Cherry Pie (2 page)

When he turned back to John, he rubbed his palms nervously on his thighs. “Thanks for letting me come in.”

John tipped his head. “What do you want?” He was merely curious. He found himself strangely detached today.

“Just to look around,” he said in rush. “I swear. I just wanted to see the old house. I’ll leave soon.” He had a thick accent.
Swear
came out more like
sway-eh
. It was a good thing John was getting good at the local lingo.

“You waited outside for days just to look around for a few minutes?” John was suspiciously disbelieving.

His visitor smiled, and all vestiges of youth fell away. “This old place has got a hold on me, you know?”

John shook his head. “No.” And he really didn’t. He’d never been that attached to any place. Only one person, and they’d never had a place.

That brown-haired head shook, with pity or perhaps regret. He didn’t say anything, just looked around. John could see the memories swirling through his blue eyes. But he revealed nothing. John watched him walk slowly around the living room trailing his hand along the wooden chair rail absentmindedly. He yanked his hand back suddenly and wiped it on his pants again, as if he was afraid he was leaving a stain behind.

“I’m John Ford,” he offered.

Guarded eyes met his. “Connor Meecham.”

John laughed. “Meecham. Of course.”

“Meaning?” Connor wasn’t laughing. His tone was flat.

John held his hands up before him, placating. “Nothing. Just that everyone calls this house the Meecham place. If it was your mother’s house, then of course you’d be a Meecham.”

“Sorry,” Connor grumbled, blushing as he looked away.

It was clear Connor had been prepared for something else. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say.

“You painted the place.”

John gratefully accepted the change of topic. “Yep. Needed it badly. But I haven’t got much eye for color. I just went with white and some kind of brown the Sherwin-Williams lady called cafe au lait.”

Connor laughed. It sounded rusty. “It’s a nice brown.” He shook his head again. “I can picture my mama here like it was yesterday.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. “You know,” he chose to observe instead, “Southern men are the only ones who can say ‘Mama’ and not sound like idiots.” That earned another rusty laugh. John had the strange fleeting thought that he should keep count. “‘Daddy’ still gives me the heebie-jeebies however.”

The laugh settled into a chuckle. “No ‘Daddy’ here,” came the laconic reply.

John was shocked when he had a flash of that heavy Southern bass whispering “Daddy” in his ear. He shivered. Then he was disgusted with himself. That had never turned him on. And the reality was, he didn’t think it would if Connor Meecham actually did it. It was fantasy material, though.

“May I?” Connor was gesturing up the stairs.

“Be my guest,” John said, surprised at his own hospitality. He followed along a few steps behind Connor. He barely glanced into John’s room on the first floor, which was the master bedroom only because the bathroom was attached. The room was actually smaller than the other bedroom. The bathroom had obviously been an add-on. John followed him up the stairs and at the door to the second bedroom, Connor stopped, his hands gripping the frame. He just stared at the room, empty except for a bed and some boxes full of knickknacks and Steve’s various trophies. Steve’s guitar sat on top of the pile. John forced himself to look away from it.

“Your old room?” John asked quietly.

Connor just nodded. “You haven’t painted it.” It was a statement, not a question.

John looked at the faded gray-blue walls full of nail holes. “No. I don’t really need this room right now. I’m focusing on the main areas and outside first.”

Connor nodded again, and then he turned and walked toward the stairs. “Is it okay if I go out back?”

John almost said no. He was a little embarrassed by the backyard. Not because of what he hadn’t done yet, but because of what he had. At his hesitation, Connor slowed down and looked over his shoulder at John, a question on his face. “Yes, go ahead,” John assured him. He followed him down and through the kitchen to the back door. His stomach clenched as Connor opened the creaky screen door and stepped out.

John knew the minute he saw it. Connor’s shoulders tensed. Then he took the three steps down to the yard and walked over to the little grave under the live oak in the corner.

When John had found the small moss-covered rock in the yard, he hadn’t been sure what it was. It was only after he’d cleared all the weeds out that he saw it was a store-bought pet headstone with the name DIGGER hand-etched in the stone. For some stupid reason he’d taken it to a trophy shop a couple of towns over and had the name professionally engraved on the stone. It looked brand-new now. He’d even planted some flowers around it. Today it seemed silly to him, what he’d done. All that work to do on the house and the yard, and he’d wasted hours on that little grave.

He waited for Connor to say something smart, trailing after him reluctantly. Instead Connor unexpectedly sank to his knees and laid his forehead on the ground in front of the headstone. His arms came up, and he covered his head as if to protect it, and his shoulders started to shake. It took John a moment to realize he was crying. Bone-shaking, silent sobs racked his big frame and froze John in his tracks.

Without a word John turned around and walked back into the house. He’d been there. Those were private tears, and he left Connor to them.

John busied himself sanding down the posts on the front porch for the next couple of hours, as far from Connor as he could get. He hadn’t done any work out front yet, and it was hard going. Eventually he thought he ought to go and check on him. The man had a breakdown in his backyard, after all. And he’d been awfully quiet back there ever since.

When he tentatively pushed open the back door, he was a little scared of what he might find since he’d forgotten about all the sharp tools back there until just a few minutes ago. He was relieved to see Connor just sitting there next to the grave. His knees were bent, and his wrists were resting on them casually. He looked calm and approachable. John released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He hadn’t made any noise that he was aware of, but Connor turned toward him. “I’m all right,” he said, and John could hear the truth of that in his voice.

He wandered over to the tree and stood off to Connor’s right, in the shade. He felt awkward and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Have you got someplace to stay?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to say that, but once the words were out, he was glad he had. He didn’t want to spend another restless night worrying about Connor. He had a lot of work to do around here and needed his sleep.

Connor shook his head. “Not really. I’m just moving around.”

John frowned. “What does that mean?”

Connor stood up, resting one fist on the ground as he gracefully came to one knee and then rose. “It means you don’t have to worry about me.” His soft smile took the sting out his dismissive words.

John sighed. “I wish it were that easy to turn it off,” he said apologetically, “but I suffer from overactive worry.”

“I’ll be all right, Mr. Ford,” Connor told him. “But thanks.”

“Come on,” John said. He turned toward the separate garage. “I know a place.” He turned back to see Connor watching him, his face unreadable. “Do you have anything you need to get? Besides your bag?”

They stood like that for a minute, a silent tug-of-war between them. Finally Connor shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing.”

John knew that was a lie. There was a lot that Connor needed. But he wasn’t going to find it here. He turned and walked to the garage, listening to Connor’s footsteps as he turned back to the house to get his bag.

Chapter Three

“Want to talk about it?” Mr. Ford asked quietly as he turned onto Bergamot Street.

He hadn’t asked for directions. He must have been in Mercury for a while, then. Conn had been surprised to find him in Mama’s house. He’d just assumed the house would be there, empty. But of course the bank sold it. Of course they did. What choice did they have when he didn’t respond to their letters?

“About what?” He stuck to the man’s question. He’d found that was the best way to get along.

“Want to start with the dog?” The car turned slowly again. It was a little sports car, something Italian. Conn hadn’t paid that much attention. The two of them barely fit in the thing. Conn didn’t see the point, personally. And Ford looked uncomfortable in it too.

Conn saw Harper’s Quick Mart had gone out of business. The strip mall beside the empty building had one business left, a tax preparer of some kind. A lot had died in his absence it seemed, including Mercury. “His name was Digger.”

“Really? Gee, I never would have guessed.”

Conn wasn’t surprised by the sarcasm of his response. He almost smiled at how mild it was. He was used to a lot more abuse than that. This poor guy would never have survived if he’d been where Conn had.

“I got him from my dad. I was about five, I guess. He was the diggingest dog I ever saw.” Ford smiled. Conn couldn’t pin this guy down. Why was he being so nice? What did he want?

“I think that’s the most you’ve said today.” They slowed to a stop at a red light. “Why did you cry?”

“Who wouldn’t have?” Conn replied. He sighed. “Let’s just say I’ve been to a bad place, and coming back to the best place I ever had…” He let the thought trail off as he continued to stare out the window. “I used to own this town,” he said a few moments later.

“Literally or figuratively?” Ford asked as he pulled the car to a stop at the curb on Freemont Street. Conn stared at the Methodist church there and felt as if he were looking at a ghost.

He turned to Ford. “I was the all-American captain of the football team,” he told him with a wry smile. “Most likely to succeed with the cheerleaders.”

“Ah,” Ford said in understanding. “Figuratively, then.” He looked across the street, and Conn followed his gaze to a nondescript house with a small sign in the yard proclaiming it EPSON HOUSE.

“What is this place?” Conn asked as he opened the door and got out. Ford got out too and waited while Conn grabbed his bag from the small shelf that passed as a backseat.

“It’s a shelter and halfway house.”

Conn laughed. “I hope I’m past halfway, but thanks.”

“Come on,” Ford said again, walking toward the house, and again Conn followed him. He wasn’t sure why, except that he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. “How long have you been gone?” Ford asked.

Conn didn’t have to think about it. “Almost eight years.”

Ford looked surprised. “Eight years? How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

He shook his head. “You don’t look it. I had you pegged at barely legal.”

“Still have some scruples left, huh?” Conn asked without thinking. He jerked his head around to stare at Ford as soon as he said it.

“Hmm,” Ford said mildly, “I didn’t think it was that obvious. Only a few people in town have figured out I’m gay.” He pinned Conn with a sharp gaze. “How did you know?”

Conn wasn’t going to get into that. Not here, not now, and not with this stranger. He’d dealt with enough personal demons today. They just stared at each other, neither giving anything away.

“Mr. Ford?” A voice interrupted the stare down, and they both turned to the house. A man stood in the doorway: average height, sandy brown hair, polite smile on his face. When Ford turned to him, he stepped out with his hand outstretched. He stopped a few steps away, and his hand fell to his side. “Conn? Connor Meecham?” he asked incredulously.

“Hey, Evan,” Conn said. Personal demons indeed. He’d thought he’d have more time. But no, the past was about to slap him upside the head.

A big grin split Evan’s face. “Good God!” He grabbed Conn’s hand and pumped it up and down. “We thought you were dead. Couldn’t think of anything else that would keep you away from your mama’s funeral.”

Conn smiled ruefully. “Nope, not dead. But the state of Georgia found something to keep me away.”

Evan’s gaze narrowed. He looked between Conn and Ford. “You’ve been out to your mama’s?”

Conn nodded. “Yeah. Mr. Ford here was nice enough to give me a ride.”

“Why here?” Evan asked with a frown. “Toby’s still in town, you know, and a bunch of the other guys.”

Ford wasn’t going to help. He just stood there, watching the awkward reunion. “I need a place to stay.”

Evan scratched his jaw with his thumb. “There’s a new motel not far down 87,” he answered as if Conn had been asking for directions. “But that’s about it. Most people just pass through on the way to and from the beach. You know the drill.”

Conn blew out a breath that fluttered the hair on his forehead. He laid his cards on the table. “I just got off probation and out of rehab, Evan. I’ve got no job and no money. So Ford brought me here. I didn’t even know you ran the place.”

Evan looked as if he’d been smacked with a two-by-four for a second. He recovered quickly with a little shake of his head. “I’m a pastor now at the Unitarian church on Summit. You remember?”

Conn nodded, glad Evan had chosen to address that rather than his checkered past. Evan glanced over at Ford. He placed his hand lightly on Conn’s upper arm and pulled him toward the house. “Come on. Let’s talk.” He smiled at Ford. “Thanks for bringing him, John.”

Ford finally spoke. “I’m glad I did now. Take care of him, Evan.” He turned to Conn and held his hand out. “Good luck, Connor.”

Conn shook his hand and was dismayed at how reluctant he was to let go. Strangers were easy. He closed his eyes briefly and felt a quick squeeze of his hand before Ford let go. He opened his eyes to see Ford giving him an understanding look. “Go on,” Ford said quietly. Conn turned to Evan with a deep breath, and he went.

“What happened, Conn?” Evan asked quietly after they entered his office and he closed the door.

“You run this place for the church?” Conn asked instead of answering. He needed a minute.