Rueful Death (21 page)

Tom snorted. "That a promise, you old buzzard?"

His father saluted him with his beer bottle. "You can bet your best bull on it, boy."

The banter was light and practiced, but Tom seemed uneasy and the old man's voice had a ragged edge. I won-

dered what kind of conflict was hidden under the camaraderie. How often did the father worry that the son would let the family bank fall into the hands of the massive multinational financial corporations that have already grabbed up so many small-town banks? How often did the son threaten to sell out and move back to the city after the father was dead?

The meal arrived, we dug into our food (mine was more than passable), and the subject of the conversation shifted.

"Tom tells me you've got a place of your own over in Pecan Springs," Tom Senior said. "You like bein' in bid-ness for yourself?"

"Most of the time." I thought of the recent Christmas rush and my feelings of being swamped under a tide of too much to do. "Sometimes it's a lot to handle." In a burst of ill-advised candor, I added, "Pecan Springs is getting too big and touristy. Sometimes I feel like finding a quieter place. Like Carr. You've got a pretty town here."

"Glad to hear you say that." Tom Senior beamed. "Yep, real glad. You own your shop?"

I nodded, and went on saying things I shouldn't have. "The building as well. Right now, I rent out half of it, but I've got to figure out what I'm going to do with-" I was about to say that I had to make a decision about the tearoom when Tom Senior interrupted.

"Well, it's easy enough to relocate. Let your tenant take over the building. Or sell. Price of property in your part of Texas has gone up like a hot-air balloon in the last few years. You'll make out like a bandit, moneywise. Movin' won't cost you much, either."

"It's a nice idea," I said, "but I really don't think-"

"Why the hell not?" the old man demanded. "You said it yourself, Carr's a real purty town."

"It certainly is, but I'm not-"

"Sure
you are, girl. We need women like you here. Anytime you're ready to make your move, I'll see you get what you're lookin' for."

Tom leaned forward and put his hand on his father's arm. "Hold your fire, Dad," he said. "You promised you wouldn't-"

"Caroline!" The old man raised a hand to the cowgirl waitress. "How about a cup of coffee?" He turned to me, disregarding his son. "Carr's
a fine
little town, China. Sure, it's underdeveloped compared to where you are now, but that's a plus. Anybody who can tell a widget from a whang-doodle can see the potential here. You sign on with our outfit, girl. The best is yet to come."

Tom shook his head disgustedly. ' 'You sorry old son of a gun," he muttered. "Can't tell you a damn thing."

The best is yet to come. Hadn't I heard that assertion just this morning? "Sounds like you and Carl Townsend are singing the same song," I said. "He told me this morning that when the monastery is turned into a resort, everybody in the county is going to get rich."

"Carl told you that?" The muscles around the old man's eyes tightened perceptibly. "His mouth flaps at both corners. There ain't no deal yet."

' 'What do you think about the chances for change at St. T's?" I persisted. Tom Senior was the Laney Foundation Board's banker. He knew how much money there was, and what the Reverend Mother General intended to do with it. Of course, he didn't know about the deed restrictions. And he didn't know what was in that white envelope Sadie had shown me.

Or did he? The old man seemed suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder, shoved his chair back, and stood up. "Listen, there's Lou over there in the corner. I need to see him about the Knights of Columbus barbecue comin' up next Saturday."

Tom glanced toward the corner. "Tell Lou I'd like to work my shift early in the day, will you?"

His father nodded. "Send Caroline over to the corner with my coffee." He clapped one hand on Tom's shoulder, the other on mine. "I got a real estate broker who'll help

you find the right location for your shop, China. When you got it picked out, Tom here will see you get money to fix it up." He leaned down between us and whispered loudly. "And when you're settled in, you give Tom-boy a holler. All he needs is a good wife, and he'd be just about perfect." He squeezed my shoulder and was gone.

I stared after him wordlessly, shaking my head.

"Sorry about that, China," Tom said. He shoved his plate away. "The old man is… Well, he's got high hopes for this town."

Not just for the town. I narrowed my eyes. "Come clean. Did you give him reason to hope that we might-"

"You know better than that." He cleared his throat. "But the old man's no fool. He'd like to see me settle down, and he's always liked you-a lot more than Janie, to tell the truth. And he thinks his age gives him the right to say whatever jumps into his mind."

"Obviously," I said dryly. "But I hardly think it gives him the right to go around propositioning potential daughters-in-law."

"Look, China." Tom leaned forward and put his hand on my arm. His voice was taut, his eyes intent. ' 'You know I'm attracted to you. As much as before. No, more." His hand tightened. "Before, I was a young stud with a dozen deals in his pocket. I was easily distracted, and it was hard for me to know what I wanted. Now I know. I want you. I want us to go back where we were and start over again. Is that possible?''

I could feel the warmth of his grip through the sleeve of my flannel shirt. My heart bounced and my stomach tightened involuntarily. I pulled in my breath.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I see it is."

I took my arm back. "I don't think so," I said.

"What's holding you? Is it the guy you live with?"

McQuaid's face rose in front of me, curious and lively. What would he say if he could overhear this conversation, could feel the chaos inside me? The pause lengthened.

"Do you love him?"

Even if I'd been absolutely clear about my feelings for McQuaid, I'd feel awkward sharing them with Tom. "I'm living with him," I replied evasively. "We've lived together since last May." Only eight months-was that all? It felt like eight years.

"Well, hell, China," he said, exasperated. "People live together for all kinds of reasons. Because they enjoy sex, because two is cheaper than one, because they like the security. What kind of thing do you two have going? What does it mean to you?"

What does it mean to me? What
does
it mean? What are McQuaid and I to one another? Housemates who share a bed as well as board? Or something more? It's a question I've mostly managed to duck. McQuaid and I live together comfortably and companionably and with a minimum of fuss. We enjoy one another in the important ways. Maybe it isn't the stuff of romantic novels, but it works. It's been enough. Then again, confronted with the possibility of something more, was it still enough?

I looked down at my plate. I was talking more to myself than to Tom. "It's a good relationship," I said.

He made a scornful noise. "That's it? Just 'good'? You're kidding! 'Good' isn't good
enough,
and you know it, China." His voice softened. "We were a hell of a lot more than just 'good.' We were super, incredible, tremendous, fantastic…" He ran out of superlatives. "Remember how it was for us in the beginning?''

I remembered, and even after all the years, the memory was warm enough to melt stone. I remembered lying in each other's arms at 3 a.m., bodies joined, hearts hammering, breath like sweet fire. I remembered champagne dinners at romantic restaurants, an hour or two stolen from the evening's work at the office, dawn breakfasts and lingering kisses, with roses on the table.

That was the first six weeks. After that…

After that, there wasn't as much time for dinners at ro-

mantic restaurants, and the dawn breakfasts had been replaced by a 7 a.m. cup of coffee and a wave as we headed for our cars and the day's work. He accused me of being too busy, I accused him of being preoccupied.

He lifted his hand and touched my face. "We can go back and do it again, China. Only this time, we won't let our careers kill the romance. It'll be like before, only better. Super, fantastic, out of this world. Never just plain 'good.' "

And I knew it was possible. I felt the physical attraction tugging at me, the flame of remembered passion turning my insides soft. I heard the old laughter, tasted the old wine, and knew I could hear it, taste it again, and it would be even sweeter. Tom and I had been swept by desire once, and nearly swept away. It could happen again.

But between then and now, I had met McQuaid, I had lived with him and learned that sustainable love doesn't grow out of superheated physical passion, but out of simply holding hands and holding on, day in and day out. I'd learned that "good" really
is
enough, not because you're settling for something less, but because "fantastic" and "incredible" burn you out emotionally, just as life in the fast lane burns you out physically. And I thought now of McQuaid and Brian and Howard Cosell and Khat and was suddenly swept by a wave of affection for our ordinary, unromantic life, with its heaps of wet towels and clutter of dirty socks, its lizards in the closet and dead toads in the refrigerator. Our undeniably ordinary, utterly unromantic, inexplicably
good
life.

Tom put his hand over mine. "You can't deny that you're physically attracted to me."

We were into truth tonight. "You're right," I said. "I am attracted to you, Tom. Very much."

"Aha!" He was triumphant. "Well, now that we've established
that,
the rest is-"

He was interrupted by the cowgirl with the coffee, and then by another cowgirl who took away the plates, and then

by a couple of his customers, who'd just unloaded a truck of Beefmaster steers at the sale barn down the road and wanted to brag to their banker about the good deal they'd wangled. By the time they'd moved on, Tom Senior was back at the table. We talked for a few minutes, then I glanced at my watch and drained my coffee cup.

"It's getting late," I said. I looked at Tom. "I'll see you at the board meeting tomorrow."

Tom Senior frowned. "The foundation board? Those meetings are closed, except on the invitation of a-''

"Sadie asked me to come," I said.

The old man's face grew red and he half-rose. "Sadie Marsh? What the hell does she want you there for?"

Tom put a hand on his father's arm. "Take it easy," he said.

"I want to know what Sadie's got up her sleeve," the old man said, his voice rising. "What's that woman up to, anyway?" He glared at Tom, his breath coming harder. "You find out, boy. It's your bidness to know what's comin' down. You can't afford to be blindsided by nobody, not even Sadie.
Especially
not Sadie."

"Whatever it is," Tom said firmly, "I'll take care of it." He put his hand on the old man's shoulder. ''Simmer down, Pop. You know what Doc Townsend said about getting excited."

"Screw Doc Townsend," the old man spat out. He sank back in his chair. "Son of a bitch can't pour piss out of a boot with the heel up."

Tom's laugh was unconvincing. "Anyway, I think I know what Sadie's got up her sleeve. I'll handle it"

I glanced at him. Was that the truth? Did he know about the deed restrictions? Maybe he knew about the envelope too. Or was he telling a lie designed to quiet his father?

"Well, you're gonna have your hands full," the old man muttered, subsiding. He seemed to have forgotten me. "Sadie's got ten-pound brass balls and a mouth like an Arkan-

sas hog caller. I'll come to that meeting tomorrow and settle her hash. If I don't, she'll-"

"I said I'll take care of Sadie, Dad," Tom said sharply.

"And I said I'll be there." His father's mouth was set into a stubborn line. "I'm gettin' out of your way fast as I can, boy. Don't push."

I shrugged into my coat, embarrassed by the exchange. I gave the old man my hand and a smile. "Perhaps I'll see you again before I go back to Pecan Springs, Mr. Rowan."

With an effort, Tom Senior remembered his manners. "You comin' over to our place for a nightcap?"

I shook my head. "I don't want to keep Mother Winifred's truck out too late. She might worry about it."

Tom stood up. "I'd worry, too, if I were her. That old truck is practically an antique-worth as much dead as alive. I'll walk you out to the lot and make sure it starts."

As I said good night to Tom Senior, he pressed my hand between his dry, cool ones. "You mind what I say now, China. We'll be lookin' for you back here soon as you get things wound up in Pecan Springs."

I murmured something and pulled my hand away.

"You've got to give it to Dad," Tom said, holding the door open for me. "He just won't give up. Doc Townsend has told him to turn the business over to me. If he's got any energy, he's supposed to concentrate it on stuff like the Knights of Columbus-and stay out of the bank."

I bent into the cold, clean wind, letting it wash through me. "It's tough," I said. "For both of you."

He put his arm around my shoulders. "Let's not talk about that. As I recall, when we were interrupted you were in the middle of telling me that you lust for my body."

We reached the old green Dodge. "Something like that," I said. I opened my purse, found the truck key, and put it into the door.

"Wait," he commanded. He pulled me close against him and kissed me, gently at first, then with a mounting passion

that reverberated in my bones and blood. I felt myself responding, the warmth pulsing through me.

' 'You make me feel like a kid in love for the first time, China," he whispered huskily, touching my face, my hair. He tipped my head back, his eyes fastened on mine.' 'Come home with me. Let me make love to you."

Somebody opened the door of the barbecue joint and an old Elvis song-"Love Me Tender"-floated out. Somebody else was laughing, light and high. A car door slammed, a dog barked. Above us, far away, the stars looked down, amused.

I started to speak, but he laid his finger on my mouth, silencing me. "I know. You're living with the guy, you've got commitments. But he's there and you're here. You're a free woman, China. You can do what you choose. Come home with me."