Who You Least Expect (10 page)

“And, for the sake of argument, what if I want something more?”

Her eyes went hard, and then she shrugged, the easy gesture at odds with her unyielding expression. “Your feelings, your business. But I’m telling you what I can offer. And what I can’t.”

She tilted her head up with a defiant little turn, probably expecting him to argue. He wouldn’t, not even to prove a point, but the temptation was strong.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“And don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ I don’t need any more reminders of how much older than you I am.”

“Does the vast gulf of years between us bother you?” he asked as he walked to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of water and then closed the door after she shook her head to decline his offer.

“It’s only nine years, not that vast of a gulf, especially not for people who are both over twenty-five, so no, not especially. But I already know that every tongue in town will be passing the story of how I was here last night. Our age difference and our color difference only makes it that much more salacious.”

“And does that bother you?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose I would have let my naked ass touch your couch if it did, now would I?” she said sarcastically.

He chuckled. “Suppose not. It’s not an issue for me either. And so far, the town doesn’t strike me as one too hung up on race stuff,” he said.

“No, you have a few exceptions, but the town’s pretty tolerant. At least when it comes to that.”

“Good to know,” he said. He’d dated and been with women of all ages and races, and didn’t have hang-ups about any of it. And Blakely Bishop was so damn intriguing, so different, he’d have pursued her no matter what. “So if age doesn’t matter and race doesn’t matter, why the concern?”

“I just hate being gossiped about,” she said, a touch of bitterness creeping into her voice.

“But big city or small town, that’s just a fact a life. You shouldn’t take it to heart.” He took a swallow of water.

“Oh, I don’t. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I let gossip get to me. But I still don’t like it and try not to add fuel to the fire. It’s silly but for some reason, you calling me ‘ma’am’ makes me picture the Ladies’ Council sitting around in their sewing circle being positively scandalized by that Bishop girl gallivanting around with a boy half her age.”

He laughed. “I don’t know if what we did qualifies as ‘gallivanting,’ but no matter what you choose to call it, I’m less than ten years younger than you, which is far less than half. And I haven’t been a boy for a very long time,” he said, placing his hands on her hips and tugging her until their bodies touched.

The warmth and weight of her body against his stirred tendrils of arousal, a feeling that only increased when he moved closer and trailed her hands up his back.

“You look like you want to go. Sure I can’t convince you to stay?” he asked, letting his voice drop to a low tone.

“You could,” she said, “but I should probably go.”

Through a feat of will, he stepped back, breaking the contact between them and watching as she walked to the door.

“See you around, Ms. Bishop,” he said as he turned the lock.

“Make it soon,” she replied.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The sound of her laughter was cut short by the closing of the door.

Chapter Eight

Being in Cody’s bed, in his arms, had been the best night of her life, and as she walked home, she was refreshed, relaxed, ready to move mountains, so relaxed that she didn’t care who saw her walking home in the same clothes she’d worn yesterday. Cody, supremely talented man that he was, had left her so charged, so invigorated, she doubted anything could bring her down. Well, almost anything, as was proved when she saw that ramshackle minivan sitting silent, a menacing sentinel in her driveway. Her lips tightened, and she turned her face down in a frown. She loved her mother, but these impromptu visits were a little much.

“Hey, Mama,” she said after she’d walked up the porch steps.

Blakely’s mother watched her, a knowing little smile playing on the other woman’s lips. “Late night, dear?” she asked.

She was old enough not to be embarrassed by her nocturnal activities—not too embarrassed anyway—but not so old she was completely okay with her mother knowing about them.

“Why are you here?” Blakely asked, desirous of talking about anything else.

If her mother found anything untoward about the question, she didn’t show it. Blakely stood next to the bench and for a moment, she reflected on how glad she was that the bench didn’t have cushions. Those would have been hell to clean but the wood could be wiped down fairly easily—

She cut the thought off as soon as she realized where her mind had taken her. And a heartbeat later, the guilt came, familiar and painful. She shouldn’t judge, was in no position to and knew the sting of condemnation so well herself that she couldn’t justify doing it herself. But the thoughts came all the same.

“No reason. Daddy’s out in the yard again, so I thought we should visit. He couldn’t get away though.”

Thank God.

Blakely shook her head, hoping to shake loose the thoughts, but to no avail. She jumped up but gestured at her mother to stay seated when the other woman went to follow suit.

“It’s such a nice morning. Want to sit out here and catch up?” Blake asked, trying to ignore the terrible thought from before, the shame that nearly stole her breath.

“Sure,” her mother said as she glanced around the tidy porch and lush green grass.

Blakely left her and entered the house, pushing up the front door but not closing it completely. She quickly retrieved two sodas from the refrigerator, trying to ignore the fact that if it were anyone else, she would have put the beverage in a glass. Pulling the door closed behind her, she stepped on the porch, considered where she should sit and finally decided to stand at the railing across from her mother. After passing the soda, she leaned against the rail and watched her mother.

“From the looks of it, you spend all your time keeping this place like a cathedral. I’m never going to get grandbabies that way.”

“Unless you and Daddy have secrets, I don’t think you’re going to get grandbabies at all, Mama,” Blakely said.

“You say that, but from the looks of it, you’re keeping company with somebody. That nice man who helped us at the swap if I had to guess.” Her mother smiled at her conspiratorially, clearly seeking confirmation.

Blakely couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips, and her mother’s deep, throaty laugh indicated she hadn’t missed it. But Blakely couldn’t muster the ability to feel sorry about it. She and Cody were exploring the chemistry between them and having fun while doing it. She wouldn’t deny it or pretend she was unhappy about it, not even with her mother. But she did need to slow the other woman down before she got too excited about the prospect of Blake and Cody married with seventeen kids.

“Well, regardless of who I may or may not be ‘keeping company’ with, don’t get your heart set on any grandbabies or weddings.”

“Oh, you’ll change your mind. I used to be just like you and then I met Daddy.”

She very seriously doubted that her mother had ever been like her. But it seemed a good opening.

“So before him, you didn’t have so much stuff?”

“Oh no. Everything I had could’ve fit in a single bag.”

“So what happened?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We've lived on the property for such a long time, it just seems like things found us.”

“That’s a lot of things, and I know for a fact that you help some of them make it home,” Blakely said.

“Sure, but what’s wrong with that? We both worked hard, what’s wrong with us enjoying what we have?”

“It’s so much, though, too much,” Blakely said, feeling her stress rise.

“Obviously something is on your mind, Ree, just like it was when you were out to the house, so just say it. That’s what’s wrong with you; you just tiptoe around. Put it out there,” her mother said.

“Fine,” Blakely responded, feeling a sudden burst of anger. “You and Daddy live in squalor, have my whole life. Made me live in it too. Had everybody in this town talking about the nasty Bishops. He got pneumonia because of all that stuff in the house! And it doesn’t seem to bother you one bit. That’s not normal,” Blakely said.

She leaned back, not realizing she had edged closer to her mother as she spoke.

“Who says what’s normal? Who says what’s squalor? And why do I care what anybody thinks?” her mother said, remarkably calm given what Blakely had just said.

“And what about me?” Blakely said. The floodgates had opened and years of questions she’d never asked, things she’d never said, came rushing out.

“What about you? You know we love you, more than anything,” her mother said.

“Not more than your stuff!” Blakely yelled.

Her mother gave her a quelling look. “Lower your voice, young lady,” she said in an icy tone Blakely hadn’t heard since elementary school.

Even though her stomach twisted with nerves and she’d clenched her fists tight, perhaps to give her resolve, perhaps to keep herself from waving her hands around in a display that would catch the eye of any
friendly
neighbors or passersby, her mother’s reprimand had the intended effect. Yes, she was an adult now, one who’d been dreaming of saying these very words or ones like them for years, but even though she was an adult and despite the fact she was right, the chastisement left her feeling like a disrespectful child.

She lowered her head and her voice. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Her mother stared at her sternly, and after a few moments seemed placated by the apology.

“Now like I said, you know that Daddy and I love you more than anything, but we’re going to live our lives.”

“Even if he has to suffer for it?” she said.

She’d always believed that no matter what, their love for each other would trump their love of their stuff, make them see what no one and nothing else could.

Her mother waved away her concern. Blakely could see the excuse forming as clearly as if she spoke the words. “We’re getting old, and old people get sick. Nothing to be done about that, but it beats the other options.”

“Even if I have to suffer for it?” she said quietly, hoping that if maybe her father’s health didn’t matter to her mother, her daughter’s well-being would. She knew it was unlikely, and Blakely had long ago decided her feelings on the matter, any pain that them “living their lives” might have caused their only child, were insignificant. She’d told herself that she accepted it, but a stubborn part of her still hoped that she was wrong.

She was not.

“How did you suffer?” her mother said. “You had a house, food, parents who loved you, nobody beating on you. Which is more than a lot of people can say.”

“I also had to deal with smelling like a trash heap and being the laughingstock of this town, and even now I still deal with it, the looks, the whispers,” Blakely said, voice low.

“You never smelled like no trash heap. And who cares what those busybodies think?”

They’d never discussed this so openly, and Blakely hadn’t delved this deep, but she couldn’t hold back now, prayed that if begging and scolding didn’t work, maybe the cold truth would.

“Mama,” she said quietly, “you just can’t smell it anymore.”

“We live in that house every day, and I smell just fine,” her mother said incredulously as if she couldn’t believe that Blakely would suggest something so ridiculous.

“No, you don’t,” Blakely whispered, her voice flagging as she said the words.

Her mother stayed silent but shook her head with disbelief. And Blakely was struck with disbelief of her own. She had always assumed that her mother knew about that stench, and not just the smell of the house but the cloying odor that had permeated their clothes, the car, the smell that now seemed to be a part of both her parents, had assumed that her mother had known and just didn’t care, but the shock and denial that she saw now told her how wrong she’d been. And it made her realize how deep the denial went, how much worse it was than she’d contemplated, the realization almost overwhelming.

Her mother blinked and then a serene look crossed her face, one that shook Blakely more fundamentally than screaming or tears ever could. She took the last sip of her soda and then stood. “Well, I didn’t come here to dredge up the past, remind you of the filthy folks you escaped, or dirty your beautiful home. So I’ll just go back to my dump.”

Her chest constricted, and she was reminded why she avoided this topic, why she avoided them. Treading lightly had never helped, and truth didn’t appear to either. It seemed things were always destined to end with hurt feelings and guilt and with nothing ever changed.

“Mama, I…” she said, still trying to salvage
something
from this conversation, unwilling to let go of what she knew was a fool’s errand.

“No. You said your piece. And that’s fine. You won’t have to worry about us anymore.”

She walked toward the steps, soda can in her hand. Blakely wanted to hug her, scream, do something, but she stayed still.