The Road to Glory (3 page)

And though it wasn’t easy, at the same time Leigh categorized RJ Fitzgerald in that ever-so-tiny compartment of her brain she’d dedicated to ‘those that got away.’ Now she was heading for a hot shower and later — the peace and loneliness of the open road.

R
J STEPPED INTO Sam’s barbershop. Flea had wrapped herself around RJ’s shoulders and was using the tall woman as a cat taxi. When RJ shut the door behind her, she gave a little shrug and Flea jumped down, immediately finding the soft pillow in the corner of the shop that was reserved solely for her.

RJ removed her cap, stuffing it in her back pocket. She huffed to herself, noting that every pair of eyes in the shop had trained themselves on her. With a quick movement she stuffed her aviator sunglasses into the front pocket of her shirt.

The brunette stared back at the small crowd of men. "What? Did I grow another head? If I did, I’m sure it’ll be needing its hair cut too." She settled down in the chair, kicking out long legs in front of her and giving an almost dirty look to Sammy, the barber.

"You know," Sammy started, even as he snapped the cape around her neck, then ran a comb through RJ’s thick hair. "You are a woman. It would be okay if you wanted to let this grow out."

RJ’s hand immediately went to her head. Her hair was barely trimmed up off her ears and worn combed straight back. It was longer on top, her uneven, reddish-brown waves just grazing the bottom edge of her shirt collar in back. "I know I’m a woman, you silly bastard. I also know I like my hair just fine the way it is. It’s easy to take care of this way. So just cut it and keep the commentary to yourself."

"Yes, ma’am," Sammy snorted, taking his scissors in hand. Much to RJ’s mother’s chagrin he’d been cutting RJ’s hair ever since Mildred, the owner of the local beauty salon, refused to give RJ her preferred short cut when RJ was still in high school. They had the same argument every time she came in. He always waited until she called him a ‘silly bastard’ before he started cutting her hair. It was his own half-hearted protest. He knew that some young women liked it short nowadays, though why was still a mystery to him.

A man whose face was still shiny and stinging from the aftershave that had been slapped on it sat alongside RJ. He turned the page of his magazine. "That little trucker at the diner had pretty blonde hair," Luke said, his eyes never leaving the magazine. "Still, my tastes have always run to longer style. Remember Rita Hayworth? Now that was some lovely hair."

"Remember?" Johnny replied incredulously. "Do I look senile to you?" He leaned against the table that held the shop’s cash register. "But the trucker was a looker." Johnny gave RJ a shit-eating grin. "I’m thinking her hair was damn near the exact color of sweet corn in the summertime." He shrugged. "Short and shaggy-looking, but still feminine." The slim man strolled over to Luke who was now chuckling and holding his magazine unnaturally high so as to cover his face. "She was a real looker, wasn’t she, Fitz?"

"I didn’t notice her hair." RJ shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
I should have known coming here today would be a mistake!

A third man with a rotund belly and a half-smoked cigar hanging out of his mouth croaked from his spot at the checkerboard in the corner, "Of course not, you were too busy looking at her boobs."

"I was not!" RJ defended, almost coming out of the chair.

"Damn it, RJ, settle down before I scalp you bald!" Sammy ordered, pushing the woman back into the chair and resettling the cape around her shoulders.

"You’re all nasty old goats. The lot of you." RJ’s cheeks were flaming hot, and by the intensified laughter among the men, she knew they looked as flushed as they felt. "I don’t know why I put up with you."

"Because this is the only barbershop in town and if you didn’t come in here you’d be forced to cut it yourself. Then you’d be in a real mess." Johnny grinned as he crossed over to the checkerboard and jumped several of his opponent’s pieces. "King me, Charlie."

Charlie’s eyes turned to slits, and he yanked his cigar from his mouth. "I’d like to king you, you cheatin’ rat bas–"

Johnny tossed the magazine into the pile, then leaned over to the old-fashioned cooler where Sammy kept a stash of frosty root beers. "So, if you didn’t notice her hair and you weren’t looking at her marangas, what did you notice? Her butt?"

"It was shaped just right," Luke cooed dreamily, just to torment RJ further.

"Bunch of perverts. I can’t count the years between you and you were staring at her backside? Hey," RJ pointed at Johnny, "don’t even think of opening that root beer unless you’re prepared to share with Flea. She has feelings too."

RJ’s words proved prophetic, and the cat silently wandered over and flopped down in front of Johnny. She scratched her face with one slender paw before rolling onto her back and opening her mouth, waiting.

"You spoil her." Johnny pried the top off the bottle with the opener attached to the machine, careful not to let the bottle cap drop into Flea’s gaping mouth.

"That’s what she’s here for, among other things — to keep me company and so I can spoil her. You’re just jealous."

"Bet she gets steak or liver two times a week, doesn’t she?" Johnny drizzled a little of fizzing liquid into the black cat’s gulping mouth, then he took a long drink himself before wiping his lips on the back of his sleeve. He looked at his sleeve and smiled at the small stain. He was damn near positive he’d gotten it all out of his mustache in one try. His horoscope had been so right. Today was going to be a great day!

RJ tilted her head down and Sammy snipped no more than a quarter of an inch off the back of her auburn locks. He gathered a little of RJ’s hair in his hand, thinking she could wear it in a tiny ponytail if she had a mind to.

"Flea gets liver twice a week, steak twice a week, and chicken twice a week. On Fridays we all have fish." RJ’s tone turned irritated. "We’re Catholic, you know."

Luke sniggered. "You might be Catholic. I’m not sure Flea is."

"Doesn’t matter. I eat fish. Flea eats fish. We’re a team."

Sammy jabbed RJ in the shoulder with his finger. "So tell us about the little blonde with the big red truck."

RJ tried to shrug, but Sammy held her shoulder firm, silently scolding her for the anticipated movement. "What’s to tell? She came into the diner, got knocked senseless by the door. Pete fixed her breakfast, she took a shower in the garage. And then she left."
Her smile was brighter than the morning sunshine. And if she’d asked me for a tongue bath instead of a shower, I’d have been more than happy to oblige. But did she have to insult my truck so?
"Not too damn much, if you ask me."

Sammy cleared his throat and grinned at his friends in the shop. "What color were her eyes?"

"Blue," RJ responded automatically, sending the entire room into a fit of laughter.

Charlie nearly choked on his cigar.

"All right! That’s it!" RJ bolted from the chair, ripping the cape from her neck. She tossed it into her empty chair, then pulled her cap from her pocket and jammed it onto her head. Digging in her pocket, she pulled out some money, which she pushed into Sammy’s outstretched hand. "You’re all just … just … Aww, hell! Come on, Flea!"

The snorts and knee-slapping laughter could be heard out onto the street as RJ and Flea made a hasty exit. The cat let RJ get a few steps in front of her, and then, with a running start, she bounded up RJ’s back and settled on her shoulder, sneezing when she inhaled a small cut hair that had worked its way under the barber’s cape. RJ didn’t even slow her stride.

"Silly sons-a-bit –" she stopped suddenly when she realized her grouching and her cussing were about to be overheard by Mrs. Amos. RJ smiled and tried to look properly contrite as she moved to the door of the grocer’s and extended her arms. "Can I give you a hand with those, Mrs. Amos?" She inquired, pointing at the two large paper sacks at the older woman’s feet. The elderly tended to use the old grocer downtown, while everybody else frequented the newer, bigger building on the edge of Glory.

Mrs. Amos, a contemporary of RJ’s grandmother, pulled on her white gloves, buttoning the small pearl at the wrist, and adjusted her handbag on her arm. "That’d be very nice, Ruth Jean, thank you." She held out her arms and Flea happily jumped into them, purring when Mrs. Amos gave her belly a good scratching.

RJ winced at the use of her much-hated full name and muttered, "My pleasure, ma’am." The young woman knelt and scooped both bags into her arms, then prepared for what would no doubt be an excruciatingly slow walk back to Mrs. Amos’ house.

"How’s your mother, Ruth Jean?"

"She’s fine, ma’am. Busy as always, puttering around the house. It’s this week I think she’s planning on painting the dining room. She wants it done before Easter, you know."

"Of course. Your mother’s Easter brunches are legendary. Mr. Amos and I are looking forward to it, as always."

"Hmm, yes, ma’am, that they are."

"So," Mrs. Amos primly adjusted her handbag again, her gait so short and slow that RJ began to wonder if they were moving at all. "Mavis mentioned that the diner was busy yesterday."

RJ groaned.

Flea laughed. Sort of. Hell, even
she
felt bad for RJ. Sort of.

Does everyone have to know my business? What a town of busy bodies!
You’d think we’d gone out back and necked under that old tree.
Not that that was a particularly
bad
idea, but it hadn’t happened and wasn’t likely to now that the young woman had moved on. RJ rolled her eyes, hoping Mrs. Amos wouldn’t catch the gesture and rat her out to her mother. "Yes, ma’am, we had our share of folks that were just plain lost due to that detour."

"Mavis mentioned one young woman in particular."

Of course she did. Mavis is a gossipy fishwife if there ever was one!
"She did, did she?"
Oh, yeah. The whole town was talking about the blonde. Leigh, wasn’t that what she told Pete?
She hadn’t caught a last name.

"Oh, my, yes." Mrs. Amos nodded. "Mavis told me she was a pretty thing about your age, driving a big red truck, if you can imagine that."

"That she was."

"Pretty or driving a big red truck?"

"Both," RJ allowed begrudgingly.

"Did you speak with her?"

"Not all that much." RJ shifted the bags in her arms.
What did she buy? Bricks?
"There were logs to be split. I was busy."

"I see," she snipped. "You’re always too busy taking care of other things before yourself, aren’t you, RJ? Looking out for other folks first, that’s what you do. You know, you might want to look around you and see that it’s okay to take care of yourself once in a while."

RJ sighed quietly. "Yes, ma’am."
God, my mother’s been visiting with her too often!
"But you know that my parents raised me right."

"That they did, dear." Mrs. Amos patted RJ’s hand as the women slowed even further so two little girls on bicycles could zoom across the sidewalk in front of them. "You’ve always been a delight, except for those wicked puberty years, of course."

RJ smiled insincerely.

"Occasionally you just have to take time for yourself. I’m sure this lady wouldn’t mind," she stroked Flea lovingly, and RJ swore she saw the cat stick her tongue out at her.

"I’ll remember, I’ll remember. But sometimes It’s easier said than done, Mrs. Amos."
It’s not like Glory is chock full of eligible women who can’t resist my significant charms, now is it?
"But if the chance should arise again, I’ll certainly think on it."
Hell, even if the chance doesn’t present itself again anytime soon, I’ll be thinking about the blonde.

"You do that, Ruth Jean."

After delivering Mrs. Amos and her shopping safely home, RJ headed over to the hardware store to pick up the paint that would be required to spruce up the dining room in her parents’ house.

She looked down at her furry little companion. "This place is going to be just like the last, you know?"

Flea licked her lips.
More root beer?

"Well," RJ huffed, placing her fists on her hips. "Glad to know you’re on my side in all of this, pal. You could stand to be just a little more encouraging."

This time Flea ignored RJ completely. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand it was a whiny human. Wasn’t it nap time again?

At Flea’s obvious snub, RJ said, "Thanks so much." Shaking her head, she entered the store.

"Good morning, RJ," the woman behind the counter offered as RJ came through the door. She turned down the blaring radio.

"Mornin’, Mrs. Morgan. I’ve come to fetch the paint for my mother."

"It’s all boxed up and ready for you. I put it on your tab." Alice Morgan gestured with her chin. "Right there by the door. A gallon of robin’s egg blue and a quart of trim paint. I imagine you’ll be busy for a few days."

RJ smiled and nodded as she looked into the crate. She was grateful that it seemed that at least one person wasn’t interested in what had happened at the diner yesterday.

Alice leaned forward and whispered loudly to RJ, "I also slipped that new red shirt I made for you into the box. You might want to wear it down to the diner next time you go. I’m betting the trucker would like you in a red shirt."

RJ’s shoulders slumped. So much for that theory.

*  *  *

One end of Leigh’s route started in South Dakota. It ran from Sioux Falls to Rapid City, to Buffalo, Wyoming, and then into Montana. From Billings she went to Helena and Missoula and ended in Seattle, Washington, before she turned around and drove back. Three ten-hour days of driving from end to end if Leigh didn’t count traffic, construction, detours, poor weather or the occasional need to pee. Then a half day in Seattle and Sioux Falls to load, unload and load her cargo again, and she was back on the road. It was a grueling, endless loop that Leigh ran for three weeks straight then took a full week off.

It wasn’t the type of run most people could handle on a continuous basis, but Leigh’s clients paid premium rates for her reliable service, and she continued to push herself hard. In just under two years, she’d earned enough to fully pay off her father’s truck, give a lump sum to both of his ex-wives, each of whom had a couple of children by her father, and put a tidy sum in a jar under the truck seat, besides. Hell, the kids were all sweet, even if her dad’s ex-wives weren’t, and Leigh figured they shouldn’t have to suffer just because her father died with only enough life insurance to bury him. Nearly twenty years separated her from the oldest half-brother, and a part of her was sad that none of them would really know her or her father. Their moms had both remarried, and there wasn’t any place in their lives for a sister they never knew anyway.