee."

"It wouldn't seem right to call my boss Tommy Lee."

"But tonight I'm not your boss… just a friend, okay?"

"Well, in any case, good night, and thank you again." She was already turning away toward the door when he captured her arm and swung her back to face him.

"Hey, not so fast there."

"Tomorrow's a workday and I wouldn't want to be late," she replied perkily. "The boss might get upset."

"I guarantee he won't."

Though she gave the expected chuckle, he sensed a change in her the moment he touched her. The smile fell away and she dropped her eyes. Her arm was soft and bare, and she wore a familiar cologne whose scent he readily associated with her after having smelled it all these years around the office. He realized again that much of his attraction for her stemmed from the fact that she was every inch a lady, the kind who very naturally commanded a man's respect, the kind who probably didn't do this kind of thing often or lightly.

We've both wondered for a long time, he thought. So let's find out.

Her blue eyes closed and her pink lips opened as he dropped his mouth over hers in a soft, undemanding kiss. She was honest enough to allow herself to sample him-just as he sampled her-before pressing a hand to his chest and backing away.

"No, I don't think so," she answered quietly, as if he'd asked her a question.

He raised his head in surprise. "You don't think what?"

"This isn't really what you want."

"It isn't?" He was baffled by her unusual response to the kiss-very different from what he'd expected.

She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I know you've wondered, and I'll admit I have, too. But what you really want is someone else, I think."

He was still smitten by surprise as he asked, out of curiosity, "Who?"

"Rachel Hollis."

Oddly enough, he didn't even think of denying it. "How did you know?"

"How did I know? I've worked for you for six years. On more than one occasion, I've watched your eyes follow her when she walked along the street to the bank. There's a certain way a man looks at a woman that tells it all, and you can't even watch her pass by without giving yourself away."

He'd never realized it showed. He felt rather like a schoolboy caught cheating on a test.

"I've also seen you talking to her on the street lately. When you come back into the office afterward, you're a bundle of frustration."

Tommy Lee hung his head and tried to think of something to reply.

"Oh, don't look so guilty, all right? It was high time you and I did what we just did, just to get it out of our systems and clear the air. But I'm only a substitute, and I'd rather be a good secretary than a poor substitute."

"I never realized before how perceptive you are, Liz."

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. "Do you want to talk about it? I've got a willing ear."

So, to his surprise, he ended up telling her nearly the whole saga of Tommy Lee Gentry and Rachel Talmadge Hollis. It felt wonderful to discuss it with someone who was impartial, who neither made demands of him nor judged him.

When the story ended, she asked him matter-of-factly, "Well, you aren't going to give up now, are you?"

He was slightly taken aback by the question. "I don't want to, but she seems dead set against seeing me."

"Do you think she loves you?"

Why should it be so difficult to answer that simple question? He'd asked it of himself countless times and had always come up with the same answer, the one that made him wonder at Rachel's stubbornness. Answering Liz now, he felt rather timid.

"Yes. Sometimes… yes."

"Well, then… she's scared, don't you see? And she's got a perfect right to be. Why, look at your record! What woman would willingly take on a man with a record like that?

You've got to assure her you mean it when you say you've changed. But whatever you do, don't give up on her. If she loves you, believe me, it's the last thing she wants."

"It is?" The idea was stunning. Women were strange birds. Why did they do one thing when they wanted to do another?

"Take my word for it."

He carried the idea away with him, and it stayed on his mind throughout that sleepless night. The following day he thought about it again, and wondered how he could show her he had changed and was so much happier with the new Tommy Lee that he wouldn't dream of backsliding. That afternoon he was jogging past the end of his driveway when he stopped and eyed the kudzu vine tangled across the ditch. He pondered for some time before finally picking up three rocks and flinging them in, to clear the area of snakes. Then he forced his way through the thick vines to the place where he always used to toss his empties.

As he moved through the ditch, he grew amazed. Lord o'mercy, did I drink all this?

He picked up a can, tossed it up absently, and caught it. Then his eyes narrowed and he stared off into the distance. All right, Rachel, I'll try one more time.

The following day Rachel came home from work to find a huge black plastic trash bag on her front step, bound at the top by an outsized red satin bow. She approached it cautiously, surveyed its lumpy exterior, touched it with a toe, and heard a metallic clink. Gingerly she untied the bow, peered inside, and found it filled with aluminum beer cans. She also found a note: "All right, Rachel, you win. I'm cleaning up my act. What else do I have to do to get you to say yes?"

What the hair dryer and flowers had failed to do, the sack of beer cans accomplished. Rachel pressed four fingertips to her lips and burst into tears. Oh, Tommy Lee, you crazy, off-beat, irresistible hellion, can't you see it would never work?

Callie Mae was immediately concerned to find a tearful Rachel dragging a huge black bag into the house.

"Why, Miss Rachel, what's wrong?"

"Everything!" The bag sent out a mysterious sound as Rachel dropped it and dissolved into tears on Callie Mae's shoulder.

A sympathetic hand patted the back of Rachel's head. "Now, you just tell Callie Mae everything."

"I can-can't."

"'Course you can. You want to start with what's in that bag that set you off?"

"Oh, Can-Callie Mae," she wailed, "it's a go-gift from Tommy Lee."

Over Rachel's shoulder Callie Mae gave the bag a second look. "So that's it."

Rachel drew back and mopped her eyes, still sniffling. "He won't stop people-pestering me, and I… we…" Her words trailed off and ended with a woeful look of misery and renewed weeping.

"You don't have to explain nothin' to Callie Mae. I see how it is with you two. I always seen."

"How it is between us two is impossible." Rachel threw her hands out and began pacing agitatedly.

Callie Mae pursed her mouth and grunted, "Hmph." Then she asked, "You mind if I take a look at what he brung you?" Rachel shook her head and Callie Mae opened the sack and peered inside. "Well, now, what do you know about that!" she exclaimed softly, then asked, "He the one sent you them flowers, too?" Rachel nodded while Callie Mae noted her crestfallen expression. "Jus' when he call you skinny?"

"Don't you go getting that… that look in your eye, because it isn't going to work. He isn't going to sweet-talk me into making a fool of myself. Not with a philanderer like him."

Callie Mae crossed her hands against her stomach and affected a sober, judgmental expression. "Yup, he's a wild one, that Tommy Lee."

Rachel paced. "And he couldn't make a single one of his marriages work."

"Nope. He sure couldn't."

"And he hasn't gone to church in years." It wasn't exactly true, but it felt reassuring to heap blame on him.

"At least ten, fifteen."

"And he still drives like a maniac."

"He's one crazy white boy, for sure."

"And you should see the way he lives." Rachel threw up her hands. "Why, his house looks like a pigpen!" Suddenly she came to a halt, looked up, and felt herself color.

Callie Mae cocked an eyebrow and said, "Oh?" But she wiped all expression off her face and busied herself unnecessarily dusting a table with her apron while advising softly, "And you mustn't forget, there's the fact that Mr. Owen, he's only been gone a few months. And your daddy would have a conniption fit if he was to find out Tommy Lee been nosin' around his daughter again. And o' course we all know what the Good Book says about honorin' fathers, no matter if they're right or wrong. But there couldn't be no question about your daddy bein' right. After all, he's got one o' the best heads in this county. Why, he runs that bank over there like them Yankees run the war- merciless. You know he always gonna end up winnin', and though he don't always smile a lot, people got respect for him, and there's them that say he's a mite cold and calculatin' at times, but he seems to get along just fine without a lot o' friends since your mama died. Yes, ma'am, your daddy, he's one smart man, got the respect of everybody in this county. And folks say you're turnin' out just like him. You want I should put this sack of junk out for the garbage man to pick up tomorrow?" Callie Mae looked up innocently, holding the sack of beer cans now.

Rachel glanced from the sack to Callie Mae's face, then back again, trying to think of a reply. But she was too shaken to know what to say, and finally Callie Mae trudged off through the house, dragging Tommy Lee's offering with her while mumbling something about it being worthless and wondering what that crazy white boy was thinking to drop such trash on people's front steps!

Rachel remained where Callie Mae had left her, round-eyed and stunned, digesting what the woman had just said, quite horrified at the thought that she might be turning out just like her father. Was she really all those things? Merciless? Cold? A person who'd rather have the town's respect than smile a lot? She swallowed convulsively, closed her eyes, and bit her trembling lip, wanting to deny it.

But that made two people now who'd told her the same thing, for hadn't Tommy Lee called her a smug, supercilious socialite?

And if it wasn't true, why was she crying?