The hellion Read online

  "Sunday afternoon?"

  She sighed heavily and looked slightly crestfallen. "I'm sorry, Tommy Lee. I can't see you. Please don't ask me again."

  Their eyes locked for several electric seconds; then Rachel resolutely turned and continued down the street.

  That night over supper she was distracted and forlorn. Everett and Marshall carried on a dull conversation about how investment institutions were slowly usurping the bank's role as chief money holder for many private individuals. While Everett expounded on the droll subject, Rachel tried to keep her mind off Tommy Lee, but he slipped into her thoughts time and again. I could have been with him at this very moment. She wondered what his house was like, and if he'd invited someone else to go boating and, if so, who she was. She recalled the sun sparkling off the dark hair on his arms below his rolled-up sleeves, and the inviting shadow cast on his throat by the loosened collar and tie. She imagined another woman enjoying his company and shivered with a sudden inexplicable wave of jealousy.

  Later that evening when Marshall saw her home he seemed worried about her.

  "You seem rather blue tonight, Rachel," he noted as they stood in the entry, preparatory to his leaving.

  "Blue?" She tried to put on a gay expression, but failed. "No, just tired. It's been a long week."

  There came into Marshall's eyes a look she'd never seen there before, and as he took her gently into his arms she sensed a difference in the pressure of his hands on her back.

  No, not Marshall, she thought in a panic.

  But as he leaned back to look into her face, she saw a flicker of emotion that went beyond fraternal care. "You've been doing great. Pushing ahead, getting on with life. I'm very proud of you, you know." He touched her cheek and she wanted to shrink back, wary of allowing him to think for a moment that she wanted any kind of relationship with him other than the one she had. He bent his head to touch his lips to her cheek. She was already searching for the proper words to fend him off when he straightened, gave her arms a platonic squeeze, and said good night.

  For some reason the experience with Marshall made her wonder how she would have reacted had it been Tommy Lee who'd given her such ardent glances and pulled her into his arms that way.

  Dangerous thought! She promised herself she'd stop dwelling on Tommy Lee this way, and the next time she saw him, she'd walk straight on by with nothing more than a polite hello.

  But the next time she saw him she couldn't walk away. It was the following Friday at four-thirty. Verda was running the vacuum cleaner over the carpet prior to closing, and Rachel was seated at her desk, putting away the empty bank pouch.

  The door opened, Rachel looked up and froze.

  He was dressed in an open-collared black sport shirt topped by a gray sports coat a shade lighter than his trousers. His hair was tousled by the wind, and as he closed the door his eyes were already seeking her out.

  Her stomach went fluttery and she felt fifteen again. This time I'll end up saying yes.

  The vacuum cleaner wheezed into silence and Verda greeted him. "Well, howdy, Tommy Lee. Now, what in the world are you doing in a place like this?"

  He carefully avoided glancing Rachel's way and sauntered farther into the store with a charming smile for Verda. "I need to buy a present for someone."

  "Well, now, I'm sure as eternity not going to ask who it's for. I might not like the answer."

  He laughed and looked down at the rectangular glass showcase in the center of the store, studying the accessories arranged there, fingering silk scarves, poring over a basket of earrings. Rachel sat watching him, her pulse hammering out a warning in her throat, but he scarcely gave her a glance. Momentarily, Verda spoke up again. "Y'all just take your time looking while I finish up this floor. If there's anything you like, maybe Rachel can help you."

  He looked up as if only now realizing Rachel was there. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hollis. Never been in your store before." He glanced around, drummed four fingertips on top of the glass cabinet. "It's very nice. Classy." His eyes returned to her and he flashed a quick smile. "Smells good, too."

  It smelled of Rachel. It was no particular scent and all scents lingering together in a potent mixture that spoke of things delicate and feminine. Her eyes dropped to the desktop and she busied herself writing something, sitting at a chair almost as delicate as she, her legs crossed and the hem of a melon-colored skirt riding just above the knee. In the cleft of her white embroidered collar lay a collection of chunky coral and brown beads.

  Her eyes met his again as the vacuum cleaner cut off the possibility of further talk, but he noted the quick rise and fall of her breasts and the tendons of her right wrist standing out boldly as she clutched the fountain pen. Who but Rachel still used a fountain pen? he wondered. Then he dropped his eyes again to the jewelry counter and she turned away. Covertly he glanced up from time to time to see if the pen moved over the paper, but it was held poised while Rachel's back remained stiff, her head dropped forward.

  It struck Verda then who belonged to the voice on the phone, and the vacuum stopped moving, though the brushes still whirred against the carpet. She glanced up sharply at Tommy Lee Gentry, then at Rachel. But Tommy Lee was flicking through the earrings, and Rachel wasn't paying him the least attention.

  Rachel wasn't paying him the least attention?

  Since when did Rachel ignore a customer? But Verda turned back to her task, deciding to stretch it out as long as possible, to see what Rachel would do.

  After some minutes he signaled and she rose to help him. Verda turned off the machine, fussed around putting away things left in the fitting room, and listened.

  "Those little red ones," he was saying.

  "These?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "These are for pierced ears. Does she have pierced ears?"

  "Well, now, I'm not sure I ever noticed," he drawled.

  "Most women do these days."

  "If she doesn't, could I bring them back?"

  "I'm sorry, pierced aren't returnable. State law."

  "Oh. Well, it's only nine dollars. If hers aren't pierced, maybe she'll have a friend."

  Rachel was incensed, and having a hard time hiding it. How dare he come in here and buy baubles for his tootsies! The shop had grown incredibly quiet. Rachel was aware of it, and of Verda coiling up the vacuum cord and of Tommy Lee studying her own trembling hands as they removed the red button earrings from the case and began scraping the gummed label from the back of the card with a perfect long peach-painted nail.

  "Do you want them wrapped?" Rachel asked, braving a glance at his face to throw Verda off balance. See how unaffected I am by him? But the moment she raised her eyes, she realized her mistake. Once their gazes met she felt heated and uncomfortable and angry all over again.

  "You do that here?"

  "Yes. It's a customer service. No charge." The words were difficult for Rachel to say, given the fact that she wanted to sling the red earrings in his face. It angered her further to realize that she couldn't help wondering who they were for. But then, according to the gossips, he had innumerable female friends to whom he might offer such a gift. Rachel's fingers were still shaking as she placed the jewelry in a small apple-green box, wrapped it in green paper, and placed a pink lace bow on the cover.

  Tommy Lee had wandered to the armoire and stood studying a midnight-blue slip displayed there with matching bikini panties and a scanty brassiere. He reached out to finger the lace edging at the hem of the slip, and as he moved, his face became visible in the mirror. He looked up, caught Rachel studying him, and had the audacity to smile! She waggled the box in the air.

  Immediately he turned. "All wrapped?"

  "Yes. That'll be nine dollars and sixty-three cents."

  "Do you take Visa?"

  "Yes, Visa will be fine."

  The two of them moved toward the end of the glass case, where an enormous brass cash register reared its curlicued head. Tommy Lee extracted a card from his wallet and she drop
ped her eyes; there was something masculinely attractive about a man pushing back his jacket to reach for a wallet. Throughout the exchanging of the card and while she ran it through the imprinter and he signed it, Rachel searched her mind for one of the countless inanities she usually exchanged with a customer at a time like this, but came up with none. She watched his dark hand scrawl a signature while the expensive diamond ring flashed, and again she wondered who the woman was, and damned him for coming here and putting her through this.

  "There you go." Smiling, he handed her the pen.

  Verda pushed the vacuum cleaner off into the back room just then, and the moment she disappeared through the doorway, Tommy Lee bent across the counter and whispered, "Do you work tomorrow?"

  "No…" Then, realizing her mistake,

  Rachel amended, "Yes."

  "Want to go water ski..." The ping of the ancient cash register bell cut off the rest of his question and the drawer sprang out at the same moment Tommy Lee reached across the counter and grabbed Rachel's wrist.

  "Rachel, come out to the house, please." His mouth looked intense and sincere.

  How dare he come here and do this to her! Verify the fact that there were other women in his life while inviting her to become one of them!

  "No!" Her eyes veered toward the back room. "Please, Tommy Lee…"

  From the rear of the building came the scrape and thump of Verda putting away the machine. Rachel's wrist strained against his hold.

  "Sunday?" he asked quickly, his fingers tightening.

  Her startled eyes held both anger and an undeniably tempted look, so he hurried on. "Beth will be there, so we wouldn't be alone. I want you to meet her."

  Verda's footsteps were coming back and he was forced to drop Rachel's wrist. When the clerk emerged from the doorway Tommy Lee was putting his credit card away and Rachel was dropping the gift into a tiny floral paper sack.

  "Thank you for stopping in," she said cheerfully, handing him his purchase. "And have a nice weekend."

  Tommy Lee carefully wiped his feelings from his face and brought forth a lazy smile. "Y'all do the same, Mrs. Hollis, and you, too, Verda."

  He nodded to the clerk, who called out the customary "Y'all come back." Then he strolled from the store without a backward glance.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Verda propped a hand on her hip, raised one eyebrow, and said, "Mrs. Hollis?" Her shrewd eyes homed in on Rachel. "What's going on?"

  "Going on?" Rachel busied herself arranging the scarves on top of the showcase. "Nothing's going on, Verda. Whatever in the world do you mean?"

  "I suddenly put a name with the voice on the phone. It's his. Tommy Lee Gentry." She peered closely at Rachel. "He been pestering you?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Verda, don't be silly. What would Tommy Lee Gentry be doing pestering me?"

  "What does Tommy Lee Gentry do pestering half the women of this town?" She glanced toward the door. "Which one of his doxies do you reckon those earrings were for?"

  The question shot a flash of cold through Rachel. She wanted to cringe and defend him simultaneously. Why should she care about his indiscretions or what the town thought of him because of them? Yet the fact remained that she did. She always had.

  "Do you want to stand there wondering about it all weekend, or would you rather lock up and go home?" Rachel forced an amused smile to her lips, as if she, too, were curious about the woman whose ears would be decorated with the red beads.

  "You sure it wasn't him?" Verda couldn't resist asking one more time, scrunching up her eyes and studying Rachel closely.

  "Tommy Lee Gentry?" Rachel turned away casually, heading for the light switch by the armoire. "I swear, Verda, if I have to put up with any more ridiculous questions from you I'll begin to wonder if I've given you enough time off lately." Rachel's low laugh followed, and Verda gave up.

  "Oh, all right, but I could've sworn it was him when he walked in here and started talking."

  Duplicity was not Rachel's long suit. When she'd locked up and was on her way home, safely away from Verda's inquisitive eyes, she pulled over to the curb along a tree-shaded street, crossed her wrists on the steering wheel, and dropped her forehead on them.

  Rachel Hollis, get the man out of your mind. See what people think of him? And just what do you think they'd be saying about you if you were seen with Tommy Lee Gentry when Owen is scarcely cold in his grave?

  But it hurt, having to lie about Tommy Lee. She felt she was injuring him more, yet what else could she have done with Verda all ears and eyes? But she remembered his wind-whipped hair, his fingers on her arm, the soft invitation in his voice as he leaned across the counter. And his lips… those lips that hadn't changed a bit in all these years. And she thought of the empty house, superimposed on images of herself in a boat, or on water skis, or riding off somewhere beside him in the white Cadillac to have dinner.

  But then, remembering how many others had done those same things-and more-with Tommy Lee, she shook his image from her mind and continued home to the waiting, silent house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  But by Sunday afternoon the house had grown too silent, too oppressive. It was spring, and Alabama had embarked upon that time of color and rebirth. Blossoms were exploding everywhere: azaleas in shades of red and pink, dogwoods in white, wisteria in violet, and redbuds like a purple haze limning the countryside. Was there a time of year that tugged at the heartstrings more than this? That drew memories out of hiding and made them even more poignant in recollection than they'd been in reality?

  Rachel lay in the backyard while bees buzzed in the blossoming pyracantha bushes bordering the high brick wall. She moved restlessly on the chaise longue, closing her eyes against the sun and the loneliness, but seeing dancing pictures on her closed eyelids. Pictures of Tommy Lee past and Tommy Lee present. She rolled to her stomach, trying to shut them out, but they persisted even as she searched for a distracting sound to take away the memory of his voice, inviting, "Come out to the house… please." But there was nothing so silent as a small-town Sunday afternoon.

  When she could tolerate it no longer she flung herself up and marched into the house, driving her fingers through her twenty-five-dollar hairdo, realizing that stubbornness was a poor substitute for company. Don't think about whether it's wise or not-for once, just go with your heart.

  She bathed, applied fresh makeup, dabbed scent behind her ears, and dressed in a sporty knit pink and gray striped top with matching skirt, both of which snapped up the front. She slipped her bare feet into white thong sandals, debated about what bathing suit to take, and decided to stop at the store and pick out a new one.

  The store was different on Sundays-empty and shadowed. The display lights were off, the silence oddly disquieting, and Rachel had the strange feeling she was being given this pause as a last chance to come to her senses. But today spring controlled her senses. Almost defiantly, she stepped to the bathing suit rack. She flipped past the array of bikinis, which were for the most part too revealing for her taste, but cast a disdainful eye on the one-piecers, which seemed sexless and dull. In the end she chose a modest two-piece design of shimmering gold with a diagonal bar of red slicing from left hip to right breast, interrupted by a band of naked skin. Assessing herself in the full-length mirror, she tugged the waist up securely and checked to make sure it fully covered the scar on her stomach, then turned to view her back. Lord, Callie Mae is right. If I don't gain some weight this thing will fall right off me.

  She turned full front to the mirror again, and her dark eyes appeared uncertain. Standing with her fingertips resting on her stomach, she thought she could feel nerves jumping inside.

  He said his daughter will be there, so what can happen when you'll be chaperoned by a fourteen-year-old?

  The suit had a matching cover-up of luxurious velour that reversed the design and colors, sporting a diagonal bar of gold on red. Its elasticized waist closed with a single gold catch, leaving provocative glimpses of
the bathing suit and her bare midriff showing above and below the closure. But, considering her shape, Rachel hardly felt provocative, and decided the outfit would do. She stripped it off, packed it in her straw bag, and dressed in her street clothes again, then locked the store and bounded to her car before she could change her mind.

  The drive out to Cedar Creek Lake was beautiful. She took old Belgreen Road, which wound through the hills west of town, curving through pine forest and past areas where orange peaks of overburden from long ago strip-mining created a stunning contrast against the lush greenery surrounding it. The old limestone quarries gave over to glimpses of the TVA transmission towers, which were responsible for changing the area so much. Nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Franklin County rolled and undulated, presenting unexpected vistas: blue-hazed hills and endless rolling forests that abounded with wildlife. Even the hated kudzu vine was beautiful now, carpet-thick in the ditches, blossoming in purple. Beneath the hickories and turkey oaks flashed an occasional cloud of white dogwood. The road straightened, then doglegged, angled uphill and down, but she knew the route as if she'd driven it every day. Somehow she'd never forgotten where his house was, once it was pointed out to her.

  His driveway twisted through a stretch of some five acres of untainted wildwood before arching around in a loop that brought her to his front door. She turned off the engine, then peered up at the house, feeling a knot tighten her stomach. Slowly she opened her door and stood for a long time in its lee while staring over the roof of the car at the sheer clifflike stretch of diagonal cedar siding, the irregular roofline, the ebony doors and railed ramp. She removed her sunglasses and studied further. How odd- the place seemed familiar. Yet this was the closest to it she'd ever been. The smell of the woods was rich and fecund. She lifted her gaze to the heavens-cedars and sassafras trees and one venerable magnolia at least 150 years old.

  Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Rachel slammed the car door, slipped her glasses on, and made her feet move toward the wooden ramp.