Читать книгу Time For Love - Melinda Curtis - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

KATHY COULDN’T STOP thinking about Dylan, the horse savior, and his ranch full of misfit horses. He may look like a cowboy, but he acted like a four-legged rehab counselor. Both she and Chance had been put at ease during their “session.”

“Mama, what are you doing?” Truman stood at the corner of Harrison and Taylor on the town square, his feet buried in reddish-brown leaves. He tugged on Abby’s leash, while she strained toward Kathy.

“I’m walking Mr. Hammacker’s dog.” Perhaps walking was the wrong word. For every few steps she encouraged Dolly forward, the dog sat down, or tried to. Kathy had to be quick with the leash, while doing her best not to choke the little dear.

But forget about Dolly. Truman was here. Talking to her. And thoughts of dogs and ten extra dollars in her pocket evaporated as she tried to think of what she had to offer Truman. All her pockets contained were a Band-Aid, some kibbles and lip balm—nothing to entice a young boy.

Dolly flopped to the ground in defeat, the flopping not worrying Kathy since the dog’s legs were extremely short and her belly extremely large.

Truman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic?”

Of course her bright, young son would know where Kathy was supposed to be. “I got a second job as a dog walker.” He should be proud of her.

“You’re not very good at it.” He pointed at Dolly, who’d closed her eyes, rolled onto her back and extended her paws heavenward.

If the dog hadn’t blinked at Kathy, she might have thought she’d killed her. “It’s my first day.” Kathy glanced at Truman hopefully. She’d walked Grandpa Ed’s elderly Labrador a time or two as a kid, but that dog had been trained to military standards—Kathy hadn’t needed any skills of her own to do a good job of it. And since Abby had been given to Truman while Kathy was in rehab—and presumably been trained during that time, as well—she had little knowledge of how to convince a dog to walk. “Can you help me?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Truman’s face turned as pale as spoiled milk. He spun around and ran in the direction of home, Abby at his side.

Kathy waited until her son was out of sight to sink to the cold curb next to Dolly. Memories assailed her in a swarm of guilt and remorse.

“Mama, it’s time to go to work.”

“Can you help me get dressed, Truman? Mama feels sick.”

She’d vomited more than once on her precious son during her dark days.

“Mama, what are you doing on the kitchen floor?”

“I fell, baby. Can you help me get to bed? I don’t think I’m going to work today.”

She’d missed so much work they’d fired her.

“Mama, it’s time to leave for school.”

“Can you help me by staying home today, Tru?”

Becca homeschooled him now.

“I’m such a loser, Dolly.” She’d stolen her little boy’s childhood. She couldn’t blame him for trying to defend it now that Becca and Flynn had given it back to him. “I’ve never told anyone what I did to him. How I took away his innocence by being a drunk.”

The small brown dog climbed into Kathy’s lap and licked her chin.

Kathy stroked Dolly’s short, silky fur. “That won’t make up for the fact that you’ve only walked a block, you know.”

It didn’t make up for it, but it was a start. And that was what Kathy needed. A start.

A late-model, faded green Buick pulled up in front of her. It was the ladies of the town council—Agnes drove (although she could barely see above the dashboard), Mildred rode shotgun (although her eyes behind her thick lenses were vaguely unfocused) and Rose sat in back (ballerina prim as ever with her white hair in a tight bun at the base of her neck).

“Do you need a ride, dear?” Agnes asked, which may or may not have been code for We stopped to make sure you weren’t sneaking a drink.

“No, I was just sitting here...” Feeling sorry for myself. An answer that would earn her more questions from the councilwomen than less. The peaked green gable of the empty Reedley home was visible above the Buick. “Admiring the Reedley place.”

Agnes and Rose looked at the unkempt craftsman-style home on the other side of the street.

And then Agnes turned back and said the darnedest thing. “I have a key to that one. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Oh, no. I’m not in the market for a place.” Kathy didn’t want a look-see of this house. When she moved out on her own, she wanted to go someplace where no one would report back to Flynn. But what could she say except yes? They were already pulling away, assuming she was interested.

Agnes parked the car in the Reedleys’ driveway. They’d moved away not long after the grain mill exploded. That catastrophe had started a mass exodus since the mill had been the town’s primary employer. Harmony Valley had less than a hundred residents now, most of whom were elderly, too set in their ways or financially unable to leave. Flynn’s winery was slowly bringing people and services back to the geriatric town.

Walking at a speed Dolly appreciated and one that fit Mildred’s walker pace, Kathy followed Agnes along the front yard’s gently curving path to the steps. The bushes were overgrown and the paint was peeling. It needed some TLC. A man like Dylan would know how to fix things.

Where did that thought come from?

From the fact that Dylan took her guff and gave back some of his own. From the way he stood by a colt he thought the odds were stacked against. That was why she’d held his hand earlier in the stable, because he didn’t give up on horses the way others did. A man like that would know how to take a neglected house and make it a home. He’d see things that others didn’t. And the things he did notice wouldn’t make him run away. And okay, she had to admit, he was attractive in a rough-around-the-edges type of way. All of which meant... It meant...

That he’s the type of man I’d be proud to call a friend, she told herself firmly. With Truman and her sobriety her priorities, love was the furthest thing from her mind.

There was a small lockbox hanging from the front doorknob and Agnes had a key. “The town council reached out to several homeowners who’ve left town to determine which properties are for sale or rent. This one’s available either way.”

“One of many we’re finding.” Rose had stopped to examine a rosebush by the steps. “This bush really should be cut back. Cynthia used to get beautiful blooms. Yellow tinged with pink.”

While Rose and Kathy helped Mildred up the steps, Agnes opened the door and said, “We’ve been inundated with house keys. It got too confusing, so Flynn bought us a set of lockboxes.”

“Brilliant,” Rose said.

No one ever applied that word to Kathy.

She and Dolly followed the trio inside the house. Their footsteps disturbed the layer of dust on the hardwood floor. Rose tap-danced toward the kitchen. Dolly sneezed.

Kathy hadn’t wanted to enter, but the house was charming. Sunlight slanted through the windows, catching the dust motes. Built-in bookshelves flanked either side of the brick fireplace. Kathy could almost see Truman playing with Abby in front of the fire. The other corner would be perfect for a Christmas tree.

“If you like it, we can show you the rest,” Agnes said.

Kathy had no money to speak of, certainly not enough for a down payment on a house or even first and last months’ rent. So it made no sense when she said yes.

* * *

SINCE HIS WIFE’S DEATH, Wilson liked things just so.

He had a routine with the television—morning talk shows, afternoon movies, evening crime shows.

The kitchen was organized for ease of use and by the time of day. The first cupboard over the dishwasher held the utensils he needed to make breakfast—spatula, frying pan, a small plate and fork. The cupboard in the corner held his lunch supplies—napkins, peanut butter, bread and a knife. The cupboard next to the stove held his dinner needs—a small saucepan, a bowl, a soupspoon. The spice cupboard held his stash of alcohol, hidden behind a tin of cinnamon and a bottle of vanilla. In the corner, near the door that led to the backyard, was a red braided rug with Dolly’s food and water feeders. He let her out at three-hour intervals—six, nine, twelve, three, six, nine. And took a nip of alcohol each time.

Then his carefully organized life had been thrown a curve. Diabetes required a different diet—vegetables were in his fridge for the first time since Helen had died. It also required lots of pokes—fingers for blood-sugar readings and his abdomen for shots. Becca stopped by twice a day to help him with the pokes and blood-sugar readings. And now, on top of everything else, Dolly needed walking.

Kathy had shown up promptly at three thirty during a commercial break. The change in schedule required a second nip of rum. Now it was after four. Wilson rocked in the living room, waiting for her to return. He couldn’t watch the late-afternoon movie if he was interrupted, so he watched nothing at all.

One thousand twenty-three rocks later, there was a knock on the door. Kathy brought Dolly inside and removed her leash.

When she’d arrived, Kathy had looked as worn-out as Wilson’s brown carpet. Now her expression seemed bright and cheerful.

“You’re late,” Wilson said, holding out a ten-dollar bill.

“I know we agreed on twenty minutes. I didn’t think you’d complain if it took me longer.” She produced a treat from her pocket and fed it to Dolly.

“Should you be doing that? She’s supposed to be losing weight.”

“It’s okay. Dolly needs protein after all that exercise. And...” Before he knew what was happening, she’d crossed the room and hugged him. “Thank you for believing in me.”

What began as a loose, comfortable gesture ended with her jerking away from him. She stared at his face as intently as a traffic cop studied a driver caught weaving. She stared into his eyes, his dry-as-a-wheat-field-after-harvest eyes.

She smelled the rum.

“My wife was an alcoholic,” Wilson blurted. What was he doing telling her this? No one knew. No one had to know.

Kathy, the recovering alcoholic, stood frozen, the joy stolen from her face. Her bright red hair made her skin look white as a sheet.

Wilson almost felt guilty. Almost. But he wasn’t hurting anybody. And he wasn’t drinking to excess.

But she knows, she knows, she knows. He wavered from nonchalance to near panic. No one knew his secret, because no one needed to know.

What if Kathy told someone? “Living with Helen was the hardest thing I ever did. She said she needed chaos to stay sober. It... I used to be an engineer at the mill. I like things just so.” If only he could hold a shot glass in his hand. Even an empty one made him feel more in control.

Kathy’s gaze cataloged the family pictures around the room. Helen in her Sunday best and pearls. Their kids—two of his, three of hers. Grandkids. Kathy didn’t speak. She was waiting for him to admit that he had a problem. That was what recovering alcoholics did. That was what Helen had done.

Familiar anger shuffled through his veins. Wilson didn’t have a problem. He didn’t overindulge and drive drunk. He’d never flown into a drunken rage and beat his wife. He wanted a little nip now and then. That didn’t mean he had a problem. Not like Helen. Not like Kathy. They couldn’t control their urges.

Finally, she asked, “How long was she sober?”

“Our entire marriage. Twenty years.” His voice had turned into an unrecognizable thing, twisting and twining like a lying snake. “If you need to talk to anybody about...you know. You can come here. Anytime. Come back tomorrow at three thirty to walk Dolly. Don’t be late.”