Jilted (4 page)

When Clyde and Lynda arrived at Troy and Pamela Sanders's junk shop on Saturday morning, Clyde only hesitated a second before stepping aside to hold the door for her. “After you, Lyn.”

She paused as though surprised by the pungent scent of a stinkbug, then rolled her eyes. Just like Clyde knew she would.

Troy and Pam had purchased the store and all its contents with the intention of sprucing up the place and turning it into a used bookshop.
More power to them.
The building, which had once been a post office, still held rows of copper-plated mailboxes, as well as the USPS emblem on the side wall, but the nostalgia ended there. The previous business owners had filled the place with garage-sale trash and called it a flea market, when it was actually nothing more than a front for drug deals.

At least Troy and Pam had gotten it cheap.

“Felton!” Troy stood behind a cluttered counter, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to the Trapp Door, our town's first-ever used bookstore and secondhand novelty shop.”

“The Trapp Door?” Clyde stepped over a box filled with scented candles.

“Pam came up with the name.” Troy grinned with his mouth open slightly. “You know … all those PO boxes on the back wall … and all those tiny little doors. You get it?”

“I got it.” Clyde glanced at Lynda, worried she would feel out of place. Even though she had been friends with Troy and Pam for years, Clyde sensed they hadn't done much socializing since Lynda left the church. However, he knew for a fact that Pam made a point to talk to Lynda at the diner.

Lynda picked up a Mr. Potato Head toy that had several empty holes where parts were missing. “I can't believe you paid money for this stuff, Troy.”

“Aw, you know.” Troy's grin was cemented on his face. “Gives Pam something to keep her busy. Now that Emily's away at college, the wife gets awful lonely during the day when I'm at work.”

Lynda's gaze slid from a stack of coffee mugs to a basket of potpourri. “Keep her busy so she won't think about you risking your life every day?”

Clyde considered the fact that Lynda needed a spanking, but he looked over her head and made eye contact with Troy. More than once his friend had voiced his concern about his dangerous job, but he always tagged on a few excuses.

“Now, Lynda.” Troy came around the counter and cast puppy eyes down at her. “Wind techs make a good living, and Pam knows that.”

“Wind techs are crazy fools.” Her right eyebrow coiled like a leather whip intended to pop sense into Troy, but her gaze shifted to Clyde at the last second, just in time for him to feel the sting as well.

Troy slapped Clyde on the back and laughed loudly. “That goes without saying, don't it?”

Lynda looked back and forth between the two men, but then she shook her head and smiled. “I'm not going to argue with you. I came here to work.”

“Alrighty, then! Clyde already has your assignment—should you choose to accept it—so if y'all don't mind, I'll leave you in charge of the place while I run to Home Depot in Lubbock. Pam wants more shelving.”

“You sure you trust us with your inventory?” Clyde reached for a gaudy piece of costume jewelry.

“If you steal anything, I'll know where to find you.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Clyde and Lynda were settled at a table in the back room, surrounded by boxes of books, and Clyde was trying to find the courage to ask Lynda out on a date. Or maybe not a
date
. That sounded all formal and stuffy, and Clyde didn't really do formal and stuffy. But he knew in a strange way that she had become the missing link that connected the past to the future, and he felt it all the way down in his bones.

Lynda held an old book in her hands and slumped back in a metal folding chair. “I can't believe you talked me into working in this dusty closet. Your ex-girlfriend is the one who donates her time to worthy causes, not that this shop rates as a charity cause.”

Suddenly Clyde was back in the cell block, with catcalls and taunts being hurled through the air like knives. He pulled another box toward him and picked through the titles. “Don't call her that, Lyn.”

She flipped the book over and glanced at the back cover, and judging from the way her chin puckered, Clyde thought she might have been sorry she said it. She blew on the spine of the book, and a gray puff of dust floated away from her. She gave him a quizzical look. “So you've been helping Troy and Pam for a while now?”

“A couple Saturdays.”

She continued to study him, scrutinize him, frown.

Like a prison guard.

He shifted the remaining books in the box, picking them up one at a time, reading the titles, forcing his gaze away from her. Not really wanting to talk.

She sighed. “Okay, so the drill is to pick out
the good books
.” She made quote marks with her fingers. “Then vacuum them, wipe them, and sort them.” She raised her eyebrows. “That right?”

“Yep, that's it.” She was deliberately being a toot, and he had no idea why. Women didn't make a lick of sense to him.

Not that he had been around many in his lifetime.

He rested his forearms on his knees and reached for a roll of paper towels, swinging his hair out of his eyes.

“Why do you let your hair grow long? It used to be short all the time.”

She was full of questions today, and it made him wonder. “Because I can.”

“Could you give me more than three words? Please?”

He straightened and met her gaze, then shrugged one shoulder. “They kept my hair short in prison, but now I do what I want.” He didn't mention that Trapp's barber looked down on him, and the only other option was Sophie's Style Station, an estrogen-infused hovel Clyde didn't dare set foot in. He supposed he could go to the little barber shop in Snyder, but he'd probably scare that old man to death. “Besides, Lubbock's too far anyway,” he added, figuring Lynda would understand the rest without his going to the trouble of speaking it.

“You know what I think?” She wiped a paper towel across a book cover. “I think they used to decide when you got your hair cut, and now you can't figure it out on your own.”

“I like it long.” Okay, maybe he didn't—he wasn't sure—but he didn't see the need to burden her with his problems. Truth was, she was dead on target. He had trouble making decisions, but Dodd Cunningham was helping him work through all that. Clyde enjoyed his early morning coffee meet-ups with the preacher, even though Lynda's son-in-law seemed to think Clyde needed professional counseling.

“Whatever you say.” The corner of her mouth curled into that spunky smile of hers, and then she ducked her head. “I like it long, too, I guess.”

Her words sounded careless, as though they weren't important, as though she hadn't just tossed him a thread of hope to cling to. He grasped at the confidence it gave him, all the while hoping she wouldn't cause his heart to unravel like his grandmother's old crocheted afghan.

“That's a good one.” He pointed to the book she was wiping.

“So …” She narrowed her eyes. “You read?”

“Sure.”

“Since when?”

“Prison.”

She leaned her elbows on the table and tilted her head. And stared.

A lot of people stared at him. Now that the rumor mill had spread the truth about him and Susan, things were different, but many citizens still treated him like he had the plague. Children pointed and women scurried away. Men crossed their arms and planted both feet on the ground, but he had gotten used to that.

Lynda's stare felt different though, because her eyes didn't scour him like the others', and he didn't have the urge to run away and hide. Instead, when Lynda looked at him, he wanted to look back at her. And hang around and listen to her talk.

“Have you read any of these?” Like a salesgirl, she swept her slender hand through the air above the stacks.

“I figure I have.”

“What does that mean?” She moved the Dustbuster so she could look through the paperbacks beneath it.

“The books in the prison library didn't have covers.” He picked up a novel with a white stallion on the front. Swirling, dark clouds surrounded the horse, and red breath shot from its nostrils. The name didn't sound familiar to Clyde, but he knew he would have remembered that picture if he had seen it before. He tossed the book onto the table. “I can remember the well-known titles, but the covers won't look familiar.”

“So the books were all old or something?”

“Some were. Some weren't.”

“Then why no covers?”

Clyde rubbed the side of his thumb against his shoulder, not sure what he should tell her, not sure he wanted her to know that much about him.

He let his gaze wander over the pile of paperbacks until he located one that clearly wouldn't pass Pam's morality code. He reached for it and tore off the front cover.

Lynda made a little sound but didn't say anything. She watched silently as he folded the thick paper in half, then in half again. Moving quickly, he rolled the remaining shape into a cylinder and held it tight in his fist. A hard, sharp, pencil-like rod.

Her mouth fell open. “They used books as weapons?”

“They used everything as weapons.”

Her brown eyes looked sadly from the tip of the rod to his fist, and she shivered. “You've done that before.”

Clyde unrolled the paper, then tossed it in the trash can. “Twenty years, Lynda.” He hadn't survived that long without learning a few tricks, but he should probably keep the rest to himself.

“The Clyde I remember from years ago was a gentle giant.” She snickered. “Unless you were on the football field, and then it was ‘Annie get your gun,' but
this
… this is new. I'm trying to imagine you using a homemade knife, but my brain can't get around the notion.”

Great.
The last thing he wanted was for her to picture him defending himself in prison.

She hugged a stack of books to her chest and rose, placing them one at a time on the shelf behind her. “Sometimes I think we don't even know each other anymore. Not really.”

“We've known each other since fifth grade.”

“But we had a twenty-year gap in our friendship. And things change.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Sounds like you have a lot of secrets.”

“Making a shiv out of a piece of paper ain't exactly a secret.” He reached for the minivacuum.

“But I bet you've got more.” She looked at him straight on then, crossing her arms.

He hated it when she challenged him, which was often. He hated when she pushed him for information about the past or the future or even the present. But more than anything, he hated the way he couldn't open up to her, even though he wanted nothing more than for her to know him, really know him, inside and out.

Honestly, he didn't have many secrets left, other than being a closet bookaholic. But still, fear swept across him like a searchlight, because he longed to ask her one simple question. A question that could make or break him for the rest of his life.
Would you still like me if you knew my secrets?
He couldn't be sure how she would answer that question, but he could be sure of one thing. The feelings he had for Lynda Turner wouldn't go away on their own.

He lifted his chin and shrugged. “Everybody has secrets, Lyn.” He flipped the switch on the Dustbuster and let its soft hum mask the ear-piercing beating of his heart.

After you, Lyn.

Those words echoed in my ears. That silly convict had actually held the door open for me, and he never held doors. The action, coupled with his comment about secrets, left me wondering what he was up to.

No, that's not right. I figured what he was up to.

I just wasn't sure I was ready for it.

We had worked for two hours, and even though I tried not to enjoy it, in the end I admitted to Clyde that I sort of liked the smell of the books. Most people would have said I was strange, but Clyde didn't. Instead, he opened
To Kill a Mockingbird
, sniffed its yellowed parchment, and slowly nodded.

When I got back home, I drank a glass of chocolate milk—comfort food—changed into a clean T-shirt and an old pair of cut-off blue jeans—comfort clothes—and then stood on my back porch and let the sunshine soak into my skin—vitamin D. But in spite of the food and the clothes and the sunshine, in spite of the undeniable tingle I always got when I knew a man noticed me, in spite of all that … I could still feel my mood slipping.

My proverbial cup was half empty.

I wandered through the house, ending up in my bedroom without ever deciding to go there. As I lowered myself to the edge of the bed, I scrutinized the plaster on the wall. The Sheetrock had been painted so many times, the texture was nearly invisible, but I knew it was there beneath layer upon layer of semigloss. My hand reached out, and my finger traced a small chip in the paint. An oval.

Clyde Felton wanted me. He had all but told me so, though not with words.
After you, Lyn
didn't exactly count as a declaration of romantic intent, but his actions spoke louder than his deep voice ever could. Not only had he pulled me out of my daily routine, but he had helped me reach outside myself by taking me to the Trapp Door.

My hands lay clenched in my lap, and I willed them to stay that way. I tried to force my mind away from painful memories, but on days like today—days when life tempted me with happiness—the past wouldn't leave me be. Like narcotics that numb the senses, my memories prevented me from feeling anything good, and I was addicted to that numbness as hopelessly as a junkie is addicted to crack.

Still staring at the wall, I pulled open the drawer of the bedside table and felt around for the letters. This time they were all the way at the back, pressed flat against the cheap wood and buried beneath tissues and ChapStick and long-forgotten odds and ends. Apparently it had been a while.

I slid one letter from an envelope, and the page fell open, the creases behaving like well-oiled hinges to reveal the scratchy writing. This letter had kidnapped my sanity for more than two decades. Its mate was younger, though—less than twenty years old. I hated those letters. Despised them. Whenever I touched the paper, my heart flared with anger—not just any anger but the rage produced by rejection, jealousy, and injustice. I ought to hide them in the metal firebox under my bed where they belonged. Where they would leave me be.

My palms jerked as though I had been bitten by red ants, and the papers fluttered to the worn carpet. Scooting back on the bed, I lay down and curled into a ball. I had made it two weeks between spells, so that was good. I called them spells. Ruthie had always referred to them as
episodes
, but now that she was taking a college psychology course, she had all kinds of new terms she threw around. Like
clinical depression
,
mood disorder
, and l
ong-term treatment
. The girl thought she knew everything.

I curled tighter, wrapping my arms around my knees and tucking my head in an effort to disappear. To be less significant. To become a smaller target for life's arrows. My forehead pressed against my knees until it hurt, and I thanked the Lord I wasn't scheduled to work.

Yes, occasionally I thanked the Lord, but only for things like my work schedule. I would check in with Him, usually during a spell, but I wasn't too sure He had much patience with me. Ruthie certainly didn't, and she and the Big Man were BFFs now.

Today my thoughts blared through the room like a stinking-mean cheerleader with a megaphone, telling me not to consider Clyde because he would probably leave me, too. Besides, I would never be worthy of him. Ironic, but true. Clyde may have been a convicted rapist, but at least he could function in society without taking routine trips to the funny farm.

I sighed. Hoby had known a thing or two about clinical depression, mood disorders, and long-term treatment. My husband could put Ruthie's psychology notes to shame, since he had lived through everything in her textbook. He left me all those years ago, yet his memory met me in this bedroom every time I had a spell.

I thought we had been happy together.

Until he drove away in his wrecker and left us. We had argued that day, and he stormed out of the house saying he needed to tow Izzy Arellano's Buick to the shop and get started on it, but he never came back.

Not even for Ruthie.

I buried my face in the pillow, then laced my fingers between my toes and held tight. I did not cry. Right after Hoby left, I stifled my tears for months, until my sadness was replaced by hatred. That lasted several years but eventually gave way to apathy. Now the sum total of all my feelings only amounted to a swell of bitterness every so often.

But I wouldn't allow myself to wallow. Not for long anyway. I'd give it an hour or so, and then I'd get up, splash cool water on my face, and eat a quart of Rocky Road.

***

“Momma, Sophie Snodgrass told me Clara Belle Covington saw you at Troy and Pamela's junk shop with Clyde.”

“Yeah, so?” I nestled my feet between two couch cushions and pointed the remote at the television, blacking out a rerun of
CSI
. “She's not the chief of police. Her husband is.”

“So, what were you doing?”

The pitch of her voice rose near the end of her sentence, and I tried not to grit my teeth. Ruthie had this theory about pulling me out of my
episodes
by reacting dramatically to every
single
thing that came up in conversation. I rested my elbow on the arm of the couch and leaned my chin on a fist.

“Dusting books,” I said slowly, attempting to tamp down her spirit to an appropriate level of boredom.

“Admit it. He's interested in you.”

A thread on the hem of my shorts, one among many, fell slightly longer than the others in the fringe, and I fingered it, pulled it, snapped it off. “What if he is?”

“What if he is?”
Her mouth fell open as though I had just confessed to capital murder. “Good grief, Momma, you've been alone for years. Don't you think it's time?”

I chewed a tiny spot on the inside of my cheek and wished Ruthie would leave. I needed to go curl up in bed awhile longer so I could think. And remember. And forget. I felt my shoulders begin to droop, but I jerked them back up with a reviving intake of air. “I'm doing fine, Ruth Ann.”

“You could do better.”

Irritation niggled at me just like it did whenever a huge family came into the diner five minutes before closing time. “I'm holding down a job,” I argued.

“Why aren't you working today?”

“Day off.”

She tilted her head to the side as though considering how to cast the next round of the debate. “Well, you don't socialize with anyone you're not related to. You could go out with your old friends.”

A flash of anger exploded between my eyes, and I blinked hard before answering her. “I'm getting out of the house now, Ruth Ann. I talk and smile and visit with people, but as far as my
old friends
are concerned, I have no desire to spend time with them.” I lifted my palms, then let them fall back to the couch cushions. “You see what it gets me? I help Pam with a few books, and in less than three hours, you're over here grilling me about it. I don't need this.”

I expected her to lash out at me sarcastically, as was our habit, but instead, she glanced out the window, watching Corky Ledbetter pass by on the street pulling a red wagon filled with her two youngest children. When Ruthie looked back at me, I was surprised to see sadness in her eyes. Typically Ruthie showed about as much emotion as I did.

She smiled, but her gaze bounced between the coffee table and my left shoulder. “I want to have a baby, Momma. Dodd and I are making plans.”

A tiny hum sounded in my ears as if a favorite song was stuck in my head, filling my thoughts so thoroughly, I couldn't make sense of her words. I forced my lips into a smile, and once they were there, it felt right. “That's wonderful,” I mouthed silently.

“We've been praying that you would be happy.” Her gaze briefly returned to the coffee table.

“Yes.” My voice didn't sound like my voice. I could hear the difference, but I couldn't clear my throat, much less conjure up more words to say to her. I tried again. “Yes, Ruth Ann.”

She half giggled, half sighed—a frantic sound. “So you see why I'm worried about you staying well.”

I dug my toes deeper into the couch, and they pressed painfully against an exposed metal spring. Actually, I didn't see what she meant. I didn't see at all.

“What if a baby changes things, Momma? I'll be really busy with work and school, and I might need some help. I might need
you
. With our family's medical history”—her eyes locked with mine—“I'm scared I might get postpartum depression.”

The humming in my ears popped into silence, and suddenly I was powerfully aware of my surroundings. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window seemed brighter than a moment before, and the hard lines of the television and furniture became clearer, more shiny, more polished. “I'll be here, Ruth Ann.”

Robotically I unfolded my legs and stood, walked across the room, and patted her arm, as close to a hug as we ever got. My lips were still curved, and judging from the way her shoulders relaxed, I must have come across all right.

Babies weren't bad. Dodd would provide for her, and his mother and brother would be obnoxiously supportive, but what if she really did need me? Could I be there for her? Could I battle the megaphone voices in my head and keep myself out of the dark pit?

My new cell phone chimed in the back pocket of my shorts, startling me. I would never get used to the thing, but right then, I was thankful for the distraction. The screen showed it was Velma, and my anxiety instantly settled. My sister knew about babies and pregnancy. She knew about daughters and sons-in-law and being a grandmother. She knew about me and the god-awful trouble I had with living life.

Lifting the phone to my ear, I concentrated on keeping my voice even. “You'll never guess what Ruth Ann just told me.” I gave Ruthie another feeble smile and waited for Velma's response. Knowing my sister, she would guess Ruthie's plans and immediately start coaching both of us.

But only heavy breathing came from her end of the line, and my gaze wandered back to the window, where I noticed a small rain cloud peeking from behind the roof of the house across the street. “Velma?”

I once heard a mountain lion's call in the darkness, and that sound came back to me when Velma spoke. Wild. Desperate. Instinctive. She cried out my name, long and low, and the sound of her despair sent a thousand doubts sailing through my already mangled thoughts.

“I'll be right there,” I said. “Whatever's happened, I'm on my way.”

I punched off the phone and backed away from Ruthie.