The Trouble With Valentine's Day (23 page)

He was wiped out, but there was one more thing he had to do that couldn't wait. He reached for the telephone on his desk and dialed Stanley Caldwell's home number. No one picked up. Kate wasn't home, but he figured he knew where he could find her.

He stood and unbuttoned the cuffs of his black-and-green flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves and headed for the grange.

The trip took him about five minutes, and he could hear the thump of heavy bass and the twang of steel guitar as he pulled into the dirt parking lot. The door to the grange vibrated as he opened it and stepped inside.

Except for the bright lights shining on the stage and the bar at the other end, the inside was pitched in darkness. Rob ordered a beer from the bar then found a spot in front of a wall where it wasn't quite so dark. He wasn't sure, but it looked like tinfoil Easter eggs were hanging from the ceiling beams. Someone in a white bunny costume hopped around and handed out something from a basket. Rob placed a foot on the wall behind him. While his gaze scanned the crowd, searching for a certain redhead, a man with a head like a cue ball squeezed beside him.

“Hi,” he said over the music. Rob glanced at him, at the words
LIZA MINNELLI
written in silvery glitter on the front of his sweatshirt. “I'm Tiffer Cladis. My mother may have mentioned me to you.”

“Yeah, and I'm not gay.” He returned his gaze to the crowd and spotted his mother and Stanley out on the dance floor.

“That's a shame. I've never been with a hockey player.”

Rob raised his Budweiser to his lips. “That makes two of us.”

“You're into women exclusively?”

“Yep, just women.” Rob took a drink and spotted Kate over the bottom of the bottle. One of the Aberdeen twins had her out on the dance floor, two-stepping to some band's crappy rendition of Garth Brook's “Low Places.” She had on a white shirt and some kind of pleated skirt. Red and really short. From halfway across the room, he watched her weave in and out of the crowd of dancers. He got a flash of leg, and desire curled in his stomach. “I'm into women in skirts,” he said as he lowered the bottle.

“I could wear a skirt.” Tiffer raised his beer. “I like to wear skirts.”

Rob chuckled. “But you'd still have a dick and a five o'clock shadow.”

“That's true.”

Rob imagined Tiffer hadn't had an easy life. Especially living in a small town in Idaho. “Your mom tells me you're a female impersonator.”

“Yeah. I do a very good Barbra.”

“Is there a lot of demand for that in Boise?” The music ended and he watched Kate move from the dance floor to a small group of people that included the sheriff's wife. The light from the stage lit up the bottom half of her, and Rob could see that her skirt looked like a little kilt.

“No. That's why I work in an antique shop with my lover.”

Rob had heard that Scottish men went commando beneath their kilts, and he wondered if Kate was keeping up with tradition. His gaze lowered down her long legs to those boots that kept him up at night. Literally. She placed the toe of one boot behind the heel of the other. She rocked her heel from side to side, enticing him. “Don't you think your lover might object to you propositioning other men?”

“No. He's married and has three children. He blends better than I do. Even when I try. Like tonight.”

Rob looked at Tiffer's Liza sweatshirt and figured Tiffer might as well have had a neon sign with an arrow pointing at his head. If he really wanted to “blend,” he should man-up. Scuff his white sneakers, chug his beer, and leave Liza at home.

“I date other people, too.”

Rob returned his gaze to Kate. “Do you find anyone to date in Boise?”

“Actually, the gay population in Boise is bigger than you might think. There are several gay bars right in the heart of the city.”

As Tiffer rattled on about the dating scene in Boise, Rob watched Kate. He'd come here to talk to her about the other night, but that wasn't all he wanted. Kate gave him something that had been missing in his life. Something that made her occupy his thoughts and order granola bars just to see her face. Something more than sex, although he wanted more of that too. And when he was through getting more, he was sure he'd want more of the same.

He took a drink of his beer and watched her laugh at something Shelly Aberdeen was saying. What he should have done was call her while he'd been in Seattle, but each time he'd reached for a phone, he'd stopped himself. The conversation he wanted to have with her should happen in person, and to be completely honest, he hadn't known what to say. He still didn't. “I'm sorry I pushed you to the floor and climbed on top of you,” might be a good start, but not if she'd enjoyed herself as much as he'd enjoyed himself. Or as much as he'd thought she'd enjoyed herself. If he apologized, she might think he thought the sex had been bad, when it had really smoked. She was already mad at him, and if he. . . . “Christ,” he muttered—he was starting to think like a girl.

“Who do you keep staring at?”

He turned his attention to Tiffer. “Come on, I'll introduce you.” He definitely should apologize for running out like he had. He'd start with that and see where it got him.

He moved through the crowd with Tiffer on his heels. They passed the Worsley brothers, who gave him evil glares until they spotted Tiffer. Then they put their heads together and pointed. It didn't take a genius to know what they were saying. Rob hoped they didn't make the mistake of saying it to his face. His mother and Stanley were in the crowded grange somewhere, and he didn't want his mother to see him mop the floor with the numb-nutted Worsleys.

Hope Taber looked up first and saw him. “Hey Rob,” she said and moved to include him and Tiffer in their circle. “How's Adam working out at the sporting goods store?” she asked as the band tuned up for another song.

“Real good. He and Wally both.” He stood next to Kate within an oblong pool of blue light that spilled from the dance floor. The sleeve of his flannel shirt brushed her arm. “Have you ladies met Regina's son, Tiffer?”

“Of course,” Shelly said and reached for Tiffer's hand. “Your mother told me you were coming home for Easter. She's been excited for weeks.”

“It's good to be back for a visit,” he said, but he didn't sound very convincing. He glanced across Rob at Kate and looked her up and down. “Love the naughty highlander look.”

“Thank you.” She subjected Tiffer to the same up and down scrutiny. “Love your Liza sweatshirt.”

The band struck up Tim McGraw's “Real Good Man,” and Rob leaned closer to Kate. “I need to talk to you.”

“Talk.”

“On the dance floor.”

She pasted on a phony smile and turned to look at him. Her voice was a tad too cheerful when she said, “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it right here.”

He wasn't buying the cheery crap for a second. He leaned in and spoke next to her ear. “Are you sure about that? 'Cause I was going to comment on how much I enjoyed eating whipped cream off your nipples.”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “You wouldn't say that.”

“Yeah, I would. Especially since the Worsley brothers are gearing up to tell everyone that Tiffer here is my boyfriend. Call it a preemptive strike just to prove I'm into girls.” Her hair smelled like it had the other night. Kind of like spring flowers. “If you don't believe I'll do it, we could always bet again. I like betting with you.”

“You don't play fair.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You cheat.”

“Guilty.” He leaned back and looked into her face. “Shall we?” He didn't wait for her answer before taking her elbow. “Excuse us.” He set his beer on a nearby table and moved with her to the middle of the dance floor. He placed his palm in the middle of her back and folded her hand in his. They both took a step forward at the same time, and her chest collided with his. Not that he minded. “Honey, I'm going to lead this one.” They started again. She let him lead, but dancing with her was like holding on to a wooden cutout. “Relax,” he said next to her temple.

“I am.”

“No. You're moving like you have a stick up your butt.”

“Charming.” His hand slipped a little lower to the waist of her wool skirt. “Say what you have to say, but make it quick,” she said.

“Are you wearing panties under that skirt?”

“Is that what you want to know?”

Well, it was
one
of the things he wanted to know. “Not if you don't want to tell me.” He moved with her closer to the stage, and the bright lights slid through the deep reds of her hair. The music was too loud, so he waited until they moved away from the stage and into the deeper shadows of the dance floor. “I think I need to apologize, but I'm not sure exactly what I should apologize for.” He pulled back and looked at her for some clue as to how to proceed. Women could twist things until a guy didn't know which end was up. He spun her around and brought her so close to his chest that her breasts brushed the front of his shirt.

“Are you waiting for me to tell you what you should apologize for?”

That might help. He shook his head. “No.” But he was absolutely not going to admit that she'd scared the shit out of him. “I know you're mad about the other night.” He looked down into her face, and she lowered her gaze to his shoulder. “I know that I had a great time, but I'm just not sure you did. You said you wanted me to make love to you, and I got kind of carried away. I'm afraid I might have been too rough and hurt you.”

Her brows drew together. “You didn't hurt me.”

“Oh, that's good.” She wasn't mad about doing it on the floor. He was relieved and pulled her closer to his chest. Again he wondered if she was wearing panties under that kilt, but he knew better than to ask. “I'm sorry I ran out like I did.”

She pushed away and put a few inches between them. “You're only saying you're sorry because you think I'm going to have sex with you again.”

That wasn't the only reason. Although he'd been kind of hoping she'd be open to more than dancing in the grange. He'd been thinking along the lines of a mattress tango. “I was sorry about it the night I walked out of the grocery store.”

“If that's true, you wouldn't have waited so long to talk to me about it. No, now that we've had sex, you think I should just have sex with you whenever you feel like it.”

He might have taken a few punches to the head during his former career, but he wasn't idiot enough to confess that sex whenever he felt like it sounded like a damn good idea. “I've been out of town. True, I could have called, but I wanted to talk to you face-to-face.”

The music stopped, and she pulled out of his embrace. “And now you have.”

He grasped her arm to make sure she didn't run away. “Come home with me.”

“Why?”

Why?
He thought the answer was obvious. “So we can talk.” Among other things. Like checking out what she was wearing under that skirt.

“And end up in your bed.”

“I'd love to have you naked in my bed.”

“Then afterward you can kiss me on the head and tell me thanks, as if I just bagged your groceries? I don't think so.”

“Not one of my finer moves.” He cleared his throat and scratched the side of his neck. “I'll make it up to you.”

“No.”

“Excuse me,” Tiffer said as he joined them. “I'm hoping the tart in the tartan will dance with me.”

Rob stepped back, expecting all hell to break loose. Instead she tossed her red hair and laughed.

“I'd love to dance with you,” she said and took Tiffer's arm. They moved onto the dance floor, leaving a stunned Rob to watch from the sidelines.

He'd bet his left eyeball that if he'd called her a tart, she wouldn't have laughed about it. She would have gotten that squinty look in her eyes and called him a few choice names. Then she would have puckered up and given him a cold shoulder. Or in her case,
colder
shoulder.

He turned away and moved through the crowd toward the bar. Maybe he was wasting his time on Kate. She was uptight and mad most of the time. Sure he liked her, but at the moment he couldn't recall why.

“Hey there, Rob,” Rose Lake called out. He stopped and watched her approach. Her blonde hair was like a shiny beacon in the dim lights of the grange. A genuine smile curved her mouth. Imagine that. An attractive woman who was actually glad to see him.

Kate was beautiful and sexy and smart, but she was not the only woman in town.

Fifteen

Easter Sunday, Stanley Caldwell stayed
home from church, which he never did unless he was ill. He had a few important things to do, and he wanted to do them in private.

Kate slept in her room with the door closed, and he figured that when she woke up, she'd feel the effects of partying late with Tiffer Cladis. Watching her dance all night with a female impersonator instead of Rob had been a big disappointment. She'd never get married if she danced with men who were more interested in sharing makeup tips than making out. Which is what the two had been discussing when he and Grace had approached them during a break in the music. While Kate had spent her evening with Tiffer talking about eyeliner and cover sticks, Rob had stood within a circle of young women. They'd flattered and flirted with him, something Stanley wished Kate would do. Rob had eventually left with Rose.

Stanley slipped on his Minnetonka slippers that Melba had bought him for Christmas the same year she'd died. There was a lot of comfort in knowing a woman most of your life and of her knowing you. He'd loved Melba with all of his heart. He knew it sounded clichéd. The sort of thing people just said without giving it a whole lot of thought, but he had. He'd loved her. He'd loved his wife, but she was gone. The day he'd put her in the ground, he'd thought he should just die too. He'd thought he should just hurry up and follow her into the grave because he hadn't wanted to live without her. He hadn't known
how
to live without her.

Lately, though, he'd been thinking that following her into the grave was maybe not the best plan. Apparently, he was too healthy, and it was taking too long.

He opened the closet he'd shared with his wife for nearly fifty years. Her housecoat was in the same place where she'd left it. Her slacks and blouses and her Tom Jones leather jacket were in there too. Stanley reached for their hangers and laid the clothing on his bed. He went back three more times, and when he was through, there was quite a pile.

Last time he'd asked Katie to pack up a few of Melba's things, but it was his job. She would have wanted it that way, and maybe he was ready. Melba lived in his heart, not in her clothes hanging in the closet and not in her collection of Tom Jones memorabilia. No matter what happened to him or how much longer he lived, he would never forget her. He would never stop loving her.

But maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to live the rest of his life alone, waiting to die. Maybe it was time to move forward. Time to live his life again. Maybe there was room in his old heart for two women.

Grace Sutter wasn't at all like Melba. Melba had loved to have fun, and she'd had a wicked sense of humor and a loud laugh. Grace was a bit more refined. She liked to write poetry and watch birds out her kitchen window. Both women were wonderful in different ways.

Stanley went to the garage and brought in some boxes he'd carted home from the store. The part of his heart that had loved his wife for fifty years broke all over again as he put her things into the boxes. He opened her drawers and emptied them into the cardboard cartons. He paused to touch the pink nightie she'd worn when she'd wanted some time alone with him in the bedroom.

He loved her. Still. He always would. He picked up the packing tape and closed the box flaps. His eyes watered, and a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek. “Good-bye, Melba. I'm giving your things away, but I will not forget you. You were my wife, my lover, and my friend. You were my life for a long time, but you're gone. When you left, I was so lonely, but not so much now. I have Katie and Grace.” He moved to his dresser and took a handkerchief out of his drawer. He wiped his face and blew his nose, a loud honking sound that filled the room. “You always liked Grace. Now I do too.” He more than liked Grace. He loved her. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. “You don't have to worry about Ada Dover or Iona Osborn getting their hooks in me.” Sometimes at night, when the two of them had lain awake in bed talking about what would happen if one of them died before the other, Melba had made him promise that out of all the women in town, he wouldn't let either Ada or Iona reel him in. It had been an easy promise to keep.

One by one, he carried the boxes outside and placed them in the back of his '85 Ford pickup truck. As long as Melba's clothes still hung in the closet, and her unfinished craft projects sat on the shelf, he didn't feel right pursuing another woman.

He filled up the back of his truck with boxes, and the next morning he left Katie in charge of the M&S and headed to Boise and the Salvation Army. He unloaded Melba's things, then headed toward home again. He knew there were closer charity drop boxes, but the thought of running across someone else wearing Melba's Tom Jones jacket would have been too difficult to bear.

When he returned to Gospel, he went to Grace's and watched the sun set over the pines in the backyard. She made him a sandwich, and he told her what he'd done that day. She gave him one of her soft smiles and placed her hand on his. “I will always miss Melba,” she said. “You two were lucky to have found each other. My husband passed away twenty-five years ago. I have never thought of replacing him in my heart, but I've come to learn that there is room in the human heart for more than one love.”

Then he kissed her. For the first time in more than fifty years, he kissed a woman who wasn't Melba. For a few seconds, it felt awkward. For both of them. Then it felt right, and damn if his heart didn't start beating like he was forty again. He broke the kiss and told her of his deep affection and love for her.

She looked him right in the eye and said, “It's about time. I've loved you for almost a year now.”

He'd had no idea. None, and all he seemed capable of doing was standing there marveling that someone like Grace could love someone like him. He was almost ten years older than her, and every one of those years showed. She didn't look a day over fifty-five.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Stay the night,” she whispered.

“Grace, I respect you and—”

“Stop,” she interrupted. “Of course you respect me. That's one of the things I love about you, Stanley Caldwell. You're a good and decent man, but even good and decent men have needs that can only be met in bed. Good and decent women do, too.”

God almighty.
His insides started shaking so hard that he felt like he was going to shake himself apart. He wanted to have sex with Grace. He was pretty sure his equipment was still capable, but there was a part of him that was terrified. “Things are different today. A person has to have that safe sex.”

“I don't think we have to worry about that. I haven't had sex since I voted for the first George Bush and you were married to the same woman for almost five decades.” She looked at him, and the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes deepened. “In case you're worried, I can't get pregnant.”

“God almighty.”

At half past midnight, Kate picked up the telephone and punched seven numbers. Worry knotted her stomach, and she feared she might get sick. She half hoped he wouldn't pick up. The night he'd run out of the M&S had humiliated her, and she really didn't want to speak to him ever again. That night, he'd made her feel so good, and then he'd turned around and made her feel so bad.

The phone rang five times before it was answered. “This had better be good.” His voice was sleepy, sexy as hell, and very cranky.

“Rob, it's Kate. I hate to wake you, but have you seen my grandfather today?”

“Kate?” He cleared his throat, and she could almost see him sit up in bed. “No, I haven't seen Stanley. He's not at home, I take it.”

The knot in her stomach tightened. “No, he left for Boise this morning and I haven't seen or heard from him since. Have you talked to your mother today?”

“Yeah. I saw her around noon. Why?”

“I called her house two hours ago to ask her if she'd seen Stanley, and no one answered. I called back fifteen minutes later, and still no answer.”

“No one picked up at my mom's?” The sound of dresser drawers opening and slamming filled the background. “Did you dial the right number?” She repeated the number she'd called. “Shit.”

“I don't know what to do. I'm afraid my grandfather is in a ditch somewhere. I guess I'll call the sheriff.”

“Hold off on calling just yet.” Kate heard a soft thump and muffled curses, then a clearer, “Sorry, I dropped the phone while I buttoned my fly. I'll pick you up on the way to my mother's.”

“Do you think they're together?”

“Since both of them are missing, yeah, I do.”

Kate hung up the phone and reached for her coat. She wished there'd been someone she could have called besides Rob. Before she could stop it, a memory of the other night flashed across her brain, and a mortifying moan escaped her lips. She couldn't believe she'd done that particular sexual position. It was hard for a girl to keep her dignity with her bum in the air, but for some reason keeping her dignity hadn't entered her head that night. Then while she'd been basking in afterglow, he'd been in the bathroom plotting his escape. The second the condom had come off, he'd been out the door as fast as his boots could carry him.

At the grange party, he'd apologized. Maybe he was sorry, but Kate figured he was mostly sorry that she wasn't going to have sex with him again. Yeah, she knew that sounded cynical. So sue her. She wasn't going to ever let him hurt her again.

She watched for Rob out the window. A crescent moon provided little light over the wilderness area, and her thoughts turned from the other night to the crisis at hand. If her grandfather was stranded somewhere, he wouldn't be able to see more than a foot in front of him.

Within fifteen minutes Rob pulled his HUMMER into the driveway. Kate shoved her arms into the sleeves of her coat and was at the passenger door before he could put the vehicle into park.

“After I hung up from talking to you, I phoned my mother,” he said as she jumped inside and shut the door. “No one answered.” He looked behind him as he backed out. The blue lights of the dash shone on the side of his face and filtered through his hair, unkempt, unruly, and unbelievably hot.

That she even noticed in this time of crisis was incredibly annoying. And especially since she thought he was a big old jerk. “Does your mother ever unplug her phone?” she asked.

The HUMMER stopped in the middle of the street. He looked across at her as he shoved the vehicle into drive. “No. At least she never has before.” He gave her a reassuring smile that did little to reassure her. “They probably decided to go off and write poems in the moonlight somewhere and lost track of the time.”