A Man's Heart (10 page)

Switching off the lights, she climbed out of the truck and hit the lock button, a habit she acquired with all the theft going around. When she walked into the house, she heard the sound of Daffy Duck drifting from the den television. Peeking around the corner, her jaw dropped when she spotted Crystal, Olivia and Ethan cuddled beneath a large throw. Daffy lisped “th-his is a downright diss-grace!”

“Crystal!”

Crystal started, her hand flying to her throat. “Jules. For goodness' sake. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Jules entered the room like a bull out of the shoot. “What are the children doing up this late? What are they doing here at all? Adan and Cruz had them earlier.”

“I know. I got lonesome, so I called and asked if the kids
could spend the night. Cruz didn't mind, said he had to clean his boots anyway and he'd prefer to do it in peace.”

Guilt flooded Jules's mind. She had thoughtlessly not asked Crystal to the rodeo. She'd spent the whole night alone.

“Those
stinkin
boots.” Jules switched off the lights, kicked a throw pillow aside. The man cared more about his boots than his niece and nephew. She caught her thoughts. That wasn't true. He adored Livvy and Ethan, but he was fastidious and kids were messy.

She walked through the house turning off lights. Every bulb in the back part of the house was lit. Crystal had no sense of responsibility or the high cost of utility bills. She stepped into the kitchen and paused. Apparently the gang had popped corn. Oil splattered burners; kernels, popped and raw, littered the floor. Kitchen cabinets stood open. Dishcloths hung out of the drawers.

Crunching across the vinyl, Jules swallowed her anger.
She's trying, Jules. You have to give her that.

Crystal appeared in the doorway. “What's wrong?”

She whirled. “Look at this mess! Has the house been ransacked? Burglarized?”

Her sister's eyes skimmed the clutter. “I'll clean it up.”

“Why would you leave it like this? Is this how you keep house?”

Crystal assessed the damage. “Pretty much.”

“Well it's not how I do it.” Jules slammed the corn popper into the sink and turned on the hot water. Steam bellowed up.

“Did you lose tonight?”

“No.” She turned to face Crystal. “I won. Why?”

“You're in such a temper.”

“Look at this house, Crystal! I've been patient but this has
got to stop. I can't run this farm, raise potatoes, help with the kids and oversee the household. If you want to help, you're going to have to do your share.” Jules hated the aggressively direct and insensitive tone that now crept into her shout. Yes, shout. And she never shouted. She was tired, had red sticky syrup dried to her back and was in no mood to deal with this tonight, but resentment poured out. If Crystal thought she was a guest here, she was sadly mistaken. Blue Bayou was her home too. Guilt swamped her. But it wasn't her home. Pop had seen to that. She brought her hands to her temples. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spouted off like that.”

When she looked up she saw the doorway was empty.

Sinking into a kitchen chair, she buried her face in her arms. Why did she resent Crystal so much? She wanted the warm, fuzzy relationship other women had with their sisters, but she didn't have that with Crystal. Crystal was an irritant, and she was powerless to know why. She didn't blame Crystal for choosing Mom over Pop—if anything she blamed herself for letting Mom down, but Pop seemed to need the help and Mom and Crystal had always been close.

Over the years Crystal had written letters, childish, girlish ramblings that more often upset Jules than drew her closer. She rarely wrote back. Other than parents, the two shared nothing in common. Their nature and personalities mixed like sugar and vinegar. As they grew older, Crystal once confided that she'd like nothing better than to share a bottle of wine and talk all night. Wine gave Jules a headache, and she was dead on her feet by 10:00 p.m. Running a shell shop in Florida was less taxing than working ten hours in a potato field.

Face it, Jules. You consider yourself more dependable. You have never tiptoed through the tulips of life.
Crystal's laid-back
tendencies irked her, and she didn't know if she was judgmental or envious of her naiveté.

Jules's boot encountered an unpopped kernel. She couldn't live in this pig sty! And yet, in her own screwy way, she loved her sister.

How schizophrenic was she?

Reaching for a broom, she allowed her temper to cool. Once she finished cleaning up, she'd take Crystal a cup of that flowery smelling tea she drank. And apologize.

Yes, apologize, Jules.

It seemed that was all she knew how to do.

H
aute Peterson was a “catch” by any woman's standards. Not only did he own the biggest farm in the area, but he was easy on the eyes. He stood just under six feet, had a stocky frame that carried nothing but hard muscle. No fancy gyms for Haute. Handling a hundred bales of hay a day took care of his physical needs. Cap that with feline green eyes, and blond hair — not to mention an outgoing personality and a perpetual friendly grin — and most women found the farmer irresistible. The puzzle was why he'd managed to stay single for thirty-four years. Haute's diesel sat at the gasoline pumps when Jules pulled her Tracker into the convenience store to fill up.

Haute flashed a grin when he spotted her, and walked over. Uncapping her fuel tank, he winked. “How's it going, babe?”

“Good. Sorry I didn't get an opportunity to speak to you at the funeral.”

“You were a little preoccupied.” He stuck the hose in the tank, flipped the lever and gasoline ran into the tank. Leaning against the truck, he boldly assessed her. “You get prettier by the day.”

Heat flooded Jules's cheeks. Pretty wasn't exactly how she'd describe her boyish looks, short cropped hair and freckles. “You have me confused with Crystal.”

“Hey, heard your sister was back. How is she?”

Jules shrugged. “Different.”

“How so?”

“When she left here she was a little girl. Now she's turned into a nurturer. You know the kind, driven to help people, generous to a fault.” Jules's face turned hot. Those were wonderful traits, so why did she resent them?

Haute chuckled. “I saw her briefly going into the grocery store a couple of days ago. She's a looker.”

“That she is.”

“Hear Sophie's coming along.”

Jules beamed. “She's having a few complications from the surgery but the doctors hope to clear those up soon. I'm on my way to the store to buy spelt flour. She's requested some of my banana nut bread.”

“She's eating already?”

“Not yet—she still has a feeding tube but that will come out any day.”

“Think she's going to beat this?”

“Absolutely. As soon as the complications clear up, she'll have chemo and radiation, and hopefully she'll be home for that.”

The pump cut off and Haute topped off the tank before he replaced the hose in the pump stand. He screwed the cap back on. “You up to doing dinner one of these nights? I thought we'd drive to Pasco, have dinner, take in a movie. Is Saturday night good for you?”

“Saturday's great. Thanks.” She and Haute had always
gotten along well. Over the years, they'd gone out when she was back to see Pop. Haute was great company, and she could talk to him as easily as she could Cruz. In fact she had, many times, trying to explain her side of the troubled relationship. Haute knew about the two broken engagements and the fact that Jules was still in love with Delgado; that's why she enjoyed Haute's company. There was no pretense. No explaining sudden mood changes when they bumped into Cruz. Just comfortable companionship. Jules wasn't looking for anything more.

Later she pulled out of the convenience store and headed for the only large grocer in the area. She parked, grabbed a cart and wheeled into the store, intent on purchasing the flour and then heading home. If they didn't have it, she'd have to drive to Pasco to a health food store. As she rounded the cookie aisle she heard a child's scream.
Olivia.
She'd recognize that high-pitched squeal any day.

Cruz and the two-year-old were in gridlock over a package of cookies. Livvy clutched a package of those marshmallow chocolate things to her chest, holding on for dear life. Every attempt to take them from her proved useless. The more Cruz pulled, the louder Livvy screamed. Fellow shoppers paused to watch the growing fracas.

Pushing her cart up to the pair, Jules reached over and took the cookies out of the child's unsuspecting hands. Olivia looked up with wide-eye astonishment. “Sneak attack,” Jules told Cruz. “The only way to deal with her when she gets in this mood.”

“Thanks.” He set the slightly dented cookies back on the shelf and reached for ginger snaps. Jules shook her head. He touched chocolate chip.

No.

Oatmeal.

No.

Lemon.

Absolutely not.

Vanilla wafers.

Jules nodded.

He dumped the box in the cart, along with a package of oatmeal cookies, which he carefully settled in the basket beside Livvy. She supposed the treat was for him. Jules's eyes accessed the cart contents and she felt faint. Ice cream bars. Bite size Snickers. Potato chips. White bread. Four boxes of sugary cold cereal. Some cheap brand of lunch meat she wouldn't feed her animals. Ranch dip. Microwave popcorn. Two cans of pork and beans, and chocolate milk. “Is this what you feed her?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “It's what she'll eat.”

“Have you thought about throwing in a few carrots? Maybe some broccoli —”

“Neither she nor Ethan will eat broccoli.”

“They do, and they love it.”

Livvy lifted her palms and wiggled her fingers.

“See.” Jules turned to the two-year-old. “You like broccoli, don't you?”

The little girl wiggled her fingers more enthusiastically.

Jules bent to give her a kiss as she pushed her cart past.

“Hey. Hold on.”

She turned to face Cruz. “What.”

“What does she eat that isn't so messy?”

Jules shook her head. “She likes to feed herself, and she is messy.”

“With everything?”

Jules nodded. “What can I say?”

“Will she eat scrambled eggs instead of oatmeal? She spits oatmeal on me and the walls.”

“Sure, eggs, fruit. Have you tried yogurt?”

“She spits that too.” He pushed his cart in line with Jules and they continued down the aisle. Occasionally Jules reached for something in more solid form for Livvy's meals, but the child was a spitter. Jules reached for a jar of peanut butter.

“Oh, that'll be great,” Cruz said.

“She can't spit peanut butter and jelly as far.”

She added a can of ravioli and spaghetti.

“Nothing messy about those.”

Jules paused. “Look. You asked for things she couldn't spit as far. Messy you'll have to deal with. It's known as ‘kids.'”

“I've raised hogs that were cleaner.”

She picked up a sack of spelt flour.

He observed her purchase. “Are you going all ‘earthy' like Crystal?”

“I'm baking banana nut bread for your sister, if you must know.”

“Oh, I
must
know. Your every move fascinates me. And Sophie can't eat banana nut bread through a tube.”

Jules shoved the cart faster down the aisle, tossing over her shoulder, “I thought we agreed to keep this civil for Sophie's sake.”

“You agreed. I listened. Sophie can't have banana nut bread.”

“You
agreed.”

“Whatever.”

Biting her lower lip, Jules paused. Turning, she marched
back over to his cart, lifted her fist and smacked his package of oatmeal cookies.

He stared at the carnage. “Well that's real adult.”

Her lips firmed and she reached for the milk. His hand blocked her. Their eyes met and dueled. “Don't you dare,” he warned.

“That's right. You detest messes.”

“That's right. I do.” His dark stare said they were no longer talking about smashed cookies.

She set the milk back in the cart, in doubt about whether she would have followed through on the visual threat. If she was trying to retain harmony with him, she wasn't scoring any points today. Olivia sat in the cart, blinking her eyes during the exchange.

Lifting her chin, Jules regally grabbed the cart handle and wheeled off. When she left the store she heard Olivia's high-pitched wails. Undoubtedly, they had reached the candy aisle.

Real adult, Jules.
Now he will go home and celebrate the day you broke the second engagement.