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 (9 page)

BOOK: T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel
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T didn’t try to hide the smirk on his face. Here at last was an area he was more proficient in than Fletch: small Protestant churches. He’d warned Fletch about being late on important Sundays. That Tib had his eyebrows raised when he approached to usher them down the main aisle only added to T's enjoyment of the situation. Harrison had saved them seats and now scooted over to sit next to an older red-haired woman that could only be his grandmother. Fletch stared straight ahead, managing to avoid T's eyes, but not the poke in the ribs.

T found Lyla sitting on the front row in the other pew section, almost within touching distance of a piano that looked to be just visiting the sanctuary. He scanned the bulletin, finding Lyla’s name next to the offertory. Well, he hadn’t brought any money. Better hope Fletch was prepared.

They stood for the first hymn, interestingly enough one he had taken great pleasure in jazzing up the day before. This time, the tune and cadence evoked memories of his grandmother’s country church in the summer. Close his eyes and the years would melt away and he would be there, his young fingers just itching to play the music faster, broader, with more feeling. They didn’t attempt to find the appropriate number in the hymnal. T’s fingers drummed on the back of the pew in front of them. Fletch elbowed him to cut it out. He put his hands in his pants pocket, tapped with his foot instead.

He wondered how this trip in nostalgia was playing for Fletch. Maybe it was culture shock. Not many Jews, even if they were non-practicing like Fletch, got this experience. Maybe they could find a Pentecostal church for next Sunday. Fletch needed to broaden his horizons.

They sat, they bowed their heads, they stood when everyone else did. T was spared finding the New Testament lesson when a hand bounced on his shoulder from behind and an old woman smiled and handed him a Bible opened to the appropriate passage. He smiled back. They must be wearing their ignorance like placards.

Thirty minutes into the service, the ushers appeared down the center aisle, words were said over the wooden offertory plates and Fletch dug in his pockets for a just amount. He pulled a ten from the clip; T reached over and slipped a fifty out with it. Harrison was watching the exchange and the two bills went into the plate just as the duet began.

I Love to Tell the Story.
How appropriate for us, T thought, as the first notes came. Then he lost all track of what Melinda was doing, stretched his right arm out to grip the pew in front of them and concentrated on Lyla. It was more than notes now, it was technique and feeling. It was music. He was lost in it, had come under the spell of Lyla’s touch on the keys.

The piece ended and T found his reverie broken by a sharp rap on the knee from Fletch. At least he hadn’t closed his eyes, his favorite thing to do when involved in the musical experience. Mechanically, they stood for the Doxology.

The rest of the service passed as a blur. He concentrated on the altar table cross and spun the song Lyla had played over and over in his head. He reviewed her technique, her feeling, her essence. By the time the service ended and everyone stood for the choral benediction, T had assured himself that the grand piano had a rightful home and owner in Lyla.

Fletch turned quickly to T. He motioned to leave but was caught in a trap of his own making, squeezed between Harrison and a line of well-wishers that rushed to the front of the church to congratulate the musicians. T noted the congregation giving the two of them a once-over also. He lifted his eyebrows slightly to Fletch and didn’t even try to conceal his grin. “Told you.”

Harrison pulled on Fletch’s hand. “Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Thomas, this is my Grandma, but you can call her Red.” He pulled her to face them. “And this is Bertie.” He reached over the back of the pew to touch the woman that had handed them the Bible.

“Mrs. Lee,” Fletch murmured. “Bertie. Please just call us Fletch and Sam. May I say how much we are enjoying your daughter-in-law’s lovely home? A wonderful view.” T didn't try to join in the conversation. Fletch was in his PR-mode.

“Nice to meet you,” they answered in unison. T could almost hear the wheels spinning, smell the rubber burning, as his own grandmother would have said, as they assessed them. For some inexplicable reason, he didn’t want to be found wanting. He wanted to be worthy. The thought disturbed him.

“I must admit I was surprised when Harrison said you might actually come to church. That’s not what people usually do on vacation,” Red added.

“I told you they wanted to hear Mama play. Sam can really play, Grandma.”

“Well, we’re glad you came.” Red's hand rested on the boy’s shoulder, possessive.

T took advantage of Fletch’s momentary lapse in conversation and eased out into the aisle. The crowd was thinning and he headed to Lyla.

He hung back, wanting to be last in line. The bishop shook Lyla’s hand, thanked her for the music, then it was his turn. He held out his hand as everyone else had done, she took it, but neither immediately let go.

“Harrison waited until we were in the doors to tell me he’d invited you to church. I’m pleased you came.”

“I’m glad to know the Steinway has a more than adequate talent to keep it exercised. You feel the music.” He placed his other hand gently over hers.

“Not nearly in the sense that you do.”

He smiled, let his eyes linger on hers. “Don’t underrate yourself. Next time you’re at the house, we’ll have to play a duet.”

“Chopsticks? Heart and Soul?” A smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“You name it.”

Tib appeared beside them. “Lyla, beautiful as always.”

She pulled her hand from T’s. He rammed his in his pockets.

“I was just telling her the same thing.” T met Tib’s gaze. He’d not be stared down by any man.

“Well, it has been quite a morning.” Lyla stepped slightly between them, linking her arm with Tib’s. The men dropped their attention to her.

T looked to Fletch, trapped between Red and Bertie. He watched as Harrison wiggled out of the pew and went outside. The small church was empty. The sun streamed in through the windows, dust particles stirring in the air. His stomach growled.

“Oops, time to go, I guess.” T vaguely clutched at his middle, a move calculated to ease Tib’s rising jealousy. He started toward Fletch, rescued him. Even the preacher wasn’t at the front doors as they left.

They were on the road to the cabin before Fletch spoke up. “I don’t suppose you could have listened to her like any other normal human being.”

“I’m not any other normal human being.” He took the first curve too fast. “I’m Eddie T.”

“I gather you’re not disturbed because Red thinks we aren’t to be trusted with the family silver, much less Harrison and his home and mother. No, I think it’s something else.” He smoothed the top of the newspaper on his lap, started leafing through the sections. “And slow down. You don’t own this car.”

“Game Warden Wilson.” T clenched his teeth. “Circled me like I was about to poach his prize quail.”

“I’d say the man was prescient. You are beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to a bird dog.”

 

*  *  *

 

“I tell you, Lyla, there is something wrong. Really wrong.” Tib talked fast as he lowered one end of the picnic cloth to the ground near the trunk of the old oak tree in the Vinson family plot. Harrison had been sent to fetch the newspaper out of the back seat so they could read a little and relax after lunch. Lyla was due back at the store by two since Sally, new grandmother, had had it open since seven that morning. “And I don’t mean whether they are or are not gay. Hell, that’s beside the point now! You didn’t see him while you were playing. He was,” Tib searched, “weird. Just plain weird.”

“He’s a musician. All real musicians are weird. Trust me on this one, Tib. I can tell the difference between the artiste and the wannabe.” She lifted the plates and utensils from the cooler. “Put a big E on the end of his artist. He,” she measured her words, “is a musician. He feels it like you can tell when someone’s fudging on their legal daily limit. He knows.”

“Well, to look at him this morning, you’re an artiste, too.”

“Well, we both know that’s wrong.”

“Lyla, don’t say that. You have such a gift and you’re just squandering it.”

“Tib, I really don’t want to discuss it right now.” She set the cold drinks out of the cooler. “I just play.”

He sulked. “Sometimes.”

Lyla sighed. “Tib, you and I know why I don’t.” She watched Harrison drop the Sunday paper onto the cloth. “And that’s the end of this particular conversation.”

Harrison reached for a plate. “After church, Arial Palmer said Sam looked like Eddie T of Bone Cold—Alive, ’cept she couldn’t imagine what somebody that famous would be doing in this hole.”

“Famous is relative, Harrison. And were those her words about ‘this hole’?”

“Sure, Mama. Ari says she can hardly wait to leave.”

Tib and Lyla exchanged a quick glance. He grinned slightly. “I think I remember some other people saying the same thing.”

“And look where we are,” she agreed.

Harrison plowed on. “Wouldn’t that be neat, though? Eddie T!”

“Do you have any idea who Eddie T is?”

“He’s a rock star! Ari says…”

“Arial babysits you too much.”

“I like Ari.” He dug into the chicken. “I think Fletcher and Sam enjoyed church.”

“Well, maybe they’ll come back next week.” She opened the container of potato salad, and while she spoke to Harrison, she pointed the words at Tib. “After all, we know God works in mysterious ways.”

 

Chapter Eight

 

W
as it his new role in life to always be stepping over that dog, Fletch wondered as he closed the door to the Quik-Lee behind him Monday morning? The lunch counter was awash in over-easy eggs, coffee cups, and used jelly packets. The noise level was high, but happy, controlled chaos at its best.

Fletch listened to it all, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. At the end of the counter, the news rags had been switched, but T’s picture still dominated, the hunt still on. At least no one had caught a glimpse of him emerging from rehab. The file photos didn’t do justice to the clean-cut, clear-eyed individual he was pretending to be. Fletch stacked the three magazines and the Dallas paper and stood at the cash register.

“Fletch, how can I help you?”

“You told Sam I needed a license to fish.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got the forms right here.” She rustled through papers, retrieved a pen from a jar by the register. “Fill this out. Need to see your driver’s license.” He started digging in his pants pocket. Good thing T wasn’t interested in this amusement. His license hardly said Sam Thomas. “You’re not planning to take off to another lake, are you?”

“No.” He was dutifully filling in all the blanks. “Why?”

“This is a dual-state, just-for-this-lake license. You can fish either side, just stay on this body of water.”

“Fine. It’ll be all I can do to do justice to this sum of money.”

She smiled, counter-signed the license without reading it, tore off his receipt, took the proffered fee and money for the magazines. “So you’re ready to conquer the wild bass?”

“Harrison said stripers.”

“I’m teasing, Fletch. What about a cup of coffee before you go? On the house.”

“Well, shoot, Lyla, nobody told me it was free day,” Norm muttered as he moved past them and settled on the middle stool, the better to hear all the conversations going on around him.

Lyla rolled her eyes at Sally, as the cook broke two eggs for Norm’s usual. Lyla poured a fresh cup of coffee for Fletch and set it in front of the stool closest to the cash register. It wouldn’t do for Norm and Fletch to sit elbow to elbow just yet.

Fletch sat down, eyed the cinnamon rolls. “Homemade?”

“Somebody else’s home. But fresh, good.”

“I’ll have one.” He glimpsed at Norm. “Not on the house, of course.”

“Of course.” She removed the roll from the pie keeper, added butter and microwaved it for him.

“Norm,” Lyla began, “I don’t believe you’ve met my new houseguest.” The old man looked over at her. “Norm Hudson, Fletcher.” She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t recall your first name. And I just took your license. I am getting old.”

“I’m the one’s old. But not blind.” Norm turned to Fletch. “Heard about you in church yesterday. That—” he paused to find the right word, “—friend of yours sure liked Lyla’s playing.”

Fletch looked between the two of them. Lyla’s cheeks were slightly pink. His coffee cup gripped in workman’s hands, Norm studied them. Sally set his plate in front of him and started lazily counting the breakfast tip money.

“Sam is a very talented musician. He appreciates fine playing.” Fletch’s words were measured.

“Uh-huh.” Norm set his cup down and seasoned the eggs. “What else does he appreciate?”

Lyla flicked a dishtowel on the counter between them. The accompanying pop caught their attention. “Norm appreciates grousing. Other than that, he’s almost the best fisherman on the lake.”

“Who’s better?” He chomped on the toast that he’d wrapped around a piece of bacon.

“Dub on a good day. Harrison is going to be a star.”

“It’s in Harrison’s blood. Dub couldn’t fish his way out of his own marina.”

The subject successfully turned, Lyla took a cup of coffee and sat at the cash register. She retrieved Fletch’s license from the drawer. Levi Abraham Fletcher. Hmmm. A possible explanation for his duck out of water look at church yesterday? Both Red and Bertie had commented the two men seemed strangers to the details of the service, but particularly Fletcher. She looked up to find him standing at the counter, money in hand for the cinnamon roll.

“Sam will regret he didn’t come. Excellent roll.” He tucked the papers under his arm. “Will you be to the house today?”

“Well, it’s either today or Wednesday. I’m chaperoning a field trip for the third and fourth grades to a museum exhibit in Dallas tomorrow. You know, the big one on China. It’s been sold-out for months. You want me to come today?”

“Maybe you’d better come police us.”

BOOK: T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel
3.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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