Читать книгу In Emmylou's Hands - Pamela Hearon - Страница 13
ОглавлениеSOL BANGED ON the door of the family suite. “Joe Wayne!” He bellowed the name. “Time for you to get up. Rise and shine.”
“Go ’way,” came the muffled grumble.
Sol had slept with the windows open, lulled into deep relaxation by the sound of the waves, and hadn’t woken until after eleven. He could never live here because he’d become a beach bum, for sure. Obviously, that’s what had happened to his uninvited guest.
He opened the door and barged in. “That’s my line. Time for you to get up and get out of here.”
Joe Wayne lay sprawled on his back in the same position Sol had left him when he half carried him in here, much too inebriated to make the journey from the bar on his own.
The young man covered his eyes with his hand. “Turn off the damn light!”
“That’s the sun. It’s after one o’clock.” Sol moved to the window and jerked the curtains wider, filling the room with sunshine.
Joe Wayne groaned. “Shark took your heart, too, didn’t it?”
The unexpected intrusion into Sol’s week had been an aggravation, but getting out of the shower last night to find his bottle of Four Roses half-gone was unforgivable. He opened the window to allow fresh air in—and the body odor out. “Get your ass out of bed. Now. And take a shower. You smell like a sewer.”
A gecko crawled onto the screen and Sol paused to watch it, relieved to hear movement behind him that indicated Joe Wayne was finally sitting up.
Sol turned from the window and started toward the door, clapping Joe Wayne on the back as he passed him. “Lunch is almost ready.” The plan was to feed him and send him on his way...as quickly as possible.
Last night in the dark, Sol had missed the photographs that covered the wall to the right of the private suite’s door. He stopped now to look, his eyes drawn to a grouping of EmmyLou at different ages, decked out in over-the-top frills—sashes crossing her torso, declaring her Fairest of the Fair.
A beauty queen. No wonder she’s so self-absorbed.
He guessed her to be around sixteen in the last one. Beautiful—but not as beautiful as she’d looked when he’d picked up the key at her house.
The memory of that humiliation propelled him out of the room with a quick call over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes.”
A disgusted sigh followed by a shuffling sound told him Joe Wayne was on the move at last.
Sol returned to the kitchen, where he had the beginnings of a couple of Monte Cristo sandwiches lying on the cutting board. He heated the butter in the skillet as he whisked the eggs and milk together, then dipped the sandwiches and let them brown slowly.
He’d just flipped them to the other side—smiling at the perfection of the golden color—when Joe Wayne made his appearance...obviously clean, but still wearing the same damn dirty clothes.
Sol wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you have something else you can put on?”
Joe Wayne ran a hand through his wet hair and tucked it behind his ears. “Nope. Everything in there—” he threw a thumb over his shoulder “—is dirty. All my clean stuff’s in the compartment of my motorcycle.”
Shock rolled through Sol. “You left your motorcycle behind?”
Joe Wayne rubbed the back of his neck. “Had to. It was a near-death experience. I was hoping—” he drifted toward the sliding glass door, looking out on the beach “—that maybe you and me could figure out some way to get it back.”
Sol lifted the sandwich with the spatula to check its progress as he shook his head. “Sorry. You’re on your own.”
“Come on, man.” The sound was as close to a man-whine as Sol had ever heard. “Ramona’s husband’ll kill me if I get anywhere near that house. He’s probably already done something horrible to Patsy—that’s my cycle.”
“And what makes you think anyone else would be safe?”
“I thought...” Joe Wayne shrugged, cutting his eyes in Sol’s direction and downward. “Maybe he wouldn’t do nothing to a guy with a fake leg.”
“Use the cripple to garner some pity, huh?” Sol tossed the plastic bowl into the sink, sloshing the remainder of its egg-and-milk contents up the sides.
“If gardenin’ pity’ll get Patsy back...hell yeah.”
“Hell no.” Sol found the plates in the cabinet and took two down. “Get us each a bottle of water.” He used the spatula to point at his companion. “Only water.”
EmmyLou’s brother did as he was told, slinking to the refrigerator like a whipped puppy, as Sol plated the sandwiches and cut each one in half, adding a dollop of strawberry jam for dipping.
“Let’s eat on the deck,” he suggested. “I can’t stand it in here with...” He paused. “This fresh air and sunshine is too nice to miss.”
Joe Wayne followed him out, and they settled into the chairs at the table. His companion wolfed a fourth of his sandwich down without saying a word, but grunting often with approval.
“What do you call this? Some kind of fancy French toast?” Strawberry jam oozed out the side of Joe Wayne’s mouth.
“Use your napkin.” Sol scooted one across the table. “And it’s a Monte Cristo.”
Joe Wayne snorted with his mouth full, sending crumbs onto his plate and the surrounding area. “Like those funny British movie guys? Dad used to love their stuff. Thought they were hilarious.”
“That’s Monty Python. This is Monte Cristo—as in the Count of...”
Joe Wayne shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
Sol took another bite to block the sarcasm poised on his lips.
“Gonna be hard for me to leave—” Joe Wayne shook his head and gave a regretful sigh “—till I get Patsy back. But once I do, her and me’ll hit the road quicker’n a frog on a june bug.”
“Forget it. You’re on your own.”
Joe Wayne took another giant bite. “Have it your way. But seeing as how you and I are going to be hanging out together for a while longer, why don’t you tell me what really happened to your leg?”
“I don’t talk about my leg,” Sol responded.
“Well, maybe you should. Might make you less of a turd.”
* * *
“HELLO?”
That was not Joe Wayne’s voice on the other end of her brother’s cell phone.
“Sol?” Emmy crossed her fingers and hoped not as she tossed her luggage onto the hotel bed.
“Who is this?” The threatening edge sharpened, going beyond the aggravation of Sol’s normal tone with her. This was...mean.
“It’s EmmyLou,” she said.
“Well, when you get ahold of your friend, tell him...”
Oh good Lord. This wasn’t Sol, either.
“...that if he ever comes sniffing around my wife again—”
The husband!
Emmy ended the call.
The guy still had Joey’s phone. Not a good sign. Where was her brother?
Her thumb scrolled through her recent calls and pressed the number from early that morning.
“Hello, EmmyLou.” Definitely Sol. Her toes curled at the sound no matter how hard she tried to stop them.
“Hi, Sol. I was trying to reach Joey, and—”
“Hey, sis.”
So Joey was still alive. That neither the husband nor Sol had killed him after last night’s fiasco was a pleasant surprise. Her brother might not have fared so well if she’d been the one staying at the beach house. But if he thought that friendly tone would get him out of a lecture, he had another think coming.
“Don’t you ‘hey, sis’ me. Acting like everything’s all hunky-dory after making an ass of yourself in front of my friend last night. What in the cornbread hell did you think you were doing? And with a married woman? Shame on you, Joe Wayne Fuller.”
“So y’all are friends. The way Sol acts, I wasn’t sure. ’Course, it was a little weird that he had your phone number so readily available last night. And here you are, calling him again.”
“Don’t go trying to shift the attention away from your stupid-assedness. Just tell me you got out of Sol’s way as soon as you grabbed some clothes last night, and right now you’re there simply because you stopped by to apologize.”
The dead silence on the other end crawled up her spine and confirmed what she already knew.
“Joey, please tell me you did not...”
“I was too drunk to go anywhere last night. I passed out on the bed.”
“But you left first thing this morning, right?” Bentley whined in exasperation, eager for his walk.
“Noooot exactly.”
“You are not still staying there!” She took out her frustration on the luggage zipper, jerking open the compartment holding the dog’s gear, and took his water bowl to the bathroom sink to fill it.
“I got nowhere to go and no way to get there ’cept on foot. Patsy’s in Ramona’s yard, and I’m sure that pit bull husband of hers is laying in wait to bite me in the ass. Sol refuses to help me get her back—”
“Oh good Lord, do not drag Sol into this. I drove all night to get down here, and I’m checked into a hotel. Give me a few minutes to walk Bentley, and I’ll be by to pick you up. We’ll go get Patsy.”
“Forget that bullshit. You shouldn’t’ve come, ’cause you’re not going over there with me.”
“Oh hell no!” Sol’s voice, in its typical aggravated mode. “Give me that phone.” There was a shuffling sound of the phone being passed, and then Sol’s growl came over the line. “EmmyLou, this is Sol. Are you in Gulf Shores?”
“Yes, I am.” She lifted her chin defiantly to the reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I came to help Joey.”
“That’s completely uncalled for.” He was all Mr. Take Control. And while her head wanted to tell him to mind his own business, everything below her neckline tingled appreciatively. But his sigh was pure aggravation, reminding her who she was speaking with. “All I need is another Fuller down here...” Emmy stiffened at his use of her real last name. What had Joey told him? “...needing me to take care of her during my relaxing time at the beach.”
The last phrase was drenched in sarcasm, and she couldn’t let the cut-down pass without a comeback. “As I recall, taking care of my needs wasn’t one of your strong suits, Mr. Beecher.” A total lie—Sol had been fabulous in bed. But he’d never called her back, so he’d get no accolades.
“Aw shit.” Oh good Lord, Sol had handed the phone back to Joey. “See, I knew something had went on between you two. Don’t tell me no more, ’cause I don’t want to have to lay him out. I might need his help.”
Emmy’s reflection rolled its eyes. “No need to protect my honor, Joey. I’ll be there to pick you up in a few minutes. Just do me a favor, and please don’t tell Sol my history. I’m EmmyLou Creighton to everybody in Taylor’s Grove. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, sis.”
EmmyLou dropped into the desk chair with a groan, defeated. Joey could be totally clueless sometimes, bless his heart.
She was so screwed.
* * *
“AND ON THAT, I’m going to hang up. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Joe Wayne recognized his sister’s tone—the one that meant she had no confidence in what he’d told her, which was laughable considering it was her lack of confidence in herself that had spoiled everything. They could be making millions by now... He took a deep breath and let it go.
“See you in a few,” he answered. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“She’ll be here in a half hour.” He handed Sol the phone and turned his attention back to his sandwich. Or that’s what he pretended to do. In reality, he studied the man sitting across from him.
So something had happened between Sol and EmmyLou. Something neither of them wanted to admit to. Well, the guy was a bit of a strange bird—but likable in spite of that hard-ass bullshit he put on. Like right then. He was sitting there, chewing his sandwich all slow, staring out at the Gulf like the sight had his total concentration. But Joe Wayne had seen his reaction when he heard EmmyLou was here. Something deep-rooted surfaced for an instant...something akin to fear. And he perked up when the topic of her secret hit his ears, although he played it cool like he hadn’t really taken it in.
“Rocket-propelled grenade blew it off in Afghanistan.” Sol’s voice was low and even, like he was talking about that pelican he could see standing at the water’s edge.
But the impact of the statement caused Joe Wayne’s throat to close around the bite he’d just taken. He chugged half the bottle of water to wash it down. “I’m sorry, man.”
Sol closed his eyes as if the words hurt him, and Joe Wayne saw the muscle in his jaw twitch as he opened them again. “You don’t need to be sorry. You had nothing to do with it. I hate it when people are sorry.”
“I mean I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe Wayne explained.
“It’s a leg. Save your mourning for people.”
Joe Wayne understood his point, but he figured the best way of showing it was to not say anything.
He must’ve figured right, because Sol went on. “Nobody in Taylor’s Grove knows I lost my leg. They think I caught a bullet and just have a bad limp.”
“That’s a helluva thing to keep quiet about.”
“Can’t stand for people to be sorry for me—the way you were just now. I stayed in Texas the first year and went to physical therapy to get used to the prosthesis. After that, it was easy to wear long pants and keep it hidden. And I don’t ever talk about it.”
“Which is why you didn’t want EmmyLou coming down here.”
Sol looked at him directly, and the side of his mouth rose in a partial smile. “Your sister’s mouth is in constant motion.”
Joe Wayne laughed. “A common Fuller family trait.”
“So I’ve gathered.” Sol gave a disgruntled sigh. “And now that she’s coming over here, I’ll have to get back into my jeans.”
“How long’s it been...since you lost it?”
“Eight years. During my second tour of duty.”
Joe Wayne held his water bottle up in a salute. “I appreciate your sacrifice, man.”
Sol shook his head. “Half a leg’s a small a thing compared to what others gave.”
Joe Wayne drank to him anyway and then took another bite with the understanding that the subject was closed. He liked this guy. He had an honorable air about him. “What happened between you and EmmyLou?”
“None of your business,” came the answering growl.
Yep, honorable...with a heaping helping of ornery on the side.
