Read T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel Online

Authors: Kay Layton Sisk

Tags: #rock star, #redemption, #tornado, #rural life, #convience store, #musicians, #Texas, #addiction, #contemporary romance

T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (7 page)

BOOK: T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel
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Harrison giggled as he jumped over the back of the loveseat and sat on his knees to watch. Lyla settled herself at the opposite end, her body turned toward him, her legs crossed. She murmured a soft thanks to Fletch when he brought the drinks in.

“First of all, for you, sir.” Sam arpeggioed his way up and back on the keyboard, trilled the notes at both ends simultaneously and launched into a “Pop Goes the Weasel” unlike any she’d ever heard. “So much for Mozart, now for Bach!” The melody of the children’s song still crept through, a bit more recognizable.

Lyla sipped her tea and allowed herself to smile. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a chauffeur. As to anything else, well, Fletch did know how he liked his tea.

“And now for madam.” Sam paused, cast his eyes toward her and she felt her heart give a little lurch. What kind of reaction was that? She was appalled at herself, even as she was drawn to the man now wiggling his fingers, stretching them toward the ivory while his mind tried to figure out the way to go. Finally, he inhaled a deep breath and began “Claire de Lune.”

Lyla had halfway expected another version of her song. As it was, the sweetness of this one tore at her from inside. Her attention was riveted on him. She didn’t know Fletch was standing beside them until the last note hung in the air. Sam gracefully put his hands in his lap and Lyla could envision Miss Tennie’s approval.

“That’s the way my music teacher says you’re supposed to do when you finish,” Harrison announced. “Now you’re supposed to count to three and then slide to the end of the bench and bow from the waist.”

Sam smiled at the boy and Lyla's heart lurched again. “You’re not supposed to grin even if you know you did a good job.” Sam clamped his mouth shut, slid to the end of the bench, bowed from the waist. The appreciative audience clapped.

“Now can I smile when I know I’m leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Your mama not your piano teacher?” Sam stood at the end of the couch, hands on hips. His breath was ragged from the sudden release of tension brought on by playing the piano. He gave himself to the music. Lyla closed her eyes briefly. What was all this raw power doing here in her cabin, being barely contained in this man’s body?

“We didn’t do well as teacher and pupil,” she explained, opening her eyes and tearing them from his body and back to his face. “A friend of mine has had better luck. They are much more
simpatico
.”

“Wanna hear my new piece? It’s got four pages. How about my recital piece from last May?”

“We would love to hear your recital piece. And your new one.”

“Mom, where are the keys? My music’s in my room!” He turned toward her with his hand out. She pulled a key ring from her pocket. He searched through it and found the right one, shot toward the door to their wing of the house and unlocked it.

“How about playing after dinner?” Fletch called after him. To her, he bowed slightly and said, “Dinner is served.”

Harrison tore back through the bedroom wing door, deposited his music at the piano and handed Lyla the keys. Fletch took the table host position by the kitchen door and T sat opposite. Their guests sat on the sides.

Harrison eyed the table and licked his lips. “Fried chicken?”

“Of a sort.”

“Okay.” He sat quietly and stretched his hands out, one to T, one to Fletch. The latter looked puzzled. “Aren’t you going to say grace?”

“Harrison—”Lyla began.”

“No, quite all right, Lyla. We’ve been lax in our religion lately, I’m afraid. You will say grace for us, Harrison?”

“Sure.” His hands wiggled for theirs. “We join hands.” Fletch and T exchanged brief glances and then stretched their hands to join Lyla and Harrison’s. Satisfied, Harrison began. “For what we are about to receive, thank you. Amen.”

T reluctantly gave up Lyla’s hand. It had been smooth, warm, filling. He’d thought the kid would do the typical precocious child thing and pray for five minutes. Then he could have continued to hold her hand. “That was short,” T commented as he flounced his napkin over his lap.

“That’s the Methodist prayer. Since I don’t know what you are, I thought that was safer than the Baptist one Bertie taught me ’cause she used to be a Baptist, and Mama’d be mad if I did Grandpa’s.”

Fletch arched an eyebrow at Lyla. “I can’t stand it. Tell Grandpa’s.”

Harrison snuck a look at Lyla. “Go ahead,” she told him.

“Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat.”

“Well, I understand that one, too. Your Grandpa must be a very interesting character.” Fletch picked up the bowl of green salad and passed it to Lyla. T handed Harrison the peaches and strawberries.

“That is an understatement,” Lyla answered as she helped herself. “He revels in being a character. And he has so much encouragement from his cronies. Sometimes, I think this land breeds characters and not character.”

“Interesting point. May I help you with the chicken, Harrison?”

“I want a drumstick.”

“All breasts.”

“That would be fine.” He looked over at Lyla and the corners of her mouth tipped up slightly. Bet they had a little manner-polishing this afternoon, T thought.

They finished filling their plates in relative silence. Harrison passed on the green salad, the green beans, and the homemade macaroni and cheese Fletch had concocted especially for him. “I’m afraid he’s grown attached to the blue box. He can even tell brands by taste,” was Lyla’s explanation. “But I love homemade. Never get it.”

Harrison finished first, passed on seconds of the chicken, and began intensely studying T, trying to catch a glimpse of first one side and then the other of his face.

“Harrison, what are you doing?” There was sternness in her voice and even T straightened his spine.

“Grandpa said he bet they wore earrings, but I don’t think so.” He turned to Fletch. “I know he doesn’t, there aren’t any holes like you have, but I think Mr. Thomas has one.” He touched his own left ear.

Lyla shut her eyes. “I apologize for my father-in-law, who, God knows, knows better than to fill his head…”

T was laughing. “That’s okay. No apology needed.” He turned so Harrison could see his left ear. “I’ve had three earrings here.” Harrison’s mouth fell open and he stood to get a closer look. “One here,” he turned back to the right side, “although I don’t wear it anymore and I think the hole’s closed and,” he started to pull his shirt out of his pants.

“Sam!” Fletch's voice rose. “I don’t think the dinner table is the proper place for this!”

T grinned at him and cocked an eyebrow just as he caught a horrified expression from Lyla that more than matched Fletch's. He could well imagine Fletch rapidly trying to catalog all the places T had experienced body piercing—not to mention the much balley-hoo’ed snake tattoo!

“Just exactly what did you think I was going to do?” He put his shirt down and tucked it back in. Perhaps he had gotten carried away. To Harrison, “I got one in my belly button. But I was drunk at the time. Bad thing, drinking too much. You end up with all kinds of holes.” He scooted back to the table. “Sorry, Lyla.”

“No problem. You don’t need to hear an old man’s prejudices out of the mouth of a boy.”

“Well, son, if it’ll keep your mother happy, why don’t you just run everything through her first before you repeat it to us?”

“Kinda takes the fun out of it if I do that.”

“Amen to that.” T stretched his length out in the chair, his legs extending well under the table. His feet bumped Lyla’s and they both hastily apologized and moved.

“Dessert now or after Harrison entertains us?” Fletch asked.

“It’s going to be dark soon, I need to show you about fishing.” He hopped out of his chair and started to the door. “I can play and we can have dessert later.”

“Harrison, you are forgetting who’s host,” Lyla warned.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” Fletch was on his feet. “Shall we sit on the front porch?”

T watched as Fletch-the-master-planner orchestrated the next part of the evening. The only way to information, he’d said, was through dividing Lyla and Harrison. T glanced over at Lyla. It looked like he was going to get the better end of the deal. As if there'd ever been a doubt.

“Or I guess we could practice casting into the hot tub.” Harrison squealed at Fletch's suggestion. Lyla grimaced. T made a mental note to check Fletch’s shaving kit for mood enhancers. He’d not been this friendly since their first platinum album. “All right, front porch then. Sam, why don’t you clear the table, start the coffee.”

Harrison was already out the front door. Lyla looked between the two men, settled her gaze on T. Hell, he could be a good sport.

“Go right ahead, Fletch. Bet I can have a learning experience, too. Something tells me Lyla's done dishes before.”

 

Chapter Six

 

H
arrison plopped a large tackle box on the porch steps and returned to the Jeep, this time removing a small covered container and a plastic bag with a few minnows, alive and swimming. He set them next to the tackle and took a position beside Fletch on the top step. Shep settled between them.

“Looks like you could open your own store,” was Fletch’s dry comment as Harrison popped the top of the tackle box, revealing four layers of rigging.

“Well, you never know what they’ll be striking.” His fingers moved over the array. “Let’s start with what’s what.” He picked up an assortment of hooks. “Know what these are?”

Fletch teetered between faking more ignorance than he should and realizing that the kid knew more about fishing than he’d ever care to, so his ignorance would be genuine in short order. The latter won. “Hooks.”

Harrison beamed. “And these?”

“Corks.”

He continued to point around the box. “Line, artificial worm, sinker, weight, gummy bear?”

“Oh—knew I’d dropped that.” He reached in and expelled it from the box. “Know how to tie your hook on?”

Real ignorance had set in. “No.”

Harrison pulled out twenty-pound test line and a medium-sized hook. “Okay, watch me first.”

Fletch retrieved his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and watched closely. “Your daddy teach you all this?”

“Grandpa did.” He handed his pupil his own line and hook.

Fletch tried to copy him. The hook slipped out of the incomplete knot.

“I’ll show you again.”

Fletch tried another tack. “Your daddy give you the dog?”

“Yeah. One of the customers couldn’t keep him where he was moving, so we got him. He was already named Shepherd, but we just call him Shep.” The object of the discussion rolled over and stretched.

Fletch started on another knot. As he concentrated, he slightly switched gears. “Where is your daddy?”

“Down at Lost Oaks.”

“Where’s that?”

“’Tween here and Jinks.”

Fletch furrowed his brow. He’d been asleep when they’d driven through there. He handed a successful knot back to Harrison.

“Now let’s practice on artificial worms before I give you a real one.”

Fletch hadn’t seen any real ones, but he was suddenly suspicious of the garden shovel he’d seen in the garage.

“Any of the rest of your family at Lost Oaks?”

“Mama’s mama and grandpa and grandma and some cousins and my big sister.” He finished skewering his artificial worm and handed Fletch one of his own. “Now you do it.”

Fletch concentrated. A daughter not with her mother? Now that was interesting. He gingerly draped the worm. “Ever see them?”

“Every Sunday after church. We take a picnic if the weather’s good.” He examined Fletch’s work. “You learn real quick. Here, let’s get a real one.” He leaned over to the container. Inside was dirt. He dug around and found the earthworm.

“You dig that?”

“Nah, Grandpa has ’em for sale at the marina. They keep forever in the refrigerator ’cept these have been there too long. They’re not real crawly. We can use them for you to learn on.” He handed Fletch an immobile worm. “Go on, put it on.”

It was all he could do not to wrinkle his nose in disgust. He took the worm. “You going to see your daddy tomorrow?”

Harrison watched Fletch’s progress with the worm. “Sure. But first of all, Mama’s got to play a duet with Melinda—that’s my teacher, remember? Mama’s playing the little piano the men’ll roll in from the Sunday school room and Melinda’s playing the one that stays in the choir loft like she always does. Mama doesn’t play much as she used to, so this is real special. The bishop’s coming or something. I don’t know. They’ve been working on it. You did real good. Wanna try a minnow now?”

Fletch’s head was spinning with all the knowledge. A split family, a talented pianist who no longer played, a bunch of church-going folk that picnicked every Sunday with the estranged relatives. He wondered if T would be able to fill in any of these holes. “Bet I can put a minnow on faster than you can.”

Harrison rolled his eyes and smiled at him. “You’re funny, Mr. Fletcher.” He got the minnow bucket from the Jeep and poured the minnows and water in. With a dip net, he captured two of them.

“Your grandpa go to church with you?”

“You really are funny. Grandpa says the best place to get close to God’s on the lake, so he fishes every Sunday he’s not busy at the marina. He’s ’sposed to come tomorrow to hear Mama play, but I don’t think he will. He’ll call just as we’re leaving the house and say record it.”

“So when you record it, can I hear it?” He almost dropped the squiggly bait Harrison handed him.

“Sure. Now stick him right here.” He held hook, line, and minnow up and demonstrated. Fletch watched and then carefully stuck the minnow and brandished a well-baited hook for his teacher. “You’re a fast learner. Bet you could just catch your supper from now on.” He took the minnow and hook away from Fletch. “Let me show you about all our different rods and reels.” He stood up. “They’re in the utility room. Come on.”

Fletch wiped his hands on his pants and dutifully followed. Just before he opened the front door, Harrison turned to him. “Instead of me bringing you the tape, why don’t you just come hear Mama play tomorrow? It’s the Methodist mission in Jinks. We start at eleven. Someday, we’re going to be a real church.” His invitation offered, he beamed at Fletch. “Want me to wait outside for you?”

BOOK: T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel
11.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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