Bea (4 page)

“Join me and we’ll break bread together.”

Bea hesitated only a moment. It wouldn’t be wise to make a fuss. After all,
he
had the food.

“Let me get a dry towel to catch the cracker crumbs.”

She disappeared into the bathroom and came back with two plastic cups and a white towel, standard motel issue, dingy from too many careless washings. She spread the towel in the middle of the bed, then sat carefully on her side.

“You look uncomfortable,” he said. “Why don’t you lean back?”

“This is fine.”

“You can’t see the TV turned that way.”

“I can if I turn my head a little.” She demonstrated, glancing over her shoulder at the swashbuckling romance still in progress.

“I don’t have plans to seduce you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Seduction takes two, and I’m not the submissive type.” She flounced around and leaned her back against the headboard. She didn’t want to miss the end of the movie.

“What are we watching?” Russ poured the wine.

“An old romantic movie. They’re a weakness of mine.”

“Why do you call them a weakness?”

“Most of them are silly. A waste of time.” She glanced toward the TV, then back at Russ. “In this one, Tony Curtis is a prince. Nobody can play them the way he can.”

“I like that costume the woman is wearing.”

“You would.” It was a harem suit, showing lots of flesh.

She sipped her wine and concentrated on the movie. It was getting to another good part: the prince was rounding up his consorts to rescue the slave girl from the clutches of his evil father. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Bea leaned forward.

“Go for it,” she whispered.

Russ watched her. He hadn’t planned to, but he couldn’t help himself. She was flushed with excitement, and she looked vulnerable, cuddly even. No, he corrected himself. Not cuddly. Bea Adams was far too bossy and waspish to be cuddly.

He turned his attention to the screen. The prince stormed the camp, sword flashing. There was a brief, bloody battle, and then the lovers were reunited. He heard a sniffle.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Bea wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Do you always cry at romantic movies?”

“I wasn’t crying.” Bea sniffed again and squared her shoulders. “It’s the wine, I guess. Allergies. Or maybe fatigue.” She made a big to-do of yawning.

Russ didn’t know why he wanted to hear the truth from her, but he did.

“It looked like crying to me.”

“All right. You caught me.” She sat up straighter, as if she wanted to dispel any notion that she might be weak. “Sometimes I cry at romantic movies. And don’t ask me why. I don’t believe in happily ever after.”

She looked so spunky and brave, as if she would march out of her dingy hotel room and into battle at any minute, armed with nothing more than tearstains on her cheeks.

“Don’t worry. No one will ever accuse you of such a heinous crime.”

His words stung. She chewed her cheese in silence while she tried to think of a suitable retort.

“I didn’t say it was a crime,” she said finally. “I merely said I don’t believe in love. Do you?”

“No.” Her question caught him off guard. “I did once, but not anymore.”

“What happened? Did somebody get tired of your snakeskin boots and throw you out the door with them?”

Russ got off the bed. The bedsprings squeaked in protest.

“Do you want any more food? Wine?” He sounded like a disinterested waiter.

“No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll take them and go on back to my room.”

Bea regretted her last remark, but she didn’t know how to take it back without making matters worse.

“It was kind of you to bring them over.” She got off the bed. “I’ll pay for my half.”

“It’s Sunday. On Sundays I’m generous.”

He quickly repacked his ice chest. Watching him, Bea suddenly felt cold. She pulled her robe closer around her neck. “Russ.” He turned around. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for helping me.”

“I wouldn’t want you to miss an opportunity to do things the proper way.”

She sucked in a quick, angry breath. “Why don’t you take your ice chest and your python boots and leave before one of us dies from assault with a deadly tongue?”

“Good idea. Don’t bother to show me the door. I know the way out.” Whistling “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” he headed for the door. “Good night now, Toots.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, she kicked the bed. Too late she remembered her feet were bare and she’d already hurt her toe. She hobbled to the bathroom, muttering to herself.

“Any woman can make a fool of herself over a man, but only I could make a fool of myself over a drifter. It must be in my genes.”

She stuck her foot in the lavatory sink and turned on the cold-water tap. Tepid water came out.

“Can’t even get cold water when I need it.” Grabbing a cloth, she pressed it against the broken skin. She could still hear him whistling that dreadful song.

Taking her foot out of the sink, she banged on the wall. The whistling stopped. Then came a soft tapping.

“Sending me signals, sweetheart?” His voice was faint through the walls, but she could make out the words. “If you want me, use Morse code. S.O.S.” He started whistling again.

“Hell will freeze over before I’ll send you a signal.” She listened. There was no reply this time, but the whistling had stopped.

With her toe wrapped in the washcloth, she hobbled back to her bed. The movie credits were showing on the black-and-white TV.

“He even made me miss the end of the movie.”

She grabbed her iPhone with the idea of sending up a distress signal to the Dixie Virgins, but there was no service.

Bea pounded her flat pillows into something resembling comfortable then settled back to see what was playing on the late show. The theme music sounded like horror. She leaned forward as the title came up on the screen:
Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Good. She needed two hours of slime and screams to take her mind off her own horror show: that aggravating blond pirate next door and his infernal country and western music.

Chapter Three

Russ always woke up early.

He didn’t need an alarm clock. His inner clock was fine-tuned to the sun. He showered and dressed with the quick efficiency of a man on the move. Then he picked up his book, sat in his chair and waited.

Sounds of movement came from Bea’s room sooner than he’d expected. Either she was an early riser or she was anxious to get on with her business. He waited until he heard her leave her room, waited until she had time to get to the motel office; then he loaded his gear into his truck and followed her.
Just to make sure,
he told himself, although he didn’t know exactly what he was making sure of.

She was standing at the dusty counter in those ridiculous high heeled boots and a tight little short skirt that showed off her legs. Long legs, nicely curved. Irritated at himself for noticing, Russ sauntered through the door, whistling.

“We have to stop meeting this way, Toots.”

“Checking out, Mr. Hammond?”

“After you,” he said.

“How a good night’s sleep does improve your manners.”

“Some of us got lucky.”

He sat on the green sofa and dust rose into the air. Then he knocked a cobweb off a copy of
Progressive Farmer
magazine and turned to a scintillating article on boll weevils. Although he didn’t plan to get involved in the problems of Miss Beatrice Adams this morning, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between her and the desk clerk, a bony female with an Ichabod Crane nose and a Fright Night hairdo. Ivalene Crump, her plastic name tag had said.

“Miss Crump, can you please tell me if there is a place that serves breakfast?”

“There’s just one. Freddy’s General Store.”

“The general store?”

“Yep. ‘Course Freddy has nails and hunk cheese and fabric by the bolt, but a couple a’ years back he set up a little hot plate and a little oven behind the ceramic whatnots and started cooking up biscuits and ham. Raises and kills his own hogs. Makes the best redeye gravy in Arkansas.”

Russ looked over the top of his magazine at Bea. He’d have to give her credit. She didn’t blink an eye at the story of the enterprising Freddy.

“I see.” Bea squared her shoulders. It was the same gesture he’d seen her use last night. He supposed she did it when she needed to plump up her courage. “Well, tell me another thing. Do you have cab service in Pearcy?’’

“Cabs?”

“Taxi cabs... a bus, any type of public transportation?”

“Lordy, this is not Little Rock. But we manage anyhow. The bus runs, but not very regular. Sometimes Purdy Dillard lets folks hitch a ride on his mail truck- that is, if you can catch him, and you already missed him.”

“Then perhaps I can use your phone to call the garage.”

Russ dropped the magazine back in the rack and stood up. “I’m going in that direction. I’ll be glad to give you one last tow.”

“I wouldn’t dream of putting you to that trouble.”

“I’m going that way anyhow. I have to get gas before I move on.”

Bea was proud, but she was not foolish. She’d do what was necessary to get home the quickest way possible.

“It seems I’m obliged to accept your help one more time, Russ Hammond.”

“Fate must have a sense of humor.”

“Or a mean streak.”

Russ laughed as he joined her at the counter to check out. Afterward, he made quick work of hooking up her car for another tow.

“I’m getting good at this,” he remarked. “I guess I could make it my life’s work.”

“What
is
your work?”

“I do odd jobs when the mood strikes me or when the cash runs low, whichever comes first.”

“You’re not vacationing?”

“Hardly.” He finished fastening their vehicles together, then opened the passenger door of his truck. “All aboard.”

Bea climbed in. The truck looked worse in the daylight than it did in the dark. Rust spots showed in patches on the fenders, and the seats had places where the vinyl had peeled. She made up her mind that she would pay him this time, no matter what he said.
Odd jobs, how strange.
In spite of appearances, she had decided he was merely eccentric, a professor suffering burnout or perhaps a businessman who got his kicks bumming around. Of course, she had come to that conclusion in the middle of the horror movie, so her mind hadn’t exactly been in its most elevated state. Still, he sounded educated.

Don’t be a snob, Bea,
she told herself.
Even lazy people sometimes go to school.

“Where to first?” The slamming door rocked the old truck as Russ climbed in on the driver’s side. “Breakfast or the garage?”

“I’d like to get my car repaired as quickly as possible.”

“The garage, then.”

He was silent as he drove. She wished he’d tune his radio to some stupid song: it made him easier to dismiss. For all his faults, she was beginning to see a good side to Russ Hammond. There was an innate kindness about him. Whether he knew it or not, he was going out of his way to be her guardian angel. He’d tried to be casual, to make everything look like coincidence—coming back to the motel, showing up with the cheese and wine, checking out when she did—but she was too smart to believe in coincidence.

She didn’t want to see a good side to Russ Hammond. Looking out the window at the sights of Pearcy, she sighed.

“What’s the matter?” He glanced her way. “Do you have the blues?”

“I never have the blues.”

“I guess you’d consider them a weakness—like crying at romantic movies.”

“I never have any philosophical discussions on an empty stomach.”

“As soon as we drop off your car, we’ll eat.”

“I thought you had to be moving on.”

“A man has to eat sometime. It might as well be in Pearcy.’’

“I’m glad you said that. For a moment, I thought you were beginning to enjoy my company.”

“A little vinegar is invigorating every now and then, but I prefer sugar, myself.”

Being called
vinegar
made her mad till she remembered she
was
sometimes a pain in the ass - bossy, opinionated, stubborn. All the Dixie Virgins said so.

They arrived at the garage just as the doors were being unlocked. While Russ pumped gas, Bea arranged to leave her car for repair. She even managed to convince the slow-talking, slow-moving mechanic, Hal, that she needed it in a hurry. Russ returned from the gas pump in time to hear her telling the mechanic she
had
to get to Florence, Alabama, for a family reunion. The mechanic nodded in sympathy. Apparently, family reunions were something he understood.