Bea (3 page)

Grinning, he turned on the radio. A twangy rendition of an old sob song burst forth from the bowels of the truck. It was country and western at its worst—and its loudest.

Bea sat stoically and tried not to listen. She’d already let him rile her. What was more, she’d let him
see
that he’d riled her. Never in her life had she lost so much control with a man. She’d endure his music if it killed her—and it just might. Already her stomach was in knots and her throat felt tight. She never heard country and western without thinking of her father’s betrayal.

“Do you like it?” he yelled.

“Love it.” She gave him a Cheshire-cat grin.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. Any fool could see she hated his music. Good. The more he ruffled her feathers, the better off he was. He never should have stopped for her in the first place. And he certainly never should have gone back for her.

They’d soon be to Pearcy, though. He’d leave her then, leave her and never look back.

Chapter Two

“This
is Pearcy?”

Bea could count the buildings of Main Street on one hand—the small red-brick post office, a dilapidated garage that doubled as a service station, Freddy’s General Store, and a beauty shop, its painted sign nearly as big as the whitewashed shed that supported it.

“Afraid so.”

“Are you sure this is the closest town?”

“Maybe I’m going blind. Did you see another town on this road?”

“There was a turnoff a mile back. It might go somewhere civilized.”

“It might go straight to New York City.”

Russ turned up his music. Just to aggravate her more, he whistled along. Whistling was a special talent of his. Not only could he carry the tune, he could whistle louder than any other kid in the fifth grade. That’s when he’d learned.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye to see how she was taking it. Poorly, judging by the way her nose pinched in and her mouth pursed together.

He’d be rid of her soon. He slowed his truck, peering around for somebody, anybody, to take charge of Bea Adams. There was not a soul in sight. Nor was there a sound. Apparently everybody had gone home from church, just vanished into the hills and hollows of the Quachita and shut themselves up in their dark houses.

“Would you turn that obnoxious noise down so I can think?” she said.

“What are you thinking about?” He turned the volume down a notch. “Whose head you’re going to put on a platter first?”

“I already know that—the man who serviced my car in Dallas.” She swiveled to look behind her. “Did you try that garage back there?”

“I whistled twice, but it didn’t come.”

“Cute.”

“I’m as eager to end this liaison as you are. The garage is closed, but I did spot a motel around the corner.”

“Is it clean?”

“If it’s not, I’m sure they’ll give you a mop and a bucket.”

With Bea sitting in stoic silence beside him, Russ turned down a narrow side street and drove toward the flashing neon lights. He stopped in front of a dingy motel office.

Bea sat very still, trying not to feel defeated. Orange and green lights played across her face, proclaiming that there was a vacancy in Paradise. It looked more like Hell to her.

“I suppose this is the end of the line.” She even managed a smile.

Russ surprised himself by liking her smile. He didn’t want to like her smile, so he hurried out of the truck and began to unhook her car. She got out on the other side and unloaded her suitcase then waited on the cracked, dusty sidewalk.

“Well, Toots—” Russ joined her “—it looks like there’s somebody in the office to get you settled for the night.”

Bea pulled her billfold out of her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Let’s see. I reckon I used about six dollars worth of gas.”

“You come cheap.” She handed him a twenty.

“Since you entertained me so royally, and since I don’t have any change, we’ll call it even.” He tucked the money back into her hand.

“We made a deal.”

“I changed my mind. Chivalry might be ailing, but it’s not dead yet.” He climbed into his truck and waved out the window. “See you, Toots.”

He left her standing there in her high-heeled boots and short black skirt with her suitcase at her feet, left her with the neon playing over her cool white blouse and her cool white skin. He thought he could leave her and never look back, but it didn’t turn out that way. He glanced in his rearview mirror just as she was lifting her head and squaring her shoulders. Guilt smote him. What if there were no vacancies at that motel? The sign could be wrong. And what about tomorrow? What if her car needed parts? The little garage he’d seen wouldn’t have parts for a foreign car. Why did he care?

His brakes squealed as he stopped the truck and made a U-turn in the middle of the road. His fingers tapping the rhythm to Hank Williams’ “Jambalaya,” he headed back to Paradise.

“Well, now, it looks like business is pickin’ up.” The man behind the motel’s reception desk smiled at Russ, his square, freckled face pleating with wrinkles. He blew dust off the counter and picked up a pen. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“The lady who just checked in? Bea Adams?”

“Yep. ‘Bout five minutes ago.”

“I’d like an adjoining room.”

The freckled-faced man laughed. “This is your lucky day. Ain’t but one room left, and that’s Number Three. Right next to Number Two.”

“She’s in Number Two?”

“I ain’t supposed to tell, but seein’ as how you left her here and seein’ as how you know her name and all, I guess it won’t do no harm.”

“I guarantee it.”

Russ took his modest belongings and settled into room Number Three. He tossed his duffle bag onto a chair and his ice chest onto the floor; then he settled back on the rickety bed with his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling, counting the water spots and thinking. He didn’t want her to know he’d come back to watch after her. When he saw her in the morning, he’d just say he got tired and decided to spend the night himself. That would do. It sounded casual and uninvolved.

And,
heaven knows
, involvement was the last thing in the world he wanted. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. And not just from Lurlene. As a matter of fact, Lurlene was a mistake he never should have made. He knew better, had known better since he was eight years old. All those years, going from one foster home to the next, getting his hopes up each time, thinking, “This time I’ve found a real home.”

But it always turned out the same. Just when he would get to loving a new set of parents, he’d be moved to another home.

Finally, his third foster father told him why. He was not worth all the trouble it took to keep him. And besides that, he was too small to earn his keep in the cotton field. He had been eight years old when he’d learned that lesson. He’d also found out that he wasn’t in all those homes because of love: he was there because of money. His foster parents were being
paid
to feed, clothe and shelter him.

When he’d been taken out of that home and placed in another, he’d asked the welfare worker if she wouldn’t pay his next family enough money so they’d
love
him, too.

She didn’t have an answer. He supposed there were no answers. It was best not to even think about it, best to keep on moving, best not to stop long enough to make a connection.

One night wouldn’t hurt. One night didn’t add up to involvement.

Russ turned his attention to his surroundings. The room was small and musty smelling, decorated with plastic-laminated furniture and Spanish paintings on velvet. He’d been in worse. And it was cheap. He’d be willing to bet the TV was black-and-white.

Whistling “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” he got up from the bed and pulled a dog-eared book out of his duffle bag. He’d read until he got sleepy.

He pushed his duffle bag off the chair and settled in, propping his feet on the footboard of the bed. Sounds of running water came from the next room. Bea was taking a shower. He wouldn’t even think about that—her naked with water beading her skin. Thinking of women with soft, wet skin was too much temptation. And temptation led to connections.

The water stopped. There was a short silent interval, then the sound of the TV. He couldn’t hear the words, just the noise, muted as if it were coming from under a blanket.

He read for a while. Five minutes or fifteen, he didn’t know how long. Then he became aware of another sound. He cocked his head, listening. The sound was soft and muffled. At first he thought it was coming from her TV. He got out of his chair and pressed his ear against the thin wall. Bea Adams was crying.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He left his post at the wall and paced the floor. He’d never have pegged her as the crying type. Women’s tears melted his heart. What in the world was he going to do?

On his second circuit of the small room, his foot banged against the ice chest. Food. There was no telling how long it had been since she’d eaten. He was getting hungry himself.

He opened his ice chest and surveyed his stock—two packs of crackers, one good-sized hunk of cheese, a jar of peanut butter, one loaf of aging bread, three chocolate cookies, four apples and a bottle of cheap wine. It would do.

He made his selection, planned his approach, then left his room.

o0o

Bea was on a crying jag.

She sat in the middle of her sagging bed, her head wrapped in a towel, her robe loosely knotted around her waist and her face streaked with tears. The star-crossed lovers danced across the TV screen, sharing one last moment of pleasure before the hero’s outraged father came to tear them apart. Bea cried for ill-fated love; she cried for the handsome desert prince; she cried for his beautiful slave-girl lover; and she cried for her toe. She’d cut it on the edge of a broken tile in the bathroom, and it was hurting. She hated pain.

When she heard the knock, she thought it came from the TV. It was so old it still got black and white pictures. But the pounding sounded again, and she realized someone was at her door. She decided to ignore the knock. She didn’t know a soul in Pearcy, Arkansas.

Then again, maybe it was the motel manager, coming to tell her to check her mattress for mice before she went to bed. Knotting her belt tighter, she went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. Russ Hammond. Open up and let me in.”

A feeling of relief swept over her. She hadn’t realized how forlorn and abandoned she’d felt until she heard the sound of a familiar voice. It didn’t matter that the voice belonged to a man she couldn’t abide. What mattered was that she was no longer alone and in pain in a strange, remote town. Granted, the pain was small, but that didn’t count.

She wiped the tears from her face and opened the door. Russ was leaning against the door frame, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a hunk of cheese in the other. One snakeskin boot was propped on a small ice chest.

“I can see this is instant attraction between us, sweetheart,” he drawled. “But you’ll just have to fight it off.”

“What took you so long, Big Tex? I was beginning to think I’d have to plow the back forty all by myself.”

Russ laughed. He’d never have guessed that she had a playful side.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

“I’m famished.”

She took the wine and cheese, then held the door open with a bare foot while he brought in the ice chest. He set the chest on a small table under the window, fiddling with it longer than necessary, giving himself time to get used to being in a woman’s bedroom again.

“You came back,” she said.

She was standing near the bed with the overhead light shining down on her hair. She had taken the towel off, and her dark hair was still damp, as shiny and black as a bird’s wing. Traces of tears were on her cheeks.

“I decided I was tired of traveling. It was easier to come back than look for another town.”

Now that the initial joy of seeing a familiar face was over, Bea brought herself back under control. It wouldn’t do to let him know she was glad to see him. He might take it as interest in checking his chassis.

“Do you always take the easy way?” she asked.

“Always.”

He was glad to see her stinger again. She looked so feminine and vulnerable in her white terry robe and her tear-streaked face that she was beginning to make cracks in the wall he’d built around himself. He turned to the ice chest and lifted out a pack of crackers.

Holding them aloft, he turned back to her.

“You have the cheese and I have the crackers. Why don’t we get together?”

“I’d consort with a rattlesnake for a bite of food.”

“Python, sweetheart.” He propped his boot on the bed. “Python.”

He quickly surveyed her room. It was exactly like his, except for the velvet pictures. Hers were Italian instead of Spanish.

He sat on her bed, propped himself up against the headboard and patted a space beside him.