Devil Moon (3 page)

They huddled in their favorite booth, speaking softly. Randy listened to Maddie's disjointed tale of her erotic escapade, patting her hand when she entered into self-berating.
My, my she'd been quite the free spirit
. Personal peccadilloes came as such a shock in the harsh morning light. Randy well understood the power of sexual urges and emotional overload. He'd had his share of morning-after regrets. Still, she was coming down too hard on herself.

"You know what you had, don't you?" he whispered.

"Temporary insanity?"

"Well, that, too. But I'm thinking of Erica Jong's 'zipless fuck' from
Fear of Flying
."

Her blue eyes widened. "My God, you're right. That's exactly what it was. But I'm not the kind of person who goes to bars and picks up strangers. I was in my own back yard!"

He smiled at his Maddie, dressed in her pert matching short set, her sleek blond hair perfectly combed. Those startling blue eyes of hers could really nail you to the wall or shine with happiness. The straight nose tilted high when she chose to put on her Mother Superior act; the mouth smiled with beguile or thinned to a grim line, as befitted her mood. And whether she liked it not, Maddie was a moody miss.

"Listen, doll face, you need to cut yourself a little slack. You don't have to play Perfect Assistant Principal twenty-four seven. You're human. You got a little drunk and had a tumble on the grass. It's fortunate this guy wasn't some psycho-slasher. He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Oh no." Her eyes softened. "If it had really been a dream, it would have been the best dream I ever had." She lifted her cup and flushed as she sipped.

He whistled softly. "I get it. Well, goody for you. It was a short, but satisfying romance. Which is more than I can say."

Maddie lifted an eyebrow. "So how is your mystery man in Little Rock? Are you ready to tell me about him yet?"

A knot formed in Randy's stomach. "There's nothing to tell. We've gone our separate ways."

"What was wrong with this one? Too loud? Too quiet? Too anal? Too casual?"

"Too perfect. I couldn't find anything wrong." He fiddled nervously with the spoon on the table. "Scared the hell out of me. I ran."

Maddie lowered her coffee cup. "Aren't we a fine pair? Both running away from perfect men. At least you know the identity of your perfect man."

Randy placed on hand on his chest and struck an orator’s pose. "
And therefore is Love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguiled
."

Maddie drummed her fingers. "You and your quotations. That's got to be Shakespeare.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
"

He nodded. "You have to get up early in the morning to fool Maddie Harris."

"Maddie Harris is pretty good at making a fool of herself." She sighed. "At least we have each other. And you always have your mother."

Randy rolled his eyes. "O lawsy, isn't that the truth? Don't let me forget. I've got to pick up a box of Depends before we head back up the hill."

"You're a good son." She spread butter on her wheat toast and nibbled. "When we were little and I visited over the summer at Grammy's, you were always next door taking care of Mother Bailey instead of running around with your friends. I remember watching you cook dinner for her when you were twelve and I was eight."

"I've progressed from box dinners to gourmet cooking since then. My soufflés are to die for." Speaking of which, his eggs were getting cold. He dug in.

"I know she takes you for granted, but there aren't many men who would arrange their lives around an invalid mother like you have."

"As Noel Coward put it,
My mother has an umbilical cord made of piano wire
." God, it sucked to be a stereotype. Gay man with dominant mother and no father figure. This is Your Life, Randy Bailey.

"Well, I think Beaver Cove is darned lucky that a man with your talent is sticking around here to develop the high school drama department. I know this wasn't exactly your dream, but the kids in this town are a lot better off because of you." She spread marmalade on his toast, just the way he liked it. "I'm certainly glad I have you to run to when I come undone."

He accepted the toast from her graceful hand. "Listen, dear heart, move on. You're not the first girl to take a tumble in the moonlight after a few glasses of wine. Just don't make a habit of it. You're lucky this fisherman wasn't a throat slasher. Bolt yourself inside your house the next time you hear the call of the wild. Or better yet, call me and we'll watch the late, late show together. I always can use an excuse to escape Mother."

"It's a deal." She squeezed his fingers.

Randy covered his hand over Maddie's and went into an Irish accent. "Now, my child, go and be sinnin' no more. Say three
Hail Mary's
, take two aspirin and call me in the mornin'."

Maddie smiled. "Thank you, Father. Oh, Randy, what would I do without you?"

"You'd muddle through, but life would be dull, wouldn't it?" He leaned back in the booth. "Certainly, school wouldn't be half as fun without me there to rescue you from unwanted suitors like Phineas Manchester."

Maddie made a face. "Ugh. Don't remind me." School was starting in two weeks and that meant the beginning of meetings and preparation. "Have you gotten the new seats for the theater yet?"

"No. Promises, promises, all I hear are promises, promises. McCall told me he had it in the budget and was just waiting for the okay, but I haven't heard more."

"Have you pressed him?"

Randy lowered his head, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. "Ah, Maddie, you know I'm kind of scared of McCall."

Maddie's eyes snapped, the Woodbridge starch coming back into her sails. "Well, I'm not. The budget meeting is next week. I'll find out where your new seats are or my name isn't Madeleine Woodbridge Harris."

Randy winked at her and did his best Bette Davis imitation. "
Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night
."

At girls who wear glasses

The following week Phil Wilcox pulled out of the McDonald's drive-through with his usual Egg
McMuffin and black coffee. He pushed aside the leavings of last night's dinner from Taco Bueno to make room for breakfast. His morning drive to the school took about twenty minutes from leaving his apartment complex, making the detour for food and pulling into his parking place marked "Coach" at Beaver Cove High.

His cell phone beeped the most annoying tune in its repertoire. Seemed only fitting to assign that one to the most annoying person in his life: ex-wife Pam.

He hit the green button and drove with one hand. "Yeah?"

"Listen, I know it isn't quite the fifteenth yet, but could I have the support check now? I'm a little short."

Right, same old song and dance. He wondered how much support his daughter, Melissa, saw from the money he shelled out every month. Pam always looked dressed to kill, while Melissa looked like a Salvation Army reject.

"I guess I could drop a check by after my meeting. Is Melissa going to be there? I could take her out for lunch."

"Your visitation isn't until Saturday, Phil. She doesn't have to see you until then."

Phil gritted his teeth. While he'd been salvaging his life as an assistant coach in the NFL, Pam had been systematically working a number on Melissa. He'd looked it up on the Internet—Parental Alienation. Pam had done her best to poison his daughter's mind against him.

Pam continued in her singsong voice. "Don't think just because you've waltzed back into town with this lame high school coaching job, that you can barge into our lives."

"Believe me, Pam, I have no interest in barging into your life. I just want to see my daughter before she's a grown woman." He squeezed the phone a little tighter. "You know, I don't
have
to pay you until the fifteenth."

She issued a put-upon sigh. "Fine. I don't appreciate blackmail, Phil. Maybe you can say hello to her when you bring the money."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He clicked off and threw the phone across the seat. Nobody frosted him faster than Pam. But, hell, he knew he deserved it. He adjusted his back, still a constant ache from the career-ending football injuries. He'd really blown it. Self-pity had led to self-medication followed by self-destruction. It all slipped away–the career, the marriage, the soaring ego--leaving him stripped to the bone financially, emotionally and spiritually. Three years of AA had forced him to see his culpability.

God, if only he could break through the wall of Melissa's resentment. Those accusing eleven-year-old eyes bored into his soul.
Loser-alcoholic-has-been
. He hoped—hell, he
prayed,
to that Higher Power to give him back his daughter.

Taking this coaching job in his old hometown seemed like an answer to those prayers. No more traveling, no more missed visitations. He'd even force himself to be nice to Pam.

Of course, when he first arrived at the school and saw the crappy equipment, he raised hell with McCall and quickly got some positive response. He had a good feeling about the upcoming school year, even looked forward to teaching history.

He turned a corner and saw a billboard for the Lake Luna Motel. A big moon and a large mouth bass invited potential vacationers. His night at Lake Luna flashed to mind. The Moon Goddess. He couldn't really recall her face, but those three beauty marks on her throat stuck in his mind. Magical moonlight moments. He hadn't gone back to the lake, not wanting to actually meet the lady and ruin the perfect illusion. The impulsively grabbed quilt still rested in his trunk. He meant to anonymously return it soon. Phil sipped his coffee and pointed the bomber toward school.

Maddie zipped along in her Camry down the hilly roads on her way to school and into the valley where Beaver Cove proper lay. The town of 30,000 enjoyed the overflow prosperity of being close to the corporate headquarters of both Wal-Mart and Tyson foods. She passed countless long chicken houses dotting the Arkansas countryside
.
Little chicken farms had grown into major commercial concerns, feathering local nests, so to speak.

That's why it really steamed her when she dwelled on the budgetary problems of the school. The townspeople needed to rally 'round and give the students of Beaver Cover High the kind of facilities she remembered from her Bostonian school days. There just wasn't an appreciation of culture in Beaver Cove that went beyond country western music and banjo picking.

As Maddie pulled up to a stoplight, she flipped down the visor and took a quick inspection in the mirror. She nodded approval at her best assistant principal power outfit–dark suit, trademark scarf about her neck topped by a French twist hairstyle. Dark-rimmed eyeglasses cranked up her no-nonsense persona a couple of notches.

She didn't notice the light turn green until the guy behind her laid on his horn. Waving a small "sorry," she sped toward school.

Phil mentally grumped at women drivers. He'd watched the blonde primping in her mirror, oblivious to the flow of traffic around her, then gave her a wake up "beep." Once again moving forward, he dug into his breakfast bag for the egg sandwich. Generally an adept old pro at driving and fast food manipulation, he dropped the hot muffin in his lap.

"Shit," he muttered, momentarily looking down to pick up the pieces of bread, egg and ham strewn across his lap.

At that moment Maddie saw she was about to miss the turn into Java Pete's and she really needed a latte to get her through the meeting. Without turning on her blinkers, she tapped her brakes and commenced a quick right into the parking lot.

Phil looked up and saw the Camry coming to a sudden slow. He swerved and hit his brakes, but not soon enough. His vintage Skylark bashed the fender and taillight of her cream Camry. A sickening crunch of metal and plastic signaled to both of them the beginning of a bad day.

Maddie jumped out of her car. She stood in her high heels and snug suit inspecting the effects of the collision. Her beautiful Camry—wounded, forever damaged. She knew it would never be the same. The body shop might say they could match the color, but she'd always notice the difference.

As she made small moaning noises and flapped her hands, she heard a deep male voice with an Arkansas drawl comment, "Doesn't look too bad."

Maddie glanced over her shoulder at the Skylark's owner–a big bruiser, obviously a sports fan with his Braves ball cap, Cowboys t-shirt, and Rangers sweat pants. Maddie surveyed this fashion plate and watched his mouth thin at her blatant assessment. She had to give him points for his clean-shaven square chin and intelligent looking brown eyes.

"Look, lady, if I've passed your inspection, we'd better get these cars off the road and exchange insurance information before we cause another accident."