I Want Candy (12 page)

Her eyes darted to the single-story brick structure lit up like the governor’s mansion. She chuckled to herself. It was actually a perfect place for her mother. She seemed truly happy here. As happy as Candy had ever seen her, in fact.

Candy stretched out her long legs and laced her fingers over her stomach. It was true that Jacinta had never been a horrible person or a bad mom. She wasn’t Mother Teresa, but she’d always been there for Candy, working at the family insurance office only during school hours. Her mother did all the usual stuff—helped her with homework and drove her to cheerleading practice and taught her the fundamentals of baking. The problem with Jacinta was that even when she was with Candy, she was only half present. The other half was all about Jonesy. Her mother was either mulling over how she’d succeeded or failed at managing Jonesy’s temper at the office that day, or planning ahead about how she’d manage it when he got home that evening, or actively engaged in managing it. The result was that Candy always felt like an afterthought to her own mother.

Her father had been mostly a mystery to her, and the older she got the more she realized he was doing her a favor by not being home much. Owning an insurance agency gave him cause to work long hours, as her mother always reminded her, and part of being a self-made man was being an active member of the community. So there were Lions Club meetings, Rotary Club, the Salvation Army board of directors, the chamber of commerce, and his many years on the Cataloochee County Board of Commissioners. It always struck Candy as odd that out in the world, people considered her father an important man.

At home, to Candy, he was just an angry man. All the time. At the cable news broadcast. At the editorial page of the
Bigler Bugle
. At the two Bs Candy got on her report card. At high taxes. At stupid customers. At the blacks. At the Mexicans. At her mother for making his Jack and Coke too strong or too weak. Jonesy Carmichael was mad at life.

Candy suddenly shivered, though there was no breeze and it was so warm that a thin sheen of perspiration covered her face.

No, she told herself. She wouldn’t go there. Not now. Not ever. It was a long time ago. It was over. And in the scheme of things—compared to what some girls had been through—it wasn’t all that bad. All her daddy ever did was give her a few slaps to her face. Sometimes he took the strap to her backside. Or the hawthorn branch to the back of her legs. There were a few hurtful words, yes, but never much blood.

She knew the act of harming her wasn’t his favorite, anyway. What he enjoyed most was the buildup, describing to her in vivid detail exactly what would happen if she crossed him. That was Jonesy Carmichael’s forte.

So when Candy learned that her father had died of a heart attack behind his desk in the middle of a rant against someone or something—no one seemed to remember the topic at hand—her reaction had been one of numbness. Jacinta called with the news. She told Candy he was being cremated and that it wasn’t necessary for her to come home for the memorial service if she was too busy.

She was too busy.

Looking up at the newly dark sky, Candy thought again about the evening so long ago, when Turner called to ask her out. Now she understood why the phone call had slipped her mind. It was just a small piece of what became a long and horrible night—the worst of her life. Turner’s brave and sweet request had been the spark that set off a chain reaction of explosive rage. No wonder Candy had forgotten all about it. Compared to everything that followed, Turner’s call was nothing.

Of course, there was another reason she’d forgotten all about it. The night had never happened, right? It was part of a life she’d convinced herself hadn’t been real. It was a lot easier that way.

And yet …

Candy placed her hands behind her head and adjusted her position on the hood of the car. She couldn’t help but wonder—what if?

What if Jonesy hadn’t answered the phone that night? What if she’d had a chance to talk to Turner without her father standing over her? Would she have agreed to go out on a date with him? What were her real feelings for him all those years ago? What would she have said if the words she spoke were
her
words, not those of Jonesy Carmichael?

That was a no-brainer, Candy knew. She would have said
yes
.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shooting star jet across the horizon. The flash was so bright and clear that she sat up in surprise, her mouth open in wonder. It was several moments before Candy could stop grinning. She hoped Turner had seen it.

Oh, no.
Candy let her face drop into her palm. What had she done? Only an hour before she’d told Turner she didn’t want him.
Didn’t want him!
When had she become a flat-out
liar
?

Because here she was, wishing he’d seen what she’d seen, wishing he’d experienced the same beautiful, magical moment she had. That meant she’d made a wish on a shooting star, and her wish was for him.

What a giant mess she’d made of this.

Candy took a few minutes to fix her face as best she could, using a corner of the blanket and some lip gloss, then headed into Cherokee Pines. Gerrall buzzed her in, all smiles, and came around the edge of the front desk with a big bunch of daisies in his hand. He held them out to her.

“Pretty flowers for a pretty lady,” he said.

“Oh!” Candy didn’t reach for them right away. She didn’t want to take them because she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. But she was going to have to deal with him for two weeks, and so far he was the only human being in the joint who seemed happy to see her. Maybe he was just being friendly. So she took them with a simple “thank you.”

Gerrall had noticed her hesitation, however, and something dark passed through his expression. It made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

“You surprised me is all.” Unfortunately, Candy knew she sounded as stiff as she felt.

“Well, you don’t have to take them if you don’t like them,” he snapped. His thin shoulders sagged as he returned to his desk chair.

“No. No, I like them. It’s just I wasn’t expecting flowers. Thank you very much, Gerrall.”

He shrugged.

“Well, good night,” Candy said, heading down the hallway, knowing that she was so exhausted that it wouldn’t even matter if her mother was still “entertaining” the hell out of Hugo in there. She’d just put in a pair of earplugs and call it a night.

Chapter 9

Life began to settle into a pleasant enough routine for Candy, considering she was stuck in Bigler.

Every morning, she joined Jacinta and her friends for an early breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, and orange juice. Some of the women proved to be quite sweet, and invited Candy to join in their bridge games on Monday and Thursday evenings. Jacinta didn’t seem thrilled with the idea but didn’t object, either, which struck Candy as some kind of breakthrough. The men, including the always dapper Hugo, asked Candy if she’d like to join them in a game of bocce ball out on the lawn.

Each Tuesday and Saturday evening Candy made herself scarce, as agreed. Since she couldn’t afford a movie or even a box of popcorn, she rediscovered the joy of the second-floor public reading room of the musty old Cataloochee County Public Library on Main Street, where she spent hours thumbing through magazines, poring over cookbooks, and eventually registering for a library card—using Cheri’s lake house address as her own. She roamed around town, too, checking out the art galleries and craft shops that catered to tourists headed into Smokey Mountain National Park. She idled away a few hours stretched out on the hood of her car, thinking, remembering, and keeping an eye out for another shooting star.

And each morning on her way out the front door, at six forty-five on the dot, she exchanged pleasantries with God’s gift to retirement home management—Mr. Wainright Miller—who managed to remain unpleasant every damn time. One morning, he informed Candy that her rights as a temporary guest were limited. “Any planned leisure or recreational activity is designed for the benefit of our senior residents
only,
” he said.

“So no bocce or bridge for me?”

“That’s correct,” he said, his upper lip twitching.

“Even if I’m invited?” Candy asked, keeping her smile in place.

“They’ll forget they invited you. I suggest you do the same.”

“Have an awesome day, Mr. Miller,” she said, deciding that if that chubby tight-ass ever had the audacity to set foot in Lenny’s Diner, Candy would personally see to it that his coffee tasted funny.

And every evening when she returned, Gerrall was waiting for her—with a gift. First it was a DVD of some TV crime show she’d never heard of, about some middle-aged teacher who learned he has cancer and decides to sell drugs for a quick profit. Next, it was two Almond Joy candy bars and a can of Fresca, which Candy figured was just about as mixed a message as you could give a girl. Then it was a solid silver key chain featuring a big letter
C,
and she decided she had to put a stop to it.

“Gerrall, please don’t buy me gifts. You are very sweet, but I don’t want you spending your money on me, okay? You’re a young man starting his career and you should be saving whatever you can.”

He produced an odd smirk and said, “Oh, yeah? Well, maybe one day you’ll come home and that key chain will be holding the key to your brand-new Lexus, which will be sitting out front, and you can get rid of that piece of shit you call a car. You’re too pretty to be drivin’ a car like that anyhow.” Gerrall’s smirk expanded into an all-out grin. “Whad’ya think of that?”

Candy laughed a little uncomfortably. There had been something vaguely threatening about the way he’d spoken. But the guy just kept grinning. She placed the key chain on the desktop and said her good-nights.

The days at the diner went by quickly, and Candy found herself truly enjoying her work. She ran the register and takeout counter at breakfast, helped with kitchen prep during late morning, then worked as both counter server and cashier at lunch. It didn’t take long before she’d figured out how the regulars took their coffee, how they wanted their burgers cooked, and what kind of salad dressing they preferred. She made six more lunch delivery runs to the Bigler municipal complex, but only two of those were to Turner’s office, and she called ahead to arrange for Bitsy to collect the money and meet her in the lobby. Candy claimed it was necessary because she couldn’t be away from the counter for more than a few minutes. The real reason was so she wouldn’t run into Turner.

She didn’t necessarily like the arrangement. She missed Turner, truth be told. She missed his soft, hazel eyes and his remarkable mouth, and the way his hips moved when he walked, all loose and relaxed and sensual.
Damn.
She’d never seen a man move like he did! Then there was the way he chuckled low and husky from down in his chest. And of course she missed the way he got all flummoxed and started fidgeting after she kissed him—or he kissed her.

So
hell, yes,
it was best she didn’t run into Turner Halliday. She had enough to worry about. Her first paycheck didn’t come until the end of her first two weeks, which meant she was borrowing against her wages just to put gas in that huge wreck of a car. By the end of the first week, she already owed Lenny thirty-two dollars. But what really ticked her off was that she’d been forced to start rationing her mascara, applying only a single coat each morning. When business was slow, Candy sometimes found herself daydreaming about all the options that would be available to her in the health and beauty aisle of the Piggly Wiggly on payday. Which would she choose? Maybelline? Cover Girl? Revlon?

So it wouldn’t be Dior or Lancôme—who cared? Anything was preferable to living without mascara of some sort. The idea was alarming. The last time Candy had been in public without mascara had been in the eighth grade.

On Thursday afternoon of her second week, Candy clocked out after her shift, tossed her apron in the dirty linen hamper near the back door, and went in search of Lenny. She found him bent over in the walk-in pantry, mumbling to himself as he pushed around commercial-sized condiment containers on shelves.

“Looking for something?”

He shook his head slowly and sighed. “I forgot to reorder pimentos. I can
not
believe I forgot the pimentos.” He straightened and stared at Candy with a perplexed look on his face. He threw up his hands. “I’ve been makin’ grilled pimento and cheese sandwiches for thirty damn years and this has never happened before. I must be losin’ my mind. Pretty soon I’m going to forget to order the damn white bread!”

She quickly scanned the pantry shelves and smiled. “Third row from the top, to your right.”

Lenny whipped his head around and grabbed the giant-sized plastic jar, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “You’re all right, girl.”

Candy took advantage of her opportunity. “I have a favor to ask,” she said.

“Honey, whatever it is, the answer is yes. You need more gas money?”

She shook her head. “No, but thank you. I’d like to use your kitchen and baking supplies to make a cake for my mother’s bridge club tonight. I’ll reimburse you when I get my first check. Would you mind?”

Lenny paused, the jar of pimentos cradled in his arms. He considered it for a moment and said, “I don’t see no reason why not, and no need to pay me back. You go have yourself some fun.”

So for the next three hours, Candy did just that. It was like remembering the steps of a lost dance or seeing an old friend after a long time away. The remembered steps rose out of nowhere. The love was right below the surface.

First, she pulled potential ingredients and set everything out on the countertop. After a few minutes of study, she decided she had everything she needed for one of her all-time favorites—a praline turtle cake—the very cake Lenny had mentioned the day she came looking for a job. The thought of that made her smile. She went in search of parchment paper, and when she found some, Candy knew it was
on
.