The hellion Read online

  Tommy Lee knew the exact summer they'd had the pool put in. He'd been up at City Hall looking through some files when he'd come upon their application for a pool permit. As he approached the house now, he wondered if she might possibly have taken the day off and what she'd say if he simply presented himself at her door unannounced.

  But in the end, he chickened out. Use your head, Gentry. She's only been a widow for a week.

  He drove on by, made a U-turn in a circle at the end of her street, then left the area with a long lingering study of her house on his way out.

  Once on the main road again, he angrily loosened his tie. Damn. He'd had such good

  intentions of trying to make it through one night without any liquor. But he needed a drink worse than ever. Stinkin' dry Baptist county! He'd have to make the run up to Colbert County to buy his booze tonight.

  He bought enough to get him through the weekend without having to make the trip again. Then he stopped and ate a fat filet mignon with all the trimmings, and hit the road again armed with an after-dinner drink in a plastic glass. He passed his office by rote, checking it cursorily before heading home. He timed his run, tossed out the empty glass just before the last turn, as usual, and pulled up before his black front doors showing a record time of eight minutes.

  He gave a roaring rebel yell to celebrate.

  But a minute later, when he entered the house, his jubilant mood vanished. The place was just as silent as ever, and just as disorderly. Even more so, for more garments had been added to the collection strewn across the sofa. I should clean it up. But for whom?

  Instead, he mixed himself a double Manhattan in the hope that he'd get good and loose so that when

  he picked up the phone and dialed her 55 number it wouldn't shake him in the least.

  But his hand still trembled. His palm still sweat. And after seventeen rings it dawned on him that Rachel wasn't home.

  Nor was she at Panache the next day when he called, or any of the days following that. But finally Verda McElroy disclosed that she'd gone to St. Thomas for two weeks, putting Tommy Lee out of his misery temporarily.

  Rachel's father had been waiting at the Golden Triangle Airport, but even with him beside her, the house seemed eerie when she walked into it.

  "Should I make us some tea?" she asked hopefully.

  "It keeps me awake. I'd better not."

  "Anything else?"

  "Nothing. I'll carry your bags into the back, but it's late. I'm afraid I can't stay."

  When he was gone, Rachel wandered listlessly from room to room, realizing that the trip to St. Thomas had only been a respite that delayed her acceptance of Owen's irreversible absence. Standing in the doorway of their bedroom, she chafed

  her arms, shivering. Her nostrils narrowed. The room still seemed to smell of sickness. Perhaps it was only an illusion, but Owen had spent so much of his last months here and had slipped into death right there on the bed in the middle of the night while she lay beside him.

  Again she shivered. Then she was besieged by guilt for dwelling more on the unpleasant memories created in this room than on the pleasant.

  When the phone rang, she jumped and pressed a hand to her heart, then stared at the instrument on the bedside table. It rang again and she hurried to answer it, sure it must be Marshall.

  "Hello."

  But the low, masculine voice was not Marshall's. "Hello, Rachel."

  "Hello," she repeated, hoping for a clue from his inflection.

  "How are you?" Still she couldn't identify the caller and had a sudden wary prickling along her spine-might it be one of those obscene callers who preyed on new widows?

  "Who is this?" she asked icily.

  "It's Tommy Lee."

  For a second she wished it had been only an obscene call. She wrapped her free hand around the mouthpiece and sank back onto the edge of the bed, her throat suddenly tight and dry.

  "Tommy Lee… I…" I what? I went away to mourn my husband's death and thought more of you than I did of him? "I certainly wasn't expecting it to be you."

  "Oh? Who were you expecting?"

  "I… nobody." After a breathless pause, she repeated, "Nobody."

  "You've been gone."

  "Yes, to St. Thomas."

  "And how was St. Thomas?"

  Her voice was falsely bright. "Oh, lovely. Lovely! March is their dryest month. No rain, and highs in the eighties." But once the weather report was finished she fell silent, that silence greeted by a matching one from the other end of the line. The strain grew between them until Rachel felt it between her shoulderblades. When her voice came again it was low and subdued. "I didn't expect to see you at the funeral."

  Again there followed a long pause, as if he was measuring his reply. When it came, it was as tightly controlled as hers. "I didn't expect to be there."

  "You shouldn't have come, Tommy Lee."

  "I know that now."

  "I don't mean to sound ungrateful." She swallowed, eyes closed, both hands gripping the phone. "It did mean a lot to me to see you there."

  A full fifteen seconds of silence followed, then, "Rachel, I want to talk to you." His voice sounded tightly controlled, and she could hear his raspy breathing now.

  "I'm here."

  "No, not on the phone. I want to see you."

  The very idea brought fresh pain to Rachel, laced with a hint of panic. "What good would it do?"

  "I don't know. I…" He sighed deeply. "Don't you think it's time?"

  She hugged her ribs tightly with one hand, bending forward slightly. "Tommy Lee, listen to me. It would be a mistake. What's done is done and there's no use reviving old regrets. We're different now. You… I don't…" But she was stammering, voicing hollow words, unable to reason very well. "Please, Tommy Lee, don't call me anymore. I have enough to deal with as it is right now." She hadn't realized tears had been welling in her eyes until they slipped over and darkened two spots on her skirt. Staring at them, she wasn't sure if they were for Owen or Tommy Lee.

  "Rachel, I'm sorry." He sounded as if his lips were touching the mouthpiece of the phone. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you. I just called to see how you're doing and let you know I've been thinking about you… and…"

  "Tommy Lee, I… I have to go now."

  They listened to each other breathe for endless seconds.

  "Sure," he said at last, but it came out so softly she could scarcely hear the word.

  "Good-bye, Tommy Lee." She waited, but he neither said good-bye nor hung up. Finally she replaced the receiver with utmost care, as if not to disturb it again. Huddled on the edge of the bed, she hugged herself harder, squeezing her eyes closed, rocking forward and back, seeking to blot out the loneliness that always stemmed from thoughts of what could have been. She saw Tommy Lee again as he'd looked at the cemetery. Older, so much older, just as she was. She fought against recalling the facts she'd gleaned about him over the years, the events of his life that had aged him, those that had brought him happiness, wealth, sadness, hope.

  You've got to stop thinking about him. Think of anything else… anything at all. The bedroom! If the bedroom is difficult for you to face, have it redecorated. Think of colors, textures, furniture… anything but Tommy Lee Gentry.

  But in the end, as she wandered off to sleep in a guest bedroom again, the memory of his face and his voice on the phone was her lullaby.

  It was busy at Panache the following day. Spring had arrived and the seasonal fashion change brought a flurry of shoppers. Verda had managed beautifully while Rachel was gone. Sales had been good. New stock had come in. Rachel was tagging a shipment of swimwear when Verda remembered, "Oh! Some man kept calling for you while you were gone."

  Rachel's head snapped up. "Who?"

  "I don't know. He wouldn't give his name, but I'd recognize his voice if he called again."

  A premonition of dread struck Rachel. Could it have been Tommy Lee? The last thing she needed was to have Verda aware that he had called. With his rep
utation, eyebrows would rise in no time.

  "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "No, just kept saying he'd call back, and I finally told him you'd gone to St. Thomas and would be back today."

  So he'd known when she'd get back. That's why his phone call had come immediately upon her return. That meant last night's call hadn't been impetuous, as she'd hoped. But she'd made it clear she didn't want to see him or talk to him again. Surely Tommy Lee wouldn't force the issue.

  He didn't. For two weeks.

  But during the third, after suffering sleepless nights and haunted days, he knew he could put it off no longer-he had to see her.

  He left the office at the end of a balmy spring day and made the run home in the usual nine minutes, bounded into the house and began stripping off his jacket before he hit the stairs to the living room. If he'd been planning to see Bitsy tonight he would have been whistling. But as it was, he found his mouth dry, so he washed a glass from the kitchen sink and mixed himself a martini to carry with him upstairs to the bathroom.

  In the shower he thought of Rachel, becoming conscious once again of the twenty-five pounds he should lose. When he'd finished shaving, he paused in the act of patting after-shave on the slack skin about his jaws, scowling into the mirror. Brushing his hair, he wished he'd used something to cover the gray, but it was too late now. He recalled the ducktail he'd worn all those years ago when he and Rachel were teenagers. And she'd worn a long black ponytail, and sometimes a high-placed doughnut circled by a ring of tiny flowers to match her blouse or skirt. Lord, she'd come a long way since then. Her stylishness alone made Tommy Lee quaver. So when he dressed, he chose carefully: an expensive pair of trousers in oatmeal beige; a coordinating belt with a shining gold buckle; a blue-on-blue dress shirt; and a summer slubbed-silk sports coat the color of a coconut shell. He debated about a tie, decided against it, and, as he slipped his billfold into his back pocket and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror, decided this was the best he could do. But when he drained the last of his martini and clapped the glass on the dresser, his hand was shaking. He was scared to death.

  Rachel's house looked closed up and forbidding as he pulled the Cadillac up to the curb and glanced at the arched windows. Yes, it was a beautiful house, he thought, continuing to study it as he slowly got out and slammed the car door. The click of his hard heels on the concrete walk sang out like rifle shots. The front door was windowless, painted Wedgwood blue to match the shutters. Facing it, he quailed again, but adjusted his shirt collar, drew a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell. Inside it chimed softly while he waited, his heart clamoring and a thousand insecurities making his stomach jump. Unconsciously he ran a hand over the crown of his head, then half turned toward the street, hoping to appear nonchalant.

  But at the first click of the latch, he swung back eagerly. The door opened and all the rehearsed greetings fled his mind. The hundreds of yesterdays came back with a nostalgic tug - how many times had he appeared at her door, invited or uninvited?

  She was more beautiful now than she'd been at seventeen, and her loveliness struck him like a blow, made him stand speechless far too long, taking her in.

  She wore soft lavender tapered trousers with tiny-heeled shoes to match. Her lilac silk blouse had long sleeves and buttoned up the front to a classic open collar that revealed the tips of her collarbones and a fine gold chain holding a gilded giraffe suspended at the hollow of her throat. At her waist was a thin gold belt that made no pretense of holding up her slacks, but only accentuated the flatness of her stomach and the delicacy of her hipbones. She paused with one palm on the edge of the door, the other on the jamb, her sleeves softly draping, brown eyes startled yet somber.

  When he could breathe again, he said, "Hello, Rachel."

  She sucked in a surprised breath while her face took on a look of utter vulnerability. He wondered if she always wore soft rose-colored lipstick when she was home alone at night.

  "Hello, Tommy Lee," she said at last. Her voice was quiet in the evening shadows and held a tinge of nervousness. She stood unmoving, guarding the entry to her house, while the smell of it drifted out to him-floral and tangy and woodsy all at once. Or maybe the smell came from her-he couldn't tell.

  "Could I come in?"

  Her expression grew troubled while she deliberated. Her glance flickered to his white Cadillac at the curb and he could read her hesitancy quite clearly-suppose someone she knew saw the car there? Still, he held his ground, waiting. At last, almost wearily, she let her hand slip from the edge of the door and stepped back.

  "For a minute."

  He moved inside then turned to watch a graceful hand with long painted fingernails-the same shade she wore on her lips-press the door closed while her head dipped forward as if she were arming herself to turn around and face him. The back of her short black hair seemed to spring into natural waves that no amount of professional attention could quite subdue. When she turned to face him she slipped her hands into her trouser pockets and drew her shoulders high, emphasizing the thinness of her frame as the blouse draped more dramatically, scarcely rounding over the vague swell of her tiny breasts. For a moment, as their eyes met, neither of them knew what to say, but finally Rachel, with her exquisite sense of correctness, invited, "Would you like to come in and sit down?"

  She led the way into the elegant living room whose fanlight windows he'd viewed many times from outside. The room's pastel colors were as tasteful and proper as those of Rachel's clothing and skin. The lamps were lit, and she waved him toward a quilted sofa, then took a seat on a small chair directly facing him, a marble-topped table between them. She crossed her knees, curved her hands over the front edge of the chair seat, and leaned forward, again with her shoulders drawn up in that off-putting way.

  She wasn't going to make this easy for him.

  So, all right, he'd play it her way.

  "It's been a long time since I was in a Talmadge house."

  "My name is Hollis now."

  "Yes, I seem to remember that at regular intervals."

  "I asked you not to come."

  "I tried not to, but it just didn't work. I had to see you."

  "Why?"

  "To satisfy a long curiosity."

  "About what?"

  His eyes dropped to the pair of rich brass giraffes on the table between them. "About how life has treated you." His glance continued idly about the room, and when it came back to her his voice softened. "About how he treated you."

  "As you can see, both life and he treated me just fine." She settled back in her chair, letting a hand fall casually on the far side of her crossed knees, wrist up.

  No, she wasn't going to make this easy for him. But suddenly he realized she was just as scared as he; in spite of the loose-flung wrist, the nonchalant pose, she was undeniably tense. And she meant to keep him contained in this showplace of a living room that looked as if not one hour's worth of living had ever been done in it.

  "Yes, so I see. You seem to have everything." He glanced left, then right. "Except an ashtray."

  He enjoyed making her move. When she did, he could watch her covertly. As she walked the length of the room toward the dining room beyond, he noted again her thinness, but it was classy, not brittle. He'd never before known a woman who wore lavender shoes. On Bitsy they would have looked like a whore's shoes. He watched them as Rachel opened an йtagиre, withdrew an ashtray, then softly closed the glass door. Returning, she placed the heavy crystal piece on the table, resumed her seat, then watched as he reached inside his sports coat and drew out a pack of cigarettes. When he unexpectedly looked up at her, she dropped her eyes to the toe of her shoes, only to see his hand appear, extending the red and white package with one cigarette half cocked.

  She met his eyes nervously. "No, thank you, I quit years ago."

  "Ah, I should have guessed."

  He lipped the cigarette straight from the pack -a memory from the past-and she saw that his mouth had not changed
at all. The evidence of aging that marked the rest of his face had not reached his lips. They were crisply etched, generous, as beguiling as ever. When he suddenly stood, her heart leapt. But he only fished for a lighter in his trouser pocket, then sat on the edge of the sofa again while she watched him light up. He scowled as the smoke lifted, then threw back his head on a heavy exhalation as he slipped the lighter into his breast pocket. At last the ritual was through, and he rested with his hands pressed butt to butt between widespread knees, the cigarette seemingly forgotten in his fingers. He studied her until it took great effort for Rachel to keep from begging him not to.

  "So, Rachel, where do we start?"

  His question startled her, though she tried hard not to let it show.

  "I think you know the answer to that as well as I do. We don't start."

  "Then maybe I should have asked, where do we end?"

  "We ended years ago, Tommy Lee. I really don't know why you've come here."

  He glanced around. "I wanted to see your house from the inside for once. It's a beautiful house, what I can see of it. Owen must have worked out fine with your daddy."

  A faint blush heated her chin and cheeks. "Yes, he did. He worked his way up to vice-president at the bank."

  "Yes, I know," he said softly.

  "Yes, I suppose you do. There's probably very little we don't know about each other."

  "There's no such thing as a secret in a town this size, that's for sure."

  She shot him a sharp glance, but he was studying his cigarette, and when he raised his gaze she hurriedly dropped hers. "I understand you live out on the lake now."

  "Yes, ma'am," he drawled with a touch of irony. "Got a big house out there." He chuckled quietly. "Folks called me crazy when I built it, but now they drive by in their boats and stare at it, and I think a few of them actually like it."