Bittersweet Creek (19 page)

Julian

B
y my reckoning, this was at least the seventeenth time I'd taken Mama to the emergency room. Before I could drive her, she would drop me off at Uncle Charlie's and drive herself. His wife understood a little too well.

That memory was one reason I decided to let Romy go. Maybe I'd held on for so long because I could be married to her without having to worry about hurting her. I couldn't reach her if she was in Nashville, but then she came back.

No way in hell would I let her go through this.

The minute I showed up, Mama had some extra paperwork—and it didn't have anything to do with her new insurance card, either. They called her up to the desk at least three times. I knew the drill: Sit tight and wait for them to be satisfied
I
wasn't the one who beat her. Hell, she was the only one delusional enough to believe she hadn't been beaten. She used to mutter something about deserving it, enduring those beatings as a penance for some unknown sin. I never knew where she went or how she did it, but she would disappear deep within herself, then emerge one day like a battered butterfly with a bad memory.

They finally called us back. Mama sat there through it all, neither moving nor crying out. A couple of tears ran down her cheeks when they set her arm, but she didn't say a word. The nurse on the other side muttered something about seeing people cry more when getting a plantar wart removed. The doctor, a stern older gentleman I'd seen a few times too many in my life, finished his work and grabbed my arm to take me outside. “Son, this has got to stop.”

“I've tried,” I said. “She refuses to press charges.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know I've seen your mother in here at least five times in the past two years. That's ridiculous.”

“Preaching to the converted, doc.”

His face turned dangerously red. “Maybe
you
need to press the charges.”

“The last time I pressed charges, he got out on bail and beat her so badly she couldn't get out of bed for a week. If you think the police can keep her safe, then I'll press those charges. Otherwise, I'd like to keep her alive.”

The doctor had been determined to stare me down, but he looked away. He didn't even know the part about how that time Curtis gave me such a whipping I couldn't sit down for a week. And I'd been two inches short of his height, a strapping football player at the junior high.

That's when I decided the only thing that would stop Curtis was to kill him.

“Guess I'll see you in another few months,” the doctor spat. He pressed past me and left me out in the hall. I looked down at my hand and flexed my knuckles. My hand hurt like hell from hitting Curtis, but I'd never earned an ache like that one.

And the fact that I loved that aching bruise worried me most of all.

Romy

T
he next week I did a lot of wondering. I wondered how long Julian would avoid me. I wondered how long I could make myself wait before tracking him down. I even wondered if I was doing the right thing by staying put instead of going back to Nashville and Richard. The old Magic 8-Ball on my bedside table insisted “My sources say no,” but my inner compass pointed in a different direction.

Well, that and I was pretty sure that old eight ball had only given one answer since I dropped it back in the early nineties.

The third time Richard called my cell, I told myself I had to answer it, especially since I was outside already.

He didn't even say hello, exhaling a relieved “I've missed you” instead.

I tried to say I'd missed him, but I hadn't. “You been doing okay?” I managed instead.

“Yeah, but it's been quiet.”

The silence stretched between us, a gulf almost as wide as all of the gullies and hills and the Tennessee River that separated us. Had he really missed me that much, or had he missed the idea of me?

“So, I was thinking about coming up for your birthday later this week,” he said.

My birthday. I'd totally forgotten about it.

“Richard, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Oh.”

His single word sliced through me. I didn't want to cause him pain, but I wasn't being fair to him. A woman so obsessed with her estranged husband had no business being in the market for a new one. The one thing we could all agree on was that not getting an immediate divorce was the second stupidest thing I'd ever done.

The first was marrying Julian.

“Rosemary, are we going to be able to fix this?” With that vulnerable voice he wasn't Richard Paris, renowned Nashville attorney. No, he was Richard Paris, would-be fiancé.

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, and my vision blurred from my tears. I didn't want to lose him. But I didn't want to lose him because I'd never been on my own. I wasn't being fair to him, and he'd done nothing wrong. “I don't think so,” I whispered.

“Rosemary, darling,” he said. “Surely, there's something we can do.”

And that was the problem. I'd been happy to let Richard “do.” I'd been quite content to let him plan every date night, every vacation. On weeks I was too busy to shop, I'd even allowed him to pick out the dress I was going to wear to whatever charity event or fund-raiser was next on the calendar. I hadn't been living for myself or making my own choices—other than the deliberate choice to be with a man who was the exact opposite of Julian McElroy.

Shame burned hot on my cheeks. I swallowed and cleared my throat, attempting to gain control of my vocal cords even as hot tears streamed down my face. “I'm sorry, Richard. I didn't mean to.”

“It's him, isn't it?”

I shook my head vehemently, not realizing I hadn't actually spoken my answer until Richard asked again in a voice half-hurt and half-angry, “Is it?”

“No!” I answered, too quickly this time, so quickly I couldn't even fool myself. “Yes.”

I swiped at my tears and sat down hard on the front porch. “Richard, I tried so hard to just forget everything that happened, but I can't. I can't hide from my past. I'm gonna have to face it.”

“Fair enough. And when you've faced it?”

God, how I hated it when he wouldn't let things go. “I don't know. I won't know.”

“So you aren't coming back to Nashville in the fall?”

Badgering the witness had to be his specialty. “I don't know, Richard. I don't think so.”

The last sentence came out on a sob, and I could feel rather than hear him relent. “This isn't a decision you should make over the phone.”

What?
“Richard, I can make a decision anywhere and anytime.”

“You're emotional. You've been working too hard. We can talk about this when I come down for your birthday.”

Anguish shifted to anger. My heart thumped a steady tribal drumbeat. “I've already told you I don't think that's a good idea. My mind is made up.”

Maybe it hadn't been before, but now I knew Richard and I would never work, not if he thought he could pester me until I gave him what he wanted.

“Okay, okay. No need to get upset. I thought for sure you'd want your present, though.”

Did he think I was six? Was he convinced I was only after his money? “Richard, you don't have to get me a present under these circumstances.”

“Rosemary, darling. I had this idea months ago!”

Of course he had. Logical, practical Richard.

“Just don't come down. Please,” I said.

Silence stretched between us, and I was afraid he would start arguing again. Finally, he spoke. “Okay. I understand.”

Those last two words warmed my heart. Maybe he understood me after all. Maybe I only needed to understand why Julian had stood me up and then I would be able to move on with my life in one way or another.

We murmured our good-byes and I lay there, eyes closed, and tried to make sense of everything. I must have dozed off, but Hank woke me yelling out the screen door that Julian needed me to drive for him the next day when he hauled hay.

And that could be just the opportunity I needed to better figure out what Julian was hiding—aside from his farmer's tan.

 

I woke up to low, dark clouds the next morning, and I knew instantly why Julian had finally caved and asked for my help: Rain was coming.

Mom and I had always joked that we could be a month without rain and all Daddy had to do was cut hay to make those gray clouds form. He'd mutter under his breath, cursing his misfortune on those times he didn't manage to get his hay up before the rain got it. Those extra heavy bales would be among the last he fed to the cows, because the damp hay inside would mildew over the summer, thanks to the moisture that was baled inside with no way to evaporate out. The next winter the cows would snuff at the bale centers and bawl as if to ask why Hank Satterfield couldn't produce a better bale of hay. He'd shrug and tell them softly, “Look, it's all we've got.”

Those were the moments when he was my daddy again. He'd look up at me with a hint of a smile and a twinkle in his eye, and the two of us could forget we were going it alone, having been left with one of life's moldy batches of hay. Thinking on such things put a spring in my step and got me to the back door ten minutes early.

Julian had his fist raised and was poised to knock when I got there. It did me good to surprise him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I'll ever be.” I shoved the last of the granola bar into my mouth. He headed in the direction of his truck. “Oh, no. I'm not driving that damned Chevy.”

“Well, maybe I don't want to haul hay in your damned Fix Or Repair Daily.”

I lifted an eyebrow, staring him down in much the same way I would stare down one of my teenaged students. Finally, he spit out a “Fine” and started walking in the direction of Daddy's old truck.

“Did you run out of other options before you got to me?” I asked as I started the truck. Of course the carburetor chose that moment to flood so Julian could give me a pointed glance.

“Ben won't drive for me anymore, and the rain'll be here before I can get it done myself.”

“And exactly how much hay have you tried to haul by yourself this week?” The question came out before I could stop it. Hauling square bales was a colossal pain if you had to move the truck a few feet, then get out and load up the closest bales, then drive the truck another few feet....

“The Smith place and our field,” he said with a shrug, his eyes straight ahead.

“You did the whole Smith place by yourself?” Was there no end to the lengths he would go to avoid me?

“Yes, I—”

“Julian, I swear! This wasn't what I had in mind at all. You shouldn't be doing all of this by yourself. And I bet you worked at the dealership this week, too.”

“A couple of days.”

“Dammit! Ask for help!”

Driving too fast because I was mad, I hit a gully and scraped the bottom of the truck.

“Glad we took your truck,” he deadpanned.

I smacked his arm, and he gave me a crooked grin.

“This conversation isn't over,” I said as I guided the truck to the end of the dirt road and looked out at a field full of perfect square bales, which were, ironically, more rectangular than square.

Julian's smile faded and he eased out of the truck. The slammed door was my answer.

Julian

I
t took Romy a good half hour to calm down enough to ease the truck down the row instead of jerking it forward. I'd wanted to finish it all myself, but meteorologist Dave Brown said it was going to rain. For once, I tended to agree with him.

I'd called Ben, but he'd told me in no uncertain terms that he hadn't gone to law school to drive some truck on some back forty and swat at mayflies. Sometimes Mama would drive for me in a pinch, but she still had her arm in a sling. Hank couldn't drive with his leg sticking straight out in a cast, and that left Romy.

I needed to get out more. Make some friends.

I stacked the bales neatly in the truck, crisscrossing them as I'd been taught to do. Back when I thought I was going to be able to buy out Curtis, I'd imagined buying a round baler—that would make this a whole helluva lot easier. Now I'd be lucky to keep the old square baler going. As it was, the machine was held together with twine, chewing gum, and McElroy gumption.

One thing I had to say for Romy: Normally she'd talk a guy into an early grave, but Hank'd taught her about hauling hay. She didn't say a word, only keeping an eye on the mirrors and making sure she pulled up just enough as I tossed up all of the loads of hay on either side of the truck. She knew just where to stop, and despite her drag race to get to the hay field, she maneuvered each load slowly back to the barn, making sure not to knock off the top tier.

Once we got to the barn, she started to stack the lower tiers, but I reminded her of her bum arm. At the end of each load, she used her good arm to slide bales down to the tailgate for me, and she did it all without complaining—not even when her stomach growled.

“Hungry?” I asked as we stacked the last bale of the fourth load.

“We've only got one more load to go, right?”

“Think so,” I said, instinctively looking up when thunder rumbled nearby.

“Then let's finish this.” Her green eyes burned through me, and I realized she hadn't forgotten a word of our previous discussion. No, she was biding her time. But even she had enough respect for the weather to know we needed to finish the job.

Fat drops hit the windshield not long after we started for the barn with the last load. By the time we got the hay safely under the cover of the barn, the bottom fell out, and the dry earth sighed with relief.

Romy stood beside me in the barn, watching the rain come down. “Man, that feels good. Thought the humidity was going to kill me this morning.”

I could've wrung a bucket full of sweat from my shirt myself.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the rain and the sweet scent of freshly cut hay. A bead of sweat ran down her chest and disappeared underneath her tank top. When I looked up from where that sweat had gone, she was looking at me, her green eyes dark. “I think you've been working too hard this week. I think it's time you lived a little,” she said as she grabbed my hand.

“C'mon, Julian, you owe me a dance!”

“That was high school. And it wasn't my fault I broke my leg right before the high school's first ever prom!” But it kinda was. If I'd listened to my coach and not played baseball that spring, I wouldn't have slid into second the wrong way trying to break up that double play. And I wouldn't have lost my football scholarship, either.

I took her hand and put mine at the small of her back, and we two-stepped into the rain like idiots. Rain pelted us, and still we danced until she threw back her head and laughed. I couldn't help but grin. This was the sort of silly shit we used to do back in high school.

“You know what?” She had to yell to be heard over the rain and the thunder.

“What?”

“I seem to remember a certain young man who claimed farmer's tans were for lazy jackasses who didn't work out.”

She had my T-shirt half peeled off before I could push her back and grab the hem to yank it down. My breath caught, and we stood and stared at each other. Rain slid down her face, and thunder grumbled in the distance. How much could she have possibly seen in all the rain?

“Oh, Julian,” she gasped.

Enough. I wouldn't have her pity. I turned and walked away.

“Don't you walk away from me!” she yelled.

The rain shifted sideways, stinging my cheeks. I didn't answer and didn't turn around.

She ran after me, but my legs were longer. I reached the truck first and climbed in, locking the power doors easily—that had to chap her hide. She ran to the front, banging on the hood with her fist so I couldn't pull forward to use the turnaround. So I backed up instead. Gravel flew as my truck squealed down the long driveway and into the blessedly empty road.