The Hellion (12 page)

"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
       
137 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
        
139 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,
      
141 Rachel slammed the car door, slipped her glasses on, and made her feet move toward the wooden ramp.

She came up into a deep entry in which were ensconced two redwood tubs of boxwood badly in need of watering, and glanced up at the only window facing this side, the large hexagon above the doors. A faint memory shivered through her. Don't be silly, she thought. How can you remember something you've never seen? Then she quickly rang the bell before she could lose her courage.

Two minutes passed and nothing happened-- except that Rachel became aware of a tiny pain at the back of her head--tension. He's probably out on the lake with his daughter. She rang again and felt a trickle of sweat drizzle down the center of her back while the seconds ticked past and a woodpecker thwacked away someplace in the trees behind her.

Suddenly the door was jerked open and there stood Tommy Lee, looking as if he was recovering from a four-day drunk and wishing he'd died instead. His hair was tousled, his face grizzled by an

unkempt beard, shirt dangling limp and wrinkled and unbuttoned. The knees of his jeans were rumpled and his feet were bare. He stood staring at her as if she were a reincarnation.

"Rachel, my God, you came!"

"Yes. You invited me, remember?"

"But I never thought you would." Unconsciously, he closed a single button at the waist of the shirt, which only emphasized its hapless condition.

"The house was driving me crazy, it was so quiet. And the lake sounded good."

He remained in the open doorway as if too surprised to orient himself. She felt the rush of conditioned air cooling the fronts of her legs and wondered how long he intended to stand gaping at her. "Am I intruding?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Abruptly he jerked awake. "Oh ... no. No!" He stepped back. "Not at all. I was asleep. Come in." He finger-combed his hair while she cautiously entered. When the door closed she found herself in an enormous entry and peered up at a contemporary brass and smoked-glass light fixture hanging before the hexagonal window from a height of eighteen

feet. She removed her sunglasses
   
143 and glanced at what she could see of the rest of the place from here: a lot of wood, windows, and staggered levels. The house was silent as a tomb as Rachel's gaze made a circle and came back to him. Their eyes met. Tommy Lee's hand still rested on the fancy doorknob. He flashed her a self-conscious smile, which she returned with a quavering one of her own, then dropped her eyes to the floor only to encounter the bare feet she recognized from all those carefree days of swimming at City Park. His second toes were longer than the big toes, and his feet were shaded now with dark hair. Quickly she glanced up at the living room, which overhung the entry.

"Come in." He gestured her ahead of him, up six steps into a room that looked worse than its owner, if possible. Dirty glasses, full ashtrays, and clothes littered the furniture. The carpet, though dense, hadn't been touched by a vacuum cleaner in weeks, and the hundreds of dollars' worth of potted plants along the glass wall were drooping, drying up, and dusty. Newspapers were scattered over the vast expanse of sofa, which turned two corners and

seemed to sprawl forever, its mother lode of ottomans creating a veritable sea of cushions before a glorious fireplace. Glancing at the array of flotsam, Rachel wondered how Tommy Lee could possibly manage to look so neat in public when his entire wardrobe seemed to be flung around his living room.

She glanced back uncertainly and stopped in her tracks.

"I wasn't expecting company," he explained, and moved around her to scrape an armful of garments off the back of the sofa.

"You told me your daughter was coming for the weekend."

"Yes, she was, but at the last minute her mother decided not to let her." His eyes dropped to the shirts in his hands, then wandered off with a dismal expression to some distant point across the lake. "I was going to come home Friday night and get everything in shape before Beth got here, but when she called to say she wasn't coming it seemed pointless."

Somehow she believed him, that he hadn't invented Beth's visit to lure her here with a false sense of security. His eyes swung back to Rachel

and he seemed to make a conscious effort
   
145 to put away his troubled thoughts. "But even though she's not here, I'd still like you to stay."

In this? she thought. The place smelled like an unaired saloon--stale smoke, used filters and alcoholic dregs, and even if she could find a spot to sit on that davenport, there wasn't a single place to do so without putting her feet up. Furthermore, she didn't want to be next after the woman with the red earrings.

Sensing that she was close to having a change of heart, he hurriedly moved around the room, leaning over the back of the sofa to sweep up newspapers, socks, and neckties. "Just give me a few minutes and I'll run upstairs and grab a quick shower, okay?" He straightened with his arms full and appealed, "Now, don't go away, okay?"

She shook her head and dredged up a faint smile while he gazed at her hopefully, backing away. Then he turned and with a flash of shirttail, bounded up a stairway and out of sight.

She looked around, reluctant to sit down on anything, though the room was luxurious at its

core. She moved around the corners of the U-shaped sofa, studying the dirty glasses, the dried rings where others had been, the dust caught and held in gray overlapping circles, the empty matchbooks and full ashtrays. Coming to one glass that was still sweating, she reached down and touched it. It was still cold. She held it to her nose and sniffed. Gin, diluted by melted ice. She set it down distastefully and dropped her eyes to the sofa. The picture was clear: a depressed alcoholic, lying in an inert sprawl, sipping away his lonely weekend while the cobwebs collected around him, and his mind and body grew dissipated.

It had been a mistake to come here.

She turned her back on the living room and moved toward the end of the fireplace wall where the dining area was announced by caned chairs surrounding a fruitwood table. Empty containers from take-out food lay amid his unopened mail, a half-eaten bag of cheese curls, and an open jar of peanuts. He doesn't eat right, she thought, and the realization saddened her as she gazed at two cold french fries and a blob of dried-up ketchup. A fingernail clipper lay beside them,

and the sight of it rent her heart as she
     
147 pictured him here at the table, clipping his nails in silence, then eating his supper alone.

She turned to glance at the working end of the kitchen, but the cabinets held only dirty glasses and an array of booze bottles, all partly empty. Again she closed her eyes, wishing she had sensibly stayed away.

She sat on one of the cane and chrome chairs and turned her eyes to the lake, to something that was pleasant and clean and told no tales. From overhead came the sound of the shower, then in a few minutes the buzz of an electric razor, and in record time Tommy Lee's footsteps thumped down the stairs.