Justified (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The restroom at Allsup's was only a half step above the cedar tree JohnScott mentioned, but at least it had toilet paper. As I came out of the store, I immediately noticed Tyler at the gas pumps, and the confidence I felt at the ball game dwindled. I didn't want to talk to him—or ever be seen with him again—but I had to get it over with. I stopped at the front bumper of JohnScott's truck and waited.

Tyler replaced the nozzle on the gas pump, then smiled as he sauntered toward me. His good looks reminded me why I had dated him in the first place, in the midst of rebelling against my parents, against the church, against all the expectations burdening me. I had latched on to him with the fervor of a drowning child.

But I had grown up since then.

“You're driving the coach's truck now.” A glimmer lit his eyes. Maybe jealousy. Maybe disgust. Definitely anger.

I felt as though I had been caught red-handed stealing a pack of cigarettes. “He offered.” I gestured to the store behind me. “Too much Gatorade.”

“Babe …”
He lowered his eyes, looking at me through his eyelashes. “You've got no business playing softball in your condition.” His gaze roamed across JohnScott's truck, and his eyes softened as though he were forcing himself to stay calm. “You haven't been answering my calls.”

I fingered the warm hood ornament and didn't answer.

“You're upset.” He stifled a laugh.

“I can't ignore your behavior at the street dance.”

“Fawn …
come on
… Your old coach has been filling your head with ideas.”

“JohnScott had nothing to do with it.”

His glee from a moment before transformed into spite. “When did you stop calling him Coach Pickett?”

“Why do you care?”

He smiled at a blob of gum on the pavement. “I don't want him to take advantage of you.” His gaze bounced to my waistline, and my anger swirled like a dust storm.

“I'm not a tramp.”

“No, you're not, but the man's been working at your place too much.”

“How would you know?”

He shrugged. “People are starting to talk. Everyone's saying you're after the coach.”

“That's not true.” If that rumor had been flying around, I would have known. Ruthie would have heard it at the United, and JohnScott would have already taken flack about it from the Booster Club.

I opened the driver's door but didn't get in. Instead, I used the door as a shield. I had to get this over with. I had to end it.

Tyler lowered his head, not cowering to me, but low enough he appeared contrite. “I'm sorry about the street dance, Fawn. The booze made me step out of line.” When I rolled my eyes, he continued quickly. “But I've given up on drinking once and for all because you and the baby deserve better than that. Can you forgive me?”

I held up my hand and tapped my fingers against my thumb.

When Tyler stepped around the door, I thought he might slap me again, but then his eyebrows drooped, and I had a startling realization. He strategically calculated every move, right down to his facial expressions. How had I never noticed it before?

“I know I messed up again,” he said, “but I love you, Fawn.”

I scooted back on the seat, putting more space between us. Being aware of Tyler's strategy didn't completely take away his power over me. “This isn't love.”

He looked away, blinking into the breeze, and his eyes reddened around the edges.
Almost real.
“You're going to leave me again. You're breaking up.”

“I think that's best.”

Desperation flashed across his face. “We'll slow down.”

I answered hesitantly, but as I spoke, my shoulders relaxed. “To be honest, I think we're only together because of the baby, and that's not a good enough reason.”

“It's what God would want.”

“No.” I glanced at the gas pumps where two people were filling up. “It couldn't work, Tyler. We've already tried it, and it's over.”

A train chugged on the edge of town, its whistle stalling our discussion and giving me a chance to calm my racing pulse. I had done it. I had ended things with him, and I already felt better, more free and healthy. My initial reaction was to call Ruthie, but when I stopped to consider my priorities, I realized I wanted to tell JohnScott.

Tyler nodded, accepting my rejection stoically, but his hands gripped the frame of the driver's door so tight, I imagined the steel buckling under his fists.

Chapter Twenty-Five

In the seven months I lived with Ansel and Velma Pickett, I never ventured to the back pasture to the coach's mobile home. Even though it could be seen from Velma's back window, I hadn't bothered to notice the way the double-wide lay nestled between a mesquite thicket and a shallow ravine. Or that he had built a large wooden deck for a front porch, where two tall-backed, wooden rockers now sat. Or that the place was immaculately well kept.

As I parked Velma's Chevy on the circular gravel drive, a small herd of cattle gathered near the stock pond a hundred yards away. Not at all what I expected.

The way my mother's nose wrinkled any time she said the words
trailer house
had always given me a certain impression about people who lived in them. As I made my way up the steps, my hand brushed the stained wood of the handrail, and I realized my negative opinions might have been unfounded.

The front door opened, and JohnScott's father stepped onto the deck. “Haven't seen you lately, Miss Priss.”

“Hello, Ansel.”

He put an arm around my shoulders. “You and the wee one doing all right?”

“Dr. Tubbs says everything is coming along right on track. Still a few more weeks.” The gentle compassion on the old man's face nearly brought me to tears, and I looked away quickly.

“Better come on in the house. Velma and the boy are about done in the kitchen.”

I followed him into a spacious living room that opened directly into an eating area. Past a low counter with bar stools lay a brightly colored kitchen, where JohnScott and Velma bustled.

“Hey there, Fawn,” Velma called as she withdrew a pan from the oven. “How's Rowdy?”

“As lively as ever.” The dog had become a good friend, calming my fears that came from living alone, but I felt silly telling the Picketts that, so I kept it to myself.

JohnScott carried a large pot into the room. “Red beans and french fries.” He set it on the table and inhaled deeply. “Doesn't get any better than this.”

As we sat down, I felt as though I were returning home after a long absence, even though I had never set foot in the house, and the Picketts had none of the characteristics that mattered to my biological family—money, status, power.

The table had been set neatly with dark, octagonal plates, quite unlike Velma's mismatched dinnerware, but I recognized her corn bread in a dented metal cake pan.

“Velma, what makes your corn bread taste better than any other I've eaten?”

“Well … it's Mexican corn bread.”

“Chili powder and processed cheese.” JohnScott grinned. “That coupled with the greasy fries makes for a heart attack waiting to happen.”

I passed JohnScott the potatoes, and our hands touched, but I ignored the electric current it sent through my fingers. He had given me the distinct impression he viewed the kiss as a mistake, and we were returning to our previously scheduled friendship. And that seemed fine with me. I had made a big enough mess of my life without adding more gossip to the fire.

“Now wait.” He stared down at the red platter in his hands. “We're having
Mexican
corn bread and
french
fries. Is that culinarily acceptable?”

“I think you mean
culinary
, Son.” Ansel sprinkled grated cheese over everything on his plate.

“How on earth would you know?” JohnScott asked.

Ansel pointed his thumb at Velma. “Rachael Ray. Channel eleven.”

“You watch cooking shows?” I spoke with my mouth full.

He set his fork down on the edge of his plate. “Now, sweetheart …”—he wagged a crooked finger at me—“I never said I watched it.”

Velma waved her fork. “Ansel thinks she's cute.”

The old man blew air through his teeth, dislodging a tiny speck of food, which landed on his bottom lip. He wiped it slowly with a plaid cloth napkin. “I said her chicken-fried steak is cute.”

“I can't believe my dad watches Rachael Ray.” JohnScott smiled at me, but his eyes sobered. “Dad's been taking some time off during the day.”

“Aw … nothing to speak of.” Ansel moved food around with his fork, like a child in trouble at the dinner table. He speared a fry. “It helps to rest for a spell after lunch. Kinda nice how it's been working out.” His lips trembled in a smile. “I get to spend a little time with ... Rachael.”

If Velma had been standing in her kitchen—her usual post—she would have popped Ansel with a rolled-up dish towel. In lieu of her weapon of choice, she wadded her napkin and threw it across the table.

Ansel shook with silent laughter, and JohnScott leaned toward her. “Mom, you've got your work cut out for you.”

“You'd think I still had one child left at home. His body's wearing out, but his mind is getting younger all the time.”

JohnScott watched his dad for a moment and then rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Would you consider hiring a teenager to take over some of the work?”

Ansel's chin jutted to the side. “No, we're doing fine, JohnScott.”

The fact that Ansel said
no
instead of
naw
and
JohnScott
instead of
Son
spoke loudly to me, and when I glanced at the coach, I could tell the verbiage didn't go unnoticed by him either. The muscles in my neck tensed. I had never heard the Picketts disagree on anything except sports.

Velma pushed her chair back and announced, “I brought Mississippi Mud.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Mexico. France. Now the Deep South?”

“It's just wrong.” JohnScott shook his head sadly.

“We're international chefs,” called Velma from the kitchen.

As the coach removed plates from the table, Ansel leaned toward me. “The owner of your place contacted me again.”

“Oh?”

Ansel took a toothpick from a tiny glass in the middle of the table. “Said he might as well cover your rent from here on out. Place ain't worth much anyhow.”

The muscles along my spine relaxed without warning, pushing air from my lungs. “For how long?” I whispered.

“Long as you're out there, sounds like.”

My hands lay in my lap, and the baby rested firmly against my arms as though he were nestled in my embrace. “Does this man know me, Ansel?”

He picked his front teeth with the toothpick and then held it between his lips, moving it to the corner of his mouth, where it bounced as he talked. “He says he's good for the utility payments, too.” He reached for his fork and cut into the gooey chocolate-and-marshmallow dessert as Velma and JohnScott slid into their chairs.

I blinked. “Why would he do that?”

“He's a good man,” Velma said.

I rubbed my palm across my stomach.

“He says it's because he's a Christian.” Ansel's fork clinked against his saucer as he set it down. “I take that to mean it's the right thing to do.”

The baby shifted, and a foot or a fist moved from my right side to my left. I shouldn't have cared what the man's motives were. He had provided me with a home for my baby. I ran a hand across my little man and laughed out loud.

All three Picketts looked up from their dessert plates and smiled along with me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Even though the Picketts' down-home goodness made me as comfortable as a feather bed, I couldn't relate to them. I felt insufficient, as though my arrogant roots had lifted me high above this sweet family, and I could only look down on them from my perch, not clearly seeing or hearing them. And definitely not feeling them.

As Ansel and Velma hobbled down the road toward their house, I opened the door of the Chevy, and it moaned softly. “Thanks for dinner, Coach.”

JohnScott gazed after his parents with his brow wrinkled, but when I spoke, he spun around. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Home. I've got a paper to write.”

“And leave me with all the dishes? You've got nerve.”

“Oh …” My face warmed. “I could stay and help.”

“If you insist.” He pushed my car door shut and climbed the three steps to his porch, firm and sturdy like the steps at my house. “You wash,” he said. “I'll dry and put away.”

“What if I don't want to wash?”

“You don't know where to put away.” He started the hot water running and then reached into the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Dawn dish detergent.

“You keep your soap in the refrigerator?”

“I hid it from Mom. Otherwise she would stay and do the dishes. The woman's a workaholic.”

“You know what they say about that …”

“What?” He opened a drawer and took out a cup towel.

“It takes one to know one.” He spun the towel, winding it into a weapon, but I shook my head. “Don't even think about it, JohnScott.”

“Your water's about to run over.”

“I'm not turning around until you uncoil that towel.”

He looked down at the terry cloth strung tightly between his fists, then to the sink behind me. “It's going to make a mess on the floor.”

“You can clean it up yourself. With that towel.”

He relented, relaxing his shoulders. “I don't know what you're talking about. I would never attack a pregnant woman.”

“So, you admit you'd attack me if I wasn't pregnant.”

“Sure,” he said without hesitation. “You're beginning to understand me.”

Emptying ice from the glasses, I submerged them in bubbles, enjoying our light banter even though my pulse raced. I felt myself falling for him, like the crush I had on Leonardo DiCaprio in sixth grade. And like the actor, Coach Pickett lay out of reach. “I understand you a lot better than I did three weeks ago.”

“Meaning?” He stood next to me, taking soapy glasses from my hands to rinse under the running water.

“You're worried about your parents.”

His mood shifted. “Dad's getting old fast. Mom's a good bit younger, so she tends to him, but I don't know what she'll do when he needs more care.”

“They seemed defensive when you mentioned it.”

He laid the wet glasses on a wooden drain rack. “He doesn't want to give up any control before he has to.”

“That's understandable. He can still do a lot on his own.”

“How am I supposed to know what's too much?”

I rinsed a plate. “Maybe you're not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad can still decide for himself.” I turned back to the sink to avoid the coach's penetrating gaze.

“You think I'm overreacting.”

“No,” I said quickly. “You're concerned about your dad, as you should be, but they don't need you to make decisions for them yet.”

He leaned his hip against the counter. “How do you know these things?”

“I don't know.” Looking into his eyes, I saw the compassion he held for his parents, and I wished I had a smidgen of it for my own. His eyebrows puckered, and he smiled, reminding me of the feel of his lips on mine.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the plates clattered as he slid them into the cabinet. “You're probably right.”

The comfortable feeling I'd enjoyed all evening disintegrated as a brick wall fell between us. If we were going to maintain our friendship, we'd have to pick at that wall one brick at a time.

“Thanks for helping with the dishes.” He folded the towel and hung it neatly on the handle of the oven.

I followed him out the front door, but once we were on the deck, he gestured to the rocking chairs. “Can we sit and talk a few minutes?”

I eased into the closest chair, getting a feel for its balance as I studied JohnScott and tried to get a feel for him, too. He sat down, leaned forward, and crossed his bare feet at the ankles.

He laughed lightly, then paused and picked at something on the arm of the chair. He laughed again and finally looked at me. “I'm really sorry about Saturday night.”

I sighed. “You said that. Several times. It never should have happened.”

He stared at me then, and his eyes filled with something deeper than sadness. The expression made me antsy, and I wished he would look away.

“I didn't mean I'm sorry I kissed you. I'm just sorry I did it at such a bad time, when you were upset.” He leaned with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. He looked up at me hesitantly, then back down to his hands. “So you wish it hadn't happened.”

I didn't know what to say. Since that night in the dark, I had thought of little except JohnScott Pickett—even to the point I hadn't dwelt on my breakup with Tyler—but I couldn't figure out what I thought about that kiss. If I told him I wished it hadn't happened, I would have been lying, but if I said I was glad he did it, I would have been just as untruthful. I shrugged. “I didn't say that. Exactly.”

“Yeah, I don't know what to think about it either.”

I inhaled a shallow breath, then released it slowly. “I thought you regretted it.”

“No.” He smiled, and the lines on the side of his face made me tingle. “Oh no.” He leaned back in the rocker, relaxing into the wooden curves. “I only wish it weren't so complicated. Imagine it.
You
…” His eyes pierced mine, conveying his understanding of the complexity of my situation, the baby, my parents, Tyler. “You with …
me
.” He shook his head, and in the droop of his eyes, I recognized the acknowledgment that both our lives would be dramatically affected if something happened between us. “You're not ready for a relationship with me or anyone else. And I'm not sure I should even ask that of you. Now or ever.”

I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a few moments, agreeing with everything he said, yet feeling a flame of hope had been snuffed out. “It's over with Tyler.” I don't know why I spoke those words right then, other than to reassure myself that JohnScott believed it. “I'm embarrassed I ever took him back.”

He jerked his head and frowned at me. “Don't be embarrassed about that. You felt you needed to give it another go.”

“But … I think deep down inside, I knew he wouldn't change … that he
couldn't
change.” My chair gritted against the boards of the deck as I rocked, but I stilled my movements as my true motivations came into focus. “For some reason, I felt bound to him. I guess it's because of the baby.”

JohnScott moved one of his shoulders in a circle, a nervous shrug. “It's not just that.” His gaze dropped to his knees, and I thought he blushed. “You and Tyler have a physical bond now because of … well … you know. But it's a spiritual bond, too—which is even stronger—so it's only natural you would feel that way. And for him to feel that way about you.” His voice tapered off.

As warmth washed over my face, I turned away from him and pretended to inspect the herd of cattle grazing on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. His statement broke open the protective shell of my emotions, leaving me vulnerable and exposing one of my greatest fears. “Will I always feel bound to him?”

He inhaled deeply and thoroughly, and when he exhaled, I sensed sadness for my past, regret for his own, and hope for both of us. He spoke softly. “When I was in college, there was this girl.” His gaze slid away from me, to the safety of the herd. “I wasn't a Christian then, and I guess I didn't have any reason to wait. Of course I knew I should respect her—
and I did
—but we were both consenting, and we thought we were in love.” His eyes grew distant. “I know I was.”

A hundred questions leaped into my brain, but I held my breath, hurting for him, wanting to tell him we should talk about something else, yet yearning to hear whatever answers he had to offer me.

He stretched his legs in front of him, breaking the awkward spell that had been cast. “For years I imagined myself still in love with her, and maybe I was a little bit. But then Dodd started talking to me about Jesus. And forgiveness.” He chuckled. “And we had a lot of late-night conversations about me and my sordid past.”

I tsked. “Sordid?”

“Yep.” He smiled, and his cheek wrinkles flashed briefly, but then he sobered. “Turns out those spiritual bonds are a lot harder to break than the emotional ones.” His eyebrows lifted sadly. “And I don't know … Maybe they never completely go away. But that doesn't mean either of us are bound to our past mistakes.” He shook his head. “God washes it away.”

A lifetime of Sunday sermons echoed in my mind, and I heard our little congregation droning the hymn “God Shall Wipe Away All Tears,” but my heart couldn't quite believe it. I shook my head. “I've been going to church all my life, sitting by my parents, reading the Scriptures, singing the songs, but only lately have I started to come close to God.”

JohnScott tilted his head thoughtfully, and a corner of his mouth wrinkled in a hesitant smile. “Maybe we're both starting off brand new.”