Читать книгу Home to Montana - Charlotte Carter - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Nick pulled open the drapes on the sliding glass door in the motel room. On the second floor at the back of the building, it had a small balcony and an angled look at the diner and a clear view to the west. A perfect place to watch the sun go down, and with the drapes open he wouldn’t feel like the walls were closing in on him.

He turned back to scan the room. A queen-size bed covered with a forest-green quilt. Two pinewood end tables and a matching low chest of drawers. A small flat-screen TV. Pretty standard motel fare but he’d stayed in worse. Like an eight-foot by eight-foot prison cell.

“What do you think, Rags? Home sweet home?” For a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks. It couldn’t hurt to stay put for a while.

Without responding, Rags did his sniffing thing. In every new spot they’d stopped, the dog had to investigate the area thoroughly. Nick had no idea what Rags expected to find, but he sure was looking hard for it. Maybe he was searching for the trail of the family who had left him stranded in Colorado.

Nick knew where his own family was, what was left of it anyway. He had no plans to track his father down again.

He should have known better than to try.

His old man had never had time for him. And Nick had learned to keep his distance when his dad was drinking. At least until he was old enough and big enough to hold his own. After that, his old man had left him alone.

Opening the sliding glass door, he stepped out onto the balcony. Rags followed him and sat down, peering across the parking lot at the diner. The faintest hint of hamburgers on the grill drifted on a light breeze.

Nick wondered which of the upstairs rooms belonged to Alisa. She sure hadn’t wandered far from home. And where was her son’s father? He hadn’t seen any sign of a husband around the place. Maybe he worked somewhere else.

Or maybe he’d moved on. She wasn’t wearing a ring.

None of your business, Carbini.

“Come on, Rags. Let’s get our gear from the truck and then we’ll go looking for some regular dog food for you and a regular leash instead of that ol’ rope I’ve been using.”

Rags whined.

“Yeah, I know. You’d rather run around on your own.” He shooed the dog back inside and closed the door. “But Mama says that’s a no go. She doesn’t want you running off her customers.” He didn’t think Alisa wanted Rags playing with her son either. He’d guess Greg would think otherwise.

* * *

The Thursday night crowd at the diner had thinned by eight-thirty.

“Good night, Alisa.” Larry Cornwall, the high school football coach, tipped his cap as he was about to leave. “I’m still waiting for you to say yes to going to the Harvest Festival with me.”

She shot him a grin. “Larry, you know how busy I am on Saturday nights.” He’d been asking her out ever since he moved to town three years ago. For reasons that annoyed Mama, Alisa had always refused his invitations.

“The festival’s a good cause. Football team needs your support.”

“I’ll make sure to get a check in the mail to you soon.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “One of these days I’ll wear you down, and you’ll say yes just to get rid of me.”

She laughed. “Have a good evening, Larry.”

Alisa waved goodbye to him. She turned to straighten the menus and slipped them into place beside the cash register.

“I’m going to call it a night,” she said to Jolene, who was working the evening shift. An attractive woman in her thirties with two children and a husband who worked for the state highway system, Jolene was unfailingly chipper. In addition to her, Tricia, a sweet teenager who worked part-time, was waiting tables. The two of them could handle the thinning crowd.

“Time to put Greg to bed, huh?” Jolene asked.

“Working the number of hours I do, bedtime is about the only chance I get to spend with him.” A reality that gave her a large dose of guilt, yet she couldn’t seem to figure out how to change the situation. She couldn’t leave Mama to run the whole diner. There had been signs lately that her mother’s arthritis was beginning to bother her.

“Whatever you’re doing, he’s a great little kid. Smart as a whip, too.” She dumped out the coffee from the old pot and started to make a new one.

“I chalk that up to being very lucky, not to my parenting skills.” Being a single parent had many disadvantages including the lack of enough time to give her child the attention he deserved. Of course, all of the staff and most of the regulars doted on him. But she wasn’t sure that made up for her inattention. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Say hello to Fred for me.”

“Will do.” Jolene shot her a bright smile. “And if you’re asking, I think Larry would be a good catch for some woman. He’s good-looking. Has a decent job.”

“Guess I’m just not that woman.” As nice as Larry was, she hadn’t felt any spark with him. Without a spark, there couldn’t be love. She wasn’t going to settle for less than the real deal. If that meant she’d never have the kind of relationship her mother had had with Papa, so be it.

As Alisa took the stairs to the second floor, she removed the band that held her ponytail and shook her hair loose. Her aching feet loudly announced it had been another long day. Maybe she ought to promote Jolene to shift manager and hire an additional waitress. Then she could take on some of Mama’s load in the kitchen.

The fly in the ointment would be the increased employee salaries they would have to pay. The profit margin for a restaurant was slim under the best of circumstances. These days the increasing price of food from the wholesaler kept the diner on a financial razor’s edge.

The second-floor living quarters had three bedrooms, a cozy sitting room with a television rarely watched by anyone except Greg, a small kitchen and eating area. Considering they had a huge kitchen downstairs and ate most of their meals there, the upstairs kitchen didn’t get used much. Greg’s cereal for breakfast or a popcorn treat at night were about the limit of its use.

In the early days, before they’d bought the motel next door, Mama had rented out the rooms on the third floor. Now it was mostly unused except for storage.

She found Greg sprawled on the floor watching the Disney Channel. The arrival of satellite TV had been both a blessing and bane. She tried hard to limit Greg’s TV time and the programs he saw. She wasn’t always successful.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

Without looking away from the TV screen, he said, “Fine.”

Little boys were often inarticulate and very adept at ignoring their mothers. “So I’m planning a trip to Africa. I’m leaving in the morning. Want to come along?”

A pair of matching frown lines formed above his eyebrows. Belatedly he glanced up at Alisa. “Uh? Where are you going?”

She chuckled, sat down beside him on the floor and ruffled his curly hair. “Nowhere. But you’re going to go get your pajamas on and get ready for bed.”

“Ah, Mom. Can’t I watch the end of this? It’s almost over.”

“How about you get your pajamas and change in here? When the show’s over you can brush your teeth.”

“Can I wait until the next commercial?”

Alisa rolled her eyes. Her son was going to grow up to be a big-time negotiator, maybe even someone who negotiated treaties with foreign countries. He always wanted to get a little more of whatever was being discussed. He usually got his way, too.

Of course, that was her fault. She hated to deny him anything.

She wondered if it would be different if he had a father who set the rules. Not that Ben, the drifter who had deserted her, would have provided much of a role model or been a disciplinarian. She’d had word a few years ago that he’d been killed in a rodeo accident. Although she felt bad that he had died so young, he never would have been a factor in Greg’s life anyway. His loss.

The commercial started. Good to his word, Greg hopped up and dashed into his room.

Alisa stood as well. She strolled over to the window to close the curtains. Lighted windows in the Pine Tree Inn across the parking lot indicated they had nearly full occupancy. Idly she wondered which room was Nick’s. And how long he’d stick around.

Not long, she imagined, giving the curtains a hard tug.

No way was she going to build a fantasy of happily-ever-after with another drifter.

The curtains hung up on something. She was about to give them another jerk when she saw the figure of a man standing behind the motel.

Squinting, she realized two things. First, despite the shadows she recognized the man was Nick. Second, he had balanced a stick or bar between two trees and was doing chin-ups one after another. His dog sat nearby watching Nick’s every move.

A moment later, he dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups. One, two, three...

No wonder Nick seemed so strong, his arms so muscular. He was seriously into physical fitness.

Shaking her head, she finished closing the curtains. What was it, she wondered, that drove a drifter to push himself so hard physically?

* * *

Nick finished his workout. Despite the cool air, he was sweating from every pour. His muscles screamed from the exertion. He barely had enough energy to get to his feet.

Physically exhausted, he’d take a shower and hit the sack. Maybe with a firm mattress beneath him and clean Montana air to breathe, he’d sleep through until morning. Assuming the titanium rod and screws in his left leg didn’t put up a battle.

“Come on, Rags. Let’s call it a night.”

They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Nick let the dog into the room and threw the deadbolt on the door.

It didn’t take him long to shower and get into bed. He smiled at the feel of the crisp sheets, the stack of pillows beneath his head and the silence outside the sliding glass door. You’re coming up in the world, Carbini.

After making a few revolutions in order to pick exactly the right spot, Rags settled down on the floor next to the bed.

Not much time had passed when the dream started. Distant explosions. Small arms fire. Men shouting orders.

Running feet. Bullets coming closer. Fear burning in his gut. Screams of pain.

Nick turned restlessly on the bed. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t leave his men. They were injured. Dying. He had to help.

He bolted upright, fully awake, covered with sweat. Rags with his paws on the bed, whining pitifully.

He wrapped his arms around the dog. “Good dog,” he whispered, his voice husky with residual fear. Rags had awakened him before the worst of the dream could overwhelm him. The memory of his cowardice.

Lying back down, he stared up at the ceiling as his breathing slowed. Idly, he tangled his fingers in Rags’s fur. He’d be all right now. The worst was over. Until tomorrow night.

* * *

The following morning, Nick got up at dawn to run with his dog, the air clear, the temperature autumn-crisp. Invigorating.

He showered and walked into town. He found the barbershop easily. Waiting for the shop to open, he tied Rags’s leash to a streetlamp. “Sorry, buddy. You have to stay outside.”

At that moment, Ned Turner arrived to unlock the door. “You coming in for a haircut, sergeant?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Bring your dog inside. No need for him to stay out here all by himself.” A tall, slender man with graying hair, Ned opened the door wide. “Welcome to Bear Lake.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t often Nick had been called sergeant in the past few years, although the insignia of his former rank was obvious on his jacket.

When Nick saw the military insignias plastered all over the barbershop walls and photos of army platoons, plus a shelf full of coffee mugs with unit insignias, including one mug with the chaplain’s cross, he realized why. Ned was former military himself and easily recognized the staff sergeant stripes on his army jacket.

Nick looped Rags’s leash over the arm of one of the chairs that lined the wall. “Stay.”

Rags sat. His eyes remained alert, riveted on Nick.

“What was your unit?” Ned flipped on the lights.

Nick shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a coatrack. “Fifth Infantry. Stationed at Kandahar.” Until the army decided to send him to an outlying camp to feed the troops. When al Qaeda overran the camp, Nick got an unplanned flight out to the U.S. hospital in Germany. He was luckier than most of the guys he worked with who went home in a box. Including his best buddy, Hank.

He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily to banish the image of smeared blood across stainless steel kitchen appliances where so many had died.

Ned gestured toward the barber chair. “I’m First Infantry. Served in ’Nam from ’68 to ’70.”

“That was a tough war.”

“They all are.” He placed a cape around Nick’s shoulders and ran a comb through his hair. “So what’ll it be? Trim?”

“The whole shebang, shave and a haircut. I’m helping Mama out at the diner for a week or so as handyman. Figure I ought to at least look respectable when I’m working around the place.” He smiled slightly. Alisa might appreciate a cleaned-up handyman, too, though she was unlikely to admit it.

“If you’re working for Mama Machak, you better toe the line,” Ned commented. “She’s a pretty special lady around Bear Lake. Her daughter, too.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Nick didn’t doubt for a moment that the townspeople would take Mama’s side if a stranger tried to cross her. Maybe that’s what made Bear Lake a good place to live.

Except he wasn’t looking for a place to settle down.

As Ned began working on him, a couple of fellows came into the shop. One began making a pot of coffee without asking. The other gave Rags a couple of pats then picked up the morning newspaper.

“Mitchell there behind the newspaper served in Iraq,” Ned said, snipping at Nick’s hair with his scissors. “The guy with the coffee habit is Ward. He’s a marine, but we let him hang out with us army types anyway.”

Ward shot a look over his shoulder. “Only ’cause you know I could take you out with my hands tied behind my back.”

Mitchell and Ned laughed.

“We got ourselves our own veterans group.” Ned brushed loose hair off Nick’s shoulders. “Nothing formal, you understand. We meet every Wednesday night in my back room. Half a dozen or so, some who are still shaking off the memories of whatever war they were fighting. ’Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan, it’s all the same for us grunts when we come home. If you’re around next Wednesday, come on by.”

Surprised by the invitation, Nick said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He wasn’t sure he’d be in Bear Lake that long, or whether he’d want to sit in with a bunch of vets who probably spent their time complaining about the government.

But the chaplain at the Louisiana State Prison where he’d spent three years for assault in a barroom brawl had put together a cadre of vets. They were like him—still having flashbacks. It had helped to know he wasn’t the only one. But it hadn’t changed anything.

Still, he hadn’t figured out what God’s plan was for him. Or if it had anything to do with coming back to Bear Lake.

A half hour later, Nick left the barbershop. His face felt naked, and he was ready for one of Mama’s hearty breakfasts.

He hated to do it, but knew he had to tie Rags up this time. Mama’s orders. So he secured the leash to a post at the side of the diner and told the dog to stay.

* * *

Alisa grabbed a menu as a stranger walked into the diner. She greeted him with her usual smile. “Good morning. Would you like a table? Or would you rather sit at the counter?” Men alone often wanted to eat at the counter so they could visit with the waitress as she passed by.

“The counter will do.”

Alisa’s mouth dropped open. She knew that voice but not the face. “Nick?” Her voice caught.

He flashed her a set of white teeth. “Early morning visit to the barber.”

“Y...yes, I can see that.” From the third grader she’d known, Nick Carbini had grown into a striking man with a strong jaw, full lips and a classic nose. His beard and shaggy hair had been hiding a man who could cause a woman’s heart to flutter. Well, most women, she supposed. But not her. Absolutely not her.

All business, she gestured toward the counter. “Take your pick.” Walking behind the counter, she placed a menu in front of him. “Coffee?”

“Please. Black.”

She hesitated, staring at him longer than necessary, noting the teasing glint in his incredible eyes, before wheeling around to the get the coffeepot. Now that he’d shaved and had his jet-black hair cut in a way that emphasized the natural waves, he was more dangerous than ever.

What woman wouldn’t be tempted to weave her fingers through his hair?

“Here you go.” She poured a mug of coffee and set it in front of him.

“You work long hours,” he commented. “Through the dinner hour last night and now up for the breakfast shift.”

“We get a pretty big rush until ten o’clock. Then I take a break until it’s time to set up for dinner.”

“Unless you have to chop wood.”

“Well, yes. Things do come up.” After years of serving customers, she suddenly didn’t know what to do with the coffeepot she still held in her hand. She licked her lips. Set the pot down on the counter. “Do you know what you want for breakfast? Or do you need a minute?” She was the one who needed a minute to get her head on straight. Whatever was wrong with her?

“How ’bout a couple of over easy eggs, hash browns and wheat toast?”

“Coming right up.” She returned the coffeepot to the warmer and started to write up Nick’s order. Her pencil poised over the order pad, she stopped. Her mind had gone blank. Totally empty of everything except his eyes and how he’d looked at her. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what he’d ordered.

She gnawed on her lower lip. There was no reason for her to go brain-dead simply because the man had gotten a shave and a haircut.

Her face flamed as she turned to ask him to repeat his order, and that’s when her brain finally shifted back into gear. Over easy eggs, hash browns and wheat toast. She quickly wrote down the order and passed it through to Billy Newton, the morning short-order cook.

Plucking up the coffeepot, she skirted the counter—and Nick—refilling customers’ cups and chatting with the regulars.

A large booth near the kitchen door was permanently reserved for the “old duffers” group, men whom she’d known all of her life and were now retired. They came in to visit and gossip, drinking gallons of coffee and putting together thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles that remained spread out on the table until they were completed.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” She held up the coffeepot, and two of the four men seated at the table slid their mugs toward her for refills. “How’s the world today?”

“State’s talking about widening the back road to Plains to make an alternate route for tourists.” Ezra Cummings was the senior member of the group, still agile and mentally quick at the age of ninety-two.

“Ain’t worth it,” Abe, a retired lumberman, complained. “Ought to save the tax money and send them tourists back where they come from.”

“Don’t send them all back, Abe.” Alisa set the pot down, picked up a piece of the puzzle, studied it a moment then fit it in right where it belonged in the waterfall part of the woodland scene. “Remember Mama and I need those tourist dollars to keep afloat.” She spied another puzzle piece and dropped it into place.

The old duffers nodded their approval. Alisa had been doing jigsaw puzzles for as long as she could remember. By now, finding the right spot for the oddly curved and angled puzzle tiles was instinctive.

She carried the pot over to Dr. McCandless, who had been her pediatrician when she was young and now was Greg’s. He was sitting alone in a booth. Sometimes Mama came out to join him for breakfast.

“Good morning, doctor. Can I fill it up for you?”

“Just halfway. My doctor says I should ease up on the caffeine.”

“We do have decaf, if you’d rather.”

“Can’t see the sense of drinking coffee if it doesn’t have a little kick to it.” His youthful smile crinkled the corners of his pale blue eyes and made them twinkle. A longtime widower, it was amazing some woman hadn’t latched on to him by now.

By the time she returned the coffeepot to the warmer, Billy had Nick’s order ready. She considered asking Dotty, who was serving the table section, to deliver Nick’s breakfast to him at the counter. But her pride, a stubborn streak much like her mother’s, wouldn’t let her succumb to acting like a coward.

“Two eggs over easy, hash browns and toast.” She slid the plate in front of him. “Ketchup’s right here on the counter. Jam too.” She slid the jam closer to him. “Anything else you need?”

“It looks good. I could use a coffee refill if you have time.”

“No problem.” Of course she had the time. He could see no one else was sitting at the counter. So why did he have to be so nice and polite? He’d been polite as a kid, too. Never teasing the girls or chasing them like some of the boys did. One time he’d even picked up a book that she had knocked off her desk onto the floor. After that the girls had all started dropping their books or pencils or some silly thing to get his attention.

He’d been unfailingly kind even though he’d known what they were up to.

Shaking her head, she tried to wipe away the memory. Just because he’d been a polite kid didn’t mean anything to her now. People changed a lot in twenty years.

Mama came out from the kitchen wearing a butcher apron and her graying hair in a net. “Alisa, have you seen Nick?” She spied him at the counter. “Well, now, aren’t you the handsome thing without all those whiskers.”

His cheeks deepened to a rich shade of red. He dipped his head, focusing on scooping up a bit of egg yolk with his toast.

“No rush, young man,” Mama said. “Finish your breakfast. Then I’d like you to try to fix those loose boards on the back steps. I noticed last night that they were wobbly. Don’t want anybody to fall, particularly when they get iced up this winter.”

“I’d be happy to give it a try.”

“Alisa, honey, you can show Nick where we keep the tools when he’s ready.”

Her stomach sank. Perfect. Just what she wanted to do. Spend more time in Nick’s company. Not.