Vegas Two-Step (14 page)

She’d had that with Jack. A perfect stranger she’d met in a bar. Emphasis on the perfect.

But the other stuff got in the way. Her own insecurities about who she was, who she should be. Part of her loved the way she’d felt in Vegas; the other part wagged her finger at the wild half, reminding her who she was, how she was supposed to act, what was expected.

She was Nelda Rae Hughes. And she was a Tucker. Tuckers stood straight, combed their hair before they left the house, served on charity boards, gave benevolently, but spent wisely. Grandmother Dorothy Rivers Tucker made sure her granddaughter understood this. It was her birthright. Her destiny.

And unlike her own mother, Nellie never rebelled. Probably because she didn’t want to end up like her mother. Pregnant, forced into a miserable marriage, and then strung out on whatever drugs she could beg, borrow or steal, Grace had been a tragic figure destined for a bad end. Nellie’s father had thought he could get his hands on the Tucker millions through Grace, but that was before he got to know Dorothy Tucker. Before he realized how stupid he had been. Before he realized living off the Tuckers was as hopeless as Grace’s sanity.

When Grandmother Tucker found Nellie, she’d been lying in an overloaded diaper, listless and lifeless, way past the wailing stage. Her mother, strung out on bad stuff, had driven away two days before, leaving her baby behind. Grace had never even looked back. Or so Uncle Teddy had told her.

Of course, at eleven years old, Nellie had soaked this up, a willing sponge to her alcoholic uncle’s tale. Grandmother Tucker had come into the parlor, heard Uncle Teddy and promptly hit him in the head with the fireplace broom.

Then Grandmother Tucker had stepped over Uncle Teddy as he lay moaning on the floor, lifted Nellie into her arms even though she weighed a hundred pounds, and told her Uncle Teddy was an idiot. Nellie believed her because ever since Grandmother Tucker had scooped Nellie up off the floor where she lay in that house just south of Tyler, abandoned by her own parents, she’d belonged to Grandmother Tucker.

And Grandmother Tucker had been a hell of a strong woman. How Nellie had both loved and hated her. Yet love triumphed. It always did. Or maybe not. Take her and Jack. Her only course of action was to leave Grandmother Tucker in the past. And leave Jack there, too.

That had been her mantra for a whole month. Leave the past and look to the future.

So she worked and she got busy on the kitchen renovation. She’d hired Brent Hamilton and had no clue when he did any work. Every time she saw him, he was on the phone. It never sounded work-related, but the kitchen showed progress so she couldn’t complain.

She’d step inside, and Brent would shout a hello, rake her up and down with his eyes and lift his eyebrows appreciatively. It both flattered and repulsed.

“When you going out with me, Nellie baby?” he would ask.

She gave the same answer every day. “When hell freezes over.”

It drove Brent crazy. He couldn’t stand being turned down. Especially by the former nerdy town librarian.

“We’ll see about that. I’ve got plans for you, and they’ll drive those women from your mind.” He would wink playfully, trying to establish some intimacy based on his lame lesbian comment.

She ignored him. No doubt, he was good in bed. He’d had plenty of practice. But he didn’t intrigue her as he once had. Two months ago, she would have tripped over herself to get to Brent. Of course, two months ago, he wouldn’t have asked.

He asked now because of the way she looked. Shallow. She was the same person she’d always been. Except now she wore expensive, formfitting clothes, straightened her frizzy hair so it shone like satin, curled her eyelashes and polished her toenails. She’d always held her shoulders back—Tucker rule—but now her breasts were headliners instead of two-bit extras. It was all icing, window dressing. The real Nellie still wore her comfy panties under the kick-ass jeans. Well, most of the time anyway. The pretty silk ones were sometimes hard to ignore.

Brent approved of her new look. So she wasn’t surprised when she came home one Saturday, wearing a silk sleeveless sweater in pale blue with a white handkerchief skirt and backless sandals, to see him come out of the kitchen looking for her.

He stomped out, covered in dust, but looking pretty darned good despite the debris peppering his wavy hair.

“So you went out again with that redneck Bubba Malone but you won’t go with me?” Incredulous. The idea of her having an ice cream with Bubba Malone had baffled more intelligent people than Brent. And when she’d gone with him a couple of days ago to the Jupiter Steakhouse, well, that just stunned her handsome contractor. Especially after he’d asked her out for the same night.

“Bubba and I are friends,” Nellie snapped. “He’s a nice guy, Brent. I’m not looking for a relationship right now.” She tossed her bag onto the coffee table.

“Right,” he drawled, folding his arms over the tight T-shirt he wore. “You’re a woman. You’re all looking for relationships.”

Her head shot up. “No. Sometimes we’re just looking for a good time. Sometimes we don’t want any strings attached.” Nellie knew it was herself she wanted to convince. Vegas was about an affair. Just sex. Nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with wanting to have Jack Darby’s babies and fold his underwear for the rest of her life.

“Well, let me go upstairs and grab a shower. ’Cause, baby, I’m all about pleasure without strings.” He gave her the same half-lidded look he’d given her before, rubbing his hands down his massive torso and stretching like a cat who anticipated a bowl of cream.

“While you’re up there, make sure you don’t go through my underwear drawer again.” She suspected the man had rifled through her stuff while she was at work. Which was downright freaky.

Brett didn’t even look ashamed. “I like the little red ones.”

“You’re sick!” Nellie said, prepared to fire him. “You’re not supposed to go through your customer’s things.”

“Don’t get those panties in a wad, Nellie.” He moved her way and her mouth went dry. Brent was a full-grown man with full-grown needs. He wasn’t like Bubba, all sweet despite his obvious maleness. He stopped in front of her, towering, smelling like sawdust and sexy male.

She licked her lips. Stupid. Men always liked that. It was an invitation, so she stepped away, nervous at being alone in the house with him.

“Don’t worry, Nellie,” he said, giving her a knowing smile, “I don’t beg women to go out with me.”

He laughed low and tromped toward the front door, his big work boots rattling the glass in the china cabinet. She dropped her arms to her sides wondering why she’d hired the man. He was seriously twisted.

Nellie shoved all thoughts about men to the back of her mind and walked into the kitchen. Fresh-cut plywood was perched atop sawhorses; cappuccino-colored tiles were scattered round the room; and a stainless sink leaned up against the wall. It looked like a tornado had hit.

The screen door opened again. “Hey, Nellie. You home?”

Bubba.

“I’m in here,” she called.

Heavy footfalls gave way to a gravelly voice. “Whoa! He’s a tearin’ it up in here, ain’t he?”

Nellie spun around. Bubba had just squeezed into the kitchen. He cradled his ball cap in his hands. Ever the gentleman. He might spit tobacco into an old pea can, but his momma had raised him right.

“Yep. But that means progress, right?”

“I reckon,” he conceded, studying the dismantled kitchen with appraising brown eyes. They were puppy dog eyes, odd in such a large doughy face. “Brent Hamilton’s pretty good. I seen some of his work over at the McFarlands’. Solid.”

She turned her own critical eye on the progress. “He’s a pervert. I should have gotten more estimates, I guess, but I just wanted to get started.”

Bubba stiffened. “Is he botherin’ you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said.

“Well, good, ’cause I ain’t gonna be around much. I got a job.”

“A job? That’s fantastic, Bubba. Where are you working?”

“Oh, some fellow’s up and bought the old Henderson place. It’s been sittin’ there for years. He wants to make it into a horse farm and needs someone to help with the cleanup and such. It’s gonna take a pretty penny and plenty o’ sweat to bring that ol’ place up to snuff.”

“So Hattie finally sold it?”

“Yeah, wasn’t nobody who wanted it. I guess she figured it was time. This fellow seems okay. Little green, but he damned sure could run a tractor.”

Nellie grinned. Knowing how to handle a John Deere was on par with a master’s degree around these parts. “Well, that’s great, Bubba.”

She stepped around him and headed out of the kitchen.

Bubba followed her. She pushed out the front door onto the porch. The sun was hovering over the horizon, ready to sink down and blanket the little town in gentle darkness. Her favorite time. Sunset.

“You hungry, Bubba? I’m in the mood for a burger.”

Her mountainous friend grinned. “You buyin’? I ain’t started this job yet.”

“Absolutely. And you tell Mr…. wait. Who’s the guy who bought the Henderson place?”

Bubba squinched up his face. “Shoot. I’ve done gone and forgot his last name. Plum forgot it. But his first name’s Jack.”

Nellie’s stomach flopped. “Jack?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s got some horse, I don’t know, corporation. Gonna raise racehorses or show horses. No, wait. Rodeo horses.” Bubba snapped his fingers, making a crack loud enough to cause a person to hit the floor.

Nellie jumped. Then she felt stupid. Not her Jack. Her Jack was a city-slick club owner. A fancy-pants urban fantasy of a man. She couldn’t imagine him covered in dust, sweating on a tractor, shoveling horse manure. No way. Didn’t fit. And why would Jack show up here? He didn’t even know where she lived. And with the way she’d left, why would he bother? Plus, to buy a horse farm? Ridiculous. Just a coincidence.

“Well, you make him pay you what you’re worth,” she said, turning back into the house. “Let me get my purse.”

“Shoot, Nellie,” Bubba called through the screened door. “You know I ain’t worth a plug nickel. This guy don’t know what he’s getting. I may be big and strong, but I’m as lazy as a Louisiana bayou.”

She came out with her purse hanging from her shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, Bubba. You’re way more than meets the eye.”

“Just like you, Nellie. I always knew you were somethin’. I’m glad we’re friends. I get tired of tryin’ to talk to Woodley and Jimbo about things. They’re just liable to grunt at me, that’s all.”

“I’m glad we’re friends, too,” she said, trotting down the porch steps. She tried to visualize Bubba holding a serious conversation with his cousins. It baffled the mind.

“Let’s get double cheese fries,” he called out behind her. “I’m starvin’.”

Yeah. She’d just use extra cheese to get Jack out of her mind.

Who would have thought Bubba Malone would be her new “Kate”? Bubba Malone, confidant and girlfriend. That made her giggle. Which felt good. “Hey, let’s get the brownie sundae they’ve been advertising too. I love Dairy Barn sundaes.”

“Deal,” Bubba said, rubbing his meaty hands together. “I need to bulk up for my new job. It’s damned hot and I’ll be sweatin’ like a preacher on revival night.”

Darkness descended as they took off through the freshly cut lawn toward the other side of the town square. Nellie slid off her sandals and squished her bare feet through the lush Saint Augustine. She loved the way the grass felt between her toes. Summer decadence.

She put her shoes back on when she got to the sidewalk. Bubba was ten feet ahead of her, plowing through town, a man on a mission. Double cheese fries were so good she wasn’t offended by his failure to wait.

Her walk took her past typical small-town businesses—a nail place, the barbershop where her grandfather had received his first haircut, the vacant green stamp store, and the antique store where she’d bought a Tiffany lamp. Finally, she reached the Dairy Barn. Rusty-red, it was reminiscent of a time when girls with swinging ponytails huddled under their boyfriends’ letter jackets while Charlie Mac served up shakes and fries. It had been an Oak Stand fixture since 1956.

She pulled the door open and the familiar smell of onion rings and bleach assaulted her. Hundreds of eyes swung their way. It was Saturday night in Oak Stand. Nearly everyone was there.

Brent Hamilton dropped the hand he had on Livy Wheeler’s ass and smiled.

What a snake, Nellie thought, noticing Brent had changed his shirt and combed the drywall bits from his shaggy brown hair. She ignored him and sauntered to the counter, throwing the stooped Charlie Mac a smile. “Two double cheeseburgers, an order of cheese fries—”

“Double order,” Bubba called over her shoulder.

She nodded to Charlie Mac as his blue-veined fingers scratched out the order on his pad. “Diet Coke, root beer, and a double brownie sundae.”