Читать книгу She Drives Me Crazy - Leslie Kelly - Страница 10

CORA HADN’T HESITATED a moment once she’d gotten inside the waiting room of Boyd Realty. She’d turned right around, made herself a nice peeky-hole between two slats of the miniblinds—which were shamefully dusty, no surprise there—and watched what was going on outside.

The trio continued their chit-chatty conversation for a few minutes. It didn’t take an expert in body language, however, to know there was no friendliness between the two younger women. They were like two cats in a box, trying to stay away from one another until it was safe to swipe, drawing first blood.

She smirked. Daneen Walker was way too uppity, to Cora’s mind, and always had been. It hadn’t helped that her daddy, Sheriff Brady, had spoiled the girl to bits when her mother had passed on fifteen years ago. Lately, she’d been darn near impossible with her claims. She’d been hinting that since Johnny was single, and she was kin, she was gonna serve as his first lady when he got elected mayor after Jimbo Boyd retired.

“Maybe cows’ll fly down Market Street one of these days, too,” she whispered sourly. Because that’d be just about the day any of those white trash Walkers got elected mayor of Joyful.

Prosecuting attorney was bad enough. But since there weren’t lawyers lining up for the low-paying job, she supposed he was the best they could do. She knew it darn near killed Sheriff Brady to have to work with the brother of his ex-son-in-law. Especially with Johnny’s reputation for going easy on the criminal element.

Cora gulped down a bit of guilt. As much as she hated to admit it, Johnny had done a good turn by her grandson, Matthew. The sheriff probably would have seen the boy sent up to juvie hall for tipping over one of the Port-o-lets at the county fair last fall. It might not have been such a fuss and bother if Deputy Willis hadn’t been inside the doggone thing at the time. Johnny Walker had worked things out with the public defender, so the boy had done some community service, but no time in jail.

Anyway, it wasn’t like the portable piss-pot had been damaged. Much. And the township should have paid little Matty and his buddies for the spectacle. Deputy Fred had put on quite an entertaining—if a bit smelly—screaming performance once he’d been rescued. It had been a darn sight more exciting than the sideshows, like the two-headed chicken—obviously a rubber toy with an extra beak super-glued to its butt. Or the hootchie-cootchie girls wagging their saggy fannies all over the midway.

“Mealy-mouthed Fred Willis probably liked getting the attention, anyway,” she muttered, remembering how quiet and whiny he’d been as a child.

Outside, she saw Daneen’s body was stiff with indignation. The snooty Frasier girl with the tattered reputation had a confident look on her face as she and Johnny turned away. Looked like the blond chippie had won this round. Cora had no love for city girls who sold dirty pictures, but it did a body good to see Daneen Walker set back on her round heels once in a while.

Sensing the scene out front was almost over, Cora let go of the blinds. She took a moment to examine the office, even peeking into the small bathroom. When she saw a telltale red wrapper floating in the toilet, she smirked.

Just as she’d suspected…Jimbo Boyd was sticking more than For Sale signs into some of the cheap real estate in Joyful. She sure didn’t suppose Daneen had been filling up rubbers and using them for water balloons.

Filing the information away into the back of her brain for future use, she stepped over to the closed door of Jimbo’s office. She heard his voice, but no one else’s, and assumed he was on the phone, arguing with someone.

Cora smiled. Lucky for her, when Mayor Jimbo argued he did so the same way he did everything else. Loudly. If she’d showed up a half hour earlier, she might of heard the mayor calling out for the lord while his fake-pearls-wearing secretary told him to be a good boy or else mama’d have to spank his bottom.

She snickered, then leaned closer to the door, listening. Catching a few words, she wondered who the mayor was talking to. And why he seemed so interested in that new strip club being advertised on the highway billboard…Joyful Interludes.

EMMA SHOULD have known better than to think Daneen would let her get away without one more shot at ruining her day.

“Wait,” the other woman called before they could step off the curb onto the street.

She gritted her teeth as Johnny paused.

Daneen sauntered down the sidewalk, like a woman who knew she looked good in her silky blouse and tight skirt, and grabbed Johnny’s arm. Tilting her head back, she gave him a welcoming smile. “Are you coming over to dinner tonight?”

Johnny appeared confused. “Was I supposed to?”

“Well, it’s Friday.”

Johnny raised a brow. “So?”

“You know. Little Johnny’s pizza and movie night.”

Little Johnny? Emma tensed. There was a little Johnny somewhere? Good grief, had she been so bloody distracted seeing her first lover in the flesh—and such fine flesh it was—that she’d never even cast a quick, surreptitious glance toward his left-hand ring finger? Emma Jean Frasier, usually a connoisseur of eligible bachelors, had slipped up big time.

She looked now. No ring. The rush of relief surprised her. She shouldn’t have been glad. After all, she hated the bastard, she really did. But something that felt suspiciously like happiness did ooze through her before she could stop it.

“Why do you call him that?” Johnny asked, shaking his head in obvious annoyance. “You know he hates it. The kid’s been called Jack for nine years. Why all of a sudden you’ve started calling him Johnny is beyond me.”

Daneen cast a glance at Emma. “What boy wouldn’t want to be called the same thing as the man he considers his daddy?”

Growing visibly tense, Johnny didn’t answer right away. He stared directly at Daneen. The woman finally stopped giving Emma sly looks, and focused on Johnny’s unsmiling face.

“Jack is my nephew and I love him,” Johnny said, his tone tight. “But I’m not his father, I’m his uncle. He knows it. You know it. Everyone in town knows it. Changing his name isn’t going to do anything but make him resent you, Daneen.”

Emma at last understood. Little Johnny…Jack…had to be the baby Daneen had been pregnant with back in high school. The baby she’d conceived with Emma’s boyfriend, Nick Walker. The baby the whole town had been whispering about on the day of the senior prom, when word got out that the king—Nick—had deserted his queen—Emma—because he’d knocked up the daughter of the sheriff.

And that the sheriff was cleaning his gun.

Daneen didn’t say another word as Johnny helped Emma to the SUV and held her arm while she got in. Once he joined her, taking his place in the driver’s seat, she couldn’t help rolling down her window to face Daneen. Somehow, her face didn’t even crack as she forced a pleasant expression. “Nice seeing you, Daneen. I never got a chance to say goodbye all those years ago.” She managed a completely unconcerned laugh, still having enough of that old dumped-high-school-girl pride to act as if she didn’t care what had happened. “You sure missed one wild prom night.”

Daneen began to frown, then her mouth dropped open, as if she’d just remembered something. She looked ready to grab the door handle when Johnny revved the engine to life.

“Now you did it,” Johnny muttered as he pulled away from the curb, leaving a slack-jawed Daneen behind them.

“What’d I do?”

He shot her a frankly disbelieving look out the corner of his eye. “Wild prom night? Did you really have to remind her about what happened between you and me?”

It took her a second to process the accusation. He thought she’d intentionally set out to bait Daneen by making her jealous of her and Johnny? “Back up, big guy,” she said with a frown. “For your information, I was trying to blow off what happened between your jerk of a brother and that—person—back in high school. Why would she care…” Then she remembered the whole Daddy nonsense and groaned. “Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re following in Nick’s footsteps. You’re involved with Daneen?” She shuddered, not feigning her complete dismay. “Ewww. Two brothers. I didn’t think bad taste ran in families.”

He glanced over and raised a brow. “As opposed to what…good taste?”

She had to think for a moment before she caught his meaning. Then she got it. He and Nick had both gotten involved with her, hadn’t they? She almost punched his arm for putting her in the same category with Daneen, who’d been about as big a bitch as Emma had ever encountered during their high school days. But she didn’t want to cause an accident.

“Anyway,” he continued, “no, we’re not involved. Never have been, never will be.”

Emma blew out an impatient breath. Men. Such simple creatures. “Have you told her that?”

He gave her a pointed look as they stopped at a red light. “Yeah, I have. Nine years ago, right after she came back to Joyful, she made a play. I shot her down.”

The thought of Daneen trying anything with Johnny made Emma feel a sudden stab of annoyance she had no business feeling. She swallowed it away, asking, “Is she in love with you?”

Johnny shook his head. “Hell, no. She knows me too well.”

That was an interesting comment, considering how loveable he was. Correction. Had once been. “Oh?”

“She knows it’d be a waste of time since I don’t want anything to do with love, marriage or any of that garbage. Walker men just aren’t cut out for it. At least not the ones from my branch of the family tree.” He shrugged, probably realizing how heavy that had sounded. “Daneen and I are friends, that’s all.”

Emma remained silent for a moment, hearing a hint of resignation—though not bitterness—in Johnny’s voice. He obviously believed what he said about commitment. Little wonder, considering his background…his father. And apparently Nick. The only surprising thing was how his words had affected her—with a sudden flare of something almost painful in her belly.

“If you say so. But Daneen sure looked territorial.”

“There’s nothing else between us, and there never will be,” he added. “Daneen knows it as well as I do.”

He apparently believed that. Gullible as well as simple. “So what’s with the Daddy stuff?”

Turning the car onto Peach Grove Lane, he headed toward her grandmother’s neighborhood. “Jack doesn’t really have one. Nick bailed on her and joined the Marines before Jack was even born.” Johnny frowned, looking disgusted.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once since.”

That surprised her, knowing how close Johnny and Nick had been. But the tightness in his jaw warned her not to push.

He continued. “Daneen moved back here when Jack was a month old. My mom and I do what we can to help.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “Daneen has realized I’m never going to get married and have kids, so she pictures Jack as my heir or something—as if I’ve got a ton of money. Which I don’t.”

Never marry. Never have kids. Again that stab of something hit her in the stomach. Hunger. It’s just hunger from a long day of driving with no food. But deep in her heart, she knew she was lying to herself.

“She seems to think her status as my ‘sister’ gives her the right to interfere in my personal life,” he said. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

“Like?”

“How about we discuss how wild prom night was?”

The louse. She really couldn’t believe he wanted to have this conversation while she was trapped, practically crippled, and at his mercy. “Let’s not. Ever.”

“Still feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Still mad at the world?” she snapped right back.

“Nope.” He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. “Just you.”

She sagged back into the seat. He was mad at her? What a laugh, considering he was the one who’d gotten into his truck and taken off after they’d been caught at the gazebo.

The mention of their prom night brought up lots of emotions. Humiliation, of course. Embarrassment. Sadness at the white-hot anger that had made them both say some pretty ugly things.

Enough.

“Let’s not talk at all,” she said, fighting for emotional distance from Johnny, in spite of their close proximity.

“Suits me fine,” he muttered as he fell silent.

Closing her eyes, she battled to think of something else. But the thought of their final confrontation reminded her of everything else that happened that night.

Prom. Ten years ago. It should have been a disaster. The town had spent the day whispering about Nick and Daneen’s elopement. Emma had spent the day crying about having no date for the most important event in high school.

Then Johnny had been there. He’d knocked on her grandma’s door, wearing the tux Nick had rented. It was a little tight across the shoulders and the sleeves were a bit short, but he’d still been heart-stoppingly handsome. Smiling that wicked Walker smile of his, he’d handed her a bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers. Ordering her to dry her tears and put on her dress, he’d informed her he was taking her to the dance. Whether she liked it or not.

She’d liked it. As a matter of fact, considering she was already crazy for him—and had been since the day the previous summer when he’d kissed her in her car—she’d loved it.

And for a few hours, she’d truly loved him.

“You’re thinking of that night,” he said softly.

His whisper didn’t startle her out of her reverie, and she could only nod, her wisp of a smile probably telling him she was recalling the early part of the evening. The nice part. “Remember the look on their faces when we walked in?”

He chuckled, obviously picturing—as she was—the gaping upperclassmen gathered beneath the twinkling lights and clumps of fresh magnolias decorating the VFW hall. “They expected you to stay home crying and instead you came in on the arm of the wickedest of the Walker boys.”

The scent of magnolia always took her back to that place. Always made her feel the heady thrill she’d felt when she’d walked in with him. Not because of how her classmates had reacted, but because of the way his hand had felt on the small of her back. His fingers had dipped low on her spine, touching her with a kind of intimate possession his brother had known better than to even try.

For all his talk and swagger, Nick Walker had been a boy, contained by the boundaries she set.

Not Johnny. He’d already been a man. A man who’d completely intoxicated her, physically, and emotionally. A man to whom boundaries meant absolutely nothing.

“You said something sweet to make me smile for the picture,” she murmured.

“I told you I had your ankle bracelet hanging on my bedpost in my dorm room.”

Yes, that was it. She idly wondered what had ever happened to the anklet but didn’t have the nerve to ask.

“We danced every dance,” she added, still looking out the window, not at him. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to know if this unexpected stroll down memory lane was as confusing for Johnny as it was for her. She’d been angry about how the night had ended for so long, she’d almost allowed herself to forget how magical most of it had really been.

They’d stayed in each other’s arms, swaying to the music—even the rock songs—for ages. He’d flirted with her shamelessly. He’d acted as if he had eyes for no one else. Then he’d whisked her out the door. But not before giving her a bone-meltingly romantic kiss under the slowly spinning mirror ball, right in the middle of Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.”

Then they’d gone to the gazebo. And the night had become truly amazing.

Did he remember the way she’d cried as she tried to thank him for showing up at her door? Did he ever realize she hadn’t been crying over his stupid brother, but over his own kindness?

Probably not. He’d probably never again thought of how they’d slow-danced in a darkness lit only by the stars and some watery moonlight. Dry leaves had snapped beneath their feet and the breeze had made a faint whistle as it swept through the gazebo, but she’d never felt cold.

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips as she thought of how they’d talked and laughed. Laughter had been followed by long, deep kisses that had gone on forever. Sweet touches giving way to more intimate ones. Tenderness turning to passion. The first real arousal of her life. And the amazing feel of his body on top of hers…inside hers….

“Stop,” she whispered, wondering how on earth she’d allowed her thoughts to completely overwhelm her. She wriggled in her seat as a memory-induced tide of heat slid through her blood, settling with insistence between her legs.

“What? Are you okay? Hurting?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, taking a few deep breaths.

If he’d realized what she’d been thinking about—and the way her body had reacted—she’d just have to die. Right here and now. Dammit, what kind of woman got turned-on remembering her first sexual experience which, considering many females first had sex with teenage boys, usually sucked?

Hers hadn’t. She had to admit it, if only to herself…it had been the best of her whole entire life. Not necessarily the intercourse part, which had been slightly uncomfortable at first. But the emotion. The tenderness. And, oh, yeah, the orgasms.

Nineteen years old or not, Johnny had known exactly what he was doing. With his hands. With his mouth. With every bit of his big, firm body.

“You’re sure you don’t need the doctor?” he said, obviously not believing her and taking her silence for discomfort.

Well, she was uncomfortable, but not in the ankle area. No, the throbbing sensation was now much higher. As in, right between her thighs. And no doctor could make her feel better.

“Quite sure,” she mumbled, drawing in a few deep breaths to try to focus. “My, it’s already awfully hot for early June.”

He shrugged, either not impressed with her conversational skills, or realizing she wanted to leave the subject of prom night behind. She was saved from having to make any further effort by his nod. “Here we are.”

She hadn’t even noticed how quickly the ride had flown by, since she’d been a little…er…distracted. Now, however, she froze as she stared out the windshield of his SUV at the gently familiar tree-lined street onto which they’d turned.

“Miss Ellen’s house,” she murmured, spying the huge elm tree in front of what had once been a white bungalow. “Her piano students used to wake me up every Saturday with their scales.”

The house was green now. A tricycle and a scooter in the driveway, plus a bat and ball lying in the grass, gave evidence that old Miss Ellen had moved on, in one way or another.

Next came the white picket fence surrounding the immaculate lawn maintained by Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby, her grandmother’s next-door neighbors. And then…

“There it is,” she whispered. The lemon-yellow, two-story house that she pictured whenever she closed her eyes and thought of home. Of happy times and warmth. Of sweet hugs and the papery smoothness of her grandmother’s strong hands. Of endless summer days being allowed to climb trees and get dirty.

She’d expected tears to fill her eyes when she saw it again. But somehow, after everything she’d been through, she didn’t feel sad at all. As a matter of fact, staring at the house—so warm and bright, and best of all, entirely hers—she began to smile.

This was Emmajean’s house, Emmajean’s world, Emmajean’s town. Her grandmother wouldn’t be here to welcome her, but all the warmth and hospitality she’d epitomized lived on right here in Joyful. She could lose herself in that warmth and hospitality, let it salve her wounds and heal her spirit while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

In spite of the dull pain in her foot, the fatigue in her shoulders and her pitifully empty wallet, she truly felt good. For the first time in a long time, Emma Frasier began to believe everything really would be okay.

Because she was home.

JOHNNY DIDN’T stick around once they got to Emma’s grandmother’s house. He helped her inside, then made sure the electricity was on and the place secure. Though he wanted nothing more than to get out, to put a mile of physical distance between them—immediately if not sooner—he also made sure to find her an Ace bandage in her grandmother’s medicine kit.

By the time he left, she was soaking her foot in an old washtub in the kitchen. She was also nibbling on a piece of fruit from a Welcome Home basket Jimbo Boyd had left on the counter. Good old Jimbo. Never one to pass up an opportunity to kiss the ass of a voter—or a campaign contributor.

She’d thanked Johnny sincerely, accepted his offer to have someone bring her car over to the house and agreed he should let himself out. She might as well have been a fare he’d picked up in a taxi for all the intimacy between them.

It wasn’t too surprising that Emma had tried to put up walls. Just the faint beginnings of a discussion about what had happened between them had made her go silent and distracted.

“The little coward.”

If Deputy Fred Willis had been around, Johnny would have earned himself a hundred dollar fine as he blasted out of her driveway. Even if he’d seen the dusty old patrol car, he didn’t know if he could have lifted his foot off the gas pedal.

He needed space. Distance. Needed to get away from those golden-brown eyes of hers and her soft voice. The longer he spent in Emma’s company, the more likely he’d have been to shake the hell out of her and ask her why she’d done what she did.

First, why she’d used him as a physical substitute for his brother when it came to something as important as sex. Then, why she’d run away the very next day…when that sex had been so damn good! And finally, how in the name of God she could have gone on to have sex for money in the name of movie-making.

Sex, sex and sex again. That’s what it all came down to. If he’d stayed in that house another minute, the subject would have come up. And sex was one thing he could not talk about with Emma Jean Frasier. At least not without being sorely tempted to find the nearest flat surface and fully explore the meaning of the word with her in every position known to man. Plus a dozen yet to be invented.

He shook his head in disgust. He obviously needed to get laid. Preferably by someone who didn’t list her proficiency with various coital positions on her résumé.

Then he snorted. “It’s bullshit. If she’s a porn star, I’ll prance up Market Street in those spike-heeled shoes of hers.”

No, there had to be another explanation for the stories flying around town. Had to be. And once he got a firm grip on his libido again, he’d find out what it was.

In the meantime, there was her car to deal with. Grabbing his cell phone, he hit one of the speed dial buttons. “Virg, can you meet me down in the parking lot of the grocery store?” he asked when a familiar voice answered.

“Sure,” his cousin said. “Can I finish my hot dog first?”

“Hot dog. Minnie working tonight?”

“Uh-huh. Third weekend in a row.” Virg tsked in disgust. “That skunk boss of hers tells her if she wants to be head cook on Sundays, when the regular guy’s off, she has to bounce at the door every Friday and Saturday night.”

Minnie had recently moved up from bouncer to cook’s assistant at the Junctionville Tavern. After she and Virg got married, she’d put her foot down saying it wasn’t seemly for a bride to be physically tossin’ drunks out of bars. Her boss had apparently found a way to finagle her back where he wanted her.

“If she didn’t have her heart set on getting a job as head cook somewhere, I’d make her quit,” Virgil continued.

He’d make her quit. Yeah. Right. Virgil Walker would be able to make his two hundred and fifty-pound wife, Minnie, do something on the same day Johnny made snow fall in July. Still, he might be able to sweet-talk her into it. They were disgustingly cooey with each other.

“Okay, meet me by the red convertible parked right in front of the store in about a half hour,” Johnny said.

Virg audibly chewed a mouthful of his dinner. Johnny knew without asking that the hot dog was smothered with onions and mayonnaise. A disgusting combination if ever there was one, but that’d been Virgil’s favorite meal since childhood.

“Red convertible,” Virg finally said. “You mean the porn star’s car?”

Johnny winced. “She’s not…just meet me there, Virg.”

He cut the connection before his cousin could answer, then headed back downtown. When he arrived at the store, he pulled into the parking lot next to Emma’s car. Before cutting the engine, he opened the window. Johnny sat back, watching the last of the evening shoppers pushing their carts inside. It’d be closing soon, right around the time the town of Joyful rolled up its sidewalks for the night.

“Hey, Johnny,” he heard from outside. Glancing up, he saw Claire Deveaux, the harried woman whose little girl’s spill had caused such a fuss earlier. Claire was walking toward the store, a frown on her pretty brow.

“Hiya, Claire. Didn’t finish your shopping earlier, huh?”

She grimaced. “I tried to clean Eve up in the bathroom, but she was a mess. I had to leave an entire cart full of groceries behind and take her home. I bet those twits didn’t even have the sense to put the ice cream back in the freezer case.”

He snorted. “Better hope they did. Otherwise they’ll want you to pay for it. Where’s the baby?”

“Home with her daddy. Probably telling him for the tenth time about how mama wasn’t paying close enough attention so she spilled her juice on her fave-o-rite top.” She sighed, sounding amused, yet weary. “Daddies and their little girls.”

He wasn’t much of an expert on either one, not being a daddy, and ever having had one to speak of. At least not one he wanted to acknowledge.

“So, I hear you scooped up the porn star and carried her out after she fell.” Claire nibbled the corner of her lip. Johnny couldn’t tell whether she was embarrassed, amused or disappointed because she’d missed the spectacle.

“She’s not a…look, Claire, it was Emma Jean who fell.”

Claire’s mouth fell open far enough for him to count the fillings in her teeth. “Emma Jean Frasier? Good lord, why didn’t she call me and tell me she was coming?” She peeked into the car as if expecting to find Emma inside. “Where is she?”

Johnny now remembered that Claire and Emma had been close friends in high school. “I dropped her off at her grandmother’s house. She twisted her ankle, but she’ll be okay.”

“Emma Jean,” Claire murmured again, and a soft smile crossed her lips. “I haven’t seen her in…oh…ten years.”

Johnny nodded and murmured, “Prom night.”

A soft flush rose in Claire’s cheeks, and her eyes widened. She stared at Johnny, obviously remembering. “Oh, my goodness, that’s right.” Then she began to smile. “And just think, you were here to save her this afternoon. Again. You do always seem to be in the right place at the right time to take care of Emma Jean, don’t you, Johnny?”

Yeah, but, she’d better not get used to it. He was done taking care of Emma Jean. He had enough people to take care of in his life. The last thing he wanted was to be needed by a woman he’d once wanted with every ounce of his body.

From now on, she was on her own.

“Well, I’d better run,” Claire said as she glanced toward her watch. “Store closes soon, and I’ve got to get home and feed my family. I don’t guess you or Emma Jean got to finish your shopping either?” She looked down, sheepishly. “I still feel awful about that. If you see Em, tell her I’ll come by soon to apologize and catch up on old times, okay?”

He wouldn’t be seeing her. No doubt about it. But he merely shrugged, then bid Claire goodbye.

True to his word, Virgil came strolling up Market Street right on time. Virgil, two years younger than Johnny, was one of the Bransom-Walkers. Meaning, his mother, a rather well-liked member of the Bransom family, had married a no-account Walker thirty-odd years ago. Their offspring were marginally more respectable than the plain old Smith-Walkers, such as Johnny and Nick. Their own mother hadn’t been much higher on the socioeconomic scale than their father, though Johnny was the first to admit she was pretty much a saint in their eyes.

Virgil didn’t mind the Walker prejudice. He’d never aspired to do much more than tinker with his junkyard-bound hot rod, work as a handyman doing odd jobs and have a happy marriage with his wife, Minnie. Since he came from another side of the Walker family—one that seemed to have escaped the bad-marriage curse that had affected Johnny’s—he might actually have a shot at achieving his dreams.

Virg didn’t much look like a Walker, except for his dark blue eyes. He stood a good six inches shorter than Johnny and weighed forty pounds more. Still, Johnny had always considered Virgil as much of a brother as Nick.

“This the porn star’s car?” Virgil asked.

Getting out of his car, Johnny shot Virg the kind of quelling look that had been known to make even Sheriff Brady watch his mouth. “She’s not a porn star. The car belongs to Emma Frasier. I told her I’d get somebody to bring it over to her grandma’s house because she hurt herself and couldn’t drive.”

Virgil whistled. “So, Emma Jean Frasier’s the porn star? The woman in the thong underwear who slipped in All-Tempa-Cheer and fell in the store today is Miss Emmajean’s granddaughter?”

“Thong underwear?” Johnny bit out.

Virg nodded. “Black and tan. Jungle pattern. Leopard spots.”

Johnny rolled his eyes even as he gulped at the sudden visual of Emma Jean’s underclothes. “Nobody saw her underwear, Virg. Spots, jungle or anything else.”

“Tom Terry said…”

“Tom Terry is a nasty old reprobate who plays pocket hockey looking at the mannequins in the window of the dress shop. You gonna believe him? Or me, your flesh-and-blood relative, who was standin’ closer to her than anyone when she fell?”

Virgil looked disappointed.

“And she’s not a porn star.”

Virgil’s disappointed expression grew more sad. “You sure?”

He nodded. “You remember her, Virg. Do you seriously think she could have left Joyful and gone off to make adult movies?”

Virgil glanced into the distance, smiling like a man reminiscing over a particularly fine meal or a good cigar. “Oh, yeah, she coulda.”

Virgil was saved Johnny’s fist in his gut by virtue of their blood kinship. “I don’t mean physically,” Johnny snapped. “Do you think the hoity-toity daughter of some rich people who live overseas would star in stag films?”

“They’re not all stag films,” Virgil argued. “Some are really art. Sleepless With A Paddle shoulda won an Oscar.”

Johnny didn’t even ask.

“Virg, will you just drive the damn car over to the Frasier house? I’ll follow you and give you a ride home.”

Virgil looked like he wanted to argue about it, but shrugged and got into the convertible instead. “She’s got long legs,” he said as he bent down to adjust the driver’s seat forward. “Porn stars always have long legs.”