The Widows of Wichita County (13 page)

Thanksgiving
11:00 a.m.
Courthouse

M
eredith Allen sifted through the files. Cora Lee Wilson, the county clerk, had left her plenty to do during the four days the office would be closed to the public. In most small towns like Clifton Creek, the clerk's position resembled the Pope's. Once elected, the term stretched for life. Cora Lee had started passing jobs off to Meredith when she worked summers during her last two years of high school. At first it was filing, then record keeping. Now Meredith was not sure the clerk even remembered how to do some of the reports that had to be kept.

But Meredith didn't mind. She enjoyed the silence of the work. It was so different from teaching, and it offered her the extra money she needed.

Thanksgiving passed faster at work than at home alone. The cold marble and brick of the courthouse were familiar to her. She had danced in the empty halls while her father cleaned the place years ago. When she had been five, the building was her palace with huge windows that reached the sky, and wooden railings that shone as if liquid glass
had been poured over them. She knew where every light switch was, every back door, every hidden cove where a little girl could hide and pretend.

She glanced out the windows she once thought were the tallest in the world. Sheriff Farrington's car was parked next to hers on the otherwise empty lot. He arrived first, but Meredith didn't stop in to let him know she was here.

In the past five years, they had developed a pattern. Whoever came in last or left first always checked in at the other's office to let them know someone else was in the building.

Only she did not want to face him this morning. Meredith knew he was here. He was always here. Sheriff Farrington once told her that he worked holidays because both his deputies were family men. In truth, she guessed he was more like her now and did not want to be at home alone.

Meredith tried to keep busy, but she could not concentrate on filing while thinking about him, only a few doors away. She probably had not crossed his mind. One-night stands were no doubt his specialty.

Closing her eyes, Meredith decided she must be the worst lover in the world. Or at least the worst Sheriff Farrington had ever known. That was why he told her they should not see one another again. Or maybe he didn't like the way she looked, or felt, or smelled. Who knows? She had spent most of her life trying to understand Kevin. It seemed far too much trouble to start over with another man now. There wasn't enough lifetime left to make any progress.

Kevin had been big. He loved hugging and cuddling. Even when they were arguing, usually about money, he
would always pull her close at night, like she was a part of him.

Granger's night with her was totally different. He touched her, but she didn't feel a part of him. He knew how to please a woman but, before and after, he did not seem to have any idea what to do with her. For him, the loving was something he did
to
a woman, not something they made together.

Meredith decided she would just become a monk, or whatever women are called who have no sex in their life. Feeling great for a short time was not worth the hours of worrying about him afterward.

He had probably been right to end their affair the day after it started. Where could it lead, anyway? Neither were the type to sneak around which, in this town, was nearly impossible. He obviously liked being a bachelor; he'd avoided several attempts to be matched up with single ladies in the area.

The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man. It would be a long time, maybe never, before she would be able to set herself up for the possibility of marrying and then losing another husband.

He'd been wise to end it, but that didn't make it hurt any less. She felt like the only girl dumped at the prom.

* * *

Granger paced in his office down the hall. He circled his desk for the tenth time, thinking of crossing the distance to Meredith. He was glad the dispatcher, Inez, wasn't there to watch him acting like a squirrel in a cage. Inez would have laughed at him. She'd probably stop making fun of Adam, the oldest deputy, and start picking on him.

He thought of trying to call Anna Montano again. Eventually she would have to talk to him. She couldn't
just send answers care of her brother, even if Carlo seemed to consider himself some kind of guard dog over his little sister. There were still questions about the accident.

Granger glanced at the hallway. Maybe he should ask Meredith about the Montano woman. At least that would give him some way to start a conversation.

He reconsidered, realizing he was acting the fool again, thinking about Meredith as if there weren't a hundred more important things for him to concentrate on. He couldn't help wondering why she hadn't stopped by when she came in this morning. It wasn't like her not to follow the rules. Even unwritten ones. He didn't even like her all that much he reminded himself. She wasn't his type, and he was far too old to let any woman get under his skin.

She was cluttery. He required an order about everything in his life. Half the time he saw her, she looked like she'd gotten dressed in the car on the way to school.

She was too short. Her legs would never wrap around his waist. He liked a woman who could do that. And her breasts were too large. Far too large, he told himself. Any more than a handful is a waste. And she wore her hair like a little girl. A damn ribbon. She had to be in her thirties, and she still wore ribbons.

He opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled the sliver of satin through his fingers. He had no reason for keeping the thing he decided as he shoved it back in the drawer.

Something his father used to say drifted through his mind. A man is pestering an idiot when he tries to fool himself.

Granger closed the drawer and headed down the hall. It was time he shook this interest before she became an obsession.

Meredith's appearance did not surprise him as he entered the county clerk's office. She wore a boxy sweater
that had turkeys lined up along the border and sleeves. She had pulled her shoulder-length hair back in a loose knot at the base of her neck so that the tiny turkeys dangling from her ears would show. Her skirt was too long and her shoes too practical to ever have been in fashion.

She looked ridiculous, he decided. Not a second-grader in sight and she still wore the uniform, like a clown who smeared on face paint even on his day off.

Stepping down from the chair she'd been using as a step stool, she watched him walk toward her as if she were watching a total stranger heading in her direction. He almost expected her to ask, “May I help you?”

Granger tried to think of something to say. He had been hoping that she was three doors down thinking about him all morning, but from the looks of things, she had been working.

He tried to focus on the turkeys on her sweater. “I thought I'd go down to the truck stop for coffee and a burrito. You want anything?”

“Coffee would be nice.” She reached for her purse. “The pot in the back is broken.”

He almost told her he had a pot in his office, but somehow that seemed too personal.

She handed him fifty cents and he took it. From the beginning, she would never let him pay for anything. He did not even try to now. Men buy one another coffee or meals in a haphazard rotation, but women always want to keep everything even. Teachers were the worst. He had seen them get out their calculators and figure tax and tip down to the penny.

“With cream, no sugar. Right?”

She smiled. “Right.”

He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for her to say more. When she remained silent, he walked back to his
office, grabbed his keys off the corner of his desk, and his pager from the wall, then headed out into the cold. If a 911 call came in, which it rarely did, the pager would sound.

The gray day suited his mood.

The truck stop on the interstate was busy as always. You'd think people would settle down for one day of the year he thought, but the highway still flowed like a stream of ants. He circled the lot once before parking, taking note of the out-of-state license plates. Nothing looked amiss.

In ten minutes he headed back with two large coffees and a burrito that had been frozen less than an hour before. He didn't bother to stop at his office but went straight to hers.

He almost expected her to be gone, but she was still there, working at her desk in the back corner. When he set the coffee down, he noticed the sandwich she must have brought from home. Times were tight for her he bet, wishing he'd insisted on buying her coffee.

Without a word, he pulled up a chair and sat down at the corner of her desk. He unwrapped his burrito and pulled off the lid to his coffee without looking at her. If she did not like him staying long enough to eat, she was going to have to say something. Neither of them would get over their night together hiding in separate rooms. And it might only be a burrito and a sandwich, but they might as well have Thanksgiving lunch together.

“Think it will snow?” She opened her coffee and poured in both the creams he had brought, then looked around for something to stir with.

It occurred to him that he might be the only one trying to get over anything. She did not even look like she remembered their night together. Maybe she had forgotten it. Maybe she thought it was a dream. Who knew about
women? He'd been seeing one of his Sunday ladies off and on for two years, and she still got mixed up and called him George now and then.

“I doubt we'll see snow. Might get rain later tonight.” He tried to sound as casual as she did. Leaning back, he took a drink and frowned. “Something wrong?”

“I can never get the coffee back here while it's still hot,” he mumbled.

She pointed with the fork she had found in her desk drawer and had been using as a stir stick. “There's a microwave next to the sink over there.” She pointed with her head toward the corner.

While he waited for his coffee to warm he said, “The only thing that seems to work around this place is you. The janitor told me the other day that if Cora Lee Wilson didn't move a little faster, he was going to have to start dusting her.”

“I like to keep busy.”

The microwave dinged and he reached for the thin cup. As he lifted his drink, the bottom of the cup caught the lip of the tray and splashed coffee across his hand.

Granger swore, tossed his cup in the sink, turned on the water, and plunged his right hand into the cold stream.

Meredith rushed to his side, pulling at his arm, trying to see if he was hurt. “Let me see where you're burned!”

“It's nothing,” he said between clenched teeth. “Only a scald.”

He rolled his sleeve up with one hand as water splashed over the cuff of his uniform.

She moved closer.

He jumped away, as if her touch burned deeper than the coffee.

Before she could react, he put the length of the desk
between them. “It's not important.” Granger fought to keep his voice calm. “There's no need for you to worry over it.”

“Let me…” She reached toward him.

“No. Don't touch me.”

Meredith stopped in midstride. She didn't say a word, but stood perfectly still, staring at him as though she had no idea what kind of creature he was.

Granger left the office in a hurry, no longer aware of his throbbing hand. He had told her it was nothing. Why did she have such a problem listening? What was wrong with the woman? Couldn't she understand that some people do not like to be fretted over, smothered with patting and pampering?

He rushed out the side door and walked to his car. Without a backward glance, he drove off the parking lot and headed toward the campus. There would be no one there today. He would cross through the streets of town until he calmed down and forgot about the way Meredith's face looked, all hurt and disappointed.

She was not his type. Not tall, not long-legged. Cluttery. Not what he liked. She was mothering. The kind who would tie strings around a man until he could not move.

After an hour he turned into the truck stop and told them the burrito was so good, he'd come back for a full meal. He took his time eating and visiting with the manager. When he returned to the courthouse, Meredith's blue Mustang was gone. He made himself finish his paperwork and, about nine, finally figured he was tired enough to get to sleep without thinking about her.

But despite his plans, he circled by her house on his way home. A fog had moved in, and he needed to see that
she'd got home safely. With that piece of junk she drove it was always a question.

Every light in her place was on. The air, thick with rain, made her windows fuzzy against the dark wood of her house.

He pulled up and waited for ten minutes before he finally turned off the engine and climbed out of his car.

He knocked twice before she answered.

She opened the door and stepped back, letting him in without a word.

As always, her place was warm. He took a deep breath, wondering what he would say.

She walked to the center of the living room and crossed her arms over her funny-looking bedspread robe. “How's your hand?” she said calmly. He saw slippers with bunny rabbit heads peeking out from beneath her robe.

“Fine.” He held up his left hand. “I drove around with it hanging out the window for a while.” That was not what he had come to say. He had no idea why he had come, but talking about his hand was definitely not it. He should have just circled Frankie's Bar and headed home as usual.

“I have some lotion that might help.” She did not move to get it.

He didn't want to talk about his hand or lotion. She was not one of his Sunday girls; she deserved better. “Look, I'm sorry.”

“So am I,” she answered.

He smiled. “What the hell have you got to be sorry about, Meredith? I'm the one who swore and bolted out of your office.” It made him mad that she was slicing off a piece of his “I'm sorry.”