Читать книгу The Ballad of Dixon Bell - Lynnette Kent - Страница 9

MISS DAISY WAS ALREADY bustling around the house when Dixon came downstairs at six-thirty on Friday morning. She stopped long enough to kiss him on the cheek.

“The housekeeper will be here at nine,” she reminded him. “We have to have everything straightened up before then.”

He followed her through the parlor as she took the cats’ towels off the furniture and bundled them up in her arms. In several cases, she had to remove a cat, too. Dixon knew he was guilty of exaggerating when he’d told Kate there were too many cats to count. In fact, there were only four—Audrey, Clark, Cary and Marlon. But they moved silently and appeared out of nowhere when he least expected it, so he felt as if he was living with at least twice that number.

“Forgive my confusion, Miss Daisy, but isn’t that what you have a housekeeper for? To straighten the house?”

“I don’t need to hire somebody to pick up your dirty socks.” She handed him the pair he’d left by the couch after falling asleep in front of the television waiting for her to come home. He’d waked up about three in the morning with the long-haired white cat—Audrey?—snoring on his chest. “I get the clutter out of her way so Consuela can do the real cleaning.”

“That’s clear as mud.” Dixon followed his grandmother into the kitchen. “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

“I’ve had my daily quota, thank you. I’ll be glad to fix you some breakfast, though. We still have time. Eggs and bacon? Pancakes?”

He toasted her with his coffee mug. “I’m fine. What can I do to help you?”

Miss Daisy was busy putting away the clean dishes still in the drainer from yesterday. Magnolia Cottage didn’t own a dishwasher. “Just be sure your room is neat, dear. And the bathroom upstairs. That will be sufficient.”

Coffee in hand, Dixon climbed the wide, uncarpeted staircase to the second floor, appreciating the fine woodwork. At the same time, he noted a couple of missing balusters and the desperate need for a refinishing job on the banister. In his bedroom, he picked up his shirt and slacks from last night and caught, along with a flurry of white cat hair, a whiff of Kate’s rose-washed perfume clinging to the cloth. Or imagined he did, anyway. His first waking thought, as it was on many mornings, had been of Kate. He wondered if she’d spent time thinking about him last night, or if she’d gone home and straight to sleep. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked exhausted. Beautiful, but exhausted.

In the bathroom, he hung his towel over the rack, as opposed to the shower-curtain rod, stowed his shaving gear in his bag and put it under his arm to take to his room. There was no linen closet, no storage cabinet of any kind in the tiny, white-tiled bath. The sink rested on a stainless-steel frame and the tub was the ancient, freestanding variety. Big but difficult, he was certain, to clean behind.

Dixon decided he’d better get out a notepad and start writing down all the things he wanted to fix in the house. There were too many to keep a mental list.

He spent a couple of pleasurable hours surveying the second floor, thinking about converting a small bedroom into a bath, creating a walk-in closet for Miss Daisy so she wouldn’t have to store her wardrobe in every closet but his. Just as he reached the foot of the stairs again, the front doorbell rang. He opened the door to a short, plump lady with glossy black hair and a sweet smile.

“I am Consuela Torres. You must be Mr. Dixon.”

He took her hand and drew her into the house. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Torres. Miss Daisy says you’ve done a wonderful job taking care of the house, and of her. I really appreciate that.”

“She is easy to care for. And I am glad to have such steady work.” Consuela set the big shopping bag she carried on the floor by the stairs and bent over to extract cleaning cloths and bottles of various kinds. Dixon saw that she winced as she straightened up again.

“Are you okay?”

She gave him another smile. “Of course. These old bones just take some warming up in the morning. I think I will start upstairs today, if that’s all right with you.”

“That’s great.” He watched her as she went up, noted that she was breathing hard by the time she reached the middle of the staircase. She wasn’t an athletic woman, but she wasn’t really “old,” either, and it seemed to him that climbing the steps shouldn’t be that hard.

“Are you sure Consuela’s okay?” he asked Miss Daisy when he found her in the kitchen. “Is this job too much for her?”

His grandmother considered the questions with her delicate eyebrows drawn together. “She’s worked hard since she was a teenager, that I do know, mostly cleaning houses and offices. She has a number of children, several of them very young. I imagine she is tired most of the time, and feels a little older than her years. But I wouldn’t presume to pity her,” Miss Daisy warned. “And I wouldn’t think of firing her. Her husband can’t hold a job, and some weeks her housekeeping money is all they have to eat on.”

Dixon shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t fire her. I just wonder how to make things easier for her…and for you. This place is a wreck, Miss Daisy. We’ve got to get it fixed up.”

Now her bright blue eyes widened in surprise. “Fixed up? What’s wrong with this house?”

For an answer, he walked to the wall beside the back door and chipped off a piece of crumbling plaster with his fingernail. “For starters. And you need new bathrooms, a new kitchen. More phone connections. What would happen if you fell upstairs and needed help? You couldn’t even make a telephone call.”

“I seem to have managed well enough all these years.” Her tone was frosted with injured pride.

“Sure you have.” Putting an arm around her shoulders, he brought her to the table, brushed a fat calico cat—Marlon?—off the chair, and sat her down. The cat immediately jumped onto Miss Daisy’s lap. “And I don’t have any right to criticize when I stayed away for so long, leaving you to take care of everything all by yourself.”

She shrugged a thin shoulder. “You needed to go, and I gave you my blessing. Anyway, I was used to being in charge. Your grandfather died a long time ago. And then your mother and father…” Her sigh spoke of an unhealed sorrow.

“But I’m here now, Miss Daisy, and I want to make this a comfortable, easy place to live in. For you, and for me, for the family I hope to have someday.”

Daisy sat up straight. “Dixon Crawford Bell! You’re planning a family already? And just who might the lucky woman be? Or do I already know?”

He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want to jinx it. But I do want to set things to rights around here, if you’ll let me.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I’m comfortable enough, Dixon, but I don’t have the money to do the kinds of things you’re talking about. How are we going to afford all this?”

Though he hadn’t really doubted that she would go along with his plans, he felt better having her permission to begin. “I’ve got the money, Miss Daisy—they’re paying me pretty well to write songs these days, remember? And I have a lot of time and energy to do at least some of the work on the house myself. Don’t you worry about anything but picking out wallpaper and paint colors and countertops. Leave the rest to me.”

By lunchtime, he’d made a survey of the downstairs and his list had grown to twelve closely written pages. More than a little daunted by the task he’d set himself, he went outside into the hot July sun, where mad dogs, Englishmen and crazy ex-cowboys belonged.

There, the grounds met him with their own demands—knee-high grass, overgrown gardens where weeds formed the primary crop, wisteria and poison ivy vines gone crazy as they climbed over pine trees that should have been pulled up as seedlings fifty years ago. The giant magnolias for which the house was named had fostered their own crop of sprouts, smaller trees which, though beautiful, detracted from the majesty of the originals. Dixon thought he would like to transplant those sprouts rather than just cut them down. But that would entail a monumental amount of extra work.

As he stood staring, feeling his shirt stick to the sweat on his back, which was a combination of heat, humidity and sheer trepidation, a blue Taurus came down the gravel driveway and stopped at the front walk. The driver was young, and his olive skin and black hair easily identified him as Consuela’s son.

“Good afternoon.” Dixon extended his hand and got a firm shake in return. “I’m Dixon Bell.”

“Sal Torres. My mother works here.” There was a certain defiance in the words and an arrogant tilt to the boy’s chin indicated resentment.

“I met her for the first time this morning. I really appreciate all she’s done for my grandmother—it’s not easy for an eighty-four-year-old woman to manage on her own.”

Sal Torres didn’t intend to be placated. “My mother always does a good job. She takes pride in her work.”

“As well she should. I’ve done my share of dirty jobs, chores other people turned up their noses at. Work done well is work to be respected.”

The youngster looked a little surprised, then nodded. “That’s true.” His gaze moved beyond Dixon, to the wilderness around the house. “And it looks like you need a lot of work done out here.”

“Yeah. Inside, too. Your mother keeps things clean, but there’s a mountain of repairs to be made.”

“I know people who do landscaping, carpentry, painting.” Before Dixon could reply, Sal gave a shrug, rueful and angry at the same time. “‘Of course you do,’ you’re thinking. Hispanics are the new labor class. We’ve replaced the African slaves.”

“You know, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” Dixon unclenched his jaw, got his irritation under control. “I can’t help that my ancestors ran a plantation and owned slaves, and I won’t apologize for that fact. But, as I believe I just said, I respect anybody who does a decent day’s work and I expect to pay them a good wage when they work for me.” He turned on his heel and headed for the house. “I’ll tell your mother you’re here.”

Sal watched the other man go into the grand, sad old house, then went to sit in the Taurus with the air-conditioning blowing full blast. He hadn’t really meant to start an argument about slavery and prejudice, especially not with his mother’s employer. Something about the atmosphere surrounding the mansion, some remnants of past lives, maybe, had stirred resentment in him, and a need to take a stand. Dixon Bell had probably been more tolerant than Sal deserved. L.T. LaRue would have picked him up bodily and thrown him off the place. Or tried, anyway.

Of course, Mr. LaRue had already laid hands on Sal once, for kissing his daughter. Dixon Bell probably wouldn’t be too tolerant, either, when his children wanted to date outside their own class. Kelsey’s mother managed to be polite, but it was obvious she had serious doubts about Sal as somebody worthy of her little girl. All because he had dark skin and came from the south side of Boundary Street, the line dividing the haves in New Skye from the have-nots.

The heavy front door of the house shut with a thud, and Sal looked up to see his mother ease her way down the steps, the heavy shopping bag she always carried in one hand, her other hand holding tight to the rail. She looked tired, and it was only a little past noon. How would she feel at five, when she finished her second cleaning job of the day?

Sal jumped out of the car and ran around to open her door, taking the bag out of her hand. “Let me get that.”

She sank into the front seat with a sigh of relief. “Ah, the air-conditioning feels good. That house is always too hot.”

In the driver’s seat again, Sal flipped the fan up a notch. “Don’t they have AC?”

“Yes, but not enough. And when you’re working…” She shrugged. “Did you go to class this morning?”

He cleared his throat and put the car into gear. “No.”

“Salvadore, you must go to class. You need these credits to graduate next year.”

“I know, Mama, I know. I’m going this afternoon. But I had a job this morning, unloading furniture at Joe’s. I earned fifty dollars. So this afternoon I’ll figure out how to do algebra.”

With another sigh she closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat. “The fifty dollars is nice. But you need a diploma to get a good job. In the long run, a diploma is worth a lot more than fifty dollars.”

He didn’t argue with her, just let her doze a little as he drove across town toward one of the brand-new subdivisions where her afternoon job was located. These big, new houses were easier to clean, she said, because they had all the modern conveniences. She didn’t work nearly as hard there.

Sal only wished she didn’t have to work at all.

They stopped for a fast-food lunch before he dropped her off at the big house on a street where all the trees were too young to make real shade. “I’ll be here at five,” he promised as she leaned in the window to give him a kiss.

“Go to class,” his mother ordered.

And because he promised her, he went. He was late, of course, which meant checking in through the office and getting a lecture from the secretary. School schedules never took into account that teenagers might have real lives. If he didn’t drive his mother to work, she couldn’t get there. If she didn’t get there, she didn’t get paid, and his brothers and sisters didn’t eat. That was a pretty simple equation, he thought. Maybe the algebra teacher could explain it to the front office.

After two hours of algebra, the teacher gave them a fifteen-minute break. Sal went in search of a cold drink and the one person who made him feel as if the future held promise for someone like him.

He found Kelsey lingering by the vending machines. The way her face lighted up when she saw him was worth all the hassle of going to summer school.

“Sal!”

“Hey, querida.” He put an arm around her waist, felt her yield to him with a surge of pride. She was gorgeous, she was sweet as candy, and she was his. “How are you?”

“Better, now. Where were you all morning?”

Sal didn’t like being questioned, but he did like it that she cared. “I had some work to do. Judging from the last two hours in class, I didn’t miss anything.”

He let go of her long enough to get a drink from the machine, then grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hall after him. “Let’s get out of here for a few minutes.”

The afternoon was hot as hell, even in the shade of the tree they had chosen as their special place. Sal leaned back against the trunk and pulled Kelsey to stand between his legs, then took a long swig of his drink. “That’s better. You and a cold soda—that’s about as good as a summer day gets.”

“You’re so sweet.” She smiled at him, her brown eyes bright, her mouth full and soft. “You deserve a kiss.”

“You’re right. I do.” He took it, meaning to keep things light, but holding onto his control with Kelsey was becoming harder and harder. At least here they were out in public, where things couldn’t go too far.

Too public, it turned out.

“Mr. Torres, Miss LaRue…must I remind you again about the school rules prohibiting public displays of affection?”

Kelsey gasped and stepped away from him as Sal opened his eyes to see the principal glaring at them from barely ten feet away.

The big man crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the asphalt. “Well?”

“No, sir.” Sal straightened up and sidled out from underneath the tree branches. “You don’t have to remind us.” They’d been caught last Friday afternoon, but that was inside the building. Sal had hoped being outside would keep them off the radar, so to speak.

“One more incident, and I will notify your parents and assign both of you detention. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As it is, you are going to be late for class.” The bell rang to emphasize his point. “Your teachers may be assigning detention, as well.”

A glance at Kelsey as they trailed Principal Floyd into the building showed Sal her red face, her scared eyes. He understood her fear—if the principal talked to her dad about him, Kelsey would have hell to pay. Hard as it was, for her sake, he would have to keep his hands off her during school hours.

But school hours took up so damn much of the day. After class, he picked up his mother, took her to the grocery, helped her at home with the younger children. By the time he got free, Kelsey’s curfew was in effect. He’d spent a lot of evenings this summer watching movies with her at her house. At most, they found enough privacy for a good-night kiss. He wanted more…and yet more would just get them into trouble.

Couldn’t anything in life be simple?

He saw Kelsey again after class ended for the day. This time, the complications came in the form of her little brother walking down the hall beside her. Trace LaRue had inherited his dad’s redneck attitude. He hated Sal on the principle that he was Hispanic, which made them about even, because Sal hated Trace on the principle that he was a bigoted jerk.

So he made sure to demonstrate how things stood between him and Kelsey every chance he got. “Hey, beautiful,” he said as he reached her, putting an arm around her waist. “Missed you.” He bent to kiss her cheek.

“Sal!” She drew away. “Remember what Mr. Floyd said.”

“I remember.” He pushed open the door and ushered her ahead of him out of the building, then let the heavy panel swing back on Trace. “But we’re out of school now. The big man is watching the bus line in back. We’re safe.” Lifting her thick blond hair in one hand, he placed a kiss on the nape of her neck.

A hand grabbed Sal’s shoulder and jerked him around. “Take your hands off her, Spic.” Red-faced and sweating, Trace looked just like his old man when he got mad.

Sal shoved back. “Make me.”

Before either of them could move, Kelsey pushed in between them. “No, you will not. Neither of you is gonna start a fight at school over me. Do you hear? I swear, Sal, if you take this any further, I won’t see you or talk to you again for…for…for weeks. Is that what you want? Is fighting Trace worth it?”

He was tempted to take the boy on in spite of her warning. No woman told him what to do. But…

Sal knew he couldn’t live without seeing Kelsey. She kept him sane, gave him a reason to get up in the morning.

“Go,” he said through clenched teeth, with a nod across the parking lot to the Volvo where their mother sat waiting. “Just go.”

Trace grabbed Kelsey’s arm. “You heard the jerk. Let’s go.” She went with her brother, looking back over her shoulder at Sal the whole time.

Sal watched them drive off, then went to his own car and sat in the heat, fuming. The situation was impossible—he and Kelsey should have the right to see each other without so many hassles. He was beginning to think they would have to change the whole world, just to be together.

But this afternoon, changing the whole world looked like way too big a job for one Hispanic kid to handle on his own.

KATE WAS BETTER PREPARED to face L.T. when he came to get the children for breakfast on Saturday morning.

She opened the door and managed a smile as she stepped back to let him in. “Good morning.” Beyond him, she could see his girlfriend…mistress?…fiancée?…waiting in the car at the end of the walk.

“Are they ready?” He went across the hall toward the living room, but stopped on the threshold. “What happened to the furniture?”

“I’ve done some rearranging, that’s all.”

“Why the hell would you do that? You’ve got the dining-room table in the wrong place. Who wants to eat in here?”

“I thought we might enjoy our meals with a fire in the fireplace, come winter. Especially for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. And this way, we can sit on the love seat by the big window at the other end and look out at the garden. It’s just an experiment.”

“I think it’s a disaster. Put the furniture back the way it’s supposed to be.”

She drew a deep breath. “L.T., you don’t live here anymore, so it really doesn’t matter what you think. Trace and Kelsey and I like this arrangement, so it’s going to stay this way until we want to change it.”

He faced her, his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. “You’re turning the kids against me, aren’t you? I’ve suspected all along that was what you were doing. Brainwashing them, getting them to believe what you say is right, instead of me.”

Her knees were shaking, but she held her ground against the urge to back away from him. “No. We don’t talk about you at all, if we can help it. We’re just getting on with our lives, L.T., the same way you have. And that includes moving the furniture around.”

Footsteps on the floor above heralded the appearance of Trace and Kelsey at the top of the stairs. L.T.’s face smoothed into a welcoming smile. He was a handsome man when he wasn’t angry. “Hey there. Good to see you both. Let’s go get something to eat.”

The kids descended slowly, not sure what kind of mood their dad was in, but when they reached the bottom, L.T. was surprisingly gentle with his greeting. He put a hand on Trace’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake. “How’s it going, son?” For Kelsey, he had a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking pretty this morning, sweetheart.” As he ushered them out the door, he looked back. “I’m thinking we might drive up to Raleigh to do some shopping, if they don’t have plans for the rest of the day. Any problem with that?”

Kelsey whirled to face Kate, her face alight with eagerness. “Oh, please, Kate, please? They’ve got such cool stores and a brand-new mall we’ve never been to. Please?” Even Trace conveyed an interest in spending some of his dad’s money.

In the face of such desperation, a legitimate reason would have been hard to maintain and Kate didn’t have one, anyway. “That’s great. I’m sure y’all will have a good time.” As they moved down the walk, with Kelsey practically dancing, Kate called out, “Can you give me an idea of what time to expect them home again?”

L.T. waved a careless hand in her direction. “It’ll be late.”

“Oh.” She drew back inside the threshold. “Thanks so much for the specifics.” Closing the door, she leaned against it and listened to the empty house. “Now what?”

The hours passed quickly enough, filled with her usual Saturday chores plus an impulsive trip to the garden center to buy a new planter for the terrace and a selection of herbs to plant there. About six o’clock, she finally sat down in a nearby chair with a glass of iced tea, set to enjoy the scents of earth and oregano and marjoram, the fading heat of the day radiating from the stones under her bare feet, the changing colors of the sky.

But after a few quiet moments, she found herself longing for company. She enjoyed Trace and Kelsey—except when they were fighting, of course. Their minds were lively and they always seemed to have something interesting to talk about. Tonight, L.T. would reap the benefit of their imaginations, their curiosity. Kate had to wonder if he really appreciated the treasure he had so recklessly thrown away.

And tonight she would be alone. She could take a long bath, make herself a salad for dinner, watch one of the movies she truly enjoyed, rather than going along with the kids’ choice. Most women with children would, she thought, leap at the chance to indulge themselves that way.

Kate would rather have had somebody to talk to.

Where the idea came from, she wasn’t sure. But suddenly, Dixon was in her mind. She could almost see his grin as he helped her grill the steaks she had in the refrigerator, hear the rumble of his voice as it would sound in her house, picture his long legs stretched out in front of him as they sat here in the growing darkness with candles on the table and glasses of wine in their hands. The rightness of the idea took her breath. She was on her feet and standing by the phone in the kitchen before she realized she had moved.

That was when the terror hit. How could she do this? She had never in all her life called a man and asked for a date. Growing up, she’d learned that nice girls simply didn’t call boys. That rule had fallen by the wayside, of course—nice girls did anything they pleased these days.

But she wasn’t free to date. She was still a married woman. How would Dixon interpret an invitation to dinner? What did she really know about him? He might expect…more…if he came to her house and it was just the two of them alone. A dinner party, even supper with the kids, would be one thing. A tête-à-tête meal, with candles and wine, surely implied something else altogether.

Her sister would tell her to stop thinking and call him. Kate had no doubt at all on that score. Mary Rose was high on the euphoria of first love regained and newlywed bliss. She stood at the beginning of her marriage, certain of the inevitability of happily-ever-after.

Her sister hadn’t failed, as Kate had. Hadn’t managed to somehow alienate a husband of ten years so that he sought other women’s company. She didn’t face the daily shame of running into people who knew what had happened—friends and acquaintances, L.T.’s business associates—and trying to ignore the embarrassment of being rejected. Mary Rose didn’t understand the ultimate implications of separation and divorce in a small town like New Skye.

Kate let her hand slip off the phone. Calling Dixon would be a mistake. Even if she intended only friendship, he might misinterpret the gesture. One of the neighbors might see him arrive, or leave, and draw the wrong conclusion about what they were doing together on a Saturday night.

Worst of all, Kate knew that she might, herself, mistake the nature of her relationship with Dixon. Something about him appealed to her as no man had since her high-school crushes. She found him sexy and strong and oh, so desirable.

And completely out of her reach. Even if she were free, what chance was there that she would satisfy a man like Dixon? She hadn’t kept L.T. more than marginally happy during their whole marriage. Standing in her darkened kitchen, Kate could not ignore the fact that she was simply nowhere near enough woman for Dixon Bell.

She ate a turkey sandwich and a pear for dinner, then watched a series of news programs on television until L.T. brought the kids home at midnight. When they all went upstairs, she tuned the radio in her room to a country-music station and got into bed, hoping sleep would help her escape.

“And now,” the announcer said, “we’ve reached the top of the countdown with a tune that’s been at number one on the country charts for three weeks and shows no sign of giving up its slot. This song has even started showing up on pop lists, amazing, considering its classic country sound. Here you are, folks, our number one song for the week, performed by the man who does country ballads better than anybody in the business. Evan Carter, with ‘My Dream.’”

Kate rolled to her side as soft guitar chords and the sweet wail of a fiddle flowed into the room. The singer’s deep voice picked up the waltz.

Deep in the night, dark as your hair,

I open my eyes to find you’re not there.

The dream feels so real,

I hold you so tight,

But you’re a lifetime of lonesome away.

Me lovin’ you—it’s only a dream

And dreams are for fools, so they say.

Me lovin’ you—that’s all I would ask

You’re the dream I won’t let slip away.

What would it be like, Kate wondered, to have a man feel that way about you, think of you with such tenderness?

Before the song had ended, the gentle lyrics broke her control. Hot tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Burying her head in her pillow, she cried herself to sleep.