Place Your Betts (The Marilyns) (21 page)

She bit her bottom lip. Watching him parent had opened a door into her past. The loving, generous, person she’d thought she’d imagined peeked out when Gabe was around Tom. This version of Gabe had been the one she’d pinned all of her hopes and dreams on. She let out a slow, deep breath. Remembering the past didn’t hurt anymore. Pretending that it did was getting tiresome.

She hadn’t decided what she wanted from Gabe, but one thing was for sure—she wanted his bathtub.

Betts smiled.

Today, she commenced Operation Bubble Bath. Gabe liked her baking, so maybe he’d trade bathroom privileges for sweets. It was a foot in the door to the house. Betts chewed on her upper lip. Stay visible and weasel her way into their lives—it wasn’t a plan so much as the only thing she could think to do.

Betts shrugged off her shoes, grabbed her keys, and hopped down the steps of her trailer. The grass crunching between her toes felt glorious and elevated her mood.

After running through half the keys on the ring, she finally found the right one and opened the last hatch under her bus. She pulled out the folding picnic table she used to serve her road crew the family-style meals she sometimes cooked for them. The table wasn’t heavy but large and unwieldy; finally she got it set up under the electric awning. Next, she crawled in the hatch and wrestled out the huge box fan. With a backbreaking heave, she maneuvered it up onto the table. She unwound the cord, plugged it in, and ran back inside for the secret weapon.

A pan of hot, gooey homemade cinnamon rolls warmed in the oven. Most of the morning had been spent communing with the baking gods and crafting these masterpieces of cinnamony goodness. Now they were the featured players in the battle for permanent bathroom privileges and entry into the house. With an oven mitt, she pulled out the heavy pan. Grabbing a trivet from the drawer next to the sink, she bounded down the steps and into the sunshine. She positioned the cinnamon rolls for maximum smellage power and flipped on the fan. Cinnamon swarmed on the breeze.

Betts popped her sunglasses over her eyes, picked up the latest Emily McKay novel, and settled into the green, folding chaise lounge she’d set up earlier in the week. The prey would be along in a minute. Every hunter worth his salt set a trap—hers wasn’t physical but epicurean. Homemade baked goods three days a week for unlimited bathroom privileges.

At least until she built her own house. Gabe reminding her about it had gotten her thinking. She needed a home base here. Her house would be the family meeting place. Tom’s friends would gather here too. Easters, Thanksgivings, Christmases, her house would be bursting with friends and family. With her concert grand piano as the centerpiece of the living room, holidays would be filled with music and laughter.

Then on New Year’s Eve, they’d have a huge party. She’d ring in the New Year with a toast and a kiss from Gabe. Betts stopped. Gabe was a featured player in her future plans.

She was getting ahead of herself.

Betts flipped to page one. By page three, a body blocked out her sunlight. Gabe wore only ancient jeans, cowboy boots, and leather gloves. The battered straw hat was pulled down low on his forehead, shading his eyes. Sweat glistened from his bare chest. She hadn’t gotten to explore that chest nearly enough. Once she got the bathroom negotiations nailed down, maybe she’d suggest they share a bubble bath. It would take some time and concentration to wash that chest thoroughly, but after, she’d guarantee it was the cleanest in the world. Heat that had nothing to do with the sun warmed every inch of her.

“Yes?” Betts used the book to shade her eyes. “Something you need?”

“What are you doing with those?” Gabe used the large puppy-dog eyes to soulfully gaze upon the table.

“You mean the fresh, homemade cinnamon rolls that I just pulled out of the oven?” Betts drew up her knees, placed the book on them, and pretended to read. “They’re cooling.”

“Can I have one?” His eyes hadn’t moved from the pan. “Just that little one right there.” Gabe licked his lips and pointed.

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty hungry.”

His pecs flexed as he pulled off his work gloves and stuffed them in his back pocket. He shoved his hands in his front pockets, making the jeans ride an inch lower on his hips and exposing the muscular V of his lower abs. “What do you want?”

You.

Thank God, she hadn’t said it out loud. “How about a trade? One roll for a week’s worth of bathtub privileges?”

He shook his head. “Two rolls for one bath.”

“Nah, not worth it. Each one of those babies was handcrafted from the finest organic ingredients. One bath is an insult.” Betts relaxed back and held the book close to her face. “Move along now. You’ve got work to do.”

“Two rolls for two baths?” His voice cracked, but his eyes stayed glued to the table.

“You’re getting closer. How about six rolls for two full weeks?”

“Nope. Water’s expensive. No can do. The whole pan for two weeks would be fair.” Gabe shot her the double-dimpled boyish grin.

Bare-chested and dimples? That wasn’t playing fair. Two could play at that game. Betts pretended to drop her book on the grass, leaned over, making sure that her V-necked shirt gaped open, exposing the tops of her breasts, and picked up the book.

“Eating all those sweets isn’t good for your…boobs…um, body.” He shook his head.

Betts straightened. “Nice to know you’ve got your eye on my body.”

“What are neighbors for?” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “A couple of cinnamon rolls are the least you can do after all I’ve done for you.”

“How do you figure that?” Betts tapped her fingers on her thigh.

“I wrestled a bull for you. That’s worth the entire pan.”

Betts glanced to the open field on her left where Buttercup clomped at a pretty good pace followed by a small group of brown-and-white cows. “I’m beginning to think that whole thing was staged. I know he has issues but…” She squinted. “Is he chasing a butterfly?”

“That’s beside the point. My heroism deserves to be rewarded.”

“Think again, Blondie.” The nickname came out naturally, and she didn’t mind. She’d probably come up with a couple more nicknames for him by the time it was all said and done.

“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices.” Gabe pointed to the cinnamon rolls. “You can take my generous offer of two weeks for the whole pan and I’ll keep quiet about you living out here, or you can turn me down and Betts Monroe’s secret hideout becomes front-page news.”

“You’d risk the town’s wrath? God’s not going to be happy with you for screwing up my sizable donations to each of His churches.” She laughed to herself. “I hear First Baptist has earmarked that money for a new playground. And anyone who causes them to lose it will be kidnapped and pressed into indentured servitude as a Lottie Moon Missionary.”

He grinned. “I have to hand it to you, it was brilliant to pit the town’s churches against each other. The Baptists are watching the Lutherans, the Lutherans are spying on the Episcopalians, and the Episcopalians are eyeing up the Methodists. It’s the cold war all over again. I did hear about a United Nations council of sorts—all the pastors are meeting tomorrow to discuss the Catholic family who moved to town last year. Since they don’t have a horse in this race, the town’s walking on eggshells around them.” He winked. “Good work.”

“Thanks…I think.” She tried to wink back, but her eyelash extensions got tangled in her lower lashes.

“One thing, though…” The mischievous grin was back. “Did you see me leave for church this morning?”

“No.” She knew when she was beaten.

“There you have it.”

Her upper lip curled. “Fine.” Simple, smart, devious… She’d underestimated him. It wouldn’t happen again. “Take the pan, and may you go into sugar shock.” Betts crossed her arms. “You know this means war.”

“Bring it on.” Gabe scooped up the pan, strutted across the yard, hopped the fence, and walked into his house.

He was good and, damn it, he knew it.

***

“Thank God I found you.” Tom plopped down on the blanket next to Betts.

She shaded her eyes as she glanced up.

“What’s up?” she said around the pencil clamped between her teeth.

After she’d lost the battle of the cinnamon roll, she’d needed to find something to do so she’d stop watching out the window for a glimpse of Gabe. She’d grabbed a quilt, her guitar, and the lyrics she’d worked on at Gigi’s house and gone to find a quiet spot where her music could take her away.

“Kaitlin wants me to take her to the homecoming dance week after next.”

Betts spit out the pencil but kept the guitar in her lap. “That sounds good. I take it your date went well.”

She’d been hoping to see him earlier, but he must have slept late. And Gabe had let him—she blew the bangs out of her face and rolled her eyes. Gabe’s decency toward her son eased her frustration of being outmaneuvered.

“Yes, ma’am.” Tom grinned. “I gave her that kiss from you.”

By the look on his face, he’d given her lots of kisses. The hair stood up on the back of Betts’s neck. Had Gabe had that talk with him? High school romance was all too serious; no one knew that better than she, especially since hers had gone from zero to pregnant in the space of two months.

“So you and Kaitlin are an item?” Betts struck a chord, grimaced because it wasn’t quite right, and tried another. The note in her head was fuller and not as tinny.

“I guess.”

“What’s the deal with the homecoming dance?” Betts nodded because she’d finally found the right combination for the chorus. With one hand, she picked up the pencil and added notes to the sheet music next to her. The more nonchalant she acted, the better. If Tom sensed too much curiosity, he might shut down.

“Kaitlin will probably be homecoming queen. But before, at half time, she gets walked onto the field and presented or something.” Tom’s knee vibrated with energy. “She wants me to be her escort.”

“I guess we need to go shopping. Does that call for a suit or what?” Betts laid the guitar on top of the sheet music. It would be their first mother-son outing, and she couldn’t wait to lavish him with presents. She had sixteen years to make up for, and she tried not to care that Gabe would be angry.

“Shopping?” He looked like a deer in the headlights. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Tom bit his upper lip. “I was talking about the dancing part. Can you teach me?”

Betts blinked. Gabe was the one who’d taught her how to dance. It had been one rainy Saturday afternoon after they’d watched some old fifties movie on cable where the couples had ballroom danced. Betts had said that one day she’d like to know how to do that. Gabe had jumped up and asked her to dance. When Gigi had come home from the grocery store and found them, she’d been mortified—called it the devil’s work. Every time Betts had seen Gabe after that, he managed to sneak in at least one dance because he knew how much she liked it. Betts hadn’t danced like that since. She exhaled. “Sure.”

Tom picked up her guitar. “What are you working on?” He tried strumming a chord, but it was flat. “Ms. Gigi tried to teach me, but she didn’t know very many chords.”

Gigi knew how to play the guitar?

“No, like this.” Betts scooted behind him, placed the fingers of his left hand in the correct pattern for a D chord. “Since you’re right-handed, your left hand is on the neck, which is called the fretting hand. You choose the chords with this hand. Curl your fingers so only the pad is touching the string you want and the other fingers don’t rest on the strings. Your right hand is your picking or strumming hand.” She positioned his right hand by resting his pinky on the pick guard below the sound hole. “Now put your thumb on the root note, which is D, the third string down. So you and Gigi were close?”

“Not close really, more like friends. I’d visit with her sometimes, and we’d talk. I’d tell her about Kaitlin, and she’d tell me about how she’d been a singer.”

“A singer? Are you sure?” Betts studied him. Maybe he had it wrong. Other than the church choir, Gigi hadn’t sung…ever…not so much as a hum to pass the time while she kneaded bread dough.

“Oh, yes. Ms. Gigi used to sing in lounges and bars and places like that. She had all these black-and-white photos of her on stage.” Tom picked the string hard.

“No. Softly like you’re stroking a…” Betts was about to say “lover,” but he better not have had one of those yet. “Gently. Have the thumb come from the side and pluck the string. Use the tips of the second, third, and fourth fingers to pluck the last two strings in an upward motion.”

Gigi playing clubs? Not only was that disturbing, but it didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand. Are you saying Gigi was a lounge singer?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She told me that she’d sung on the stage right next to Elvis Presley himself. She also sang backup for Loretta Lynn a couple of times. Ms. Gigi gave it all up when she got pregnant.”

Gigi being anything other than old and angry was hard to wrap her head around.

Tom fiddled around with the chord. “I think Ms. Gigi missed music and blamed your mother for taking it away. Kinda dumb to blame a little baby.”

Gigi had given up her career to have Mama? This was crazy. “Why didn’t she go back to it?”

“Don’t know.” He strummed, but the chord was flat. “I asked her once, and all she said was ‘the past can’t be undone, you have to live with your choices.’ No clue what that means.”

“I don’t get it. Why give up something she loved no matter that she had a baby?” Betts took a deep breath. Her music would have taken a back seat to motherhood if she’d kept Tom. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away. As selfish and petty as it was, giving up her music would have left a hole, but she would have absolutely done it. Because she needed an excuse to touch him, she repositioned his fingers on the strings. “Like this.”

“Okay.” He let her guide his fingers. “Once, Ms. Gigi told me that she had one major regret and she was trying to make it right.” He shrugged. “She never would tell me what it was…only that she’d done what was best for everyone.”

Betts knew exactly what Gigi was talking about because her grandmother’s major regret was sitting right next to her. So Gigi had second-guessed her decision to take Tom away? It shouldn’t matter, but it did. A small chip broke off of the block of hatred Betts had carried around for so long. Understanding dawned. “It was you who sent me Gigi’s letter.”