Hot Coco (11 page)

“You must be Kate,” he said.

“Oh, goodness no, my name is Coco, Coco Beardmore.”

Tom’s smile turned into a wide grin. “You don’t mean, Colette Beardmore? Stan’s little girl?”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Uh-huh. Do you know Daddy?”

“Doesn’t everybody? I’m Tom Mason.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Are you free for lunch, Colette?”

She breathed in. She needed to face Mike in order to release him from any more responsibilities for her horses
. I owe him that. It’s the right thing to do after last night.
But she felt quite stimulated by this man who called her Colette.
No one ever called me that. Not Henry, not Daddy, no one ... until now. Perfect.

“Tom Mason, you’re not at all what I expected you to be.”

Eric wandered onto the front porch. The steam from the hot coffee whirled above his mug. The morning haze was diminishing to reveal the grandeur of the lush green paddocks and the gentle sway of the oaks. The mist rose off the blue tin roofs of the horse barns.

He noticed the black Porsche parked in front of the equine swimming facility. His eyebrows furrowed when the door opened and Tom Mason emerged with a beautiful blonde on his arm.

He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Tom!”

Tom opened the passenger door of the Porsche for Coco. His attention jerked toward the farmhouse. Whipping his sunglasses from his head, he placed them over his eyes before lifting a hand to wave at Eric.

“Tom, where are you going?” Eric shouted across the way. His calls brought Mike, Shane, and Kate filing out the front door to the porch to catch a glimpse of their father’s old friend.

“I’ll catch you later, Eric,” he shouted back.

“But I thought you wanted to see the horses swim.”

Tom slipped into his car next to Coco, “Later, Eric, later.”

“Is that Coco in his car?” Kate was rather disturbed by the sight.

Eric scrubbed his chin in concern. “I think so.”

The Porsche ripped past the farmhouse.

Spotting Mike, Coco blew a kiss and waved her hand at him like a ballerina making a graceful exit-stage left.

“Ouch, dumped for an older man,” Kate quipped in his ear.

“How old is Coco?” Eric asked.

“Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two.” Mike shrugged his shoulder while taking a sip of his coffee.

“Yep,” Eric confirmed, “that’ll work.”

“He ain’t getting no freaking prize. He’ll see.” Imitating Doug’s gruff voice the day they claimed Coco’s horses from his barn, Shane shook a piece of toast at his older brother. With a wink, he moseyed into the house.

The right side of Mike’s lip curled. Snorting, he followed his ornery kid brother through the door.

The old O’Conner farmhouse was more of a shack than a house.

Mike stood at the end of the cracked and heaving sidewalk that led through an over-grown front yard littered with cigarette butts. Chickens pecked at the ground. When he walked through, they scattered while clucking loudly.

He picked his way up to the front porch while climbing over sleeping cats sprawled across the steps. There was an old rocking chair on the porch. Several battered plastic yard chairs and a straw broom leaned against the splintered wooden door frame.

The screen door used to be white, but was now rusty with patches of white paint that had managed to survive to this point. The welcome mat below the door that was so worn that the word
welcome
now read:
We c m
. He couldn’t imagine why there would be a welcome mat at all. Doug wasn’t exactly hospitable. He was pretty damned sure that the O’Conners didn’t do a lot of entertaining.

The sound of snorting horses caught his attention. He peered around the side of the house. Behind a fence made of frayed baler twine strung along old rusted metal posts, several old Thoroughbreds munched on hay.
Doug’s got himself a top-notch operation here.

He rapped on the weather-beaten screen door. A moment later, Margie yanked the equally battered storm door open.

He was surprised that she wasn’t as shabbily clad as she usually appeared. Her hair was clean, curled, and pulled back away from her face to accentuate the nose that didn’t quite fit. A pair of gold hoops dangled from her earlobes, and she wore pink lip gloss. Her tightly-fitted clean jeans complimented her curves, and her red blouse swept nicely over her perky, ample, breasts.

Confused, she blinked. Mike West was the last person she expected see when she opened the door.
Why is he standing on my porch?

Mike half-smiled. He wasn’t exactly sure what had impelled him to come. “How’s dinner sound?”

She didn’t respond. Looking at him like he’d just grown another eye, she stood there with the screen door between them.

“I know I should’ve called first … thought I’d surprise you.”

Still nothing. She looked at him.

Footsteps dodging cats on the steps tugged Mike’s attention from the catatonic Margie O’Conner, who was keeping the screen door between them like a stone wall.

Scott stepped onto the porch with a smile on his face. He clapped his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Hey there.” He peered through the screen to nod at her. “Ready Margie?” He turned to Mike. “We’re going dancing. Margie’s a great dancer. Hey, how come you’re never at the dances?”

Margie opened the screen door to brush past him and make her way to the steps. “We’d better go, Scott. We’ll be late,”

“Was there something you needed, Mike?” Scott asked.

He tried to shrug-off the awkward feeling in his gut. “No, nothing at all, thanks.” He hitched his chin toward Margie to encourage him to catch up.

Margie wasn’t waiting. She marched down the sidewalk with chickens scattering in her wake toward Scott’s old pickup truck that was parked behind Mike’s shiny, pimped-out dually pickup. She swept a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her lips curled when she reached for the door handle.

Part Three

Progress

Eleven

Three Weeks Later

Jen Fleming was trying like hell to maintain a cool front. Her heart was thrumming in her chest so hard, that she feared Eric could hear it.

There he was …sipping coffee …in her office. She hadn’t invited him. He simply showed up unexpectedly. He’d never done that before. She always had to “bump” into him on the backside with some lame excuse for her visit.

Progress. This was progress.

She tried to keep up with the conversation, which was difficult because she was too busy watching his deep hazel eyes over her coffee cup. She kept imagining what it would be like to snuggle up on the sofa with this handsome, intelligent gentleman.

Perhaps a crackling fire in the fireplace, a soft comfy fleece throw, hot cocoa, and the Steelers winning by three touchdowns against the Ravens. Nice. Or maybe, the soft glow of candlelight, a fluffy warm comforter over our naked bodies, a smooth red wine, and the Steelers winning by six touchdowns against the Browns. Very nice. Whoa. Slow down, girl. Proceed with caution.

“Well, I’d better get going,” she suddenly heard him say.

He stood up and walked toward the door.

She blinked back into the moment. He was leaving.
Damn it.
“Are you sure you don’t want anymore coffee, Eric?”

He smiled. “Jen, you’ve topped me off three times. I’ll be bouncing off the walls all day, and I’m going to need all the calm I can pull together. Tom Mason and Coco are coming to the farm today. We’ve got all the vehicles parked behind Mike’s house.”

She chuckled. “What happened with Kate’s Mustang?”

“Totaled. She’s getting a new one tomorrow, I believe.”

“I’m glad,” Jen said. “She works so hard. Drop by again. I enjoyed our little coffee hour.”

“Count on it.” With a wink and a smile, he slipped out the door.

Progress.

Stretching her back, Margie yawned while making her way slowly to the cafeteria to fetch coffee for her father and Scott. She dug for a rubber band in her pocket, pulled her uncombed hair from her drooping shoulders, and then wrapped the band around it. She couldn’t understand why she always had to go fetch the coffee.
I’m cleaning the stalls. I’m dumping the buckets. I’m throwing the feed to the horses, and there’s Dad sitting on a bale of straw teaching Scott how to chew snuff.

Poor Scott. He was turning green. His face was contorting in ways she didn’t think a face could move.
God bless him.
She wasn’t sure he’d be able to drink the coffee anyways. He might be laid-out flat on the floor and praying for death by the time she returned.

She spotted Eric stepping out of the nurse’s office when she reached the cafeteria door. Smiling, she held the door open for him. “You feeling okay, Mr. West?”

“Sure, why?”

“Well, you was in Ms. Fleming’s office.”

“Oh.” He stepped through the door. “I was just ... visiting.”

“Mmmm, I heard they changed the prices in here. How much is an egg sandwich?”

“I’m not sure. It should be on the board,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.” She let out a loud snort. “Well, you know me. Forgetting my glasses all the time.”

Eric glanced down at the glasses dangling from her faded flannel shirt. “Margie, your glasses are clipped to your shirt pocket.”

Margie’s hand slowly made its way across her chest to finger the glasses. Her cheeks flushed. Not knowing what to say, she looked away.

“She can’t read that sign with those glasses, Eric.” Dan Quaide’s brawny voice sliced into the moment.

Margie whirled around. “I can so.”

“All right then.” Dan bristly moved aside. “Read the sign on the door.”

Her eyes widened. She worked her jaw, but no words came out.

“Put on the glasses, and read the sign,” he insisted again.

Her hands shaking, she lifted the glasses to her nose while glaring at Dan. Tears streamed from under the rims. Embarrassed by Eric’s presence, she tore them from her face, ran out the door, down the steps, and toward the stables.

Laughing, Dan yelled after her, “Told ya. Can’t read a freaking word.”

Eric grabbed him by the shirt. “What the hell’s the matter with you? There’s no need to humiliate her like that.”

“She’s a liar.”

“You’re an ass.” With a hard shove against the wall, Eric let go of his shirt.

Margie scrambled through the barn door, plunked down hard on a bale of straw, and buried her face in her hands. Against her forearm, she felt the glasses still clipped to her shirt. She whipped them from the pocket and hurled them at the wall. Horrified at the thought of what Eric West must be thinking, she leaned her head against the wall with her arms folded over her breasts.

That I’m an idiot. That’s what he’s thinking. Course, all his kids are pretty; and smart; and, well, perfect. That’s what they all are. Perfect. I’m just an old ugly idiot.

The outside light sliced into the barn when the door creaked open. “Margie ...” Eric called in a soft tone.

Wiping her wet face, she moaned. “That Dan Quaide. He thinks he’s so damned smart. I could ‘a read that sign if I wanted to.”

He eased down onto the bale next to her and handed her a coffee. “Margie …”

“He’s a real jerk, Mr. West.”

“Don’t worry about him. All you need is someone to show you how,” he told her.

“I can read!” she screeched while looking into his doubt-filled expression. “I’m telling ya, I can.”

“Margie, it’s time to woman-up. You can’t read, but you can do something about it—if you really want to,” Eric said with that stern, never say die, tone that he was infamous for.

Biting her lip, she took in a long breath before taking a long sip of coffee. “Eh, it’s too late—”

“What’re you doing here, West? And what’s it too late for?” Scowling, Doug stepped out of the barn office while scratching his backside.

Eric said, “I’m here trying to convince your daughter that it’s not too late to learn to read.”

Doug’s face wrenched. “Are you accusing my Marge of being stupid?” He pointed a twisted finger at Eric and spit a wad of chew to the floor. “She ain’t pretty, but she ain’t stupid, West.” He hobbled toward him.

“Of course not, Doug. She’s an intelligent woman, who just can’t read. But she can learn. It’ll open a whole new world for her.”

Doug wasn’t buying in. He grimaced through the bulging brown lump in his craggy lip. “What world, West? Where men like your Mike won’t give her the time of day? And who’s gonna pay for reading lessons? Huh? Not me. I’ll tell ya that.”

Margie leaned forward on one elbow to cup her chin in her hand. “He’s right. I’m thirty-three years old. Reading is something I should’a learned a long time ago. Who’d wanna teach me, anyways?”

Gauging the woman’s low regard for herself, Eric hesitated for a moment. She was under her father’s thumb and pressed against the floor. He had all the power and he kept her there because she was all he had. Unfortunately for Margie, Doug was all she had.

What will happen when Doug’s gone? What will become of a woman possibly in her late forties by then who can’t read or write?

It was time to liberate Margie O’Conner from the tyranny that her father had wielded upon her for so many years. “I can teach you … if you really want to learn.”

“Waste of time, West,” Doug said. “Time you ain’t got.”

Shocked, she looked up. “You’d take the time to teach me to read?” she whispered awe struck.

“If you’re serious about learning to read and write,” Eric said, “I’ll teach you. Yes.”

Waving his hand in the air, Doug stomped toward his office. “I don’t understand the need. She’s been fine for thirty-three years. But if you wanna waste your time, West.” With one last abrasive look, he turned and slammed the office door.

The water splashed. With a staff clipped to his halter, the horse
snorted rhythmically with each stroke while Shane guided him around the pool. Watching the large bay gelding in the water; Mike, Coco, and Tom stood at the far end of the pool. Mike was careful to keep a distance from the pool, the guide poles, and Shane.