Natural Born Charmer (28 page)

The ladder rested against the side of the porch. His shoulder didn’t protest as he moved it to check the roof. With training camp only a month away, he’d never had anything more than a short-term affair in mind. A good thing, because Blue was fundamentally a loner. He was supposed to take her horseback riding next week, but who could predict if she’d still be around? One night he’d go over that balcony and find her gone.

As he clipped on his tool belt and climbed the ladder, he knew one thing. She might be giving him her body, but she was withholding everything else, and he didn’t like it.

Two nights later, Jack came upon April dancing barefoot at the edge of the pond, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Only the rustle of reeds and rasp of crickets accompanied her. Her arms rippled in the air, her hair flew in golden filaments around her head, and her hips, those seductive hips, beat out a sexual telegram…
Give it to me, babee
…
Give it to me, babee…

Blood shot straight to his groin. The absence of music made her seem bewitched, both eerily beautiful and more than a little mad. April, with her goddess eyes and kitten’s pout…The girl who’d spent the seventies servicing the gods of rock and roll…He knew this disruptive virago dancing at the edge of the pond to the very marrow of his bones. Her excesses, her wild demands, her sexual recklessness had been toxic to a kid of twenty-three. A kid he’d left behind long ago. Now he couldn’t imagine her bending to anyone’s will but her own.

As she rocked to the imaginary beat, the light spilling from the
cottage’s back door fixture caught on the cord of a headset. The music wasn’t imaginary after all. She was dancing to a song coming from her iPod. She was nothing more than a middle-aged woman kicking up her heels. But knowing that didn’t break her spell.

Her hips beat out a final tattoo. Her hair shimmered one last time, and then her arms fell to her sides. She pulled out the earphones. He slipped back into the woods.

Blue gazed at the finished portrait before
she left the house. Nita wore an ice blue ball gown from a dancing exhibition in the fifties and a sixties beehive that showcased the diamond earrings Marshall had given her as a wedding present in the seventies. She was slim and glamorous. Her skin was flawless, her makeup dramatic. Blue had posed her on an imaginary grand staircase with Tango at her feet. Nita had made her paint out Tango.

“It’s not as bad as I expected,” Nita said the first time she saw the portrait hung against the gold-flocked wallpaper in the foyer.

Blue correctly translated that to mean she loved it, and, despite its excessive glitz, Blue was happy with how perfectly she’d captured Nita’s view of herself: the sex kitten’s sparkle in her eyes, the alluring smile on her frosted pink lips, and the perfect shade of platinum in her beehive. More than once, she found Nita in the foyer studying it, an expression of yearning in her aging eyes.

Blue had money in her wallet now. She could leave Garrison anytime.

Nita appeared behind her, and they took off for Sunday dinner at
the farm. Dean and Riley grilled burgers and Blue made barbecued beans accompanied by a watermelon salad flavored with fresh mint and lime juice. When Dean started eating his hamburger, he began baiting her about not doing the murals, accusing her of ingratitude, artistic cowardice, and high treason, all of it easy to ignore. Until April spoke up.

“I know how much you love this house, Blue. I’m surprised you don’t want to leave your mark on it.”

Gooseflesh broke out on Blue’s arms, and by the time the rest of them were reaching for second helpings, she knew she had to paint the murals—not to leave her mark on the house as April had said, but to leave her mark on Dean. The murals would last for years. Whenever he walked into this room, he’d be forced to remember her. He might forget what color her eyes were, maybe he’d forget her name, but as long as the murals were on the walls, he’d never be able to forget her. She pushed the food around on her plate, her appetite gone. “All right. I’ll do them.”

A sliver of watermelon dropped off April’s fork. “Really? You won’t change your mind?”

“No, but remember that I warned you. My landscapes are—”

“Mushy pieces of crap.” Dean grinned. “We know. Good for you, Bluebell.”

Nita looked up from her barbecued beans. To Blue’s shock, she didn’t protest. “As long as you make my breakfast in the morning and you’re back in time to make my dinner, I don’t care what you do.”

“Blue is going to be staying in the caravan now,” Dean said smoothly. “It’ll be more convenient for her.”

“More convenient for you, doncha mean?” Nita retorted. “Blue’s dumb, but she’s not stupid.”

Blue could have argued the point. She was dumb and stupid. The longer she stayed, the tougher it would be to leave. She knew that from hard experience. Still, she had her eyes wide open. She’d miss
Dean desperately when she left, but she had a lifetime’s practice saying good-bye to people she cared about, and it wouldn’t take her long to get over him.

“There’s not a single reason for you to keep living in that mausoleum,” Dean said the next night during dinner at the Barn Grill, “not when you’re going to be working every day at the farm. I know how much you love staying in the caravan. I’ll even put a Porta Potti out there for you.”

She wanted to. She wanted to listen to the tap of summer rain on the caravan roof as she drifted off to sleep, to sink her bare feet into the wet grass when she stepped outside in the morning, to spend an entire night curled up with Dean. She wanted everything that would come back to torture her when she left.

She set down her beer mug without taking a sip. “No way am I giving up the sight of Romeo climbing over my balcony railing at night to get to the goodies.”

“I’m going to break my neck getting to the goodies.”

Not likely. Unbeknownst to Romeo, she’d had Chauncey Crole, who doubled as the town handyman, reinforce the railing.

Syl popped up at the table to check on Blue’s total lack of progress getting Nita to agree to the town improvement project. Once again, Blue tried to make her understand how hopeless it was. “If I say it’s morning, she says it’s night. Every time I try to talk to her about it, I make things worse.”

Syl snitched one of Blue’s French fries and wiggled her booty as Trace Adkins launched into “Honkytonk Badonkadonk.” “You need a positive attitude. Tell her, Dean. Tell her nobody accomplishes anything without a positive attitude.”

Dean gave Blue a long, steady look. “That’s true, Syl. A positive attitude’s the key to success.”

Blue thought about the murals. Painting them would be like shedding a layer of skin—not in a good way, like after a peeling sunburn, but in a bad way, while the skin was still alive.

“You can’t give up,” Syl said. “Not when the whole town’s depending on you. You’re our last hope.”

As Syl walked away, Dean transferred an uneaten piece of broiled perch from his plate to Blue’s. “The good news is that people are so busy bugging you they’ve stopped paying much attention to me,” he said. “I finally get to eat my meals in peace.”

Not long after, Karen Ann cornered Blue in the restroom. The Barn Grill was no longer serving her alcohol, but that had only marginally improved her personality. “Mr. Hot Shit is screwin’ everybody in town behind your back, Blue. I hope you know that.”

“Sure I do. Just like I hope you know I’m screwing Ronnie behind yours.”

“Asshole.”

“Will you try to focus, Karen Ann.” Blue yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. “Your
sister
stole your Trans Am, not me. I’m the one who kicked your ass, remember?”

“Only because I was drunk.” She propped a hand on her scrawny hip. “Now are you going to get that old bitch to open up this town or not? Me and Ronnie want to put in a bait shop.”

“I can’t do anything. She hates me!”

“So what? I hate you, too. But that don’t mean you shouldn’t rise above it to help out other people.”

Blue shoved her wet paper towel in Karen Ann’s hands and returned to the table.

On the last day of June, Blue loaded up her painting supplies in the back of Dean’s Vanquish, backed it out of Nita’s garage, and headed to the farm. Instead of leaving Garrison, she was starting work on the dining room murals. She’d been so nervous she couldn’t eat breakfast
and, with a queasy stomach, she carried everything inside. Just looking at the blank walls made her hands clammy.

Everyone except Dean poked their heads in while she set up. Even Jack appeared. She’d seen him half a dozen times in the past few weeks, but she still tripped over the stepladder.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you heard me coming.”

She sighed. “It wouldn’t have done any good. I’m destined to mortify myself where you’re concerned.”

He grinned and hugged her.

“Great,” she grumbled. “Now I can never wash this T-shirt again, and it’s my favorite.”

When he left, she taped up her drawings so she could refer to them as she worked. With her gray watercolor pencil, she began sketching the broad outlines onto the walls: hills and woodland, the pond, a sweep of mowed pasture. As she marked in a stretch of fence, she heard a car pull up and looked outside. “Dear God in heaven.”

She hurried to the porch and watched Nita haul herself from the driver’s seat of her red Corvette. April must have heard the car, too, because she popped up behind Blue’s shoulder and softly uttered the F-bomb.

“What are you doing?” Blue called out. “I thought you couldn’t drive.”

“Of course I can drive,” Nita snapped. “Why would I have a car if I couldn’t drive?” She jabbed her cane toward the brick sidewalk. “What’s wrong with good concrete? Somebody’s going to break their neck. Where’s Riley? She should be helping me.”

“Here I am, Mrs. Garrison.” Riley raced outside, without her guitar in tow for once. “Blue didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Blue doesn’t know everything. She just thinks she does.”

“I’m cursed,” Blue muttered. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Riley helped Nita inside and led her to the kitchen table as directed. “I brought my own lunch.” Nita pulled the sandwich Blue had made her earlier from her purse. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother,” Riley said. “After you eat, I’ll read your horoscope and play my guitar for you.”

“You need to practice your ballet.”

“I will. After I play my guitar for you.”

Harrumph.

Blue gritted her teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“Riley, would you know if there’s any Miracle Whip? Just because Blue doesn’t like Miracle Whip, she thinks nobody else does. But that’s Blue for you.” Riley fetched a jar from the refrigerator. Nita slathered it on and asked April for iced tea. “None of that instant stuff. And lots of sugar.” She held out half her sandwich toward Riley.

“No, thank you. I don’t like Miracle Whip either.”

“You’re turning into a picky eater.”

“April says she doesn’t believe in eating things she doesn’t like.”

“That’s fine for her, but look at you. Just because you used to be fat doesn’t mean you should turn into some kind of anorestic.”

“Leave her alone, Mrs. Garrison,” April said firmly. “She’s not turning into an anorexic. She’s just paying attention to what she eats.”

Nita harrumphed, but when it came to April, she picked her arguments.

Blue returned to the dining room with the distinct feeling that today wouldn’t be the only day Nita elected to camp out here.

Later that afternoon, Dean came inside, grimy and sweaty from working on the porch. Blue decided there was a big difference between a sweaty male who didn’t bathe regularly and a sweaty one who’d had a shower just that morning. The former was repulsive, the second…wasn’t. While she didn’t exactly want to curl up to his damp chest, she didn’t exactly not want to either.

“Your shadow’s taking a nap in the living room,” he said, unaware
of the effect he and his damp T-shirt were having on her. “That woman has more balls than you do.”

“It’s why she and I get along so gosh-darned well.”

He examined the sketches she’d taped to the door and window frames, then turned his attention to the long wall, where she’d begun working in the sky. “This is a big project. How do you know where to start?”

“Top to bottom, light to dark, background to foreground, soft edges to hard.” She came down off the stepladder. “The fact that I understand technique doesn’t mean you’re not going to regret pushing me into this. My landscapes are—”

“Cutesy crap. I know. I wish you’d stop worrying so much.” He handed her the roll of masking tape she’d dropped and studied the cans arranged on her metal cart. “Some of this is regular latex paint.”

“I also work with enamel and oil paints—alkyds because they dry faster, right out of the tube if I want more intense color.”

“That bag of kitty litter I carried in from the car…”

“It’s the best way to get rid of the turpentine I clean my brushes in. It clumps, and then I can—”

Riley shot into the room with her guitar. “Mrs. Garrison told me her birthday is in two weeks! And she’s never in her whole life had a birthday party. Marshall only gave her jewelry. Can we like have a surprise party for her here, Dean? Please, Blue. You could bake a cake and make some hot dogs and stuff.”

“No!”

“No!”

Her forehead wrinkled in censure. “Don’t you think you’re both being kind of mean?”

“Yes,” Dean said, “and I don’t care. I’m not having a party for her.”

“Then you do it, Blue,” Riley said. “At her house.”

“She wouldn’t appreciate it. Appreciation isn’t part of her vocabu
lary.” Blue picked up the paint she’d poured into a plastic cup and mounted the stepladder.

“Maybe if everybody wasn’t so mean to her all the time, she wouldn’t be so mean herself.” Riley stormed out.

Blue gazed after her. “Our little girl is starting to act like a normal bratty kid.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

It was pretty great.

Dean finally left to look at some horses. Blue pulled white paint onto her brush, and Riley wandered back in, still carrying her guitar. “I bet nobody even sends her a birthday card.”

“I’ll get her a card. I’ll even make her a cake. We’ll give her a party ourselves.”

“It’d be better if more people would come.”

As Riley returned to Nita, an interesting idea struck Blue, a welcome diversion from worrying about what was and wasn’t taking shape on the walls. She thought it over for a while and finally called Syl at the resale shop.

“You want the town to throw Nita a surprise birthday party?” Syl said after Blue had explained. “And we’re supposed to pull it together in two weeks?”

“Pulling it together is the least of our problems. Getting anyone to show up is the challenge.”

“You really think throwing her a party will soften her up enough that she’ll go along with the town plan?”

“Probably not,” Blue said. “But nobody has a better idea, and miracles do happen, so I think we should give it a shot.”

“I don’t know. Let me talk to Penny and Monica.”

Half an hour later, Syl called back. “We’ll do it,” she said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “You just make sure she’s there. It would be exactly like her to get wind of this and refuse to show up.”

“She’ll be there if I have to shoot her first and drag the body.”

After half a dozen more interruptions, several of them from Nita,
Blue hung over the dining room’s two doorways some of the heavy blue plastic the builders had left. When it was secure, she added a
NO ADMITTANCE ON PAIN OF DEATH
sign. She was nervous enough without having them looking over her shoulder the whole time she worked.

At the end of the day, she made everyone in the house swear on their iPods, guitars, Tango, Puffy, and a certain pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots to stay out of the dining room until the murals were done.