Tangled Thing Called Love (6 page)

“What about you?” he asked.

“Oh … grew up. Got serious. Went to prison.”

“People around here were laying bets that I’d get there first.” Johnny sat down at the stool next to Mazie’s. “I heard you got a bad rap.”

Mazie nodded. “Very bad.”

“I also heard you rooted out the guy who committed the murder.”

“I did. With a lot of help.”

Johnny, a year ahead of Mazie, had been the coolest guy in high school, the guy all the other boys tried and failed to beat up to prove their manhood; the guy all the girls wanted to make out with; the guy girls’ mothers warned them against. Mazie had never gone to a slumber party where the talk hadn’t turned to: What would it be like to kiss Johnny Hoolihan. And when they got older, the conversation changed to: What would it be like to do
it
with Johnny Hoolihan? Back in those days, she would have been tongue-tied if Johnny had ever spoken to her. Now, sitting with him in the bar, she discovered that he was easy to talk to. She’d assumed he would have long since moved to some hip place like New York or Seattle and was surprised to learn that he still lived in town.

“I like small-town life,” Johnny said. “But Quail Hollow’s changing. Not for the better.”

She told him about being run off the road. He nodded. “You get a lot more of that kind of thing these days. The drug crowd.”

“Is it really a problem?”

“Times are tough. Jobs are hard to come by. Factories moved to Mexico, farmers lost their farms. Guys who want to make fast, easy money cook meth. Stores around here keep their drain cleaner under lock and key.”

Someone plugged a number into the jukebox. “I Want It That Way” started playing.

Johnny grinned. “Remember that?”

“The Backstreet Boys! I had a huge crush on Nick Carter.”

“You and every other girl. Dance?”

Oh, what the hell? It’d been so long since she’d danced she scarcely remembered how. But it came back as Johnny escorted her onto the few square feet that served as the bar’s dance floor. After the song ended they loaded every ’90s song they could find on the jukebox menu and danced to them, a trip down Memory Lane sponsored by *N Sync, Britney Spears, the Spice Girls, Madonna, U2, Mariah Carey, Bon Jovi …

“Bon Jovi—that was your nickname in high school,” Mazie said, a memory resurfacing. “Because of your hair.”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned. He pulled her a little closer. “So have you remarried since … uhh …”

“No.”

“Man in your life?”

That was a really good question. What
was
Ben Labeck’s status in her life, Mazie wondered. Boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Gentleman caller? Unsure how to answer, Mazie turned the question back on Johnny. Which she should have done sooner, she realized, because dancing with someone’s husband in a small-town bar was a big no-no. Prying herself out of his arms, watching him carefully to catch a lie, Mazie asked, “Are
you
married?”

“Starter marriage while I was in the service. Divorced and discharged, all on the same day. Guess I’m not good marriage material.” He pulled her against him again. “So we have no problem, right?”

She started to explain that yes, there was a problem, that she was in love with a man who’d gone running off to the West Coast and had forgotten her, but that would have sounded like a whiny country-western song.

Just shut up and dance
. Perhaps the greatest advice of all time, Mazie thought,
giving herself over to pure sensation, letting the music flow through her, humming along to half-remembered songs, enjoying the feel of the large, warm male hand pressing itself into the small of her back. The years floated away like calendar leaves in a 1940s movie, the candy-colored jukebox lights washed over them, and she was sixteen again, in the arms of Bon Jovi. Exept that when she’d been sixteen, she hadn’t been allowed to drink, and when Johnny asked if she wanted another drink she said yes—she was probably still a bit dehydrated after her long bike ride and all—and a little later later on, she had another. Amazing how easily the drinks went down; she hardly tasted the vodka at all. It seemed to Mazie that the more she drank, the better she could dance.

Then the door banged open. A chill wind swept the room. The jukebox ground to a halt like a needle scratching a record. The bartender dropped below the counter. The moose head eyes glowed eerie red. Lightning flashed. Off-key organ music sounded.

Bodelle Blumquist stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Okay, so there really was no flashing lightning or glowing moose eyes. But Bodelle didn’t need special effects to be scary.

Every small town has a Bodelle. The woman who chairs the PTA, bullies the town council, sticks her finger in every pie from the Women’s Sewing Circle to the Girl Scout cookie drive, and has her photo tacked up to the dartboard in all the local pubs.

Bodelle was tall, with a pouter pigeon build—big round uni-bosom and flat rear that gave her physique an unbalanced look. She must have been in her fifties, Mazie thought, but she still had dynamite legs—legs that had won her the title of Miss Leinenkugel Honey Ale in 1979 and landed her a role in a commercial as a dancing box of macaroni and cheese.

She was highlighting the gams today, wearing an above-the-knee skirt and one-size-too-small high-heeled sandals. She had slightly protuberant green eyes lined in black, a turned-up nose, and a mouth carefully drawn on in candy pink lipstick. Her cheekbones were still cover-girl high, but gravity and all those Girl Scout cookies were taking their toll on her jawline.

Her eyes swept the room, then came to rest on Mazie, who suddenly felt the urge to flee. “Mazie Maguire,” Bodelle said. “I heard you were back in town.”

Who needed Twitter? In Quail Hollow everyone knew you were pregnant before
you even missed your period. “Would you mind if I stole Mazie away from you for just a teeny tiny second, Johnny?” Bodelle asked, her voice poisonously sweet.

Johnny shrugged and moved to the other end of the bar—the rat—leaving Mazie alone with Bodelle.

“Well, I suppose you’ve heard about the pageant?” Bodelle asked.

“Pageant?” Mazie asked, her stomach fluttering with premonitions of disaster.

“The Twenty-fifth Anniversary Miss Quail Hollow Pageant, of course—I thought everyone knew about it. It starts Thursday and runs through the weekend. There’ll be a parade, a talent contest, door prizes, hot dogs on the courthouse lawn—the biggest thing this town has seen in years. You remember how the winner is usually chosen from the high school seniors? Well, for the anniversary, we’re getting together all the former winners to compete for the Twenty-fifth Anniversary crown.

“Which, of course, includes
you
, Mazie.” Bodelle took an e-tablet out of her purse, and began typing. “Miss … Quail Hollow 2002 … Mazie Maguire. Or do you go by
Vonnerjohn
? You were married, weren’t you, to that man who—”

“I later shot to death,” Mazie offered helpfully. “Be sure to put that in my profile.”

“Oh, you have such a droll sense of humor, Mazie. I remember how you made us all smile.”

Bodelle had been running the Miss Quail Hollow Pageant for years, and was as firmly associated with the pageant as Bob Dole was with Viagra. She ran a gift shop on Main Street which, since it never seemed to have any customers, allowed Bodelle enough free time to poke her nose into everyone else’s business.

“I’m sorry, Bodelle,” Mazie said, which was a fib; she wasn’t at all sorry. “But I don’t have the time. I’m taking care of my brother’s kids while their mom’s in the hospital.”

Bodelle waved away Mazie’s objections. “I’m sure you and your family can work something out. It’s for a good cause, after all. The funds we raise will go to the Carnahan family—the ones who lost their home? You want to do your part to help, don’t you?”

“Of course, but—”

“Let me just explain how the winner will be chosen, Mazie—this is so cute.”

Mazie tried to envision
cute
scenarios. Nude pudding wrestling? A live centipede-eating
contest? A yodel-off?

“Fifty percent of a contestant’s score will come from points acquired, and fifty percent will come from fund-raising. Each contestant will get her own personal queenometer—”

“Her own personal what?”

“Queenometer. Like a thermometer, only it measures dollars. Each dollar the contestant raises will move her mercury up a notch. Yours is already up in the hardware store window.”

Bodelle Blumquist had scared Mazie when she’d been a teenager. She still did, Mazie admitted to herself, but in the twelve years that had passed since then, Mazie had dealt with even scarier people. She was not going to be bullied by this two-bit tyrant.

“Then you’ll have to take my queenometer down.” Mazie stared straight into Bodelle’s eyes to emphasize her point. “Because there’s no way on earth I’m going to be in your pageant.”

Shouldering her purse, Mazie wheeled around and marched toward the door, head held high. Which proved to be a mistake, because she failed to see the bar stool that had inexplicably materialized in her path and which, when she stumbled into it, entirely ruined the dignified, dramatic exit she’d intended.

Chapter Eight

“You’re not planning on riding that bike, are you?” asked Johnny Hoolihan, who’d followed Mazie out of the bar and was now watching as she unlocked Emily’s bike from a utility pole.

“Yes. I am.”

Mazie nudged up the kickstand and straddled the bike. On second thought, she decided, it might be better if she walked the bike. Riding a bike required a certain degree of balance and coordination, and at the moment Mazie felt her coordination was just a smidge impaired.

“How about if I give you a ride?” Johnny asked as she got off the bike and began to wheel it along the sidewalk.

“No thanks.”

Johnny walked by her side, hands in his pockets, regarding her with amusement. “Mazie, I’m not the hoodlum you once knew. Your virtue is safe with me. You shouldn’t be biking when you’re a little—”

“A little what? I’m not tipsy.”

“Didn’t say that, did I? C’mon. I’m parked right here.”

He took the bike out of her hands and chivied her over to a large old silver Cadillac. “It belonged to a drug dealer.” Johnny raised the trunk and lifted the bike inside. “Not
my
drug dealer. I bought it at a sheriff’s auction. I have a thing for classic cars.”

He held open the front door and Mazie flopped into the seat, feeling boneless and woozy and really quite grateful for the offer of a ride. Johnny got in, started the car, and eased out onto Main Street. As they passed the hardware store, Johnny pointed to the window. “Look—there’s your queenometer.”

Mazie craned her neck. The hardware store window featured an enlarged photo of her, taken twelve years ago when she’d been Miss Quail Hollow. Next to it was a four-foot-tall plywood cutout of an old-fashioned thermometer, with a large round bulb and a gauge thrusting perpendicularly from the base. Was it just her nasty mind, Mazie
wondered, or did this thing bear an unfortunate resemblance to an erect male member?

“Oh my God,” Mazie moaned, covering her eyes.

Johnny chuckled. “My reaction exactly.”

Mazie started to laugh, too. “I can’t believe Bodelle didn’t catch the phallic overtones.”

“You shouldn’t have turned down her invitation. I wouldn’t mind seeing you strutting down a runway in a bathing suit.”

“Forget it. Once in a lifetime was enough.”

Johnny turned south onto a county highway. “Ridge Runner Road, right?” Johnny asked. “The big white house?”

“How did you know that?”

“Found out where you lived when we were in high school. I had a crush on you.”

“You did? On
me
?”

“I would have asked you out, but I was scared of your brothers.”

“Yeah—they were a tremendous asset to my dating life.”

“Scully’s running your family’s farm these days, isn’t he?”

Mazie burped in a very unladylike way. “Uh-huh.”

“And the other brother? Jim?”

“Jimmy’s a contractor. He builds houses.”

“Huh. I would have guessed home demolition.”

Mazie was about to ask Johnny what
he
did for a living, but they were already pulling into the farm’s driveway. A distance that took twenty minutes on a bike took only five in a car.

Johnny parked in the shade and turned off the engine. They both looked at the house, where the entire Maguire family was clustered on the front porch. Gran, Scully, the twins, Muffin, and—oh God—Labeck, all of them staring. Mazie heaved open the Caddy’s heavy door and got out. Her foot twisted under her—stupid slippery gravel—and she crashed to the ground.

Muffin streaked over and gave her a doggie face-washing, sniffed at her breath, then wrinkled his nose. Scully ambled over and hauled Mazie to her feet, grinning ear to ear. “Hell, Mazie, you smell like the Smirnoff distillery. Hey, Chief—how you doing?”

“Good. Uhh, some guy tried to run your sister off the road. She didn’t get the plates, but I’ll look into it, see what I can find out.”

Wrenching herself away from Scully, Mazie straightened to her full height, brushed dirt off her shorts, and waved to her family. “Hi, everybody. Miss me?”

Scully’s grin widened. “My baby sis, the wino.”

Johnny took the bike out of the Caddy’s trunk and leaned it against a tree. Ben stepped forward, and Mazie performed the introductions. “Ben Labeck, this is Johnny Hoolihan. Johnny’s an old classmate.”

The two men sized each other up, loathed each other on first sight, grimly shook hands, and held an unspoken conversation:

Hoolihan:
Dude, I could have bagged her if I’d wanted
.

Labeck:
If you laid a hand on her I’m going to punch you so hard your tonsils will squirt out your ears
.

Tight smiles played over their faces, neck veins stood out, and their grips were so hard that both of them were going to have to stick their hands in tubs of ice water later.

Finally the stag display ended and Johnny returned to his car. “Nice seeing you all again. Give my best to Emily,” he called before driving off.