"Heaven-Sent"by Ann Lawrence from PARADISE July 1999 Buy the book now at Amazon |
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Chapter 3
Tuesday walked quickly along Lincoln Highway, the main street of Paradise. She forced herself to ignore her libidinous response to Jack Ryan's smile. When he'd appeared out of the darkness, she'd thought maybe the devil had come to claim her--all that black hair--but the instant he'd spoken and smiled, she'd dropped her wariness, foolishly it seemed. She'd bedded the fox down with the hens. "Oh, Tuesday, when will you ever learn? Just because a guy's got a great smile, doesn't mean he's harmless."
She hurried up the front walk of her mother's house. The modern rancher sat on the corner of Nirvana and Bliss, just two blocks off Lincoln Highway, and two blocks past the Good and Plenty B&B. The sign on the mailbox said Dinkman.
She felt under a pot of pink geraniums for the spare key. She let herself into the house and quietly tiptoed into her mother's bedroom. The soft whistle of a light snore lead her to her mother's bedside.
"Mom," she said softly. Her mother stirred.
"Tuesday? What's wrong?"
"Everything, Mom. He's back, isn't he? Why didn't you tell me!" She flipped on the bedside lamp.
Opal Dinkman pulled herself up to a sitting position and touched a hand to her crown of pink, plastic rollers. "Now Tuesday, don't take on so."
Tuesday paced, wringing her hands. "I can't stand it, Mom. You know what it'll be like. The reporters. The sly looks--"
"Now, dear. Would you ask me to lie?" Her mother rose from the bed and slipped a cotton robe over her pink shorty pajamas.
"Yes!" Tuesday cried. "Yes. Just for once. Lie."
"You know I could never do that."
Tuesday collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. When she looked up, she tried to sound less exasperated. "Where is he?"
"Why, where he usually is, I would imagine."
"No, he's not," Tuesday hissed. "I was just there. I was alone. I'd have seen him."
"Maybe he's in the back, fixing lane 13. You know Harold says its been giving us trouble lately."
Tuesday groaned.
"Relax, dear. You know he doesn't like to come out during the day. He promised to stay out of sight."
"Oh, marvelous. Promises from a dead guy." Tuesday scrubbed her hands over her face.
"What you need is a nice, cool drink." Her mother left the bedroom and hurried into the kitchen. She took a pitcher of pink lemonade from the refrigerator. When Tuesday joined her, she poured them each a glass. The air lay like a sultry blanket of heat in the kitchen. No breeze lifted the curtains at the open window.
Tuesday's sweater set, comfortable in the air-conditioned bowling center, prickled her skin. She used the glass to cool her brow. Maybe, just maybe, if she'd not been ensnared by the reporter's devilish smile, she'd have stepped more warily, sent him up the road to a motel as she'd first suggested. She was more than a little angry--with herself.
Tuesday placed a hand on her mother's and tried to reason with her. "Mom, you just don't understand--"
"Oh yes, I do. I remember how the kids in school teased you when he visited a few years ago--"
"Mom, that was more than just a few years ago--"
Opal Dinkman prattled on. "Seems like only yesterday when you came home from school crying and swearing you'd push in Bobby Brewster's face if he didn't stop calling me 'Dotty Dinkman.' And the time after that, when your husband ran off."
"Yes, that's what I'm talking about. Not school, Mom. The last time--when Sam left."
"Your father, may he rest in peace, and I never liked Sam."
Tuesday rose and leaned against the counter. She crossed her arms over her chest in exasperation. Her mother perpetually rewrote history. "You liked him fine until he left. I didn't need an Elvis uproar then, and I don't need one now."
"Sam just didn't want a wife who made more money than he did."
There was more to Sam's defection, but now was not the time or the place to try to set her mother straight. In fact, Tuesday thought grimly, she had never been able to set her mother straight. It had gotten worse since her father's death three years ago. It was why Tuesday had moved back to Paradise. Her mother needed looking after.
"There's a reporter here. He'll probably be staying at the Good and Plenty. Please promise me you'll stay away from him and the Strike Zone. Promise me you'll deny these Elvis rumors."
"A reporter?" Opal's hand went to her curlers. "Is he young? Is he single?"
"Mom!" Tuesday gritted her teeth. "Who cares if he's as handsome as an Irish god? He's trouble."
"Irish, is he?" Opal rose and dug in a cupboard. "I have a wonderful recipe for soda bread somewhere."
"Mom, you will not be baking for him. I forbid you to speak to him!" Tuesday snatched a cookbook from her mother's hands.
"Now, Tuesday, that's no way to talk to your mother."
Tuesday whirled around. He stood in the doorway. She slapped the book on the counter and confronted the source of her agitation. "You stay out of this. And what are you doing here? Don't you have something better to do? Sing hymns? Seduce seraphim?"
Elvis laughed. Opal poured him a glass of lemonade. After a long swallow, he placed the glass on the table. "You sure do know how to make lemonade, Opal," he said in familiar honeyed tones. Although older and grayer, the sculpted lips and melancholy eyes remained the same.
Her mother beamed at Tuesday. "He promised he'd wear a hat."
A hat. Marvelous. Tuesday fisted her hands on her hips and stepped between Elvis and her mother. "Look. I don't care why you're here, but I won't have my mother harassed. She may not have the sense to keep quiet about your visits, but I do! Now help me out here," she pleaded.
"I wonder if this reporter would like to have lunch?" Opal poked around in the meat drawer of the refrigerator. "Some cold chicken would go nicely with the soda bread."
"There'll be no lunches, Opal," Elvis said. "Tuesday's right. We'll keep a low profile this time. I'm just here for a rest. Can't rest if everyone's hangin' about takin' pictures of my favorite fan club president and askin' nosy questions."
His unexpected support surprised Tuesday.
Her mother smiled. "If you say so. I'll try not to let the cat out of the bag. Now, are you hungry? I have bananas and peanut butter around somewhere. I could fry some bacon."
Tuesday left them haggling over the late night menu. How much could she trust Elvis to keep her mother in line? How miserable would her life become in the next few hours?
Her clunky saddle shoes echoed on the wooden porch. She swung her leg over the porch railing, dropped onto the lawn, and crossed to her own house. Her nineteenth century Victorian monolith contrasted sharply with her mother's neat rancher. She flung open the door, muttering to herself. "Why don't sleazy tabloid reporters look like toads? Why aren't they ugly, fat, sweaty?" She slammed the door.
She kicked off her shoes. She shed layers as she walked through the house, draping each piece on the mismatched furniture--stuff rejected by Sam in the divorce. In her bathroom, she stood before the sink and popped out her tinted contacts. Dragging the elastic band from her ponytail, she rubbed her sweaty neck. "Yes, a man's appearance should definitely match his job." She poured a glass of water and inspected her face. Faint lines edged her mouth. A deeper line dug a furrow between her brows. All put there by her mother and You-Know-Who.
"Well, Jack Ryan, you're never going to meet my mother. Not if I have anything to say about it. Never."
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