Where There's Smoke (45 page)

He saw no need to announce his presence to her.
 
What would he say?
 
He supposed he could tell her the truth that he was worried about Miss Janellen; how she was reacting to her mama's collapse in the Sak'n'Save.
 
Then the housekeeper would probably want to know what business it was of his, and he'd have to say no business of his at all, and she'd shoo him off the porch and probably call the law.

So he lurked in the shadows, standing ankle deep in rainwater.

He couldn't adequately justify his reason for being there.
 
He just knew he had to be.
 
Furthermore, he intended to stay right where he was, come hell or high water, until he saw for himself that Miss janellen was holding together.

He hadn't laid eyes on her since that afternoon of their kiss, followed by her startling declaration that she loved him.
 
He hadn't taken it seriously, of course.
 
Something had caused her to blurt it out-PMS, or too much sun, or maybe an allergy pill that had made her a little goofy.
 
In hindsight, she probably felt like cutting out her tongue.

Because he empathized with anyone who shot off his mouth without thinking, he'd been avoiding Janellen, sparing her the embarrassment of having to face him and offer an excuse for her bizarre behavior.
 
Sure enough, she'd gone out of her way to avoid him, too.

They couldn't keep dodging each other forever, though.
 
Sooner or later they'd meet, so it might as well be tonight when she had something even more terrible to fret over.
 
He couldn't do anything about her mama's failing health, but he could relieve her of one concern.
 
He could assure her that he didn't intend to take advantage of something she'd said during a mental lapse of unknown origin.

Headlights appeared at the end of the private drive.
 
Bowie's gut clenched reflexively as he watched the car turn off the county road and onto Tackett property.
 
He shrank back closer to the wall, not wanting to be seen until he was certain it was janellen.
 
Reputedly, Key kept a loaded Beretta beneath the driver's seat of his car.
 
It could be gossip, but Bowie would just as soon not have it confirmed the hard way.
 
If Key saw a prowler, he might shoot first and ask questions later.

The headlights, diffused by the rain, approached slowly.
 
Bowie recognized Janellen's car.
 
She parked in the driveway, got out, and dashed through the rain toward the back door.
 
The screen door squeaked when she pulled it open.
 
She had her key in the latch when he softly called her name.

Startled, she spun around.
 
Rain fell on her pale face as she peered through the gloom.
 
"Bowie!
 
What in the world are you doing out here?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, but you're soaked.
 
How long have you been out here?

Come inside."

"No, I'll go on along home now."
 
He knew he must be a sorry sight, what with the brim of his hat dripping rainwater and his pants wet from the knees down.
 
"I just wanted to make sure you were all right, considering what happened this morning.
 
Word around the shop is that Mrs.
 
Tackett is feeling poorly."

"Unfortunately, that's true."
 
She unlocked the door and insisted he follow her inside.
 
Reluctantly he stepped into the kitchen, but stayed just inside the door.

"Take off your jacket," she said.
 
"And your boots.
 
They're sopping wet."

"I don't want you to fuss."

"No fuss.
 
Let me check on Mama and send Maydale home, then I'll make some coffee."
 
She moved through the dark kitchen, but turned when she reached the doorway.
 
"Don't go away."

Bowie's heart swelled so large he could barely draw breath.
 
She hadn't screamed or shuddered or puked when she saw him.
 
That was a good sign.

Now she was asking him, almost pleading with him, to stick around.

"No, ma'am.
 
I surely won't."

While she was gone, he removed his hat and his damp jacket and hung them on a wall peg near the back door.
 
Balancing on one leg at a time, he tugged off his boots and placed them beside a pair that obviously belonged to Key.
 
The toes of his socks were damp, but he was relieved to see that they didn't have holes.

He tiptoed across the vinyl tile floor.
 
Leaving the lights off, he gazed through the window over the sink, watching the rain drip from the eaves.
 
After several minutes he heard a muffled conversation at the front door, then watched through the window as Maydale picked her way around puddles to her car while trying to protect her beehive hairdo with a silly plastic bonnet.

At the sound of Janellen's approach, he turned.
 
"How's your mama doing?"

"Sleeping."

"She's all right, then?"

"Not really.
 
She won't follow doctor's orders.
 
She's too hardheaded to heed the warnings, like the one she got this morning.
 
She doesn't believe her condition is serious.

"From what I've heard, she's a stubborn old gal."

"To say the very least."

"Maybe her condition isn't as bad as the doctors say.

"Maybe."

"Sometimes they exaggerate to make their point and justify their bill."

Her wan smile indicated she didn't believe that and knew that he didn't either.
 
"Well," she said, pulling herself up straighter, "I promised you some coffee."

"You don't have to bother."

"No.
 
I want to.
 
I'd like some, too.
 
I won't be sleeping much tonight, so I might just as well."

She moved toward the pantry, but her footsteps were sluggish and her voice unsteady.
 
She didn't turn on the lights, probably because she didn't want him to see the tears in her eyes.
 
He saw them anyway.

The coffee canister almost slipped from her hands before she set it down on the counter.
 
Peeling a single paper filter from the compressed stack proved to be a challenge.
 
Once that was done, she spilled coffee grounds as she scooped them from the canister.

"Oh, dear.
 
I'm making a mess."
 
She began twisting her hands and brutalizing her lower lip by pulling it through her teeth.

He felt about as useless as a teat on a boar hog.
 
"Why don't you sit yourself down, Miss Janellen, and let me make the coffee?"

"What I'd really like you to do ."
 
She struggled to get the next words out.
 
"What I'd really like .

"Yes, ma'am?"

She turned and looked at him imploringly.
 
"If it's not too much to ask, "Name She uttered a little squeaking sound, tilted her head to one side, then swayed forward.
 
He caught her, encircled her with his arms, drew her against his chest, and hugged her close.
 
She was so slight, he was afraid he might be holding her too tightly, but trustingly she laid her cheek on his shoulder.

"Bowie, what will I do if Mama dies?
 
What?"

"You'll go right on living, that's what."

"But what kind of life will I have?"

"That depends on what you make of it."

She sniffed wetly.
 
"You don't understand.
 
Key and Mama are all that's left of my family.
 
I don't want to lose them.
 
If Mama dies, Key will go on about his business, and I'll be left here alone."

"You'll make out just fine by yourself, Miss Janellen."

"No, I won't."

"Now why would you say that?"

"Because I've never had an identity of my own.
 
People only see me in relation to my family.
 
I'm Clark Junior's daughter.
 
Clark and Key's little sister.
 
Jody's girl.
 
Even though I've been doing most of the work at Tackett Oil the last couple of years, everybody thinks I'm just Mama's puppet.
 
I guess they're not too far wrong.
 
She's always told me what to do, and I've obeyed her, partially because she's usually right, but mostly, I suppose, because I lack the selfconfidence to stand up to her and offer a different opinion.
 
I've never really minded answering to her, but when she's gone, what then?

Who will I be?
 
Who am 1?"

He pushed her away and gave her a little shake.
 
"You're Janellen Tackett, that's who.
 
And that's enough.
 
You're stronger than you know.
 
When the time comes for you to stand up on your own, you'll do it."

"I'm afraid, Bowie."

"Of what?"

"Failing, I guess.
 
Not living up to expectations."
 
She laughed, but it was a sad sound.
 
"Or, more to the point, I'm afraid that I will live up to everyone's expectations and land flat on my backside when Mama's not here to call the shots."

"It won't be that way," he said with a stubborn shake of his head.

"You've got years of experience.
 
The men are used to taking orders from you.
 
You're smart as a whip.
 
I always thought of myself as fairly clever.
 
I've got some street smarts, but when I'm with you and this is the God's truth I feel dumber than dirt."

"You're not dumb, Bowie.
 
You're very smart.
 
Nobody else noticed the discrepancy in well number seven."

"Which turned out to be nothing."

"We didn't know that until you installed the test meter."

He'd put the test meter midway between the well and the recorder.

The data registered had been the same.
 
A leak could be anywhere along the line.
 
In order to locate it, he'd have to move the test meter until a section of line was isolated.
 
That could go on indefinitely.

He'd checked the records and, sure enough, that well had had a flare line, but it had been capped off years ago.
 
He felt like a fool for making such a big deal over something his bosses considered insignificant.

Janellen's hands were still riding on his waist, and that's all he could think about now.
 
Finally he said, "I'm sorry about your mama, Miss Janellen, because I know how much you care about her.
 
I hope she lives to a ripe old age so you'll be spared the grief of her passing.

But with or without her, you're your own person.
 
You don't have to be anybody's daughter or sister or .
 
. . or wife.
 
You're good enough all by yourself.
 
You've gotplenty on the ball and don't let anybody make you think different.

"You're good for me, Bowie," she whispered.

"Aw, hell, I'm not good for much of anything."

"That's not true!
 
You are!
 
You're very good for me.
 
You make me focus on my strong points instead of my weaknesses.
 
Don't get me wrong.
 
I know my limitations.
 
I've lived with them all my life.
 
I know I'm intelligent, but not exceptionally so.
 
I'm not self-assertive, I'm timid, and I lack confidence.
 
I'm not pretty.
 
Not like my brothers.

"Not pretty?"
 
Bowie was baffled, so baffled he didn't stop to wonder when he'd begun thinking of her as beautiful.
 
"Why, you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen, Miss Janellen."