Читать книгу John Riley's Girl - Inglath Cooper, Inglath Cooper - Страница 9

Starting Points

CLEEVE HARPER DROPPED his cell phone into the front zipper pocket of his overalls, leaving the antennae sticking out one side. The reception here on the farm was hit or miss at best, and he’d taken to driving around in the air-conditioned interior of his tractor with his phone pointed toward the heavens like the new-millennium farmer he was, as if to miss one call would send his crops into a tailspin.

Summerville’s very own GQ farmer. That was what John called him. He’d even taken a picture of Cleeve one afternoon planting corn and sent it in to the County Times. Cleeve still owed him for that one, matter of fact.

He and John had always been that way with one another, ever in search of the next one-up. They were like brothers, looking out for each other as brothers would. It was this, and only this, behind John’s thinly disguised disapproval of Cleeve’s two-year marriage to Macy. Not a doubt in Cleeve’s mind as to the truth of that, and still, it stung in the way of something a man knows to be true but just isn’t ready to face up to yet.

Of course, John had his own off-limit subjects. And Olivia Ashford was one of them. What had possessed Cleeve to needle him about her this afternoon, he didn’t know. Maybe it was just seeing her on TV and thinking it was a shame they had gone their separate ways all those years ago. If any two people had ever belonged together, he’d have said it was the two of them.

But then with his track record, he wasn’t likely to be asked to talk to Oprah’s audience on the subject of relationships.

Cleeve trudged up the brick walkway that wound through the backyard to his house, kicking red mud from his boots as he went. A short hallway led to the kitchen where Macy sat at the kitchen table, checkbook and calculator in front of her, a weekend-size suitcase on the floor beside her.

Not this again.

She looked up, the neutral expression she’d been wearing changing in an instant to one of displeasure. “Cleeve. How many times do I have to tell you to take your boots off before you come in this house? You’re getting that awful red clay all over everything. And you know how impossible it is to get out.”

Cleeve looked down at his boots, the sides refusing to let go of a clump or two of dirt. For the first year of their marriage, he’d done what she asked, taking the dang things on and off so many times during the course of a day that he’d practically gotten dizzy from it. Macy liked a clean house. Not exactly something he could fault her for, but what he had initially taken as a wife’s admirable desire to keep an orderly home, he now realized was more about controlling his every move than anything else.

“Where you headed, Macy?”

“To visit Eileen.”

“But I asked you to go to my class reunion with me.”

“Cleeve.” Her drawn out use of his name implied that he’d just managed to make the world’s dumbest assumption. “I haven’t seen my sister in weeks. And besides, those are all people you went to school with. What in the world would I have in common with them?”

“You married me?”

She sent him a look from under her lashes that underlined her previous implication. “Would you want to spend an entire weekend at one of my reunions?”

“If you wanted me to be there, yes.” Cleeve folded his arms across his chest and studied her. Sometimes he wondered if he had any idea who she was. This was his third marriage, ashamed as he was of that fact, and he’d been hell-bent and determined this one was going to work. He’d met Macy at church at one of those group-counseling sessions for divorced people trying to figure out how not to get themselves in the same predicament again. They’d only dated a few months, but he’d been sure she was the one. Macy was completely different from any other woman he’d ever been involved with. Serious. Responsible. Only recently had he begun to wonder if he’d been mistaken. Pious and domineering might be better descriptions.

He sighed, pulled a glass from the cupboard by the sink and filled it with water from the tap, taking a few substantial swigs as if he could somehow douse the anger simmering inside him.

“Can’t you use one of those paper cups I leave on the counter for you?” Macy asked, her voice heavy with the burden of his sin. “I just finished doing up all the dishes, and now there’s another glass to wash before I go.”

Cleeve swung around, his gaze clashing with the disapproving one of his wife. He was going to his high-school reunion tonight. A milestone of sorts. Fifteen years ago, he would never have believed he’d end up here. If someone had given him a crystal ball and let him take a look at what lay ahead he’d have denied the possibility of this being his life. I’d never be that stupid, he would have said.

He would have been wrong.

“Have a good weekend, Macy,” he said, plopping the glass on the counter, then stomping down the hall and out the back door, glad of the trail of red dirt he’d left behind.

RACINE DELANEY was looking for a special dress. A wow-’em dress. A dress that said, “Bet you didn’t know I could look like this.”

She just hoped there was one in Joanne’s Fine Things—Summerville’s only specialty boutique—that she could afford.

She pulled a sleeveless periwinkle-blue filmy thing from the rack and held it up for a better look, a hand at shoulder and hem. Not bad. Not stunning, either. But then with a chest as flat as hers, and a face that was no longer wrinkle-free, who was ever going to call her stunning, anyway?

It was exactly the kind of dress she’d hoped to find, not too sexy, but alluring in a simple way.

What the heck did she know about such things? A girl who’d lived most of her adult life in a mobile home with her very own conditioned response to tremble as soon as her husband’s car pulled into the driveway. No more, though. That was over. The end. And she was determined to find some happiness for herself. Maybe she’d meet someone this weekend. Someone nice. Someone interested in living life like it was a picnic instead of a war zone.

A diesel truck rumbled down the street outside the shop. She glanced out the window and recognized Cleeve Harper’s silver Ford pickup, the twang of some top-forty country tune loud enough to damage ear drums. She wondered what he was trying to drown out.

“Hello, Racine. Could I help you with something?”

Racine looked away from the window. Joanne Norman hovered nearby. Her voice dripped honey, which seemed appropriate since her short, round frame resembled that of a bumblebee in the black-and-yellow-striped skirt and sweater she wore. Racine had never felt comfortable in this store, aware that Joanne’s eyes always seemed to question whether or not she could really pay for whatever it was she’d picked out.

“I, ah, thought I might try this on.”

“It’s lovely,” Joanne said. “Although not the most practical buy in the shop at that price.”

“I’m not really looking for practical,” Racine said, even as she heard the curiosity in the other woman’s voice. No doubt Joanne was wondering what a woman who worked in the post office sorting mail would be doing with a dress like that.

Joanne pulled a pink cotton skirt and blouse off the rack in front of her. Sweet. Sunday-schoolish. “This is really cute.”

It was cute. Much more like something she might have ordinarily picked out. She wavered a moment, sending a doubtful glance over the periwinkle blue. Maybe she was being silly to think she could pull off a dress like that. But she didn’t want cute today.

“I’ll think about it, Joanne,” she said, taking the pink outfit and draping it across the chair beside her.

“You do that. And let me know if I can help with anything else,” she said, heading for the register where a short, white-haired lady was waiting to pay for a scarf.

She glanced toward the window again. Cleeve had stopped at the gas station across the street. He was talking to Leroy Jones, who’d been running the gas station as far back as her memory went. Cleeve’s back was to her, and she noticed he had nice wide shoulders. He had changed little, if any, since their high-school days. On the outside, anyway. Why was it that guys like Cleeve always ended up with women like Macy?

But then if anybody understood putting up with the faults of a spouse, Racine did. There was always tomorrow, and it was sometimes easier to convince yourself it would get better by then than it was to walk away.

A long time ago, Racine had been more than a little smitten with Cleeve and had almost gotten up the nerve to flirt with him the summer before their senior year at a picnic out at Carson Lake. But she’d lost her courage, and looking back on it now, she knew he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. Guys like Cleeve had been way out of her league then. And were now.

She sent a glance back out the window where he was still talking with Leroy and then held the dress up to the mirror again. Was she really asking for anything so extraordinary? Just a good man who maybe saw something a little bit special in her? She’d once had some pretty lofty dreams. But her wants in life had gotten a lot simpler. And if she’d learned one thing in all those years since they’d left high school, it was that there was no point in wasting time wanting things you could never have.

THE SIGN WAS the same. Rolling Hills Farm. The Rileys. Since 1918. Hand-carved on dark cherry wood and mounted on one of two matching brick columns that marked the entrance to one of the prettiest pieces of land Olivia had ever seen. It hadn’t changed. The name fit the farm. Two hundred acres or so of virtually flat pastures surrounded by a background of rolling hillsides that amounted to a sum total of a little over a thousand acres, if she remembered correctly.

She had arrived in Summerville late that afternoon after the four-hour drive from D.C., then checked into Lavender House, the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying for the weekend. Michael was driving down Saturday morning. She’d tried to talk him out of it since he had a couple of work commitments that prevented him from coming before then.

“You cannot go to a fifteen-year reunion without a date!” he had insisted. “Not done. Unacceptable.”

She’d given in, finally. Now, she wished he’d come with her today. The message from Lori waiting at the front desk had nearly made her repack her car and head back up the interstate.

Of all places, why did the thing have to be moved to John’s farm? Of all places!

She’d tried calling Lori several times, only to get her answering machine. Not surprising. As the main organizer of the reunion, she’d no doubt left hours before.

Olivia had succumbed to a long shower and set about calming the flock of internal butterflies making her nearly lightheaded. There was a single question reverberating in her head: How could she possibly go out to Rolling Hills?

His wife would be there. And children. What about children?

Of course, he would have children. Maybe even teenagers.

Heavens, they were old enough for that.

The possibility peeled back a few layers of indifference beneath which lay a reserve of pain left untapped for years on end. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of it. But somehow, here, with the imminent possibility of seeing them—at his home—the prospect cut deep.

But then she’d come here looking for closure, hadn’t she? Here was her chance. Had she really thought anything about it would be easy?

She was certain John hadn’t given her a second’s extra thought, but had gone on with his life, living it the way people do.

On that note, she had gotten dressed and left the bed-and-breakfast before she could change her mind, pointing her car down roads she remembered as if she’d driven them yesterday. Rationalizing the entire way that John probably hadn’t even aged well, had gained forty pounds, or lost hair. In all reality, she wouldn’t even recognize him.

Outside of storybooks, wasn’t that the way real life usually worked?

Olivia parked her car near the farm’s entrance sign, got out, quickly hit the remote security alarm out of habit, and set off up the asphalt road. No backing out now. She had never imagined walking up this driveway again. The years rolled back now like the curtain at a Saturday afternoon matinee, and she saw herself getting off a Greyhound bus on a cold January afternoon, her too-thin wool coat inadequate protection against the wind cutting into her skin. She’d walked the four miles from the bus station out to Rolling Hills, her heart sticking in her throat every time she heard a car coming, terrified one of them might be her father.

The impetus propelling her down that long road to John’s house had been some comic-Cinderella notion that he could fix what was broken inside her. But any hope of that had collapsed beneath the reality of John’s front door being answered by someone with smooth, beautiful skin, dark liquid hair. Someone who called herself John’s wife. “He and his father have gone to a horse show this weekend up in Culpepper,” she’d said, the words clear to Olivia’s disbelieving ears. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” she had said. “No.”

“Can I tell him who stopped by?”

“Just Olivia,” she said. “Just tell him Olivia.”

Fifteen years, and here she was again, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other and just walk. Don’t think. Just walk.

Three hundred and ninety-eight steps—she counted every one of them—and she was at the top of the driveway. Four white tents had transformed the front yard of the house. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. There were people everywhere, under the tents, leaning against the board fence, sitting beneath a couple of huge old maple trees.

She stopped at the edge of the yard and drew in a deep breath.

A sign-in table was positioned at the entrance. Banners in school colors of red and white hung above. Lanford County High—Class Reunion! Welcome!

And on a smaller banner below: We’re Only as Old as We Think We Are!

Olivia smiled, swept back on a sudden recollection of the time John had run for class president, and she and Lori had covered the halls with posters declaring him the only choice. They’d spent a weekend at Lori’s house coming up with all sorts of clever campaign slogans, some original, some not so. John and Cleeve had come by at regular intervals, bringing them ice-cream cones from the local Dairy Queen, and John would steal Olivia away for a few minutes, pulling her out behind the old sycamore tree in Lori’s parents’ backyard and hauling her into his arms for the kind of kiss that made her forget all about their campaign efforts.

“Oh, my gosh, that’s Olivia Ashford!”

Two women shot across the grass like arrows from a bow, welcoming smiles on their faces.

“My goodness, I can’t believe you’re here!” the one in front said. “Nobody thought you would actually come.”

Olivia smiled back, studying their faces for a moment before recognition hit her. “Casey. Sarah,” she said. “How are you?”

Casey had ridden Olivia’s school bus, Sarah had been in her homeroom.

They all hugged, then stood back to take a look at one another.

“Great. And no need to ask you that,” Sarah said.

“We are so proud of you,” Casey added. “Wow. You look so different in real life. Less serious, I mean. Who would ever have thought that you…I mean anyone from Summerville would end up on television every morning?”

Olivia smiled and steered the conversation away from herself. “So tell me what you’re doing. Are you living in Summerville?”

“Yep,” Sarah said. “Never left. I have three children, Casey has four.”

“You never married, did you?” Casey asked.

“No, I never did.”

“Well, with all the excitement in your life, who needs marriage and children?”

Olivia smiled again as the two women moved ahead in line. Their words settled over her with the implication that, despite all the opportunities her career had afforded her, she was the one who had missed out on something major.

“Olivia!”

The familiar voice sent relief flooding through her. She turned around to find Lori cutting her way through the crowd.

“Lori!” Olivia held out her hands to her old friend. Lori took them, and they stepped into a warm hug that lasted for several long moments. Olivia’s eyes grew moist; she had not expected the lump of emotion now wedged in her chest, preventing further words.

“Gosh, it’s so good to see you,” Lori said, when they’d stepped back to get a good look at one another.

Olivia swallowed. “You look wonderful. You’ve hardly changed at all,” she said, wishing she hadn’t waited so long for this particular reunion. Seeing Lori made all the years fall away. Just like that.

“Hah, compared to you, I don’t think so.”

“No, I mean it. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“A few wrinkles here and there. But we’re supposed to call those character lines, aren’t we?”

Olivia laughed. “I guess so.”

“Obviously you got my message?”

She nodded, hoping her expression said, “No big deal.”

“Were you all right with coming out here?” Lori asked with a hopeful squint.

Olivia drew in a breath. “I guess I should ask if it’s all right that I’m here,” she said, trying to keep the words light.

“Of course it is,” Lori said, squeezing her arm while something that looked a lot like apprehension flitted across her face. “Come on, let’s find a quiet spot where we can talk. We have so much to catch up on. It really is great to see you.”

They were headed to the side of the yard when a frantic voice from one of the tents called out, “Lori, could you come up here? We’ve got another problem with this darn drink machine!”

Lori sighed. “Don’t they know we have fifteen years worth of stuff to catch up on?”

“You go ahead,” Olivia said. “We’ve got the whole weekend. Just look for me when you’re done.”

Lori smiled and hugged her again. “Don’t go far,” she said.

JOHN HAD NEVER been good in crowds. Especially big ones. With almost three hundred people milling about his front yard, he found himself wishing Sunday would hurry up and get here so the whole thing would be over.

The caterer had set up camp near one of the pasture fences, now putting the finishing touches on the barbecue he’d been cooking since mid-morning. If it tasted as good as it smelled, he’d be a hit. A couple of mares had been glued to that section of fence for the past few hours, patiently waiting for the next round of sugar cubes the man had been slipping them on and off all day.

Opposite the barbecue was a DJ playing current top forty, the music persistent, but still enough in the background that conversation was possible. John spotted Cleeve joking with Amy Bussey and Sharon Moore who were working the front table and pinning badges with senior pictures to jacket lapels and dresses.

Cleeve glanced up, and John waved him over. He wound his way through the crowd, a white Stetson on his head, his yellow shirt and Wranglers freshly pressed. He was tall and lean with long legs that made him a natural in the cutting-horse competitions he made time to attend in the summers with John. He had the kind of face that would never look its age. Women called him boyish. It made Cleeve madder than a hornet, but as the years ticked by, he was starting to believe John’s admonishment that it wasn’t such a bad tag to have hung on you.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to stand over here in the shadows all night,” Cleeve said, giving him a shoulder joust and then an elbow jab to the ribs.

“Giving it serious consideration.”

“What? You mind beating women off with a stick?”

John gave him a sideways look and rolled his eyes.

“Even as we speak, plots are being hatched in the ladies’ room as to correcting your bachelor status,” Cleeve said with a grin.

“Widower status.”

Cleeve instantly sobered. “Ah, hell, John, that was damn callous of me. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” John said, letting out a long sigh. “Don’t pay any attention to my bark. I’m not fit company for being out in public.”

“Have to say, I was kind of surprised to see you down here already. Figured I’d have to come up there and reel you out of the house.”

“Sophia took care of it for you.”

“That’s my girl,” Cleeve said, his smile back.

John shook his head and gave Cleeve a once-over. “Aren’t you lookin’ spiffy tonight? I hardly recognized you without the cow manure on your shirt.”

“Figured I might as well show some of these gals what they missed out on.”

“Since you dated half the class, I guess you better get started.”

To Cleeve, this was compliment, not insult. He laughed.

“So where’s the one you married?” John asked.

Cleeve’s smile faded. “Visiting her sister.”

At the look in his friend’s eyes, John was sorry he’d brought it up. “Then I guess you’ll have to dance with some of these other gals, huh?”

“Guess I will,” Cleeve agreed, but with less pluck than before.

“Hey, guys.” Lori Peters stepped up and gave them both a hug.

John leaned back and gave her a long look. She had on a blue cotton sundress that picked up the color of her eyes and did nice things for her fair skin. “You look great,” he said.

Cleeve gave her a low wolf-whistle. “I’ll second.”

“You two are just used to seeing me with four kids climbing all over me,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the sign-in table where people were still filing in.

“I liked that look on you,” Cleeve said.

Lori smiled, but it was a noticeably weak attempt. “John, I need to talk to you about something.”

“You run the well dry? Somebody steal my best cow?”

“Not exactly,” she said, her teeth catching the edge of her lower lip.

Cleeve tipped his Stetson back. “Want me to va-moose?”

“You might as well hear it, too,” Lori said, throwing another uneasy glance over her shoulder. “I should have told you this earlier, this morning when I called, but I chickened out, and I know it was wrong—”

John’s gaze followed hers to the edge of the yard, and the rest of whatever Lori was saying was lost to him. The plastic cup in his hand slid from his fingers and dropped to the ground, iced tea splattering his jeans and Lori’s bare legs.

Cleeve put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it? You look like you just saw a ghost.” And then, “Holy smoke.”

John went numb. He felt like a teenage boy again, spotting for the first time the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on, hit with an immediate blood-heating attraction that fills a boy with the absolute certainty that she is the one, and imbues in him the instant inability to speak in front of her.

His first uncensored thought? Cleeve was right.

She had turned out to be one beautiful woman.

Her hair was still long, shoulder-length and blond. His fingertips instantly ached with remembrance of it.

She was leaner than she’d been then, the bone structure in her face clearly defined with angles and hollows. Her lips were the same though, a shapely, full mouth that made his own throb with sudden memory.

But one difference was apparent. She no longer looked like the small-town girl he’d dated and loved. She looked, instead, like a woman who had made it in the world—clothes, posture, the whole picture.

“What is she doing here?” He tried to inject thunder in his voice and heard his own failure. He sounded like he’d just had the breath knocked out of him.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Clearly, Lori had no idea how to handle this. She looked as if she thought he might strangle her. “I should have told you this morning,” she said, “but I was afraid you’d say no to letting us move the reunion out here if I did.”

“And you would have been right!” The anger hit him full blast then. There was thunder in his voice now. And plenty of it. “Damn it all to hell, Lori. She can’t stay. She cannot stay,” he said, unable to bring himself to say her name because to do so would drive a knife right through the heart of the fury that was the only thing keeping his knees from buckling. “Go tell her. Now.”

Lori shot him a look that somehow managed to convey both panic and absolute horror. “John! I can’t possibly do that. You’re blowing this out of all proportion.”

“Now wait a dadblame minute,” Cleeve began, reason in his voice. “She’s no different from anybody else here who was in our class.”

“She is different,” John said, hearing the steel in his own words. “Either tell her, now, Lori, or the whole weekend is off.”

“For Pete’s sake, John,” Cleeve said, “that was all a long time ago.”

“Not long enough.”

“You don’t have to talk to her!” Lori said, hands splayed in appeal. “I’ll make sure you’re never within fifty yards of one another. We can’t just ask her to leave.”

“Nobody’s askin’ you to throw down the welcome mat for her,” Cleeve tossed out, tipping back his hat, “but you can’t kick her out.”

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. “She isn’t welcome here! And if you won’t tell her, I’ll tell her myself.”