The Ugly Truth (13 page)

“Hello,
Buffy
,” Butch said, as he stepped out from behind one of the huge oaks. “So you and Blackwood have a thing. Figures. Big man quarterback has to have everything in a skirt that walks past him. What would he think if he knew who you really are?”

This was getting old. Fast. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but you need to find a new hobby.”

A slow, nasty grin split his face. “I read you went to a big college. What I wonder is how you managed to pay for that fancy education. Maybe you’d like to demonstrate.” He reached for his zipper.

My hand popped his face, leaving a bright red handprint behind. “Son of a monkey’s ass.”

I turned and hurried away before I decided to tear out his ugly heart. Men. All they were good for was messing up a girl’s life. Damn ‘em all to hell. I sure didn’t need one. I was just fine by myself, thank you very much.

I walked aimlessly for a while, staying close to the populated area, but far enough away I had a bit of privacy. As I worked at getting my anger back under control, I tried hard not to remember how my mother and stepfather had held the strings on every single penny I used to go to Columbia. I’d wanted to get a job, but I also wanted to take a heavy course load so I could get through and be free to live my own life. So I put up with it all, including the yelling and hitting from a stepfather I loathed. A man I’d left my little brother to face alone.

I found the rectangular green building that held the public bathroom, and splashed water on my face. There were no paper towels, so I air-dried.

I started back toward the picnic area determined I was going to find Madison and stay beside her for the rest of this reunion-festival thing. She was my friend, and I loved her. I would not allow a man to make me lose sight of that goal. I was not my mother!

I was walking back when I heard Butch’s voice. “I don’t like being blamed for something I didn’t do.”

“We all know you did it, dude. Why don’t you be a man and admit it.”

“It was him,” Butch’s voice said. “Quit blaming me.”

I edged closer, careful to keep a tree between me and Butch’s line of sight.

“I also do not like being blamed for what I did not do.”

The voice was coarse and sounded very much as if the person speaking was not a native English speaker. German maybe? I edged a bit closer to try to get a glimpse without being spotted.

“Why don’t you just own up, Johnson and leave the big guy alone?”

The father of one of the junior pageant contestants stomped out from behind the copse of trees, and I ducked backward to keep him from seeing me.

“I was always careful,” Butch was saying. “I always put the butt out. I know it wasn’t me, and I saw you that night.”

I edged closer to eavesdrop…I mean investigate the situation.

“I was there,” the gravelly voice said. “But I was not smoking.”

“You had a cigarette in your hand.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Damn it! I know it was you. I don’t care who you are, you don’t get to use me as your scapegoat.”

Butch turned and stomped off. I watched him go, until a sound had me looking back toward where the confrontation had taken place. There was movement, and then I saw him. Huge, furry. It was just a glimpse, but I was sure.

“They do exist,” I whispered.

And then the significance of what I’d just heard hit me. There was more to this little town than I’d ever imagined, and my curiosity was screaming at me to find out more.

I was beginning to be truly fascinated by odd, little Ugly Creek, Tennessee.

Chapter 10

I figured the drive to work the next morning was the perfect opportunity to get a few answers. We’d barely gotten out of the driveway when I decided to put my theory to the test. “Margaret, what caused the fire?”

She didn’t answer for a time, but I saw how her shoulders had tensed, how her knuckles had gone white where she gripped the steering wheel.

“The best the investigators could figure was it started behind the boys’ locker room. The theory is that somebody was smoking back there.”

“Do they know who?”

I saw her swallow. “There wasn’t really enough left to figure it out.”

I touched her arm. “I’m sorry; I know it has to be hard to talk about.”

She flashed me a weak smile. “It’s gotten easier over the years.”

“Does it make you angry, that nobody was ever charged?”

“Oh heavens, no. It was an accident. Some kid was smoking. Somehow he dropped a lit cigarette, probably didn’t even realize he’d done it. Until later.”

She cleared her throat and shifted until she sat straighter. “Besides, whoever it was has to live with the guilt. I believe that would be the worst possible punishment.”

“You’re right. That would be awful.”

I looked out the window. I knew something about that living with guilt thing. I unzipped my purse and pulled the picture out of my wallet. The photo of a ten-year-old boy. A shot I’d taken years ago with my brand new Minolta thirty-five millimeter single lens reflex. I bought the camera with my fifteenth-birthday money, and was chewed out royally for not spending the money on something “practical.” I still couldn’t figure out what was more practical than a camera.

“Did you take that picture?”

I jumped before I could stop myself.

Margaret patted my arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I was lost in thought.”

“He’s a nice looking young man.”

“That’s my brother Brandon. He’s five years younger than me, and was just admitted to graduate school. Wait a minute, how did you know I took that shot?”

She chuckled. “It’s your style. Candid, but artistic. Catching the essence of your subject.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Maddie’s been showing you my work, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, but I also read
Capitol Spy
every month.”

I leaned back in my seat, running a finger over the photo in my hand. “My work for the
Spy
isn’t all that artistic.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. What you do for them may not be the sort of thing you think of as artistic, but your talent is infused into every photograph you take. Trust me, Stephie. You have a wonderful style.”

She pulled into the parking lot behind Blackwood Antiques, and I grabbed my camera bag and laptop.

Dingo met us and I dropped to my heels to give the dog his belly scratch. I knew when Jake stooped beside me because the air started sparking between us.

“You’re spoiling my dog,” Jake’s deep voice vibrated through me, strumming my nerves like a violin.

“He deserves to be spoiled,” I told him.

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

I smiled at the huge ball of soft fur sprawled in the floor in front of me. “Look at him, he’s gorgeous and sweet and friendly. What more could you want in a dog?”

Jake’s hand suddenly closed over mine. The touch of his rough, warm hand had me gasping for breath, and trying hard not to let him know how much he affected me. “You had a dog once, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When you were a kid growing up in Alabama?”

Everything stopped. Everything. The world, my heart, my brain, my hands, my life, my lungs. Little black dots began to pop onto the edges of my vision.

“Stephie?”

I gasped in a fresh breath of oxygen, clearing my vision and starting my heart again. My brain, though, was still muddled. “How long have you known?”

He shrugged. “I’d suspected for a while.”

“Really?”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, your accent pops out now and again.”

“My
what
? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get rid of my accent? Most people don’t hear it. How can you?”

He rolled off his heels into a sitting position and leaned back on his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with having a Southern accent, you know.”

“I don’t want one.”

“Why not?”

I played with Dingo’s fur while I got my panic a little more under control. “I hate where I grew up.”

He was watching me; I could see him out of the corner of my eye. “What did Crooked Tree Hollow do to you?”

“How did you find out?”

“My best friend’s a computer geek. You think I can’t use the Internet?”

My breath caught as I stiffened, prompting Dingo to scramble to his feet. “I just didn’t like it there. Okay?”

“Your family has lived there for years, right?”

“Generations.”

Dingo decided being scratched was worth the risk of being startled again and flopped back down.

“I saw one article that said your father was the mayor for eight years?”

“Stepfather,” I spoke with my teeth clenched together to prevent the vile words I seriously wanted to say. I tried to get up, but Jake had his hand firmly around my wrist.

“Not a nice man, I take it.”

“Just because he goes to church every Sunday and he was the fricking mayor, doesn’t make him a saint.” I stopped, closed my eyes and wondered what in the world had possessed me to say something so transparent.

Jake tugged me against the warm, solid wall of his chest. “What did he do to you?”

Seriously unwelcome tears flooded my eyes and I fought hard to hold them back. “He just isn’t a nice man.”

“He hurt you.”

“Not only me.” He’d hurt Brandon too, and I’d left my little brother there to take the heat.

“He hit you?”

I pulled away. “I don’t want to talk about my stepfather, okay? He wasn’t exactly nice to me, but it’s over I’m getting on with my life. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d just forget the whole thing.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

“I’m here if you change your mind.”

I met his gaze then, trying to convey the almost overwhelming gratefulness that welled up inside me. Odd. Here in this small town I kept running into supportive, caring people. How very different than the place I’d grown up.

I shoved those syrupy feelings back into the most cobwebbed corner of my mind and gave Dingo a final head scratch. “I’m going to get freshened up.”

“Take your time.”

I nodded my thanks and shut myself in the closet-sized bathroom off the back room. I looked into the mirror over the sink, and saw the wide, scared eyes of the child I thought I’d left behind. No wonder Jake had been so sweet to me. It wasn’t the caring of a man for a woman he was attracted to; instead it had been the caring of an adult for a pathetic child.

I splashed water on my face, forced the pieces of myself back together, fixed my makeup, took a deep breath, and headed into the store. I had a job to do and I’d be damned if a bastard like the man my traitorous mother had married would keep me from doing it.

There were customers when I got to the front, and both Jake and Margaret were busy. I got right to work by setting up my equipment and pulling the shots up into the appropriate software on my laptop.

They left me alone, and by eleven I was finished with the first set of photos.

“Wow! Those are amazing shots.”

I smiled at Jake, who stood behind me looking at the computer screen. “Thank you.”

He pointed at a photo of a roll top desk I’d converted to gray tones and then used a yellowish-red tint to make it look like an antique photo. “I’d have never thought of that, but it makes a lot of sense.”

“I’m trying several different techniques; you can pick what you want to use.” I grinned. “No extra charge.”

An artery in his neck jumped and his eyes went abruptly dark. I swallowed hard. Maybe he did see me as a desirable woman after all.

“I’m going to lunch; call my cell if you get overwhelmed.” With that, Margaret walked out the door.

“I’ve, um, got some inventory I need to take care of,” Jake said.

I nodded, but he’d already turned to go. Even with my eyes glued to the screen, I could tell exactly where he was. Like heat-seeking missiles, my senses zeroed in on him.

“Maddie hates his guts,” I muttered to myself. But she really didn’t. I knew that. I wasn’t quite sure what my friend felt for Jake, but hatred wasn’t it.

I was focused on trying new ways to present the merchandise when I heard the bell over the door tinkle. I glanced up as a woman walked in. Designer jeans, four-inch heels, sleeveless blouse that looked suspiciously like silk, something about her seemed to yell, “Money.” Her jutting chin and perfect posture said she planned to get what she wanted without spending much of said money.

I looked around, but Jake was nowhere in sight.

The newcomer was looking at a beautiful hand-carved table, and beginning to glance around.

I was considering running to the back to find him when her gaze caught mine. So instead, I walked over to her. “May I help you?”

“The tag says forty-five hundred for this little table. That seems rather high.”

The customer’s expression was one I’d seen many times in D.C., Sly. Calculating. The woman knew the table was worth much more.

Thankfully, I remembered a few facts from Jake’s tour yesterday. “This table is nineteenth century mahogany with a marble top. It’s a beautiful piece, well worth what Mr. Blackwood is asking for it. Personally, I’d have asked a great deal more.”

The woman raised one eyebrow. “Well, it’s fortuitous you aren’t the one setting the prices.”

I smiled innocently. “Yes, I suppose so.”

The woman touched a well-manicured finger over a tiny chip in the marble top. “It has a number of damaged spots.”

“Three.”

The customer blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The table has two tiny chips in the marble and one, all but invisible, spot at the top of one leg. Not bad for more than a century of use, don’t you think?”

“I’ll pay three thousand for it.”

Ah, the game was on. I pretended to consider for a moment, then looked her directly in the eye. “I’d have to clear it with the owner, but I might be able to get you forty-three hundred.”

“That’s insulting!”

I saw the desire in the woman’s eyes. I had her on the hook. “It’s an excellent deal, and you know it.”