Trouble's Brewing (9 page)
Clay couldn’t believe his luck—or lack thereof. If he were a betting man, he’d have laid money on Lisa Leann having deliberately swooped out of her new bridal shop in order to waylay him.
Women,
he thought.
They always stick together no matter what. They can stab each other in the back one day, and pray for one another the next. They can fight like cats over a single man on a Friday night, then one helps the other snag him on Saturday.
Still …
He drove back to his apartment, a one-room overlooking Main Street. He could afford better, but living alone—with the exception of his boys Woodward and Bernstein—why bother? If he’d ever married, it might be different. But he hadn’t … and it wasn’t.
He threw his jacket over the chair shoved under his desk, then plopped down on his bed. The box springs creaked under his weight, a not-so-gentle reminder that he could stand to lose a few pounds.
Clay sighed and closed his eyes, squeezing them so tight a kaleidoscope of colors formed behind his lids, which were dissipated by pictures of Donna with David Harris.
Well, why not?
he asked himself. Harris was a good-looking man by anyone’s standards, Texas lassoed while Clay was … well, he was the Opie Taylor of Summit View. His face was splattered with “little boy” freckles, and his hair was too red. Plus, he was overweight by anyone’s standards.
He reckoned he couldn’t do anything about the freckles and the hair, short of having it dyed like some girl, which he wouldn’t even begin to consider. But he could lose a few pounds, couldn’t he? What was the name of that new diet everyone was going nuts over?
He hoisted himself off the bed, booted up the laptop on his desk, and began to research, something he knew well how to do. An hour later, he had a full plan … a plan for life.
I knew the whole … episode with Vernon had upset me because by noon I had done three uncharacteristic things.
Make that four.
One, I had created a scene in public. I couldn’t remember the last time I had made a scene for the world to see. Oh, yes I could. Not too long ago I’d embarrassed myself immensely by verbally attacking Donna when I thought she had betrayed Vonnie to Clay Whitefield. Turns out she hadn’t, but boy, what a fuss we had right there on Main Street. I feared this morning might have been an even more mortifying moment for me, because, of course, this time it involved my personal life.
Two, I had accepted a date with Bob Burnett. What was I thinking? Not that Bob was the worst man in the world. He was, after all, a deacon at Grace, but he’s hardly the kind of man I ever thought I’d date. In the middle of what Goldie would call a hissy fit I had thrown to hurt Vernon, I had unintentionally made a complete donkey’s behind out of myself. Now, I had to go out with Bob Burnett. Out to dinner.
Dinner … at Apple’s restaurant, a quaint little Italian place (known for their eggplant parmesan) owned by David and Mica Apple, who were Grace members and all-around nice people.
So how bad could dining at Apple’s be?
I silently asked myself, then quickly said out loud, “Don’t answer that, Evangeline.” A lot of Grace people were sure to be there … would see me … talk about me … call me all day long tomorrow for the scoop.
Three, I had gone home and actually phoned Lisa Leann to see what in the world she’d been harping about earlier. When she told me about the little escapade Donna had planned for her and Vonnie (and involving poor Goldie, of all things!), I marched right back to my car and drove straight to town to confront the little sneak. First her father, now her. I’d had enough of the Vesey trickery for one day.
Four, I made another horse’s patoot out of myself in front of Donna. The one person I was hoping to somehow bridge a gap with. Of course, as soon as she heard about the breakup of her father and me, she might love me to death.
The breakup of her father and me …
Now, back at the house, I sank into my favorite chair (the one near my bed; it had been Mama’s favorite chair too, and always brought me comfort) and cried. First I cried out of anger, then I cried out of heartache, and then I cried out of anger again. Somewhere in between all that, I cried about every rotten thing that had happened in my life since the age of twelve when Vernon first kissed me and then Doreen Roberts stole him away from me. Now, she was doing it again.
“Lord,” I said to the ceiling, internally hoping God couldn’t hear me, “how I hate that woman.”
Of course, I didn’t mean it. Not really.
Oh, who was I kidding? Of course I did. I reached for the nearby phone atop a small pedestal table and dialed Lizzie’s home number. Tim answered.
“Oh, hello, Tim. This is Evangeline Benson.”
“Hello, Miz Benson,” he said. I thought for a moment how much his accent sounded like Goldie’s, then remembered he’d been living in Louisiana for a good number of years, so it only went to reason.
“Is your mother there?” I asked.
“Ah, no. Mom’s at work.”
I looked at my watch. It was only a little after 1:00. “Of course. I’m sorry, Tim. It feels like it ought to be midnight.”
There was a pause between us before he said, “Miz Benson, are you all right?”
I coughed out a laugh. “You know, Tim, you and I have a lot in common. We’re both in the middle of a breakup.” Then I laughed like a complete fool. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Uh … okay. Sure. I guess so. You’re in the middle of a breakup or a crack-up, Miz Benson?” Then he chuckled a bit before adding, “That was rude. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. You may be closer to the truth than you know. Either way, love can be pretty stinky, can’t it?”
“Love hurts,” he answered. “If you don’t mind my borrowing from a song.”
It wasn’t familiar, but if he said so … “Have you ever hated anyone, Tim?” I asked.
“Mmm … yeah, I think so. I guess we all have at one time or another … you know, felt hate.”
“It’s not of God.”
“No. No, you’re right there. I mean, God says we are to hate sin. At least I think he said that. But we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t, at some point, hate something or someone.” He cleared his throat a bit. “I take it you’re struggling with that.”
I crossed one leg over the other and stared down at my jeans. Jeans. Who was I trying to impress, suddenly getting all dressed up in things like jeans and stylish sweaters? “I’m an old maid, Tim,” I told him, shaking my head. “I know it’s silly, me telling you this. I’m a friend of your mother’s—and your father’s, I suppose—so I don’t know why I’m rattling on.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got nothing but time here.”
I smiled a wry smile. “You are your mother’s son. She’s got such a listening ear. That’s why I call her and talk to her so much when I’m struggling.”
“Like with hate issues?”
“Yes.”
“Wanna tell me who you hate? Or is that unimportant?”
For the life of me, I have no idea why, but the next thing I knew I was spilling my soul out to this young man who was on the brink of his own crisis. Somehow I felt we were bonded. I didn’t picture the young boy I remembered running up and down the aisles at Grace after services, giving his mother a fit. I didn’t think about the young man who “had” to get married to his girlfriend in the middle of college. I pictured a grown man with troubles of his own and a tender, compassionate heart. A half hour later, when we hung up the phone, I felt somehow better. Tim had even made me laugh, talking about the two of us sneaking into the sheriff ’s office, stealing the picture of Doreen, and then putting it up in my garden to scare off the birds.
Not that I have a garden, but it was a funny thought.
Tim ended the phone call on a strange note, though. “Well, I would say I’d pray for you, Miz Benson, but I’m hardly in a talking position with God right now. But I would suggest that you pray.”
I said I would most certainly do that, and then we hung up.
“That poor man,” I said aloud as I pushed myself out of the chair. I should have told him we’re never in a position where we can’t talk to God.
Vernon called about a half dozen times before the afternoon was over, but I hung up on him every time.
Call me juvenile.
Naturally, he came over, pounding on the front door, ringing the doorbell ad nauseam. “Evie!” he called out, over and over. “You answer this door, do you hear me? I’m not moving from this front porch until you do.”
Oh, yeah. That ought to do it. Order me around, you big brute, and see what happens.
I planted myself in one of the living room chairs—the one facing the front picture window—and crossed my arms over my chest and one leg over the other. My jaw was set so tight, I wondered if I might get lockjaw or something. I was determined to get through this, one way or the other.
When Vernon’s face suddenly appeared at the window—with a clear shot of me sitting there like the ninny I am—I bounded up so fast, my hip popped. I limped over to the front door, muttering “Ow, ow, ow” the whole way, then jerked the door open to see Vernon standing there. “Now look what you did,” I accused. “My hip is out of joint, I’ll probably have to have surgery and walk with a cane the rest of my life …”
Vernon pushed past me. “Evie, what in the world are you raving about? Would you just give me five seconds to explain something to you?”
“No,” I said, but I shut the door anyway. “No, not if it has anything to do with Doreen Roberts. No, sir.”
Vernon pointed his finger at my nose. “You are one stubborn woman, Evangeline Benson.”
“Don’t you point your finger at me, Vernon Vesey,” I said, pointing my finger right back at him. “There’s no possible explanation for you pining away over that woman. Look at what she did to you. To your daughter. Don’t you have any sense of pride? Any sense of loyalty, even?”
“Loyalty?” he asked. He dropped his finger, and I did the same. “Loyalty?” he repeated, then rested his hands on his gun belt.
I had half a mind to take that gun and …
“Yes, loyalty. To me … to Donna.”
Vernon looked down at his shoes and shook his head. “Evie-girl, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have a clue.”
“I don’t have a clue?” I strode to the chair I’d earlier leaped out of, turned, and sat in one fluid motion. Again, I crossed my arms and legs. The pain in my hip seemed to have lifted. “You think I don’t have a clue? Oh, I have a clue all right. The clue was in your hands not a few hours ago. I saw it myself.”
Vernon took short, calculated steps over to the sofa, then leaned his rump on the arm, looking down at me. He crossed his arms and shook his head again. I heard the crunching of the leather gun belt, the tick-tocking of my grandfather clock, and the pounding of my own heartbeat pulsating in my ears. I glanced over to the window. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again.
“Evie,” he finally said, bringing my eyes back to him. His voice was soft and low. “I love you, girl. You know I do. And I wish I could explain everything to you—”
“What do you mean?” My voice had lowered a few notches too. Funny how when one person yells, the other does, and when one person lowers his voice, the other will too.
“What I mean is, I can’t talk about the picture right now. But I want you to trust me, Evie. It’s not what you think.” Vernon’s cool eyes looked right at mine.
I just looked at him. Looked at him for what felt like a hundred years—or at least the years between my twelfth year and now. Part of me saw the boy from years gone by; part of me saw the man he’d become. He still had dark blond hair, but it now receded handsomely. His eyes were still vibrant and blue. His skin, naturally tanned, was only mildly creased with age. This was the man I had loved for so long.
I wanted to trust him. I did. But … all that had happened … Doreen’s taunts when we were in school. It seems I remembered every one of them. I remembered the way she went on and on every Monday morning in homeroom about their weekend dates when we were in high school, the flaunting of their prom pictures when we were seniors. She talked about his kisses and how things “almost got out of control,” just loud enough for me to hear during lunchroom breaks. She’d played me from day one. Played Vernon too. Goodness knows she’d even played Donna. There was no possible explanation, no way I could even begin to trust Vernon when it came to her.
I set my jaw again, stood, walked over to the door, and opened it. “I don’t think I can, Vernon. I’m sorry. I really am. There’s just been so much hurt.”
Vernon walked over to me. “Evangeline,” he said. I could hear the pain in his voice, but it didn’t quite meet the pain in my heart. He touched my arm with his fingertips. I felt my flesh go wild with goose bumps, but I moved my arm away from his hand.
“Don’t,” I whispered, choking on the words. “Please, Vernon. Don’t make this difficult.” I looked down to the floor. There was evangeline a small puddle there, left behind by the snow on Vernon’s shoes. A fleeting thought occurred to me that when he was gone, I’d lie down on the floor and allow my tears to join that puddle. I took in a shaky breath and then exhaled.
Vernon stood quiet for a moment. “All right, then. Let me know if you change your mind, Evangeline. Call me an old fool, but I’ve waited this long for you to love me … I can wait a little longer for you to learn to trust me again too.” He made a snorting sound. “Call me an old fool.”
Clay read and reread the details of the diet. He was starving. But according to the list of “can haves,” chicken marinara was near the top. The best place he knew for the dish was Apple’s.
He picked up the handset of his phone resting in its cradle on top of his desk, and pulled the restaurant’s menu from the top right-hand desk drawer.
“Apple’s,” the voice said on the other end.
“Hey, this is Clay Whitefield.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah … yeah. I’d like to place a take-out order if I may.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chicken marinara,” he said, scanning the menu.
“Anything else with that?”
He dropped the menu and picked up the paper containing the list of foods he could eat, which he’d made from the Internet. “Do you have steamed green beans?”
“We can steam them, yes, sir.”
“I’d like a side order of those too.”
“Anything else?”
Yeah,
he thought.
A large slice of your New York—style cheesecake.
A picture of Donna flashed across his mind, and he let the dessert idea drop. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s it for now.”
“It’ll be ready for you in about forty-five minutes, Mr. Whitefield.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, then wet his lips in anticipation of what was to come.
