The Secrets of Rosa Lee (8 page)

“Frankie used to serve hot appetizers years ago, but it got to be too much trouble.” She pulled a string on a bare light swinging from the center of the low ceiling. “I keep it open so when I'm stuck here I won't starve.” She winked. “A girl can't live on bar nuts alone.”

The cleanliness of the place surprised him. There was a wildness about this woman, but there was also an order.

“If you want to dry off, there's a stack of towels by the back door.” She combed her hair with her fingers and twisted it into a wild knot behind her head. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Any way but scrambled,” he answered thinking of
the thousand church breakfasts he'd eaten with scrambled eggs. He heard her banging around the kitchen while he dried his hair in the hallway between the back door and the kitchen. Using paper towels, he wiped mud off his shoes then washed his hands in a big sink that looked as if it would only be used to clean mops. The Rogers sisters' rosebush had torn a two-inch rip in his trousers at the knee, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Since he had no comb, he raked a hand through his hair, hoping he wouldn't frighten her.

Then he laughed. The woman owned the roughest bar for thirty miles around. Probably nothing frightened her. In all likelihood she told him about the back door's latch because she wasn't the least afraid of him.

When he walked back into the kitchen, the smell of steak and onions grilling drifted across the room. She motioned for him to sit before turning back to the stove.

Micah tried not to stare but couldn't help himself. The lean woman in tight jeans and a rain-dampened Western shirt that stopped an inch above her waist was unlike anyone he'd ever encountered. She moved with an easy grace, but everything he knew about her told him she must be made of rawhide.

“How do you know the sisters?” She didn't turn around.

“Maybe I grew up here and they were my teachers?” he offered.

“Nope,” she answered as if being tested. “
I
grew up here and they were my teachers. You're definitely a transplant.”

“That obvious?”

She grinned over her shoulder and pointed with a spatula. “It's the shoes.” When he didn't answer she added, “No man from West Texas wears shoes with tassels. Those are for the big cities like Dallas and Houston. And while
I'm at it, any self-respecting working man lets the mud on his shoes dry, then stomps it off.”

“Anything else?”

She set two plates filled with eggs and steak on the table. “In my line of work I've learned to read people. You're not married, but you were. Divorced, maybe with a kid, grade school probably. You see him often.”

“Widowed. One child, seven.”

“Sorry.” She met his eyes. “I'm the same. My husband was killed in an oil-rig accident a few years back.”

“Cancer took my wife.” He wanted to change the subject. “How'd you guess so much about me?”

She opened two beers without asking if he wanted one and sat down across from him. “Wedding band you didn't try to hide. Socks that don't match. No woman would let you out of the house like that.”

Micah stared at his socks. They looked like a matched pair to him. But, one might be more gray than black now that he studied them.

“And I sat on a coloring book in the back seat of your car so either you've got a kid, or you're not quite as bright as I thought you might be. A boy, I'd guess, since girls usually don't color Spider-Man.”

He smiled. “I made it too easy, Sherlock.” He cut into his steak. “Now for the big question: why did you invite me in? I could be a serial rapist for all you know.”

She laughed. “Not with those shoes.” She took a bite, then added, “I knew you were safe, first because you were a friend of the Rogers sisters. They're not the types to hang around with dangerous men. Second, you turn red every time I get within waltzing distance. That doesn't sound like a trait a rapist would have. You're safe all right, Micah Parker. Safe as a crosswalk.”

Micah wished he could think of a funny comeback, but
he was too busy eating. She'd cooked what he was sure must be the world's best steak.

Randi picked at her food. Every time he raised his gaze from his plate, she watched him. He always turned away first. He didn't want to think about what else she'd be able to guess about him.

After finishing his steak, Micah started on hers. She moved her plate toward him without comment. He stopped to take a drink of the longneck, then made himself slow down as he ate the rest of her breakfast. She probably thought he was homeless by the way he consumed food.

“I'm on a committee with the Rogers sisters. Though, I knew who they were. Everyone does.”

“The committee that got interrupted by a flying drill bit this morning?” She leaned closer.

Micah nodded. Clifton Creek didn't need a paper. News spread faster than butter on lava.

“I heard a few of the oil guys talking about it, but I didn't pay a lot of attention. When the sisters came in, they wanted to talk about everything but what frightened them.” She wrinkled her forehead. “One of the oilmen said there'd been a little interest in the Altman property as a drill site, but no oilman would send a drill bit as his calling card.”

Micah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What kind of interest?”

Randi shrugged. “Just rumors. The men in the bar are always talking about where to drill next. Most of it's speculation and guessing. Since the old house sets on a rise, it would be the prime spot to drill if anyone decided to test for oil below.” She studied him. “You think someone was trying to tell the committee something this morning? Or trying to hurt one of you?”

“It could have been an accident. Kids may have found
the bit and thought it would be great for shattering windows.” He stacked the empty plates and stood. “Maybe they didn't take the time to notice people were sitting at a table on the other side of the glass.”

She followed, sipping her beer as he scraped the dishes. “Maybe someone wanted to stop the committee. I don't know who else serves on the panel with you, but the Rogers sisters must have been frightened half to death. They're tough old birds, but I'm not sure they'll be interested in going back into that house. To tell the truth I'm surprised it didn't fall down around the committee this morning.”

Micah dried his hands. “It bothers me to think that someone could have been hurt. Really hurt.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “It could've been you.” Her words were soft against his ear.

He took a long breath and for once in his life decided not to think, but to act. In half a turn his body brushed against hers and he lowered his mouth toward her lips.

She slowly molded against him, as smooth flowing as liquid passion. Then, when they were so close their breaths mingled, she smiled. A smile that told him she could read his thoughts.

“I think it's time we call it a night,” she said as she stepped away.

She walked across the kitchen. “You know,” she said in that low voice of hers, “I was wrong about you, Mr. Parker. You're not safe.”

He didn't know if he should apologize or try again. It seemed a lifetime since he'd known the rules—if he'd ever known them.

He thought it best to say good-night. “Thanks for the steak.”

“Anytime,” she answered. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” The look she gave him said so much more.

“Nice to meet you,” he echoed, thinking she was a blast of fresh air in the cellar he'd been living in for years.

L
ora Whitman folded her napkin and tried to give at least the appearance of paying attention to her mother. She should have pretended sleep longer and cut the time at the breakfast table in half. Working for her father was easy compared to having to live with her mother. Luckily, the house was big enough for Lora to have her own wing on the third floor with a study, a bedroom and a small workout area. Her mother rarely ventured into her rooms, claiming the stairs were too much for her.

“I can't imagine how frightened you were, dear. I told everyone how you just couldn't face talking about the accident yesterday. Not even to me.” Isadore Whitman finished her coffee. “Of course, you were so worried about that Professor Dickerson from the college who had a heart attack that you rode with the first car leaving for Wichita Falls to check on her.” Isadore stopped long enough to spread her lipstick just wider than her lip line. Her own private answer to BOTOX.

Trying to keep her voice calm, Lora corrected, “First, Mother, it wasn't an accident. A ten-pound drill bit almost the size of a football isn't something that just flies into a window. Second, Sidney Dickerson didn't have a heart attack. We feared she had, but the hospital checked her out.”

Lora knew she was wasting her time. Isadore lived in a fairy-tale world. Oh, not with giants and dragons, but the kind of make-believe with parties and parades. In Isadore's fairyland, streets could be named Candy Lane just because she bought the only house on the block and daughters grew up and married well.
And never came back home to live.

“Morning, ladies.” Calvin Whitman's booming voice entered the room a few seconds before he did. A large man, he leaned back a little more each year to accommodate his ever-expanding belly.

He patted Lora's shoulder as he passed. “How's my little girl feeling today?”

Lora nodded her hello. She'd always be her daddy's little girl. Unlike Isadore, he hadn't wanted to give her up to marriage and seemed happy to have her back home. In fact, Calvin would be happy if nothing ever changed in his world but next year's Cadillac colors.

“I'm fine.” Lora stood. “I thought I'd go in early and see what landed on my desk yesterday while I was out.” She was never sure if she truly helped her father's business, or as the boss he simply found work for her. In either case, she didn't complain. Her ex-husband had served her with papers, cleaned out all their accounts and packed her things so fast she hadn't been able to give notice. She was lucky to find work, period.

“This early?” Isadore glanced at the clock. “Don't even think about work yet, Lora.”

Calvin helped himself to breakfast laid out in silver dishes along the sideboard. He rattled one of the lids and peeped in as if fearing what might be inside.

Isadore glared at him with disgust but spoke to her daughter. “Aren't you going to have more than coffee, Lora? I know the magazines say you can never be too thin, but you've lost so much weight since the divorce.
You look like a coat hanger. If you get any thinner, you'll never catch another man.”

To Lora's dismay her father joined the assault.

“That's right, hon.” Calvin didn't look up from his food. “Men like their barbecue and their women with just the right combination of meat and fat.”

Though Isadore slapped at his arm, he didn't bother apologizing.

Lora thought of telling her mother that she planned to get a doughnut on the way to work, but didn't want to hear the lecture. Isadore had set out the same breakfast for her family all her married life. Lora could go down the neat little silver servers and tell what was in them without opening the lids. Eggs, always in the first. Ham, if a serving fork rested beside the second dish. Bacon if there were tongs. Toast, if butter and jam were on the table. Muffins if only butter sat out. On weekends, pancakes, or if company was there, Belgian waffles. Always served with fruit Isadore bought frozen and never bothered to let thaw before serving.

“I really have work to catch up on.” Lora put her coffee cup on the silver tray closest to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

Calvin set his plate at the far end of the table. “Let her go, dear,” he mumbled, giving equal support to
his girls.
“It's a fact, she's got work waiting.” He turned his attention to Lora. “I signed on as one of the rodeo sponsors yesterday. Told them you'd give the new president a hand. Real nice fellow running the show this year. Talk is he's planning to run for the state senate next year, so being in charge of the rodeo will get him in front of the public.”

Lora wasn't surprised. Her father had always been an easy touch for any fund-raiser. He seemed to believe a marketing degree made her an expert in the field.

In the six months she'd been home, she'd talked him into giving Cadillac Cash instead of real money. Some charity would auction off a thousand dollars in Cadillac Cash or have it as their special door prize. The clubs wrote thanking him for the donation, which the business wrote off. He honored the “cash” on any new car. Everyone won and at worst the dealership sold a new car for a few hundred less than they'd planned.

“Is he single, by any chance?” Isadore asked.

“I have to run.” Lora moved fast, knowing that if she didn't, Isadore would snare her in meaningless conversation. Her father had already opened his paper. At least he could read while he pretended to listen.

“But—” was all Isadore got out.

Lora grabbed her case at the foot of the stairs and hurried through the side door leading to the garage. She climbed into her Audi, adjusted her seat from where her mother had played with it the day before, and backed out of the driveway as if she were auditioning for a part in a chase film.

At the café near the downtown square, Lora ordered her usual chocolate-covered cinnamon roll and black coffee before she spotted the reverend at the counter, with a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he read the paper. Yesterday, he'd been all calm and strong. This morning he looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept at all.

She hesitated. He hadn't seen her. She could grab her food and run. But, to her surprise, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to touch base, make sure he was okay, learn any news. She slid onto the swivel stool next to him and motioned for Polly to bring her order to the counter.

Polly turned away, but her head wobbled back and forth as it always did when she talked to herself about all the
extra work she had to do. If friendliness determined tips, Polly would be working for pennies.

“Morning, Preacher.” Lora returned his smile as he glanced up from his paper. “How's today treating you?” His eyes didn't seem so sad when he smiled. He blinked as if she'd caught him deep in thought.
Studious. That was the word for him.

“Morning, Miss Whitman. How are the battle scars?”

She twisted on the stool and showed him the huge Band-Aids covering her knees. “They hardly show under my hose.”

He glanced down, then looked away.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and straightened.

“For what?”

“Guess I shouldn't be showing my legs to a preacher.”

He lost his grin. “Guess not,” he answered. “After all, we're not men. Not quite human.”

If she could have, Lora would have pulled Micah Parker to her and hugged him. She'd never heard someone sound so miserable in her life. She hadn't thought of it before, but he was right about the way people think of men in the church. Ministers weren't like other people.

Polly delivered Lora's breakfast with a thud. “It's still hot from the fryer, so be careful.”

The chocolate sauce bubbled across the top of the round cinnamon roll. Lora took a deep breath. “Chocolate and grease, my two favorite food groups.”

Micah's smile returned. “How often do you indulge in this slow form of suicide?”

“Every Tuesday,” she answered as she cut off a bite and blew on it. “I came home on a Monday after my divorce. We moved what little I had left into storage, set me up an office next to my father's at the dealership, and I went to sleep in the twin bed I'd slept in most of my life. The next
morning I thought I couldn't get out of bed. Nothing…nothing would make me want to face this town, this job, my failure.”

Micah winked. “And then you remembered.” He pointed to the roll.

“Right,” she laughed. “My reason to live.” She pushed the first bite in her mouth.

Micah folded up his paper as Polly slammed down his oatmeal and wheat toast. “May I have one of those rolls?” he asked politely.

Polly groaned. “Instead of this?”

Micah quickly added, “Oh, no, for dessert. I still want this order.”

Polly mumbled something about
breakfast don't have no dessert
as she moved away.

“You're very brave, Preacher. Not many locals have the nerve to change their order once Polly writes it down.”

He tasted his oatmeal. “I must be living dangerously lately.”

“I'll say,” Lora agreed.

As they ate, they talked about yesterday. Neither had much in the way of news, but it felt comforting to rehash the details. They were like veterans in an unknown war.

After Polly delivered his roll, Micah said, “Sidney's getting out of the hospital today. I talked with the sheriff when I came in and he said Will's driving the ambulance over to pick her up at no charge.” He tasted his cinnamon roll and shoved the oatmeal aside. “I really don't know her, but I feel like I do. I'd like to go check on her this afternoon and make sure she's settled in at home, but…”

“But it might not look right.” She could see his problem. Single minister visits single teacher in her home alone. The town would fill in the blanks. Lora fought the urge to swear. Living in Clifton Creek reminded her of step
ping back in time. They might have the Internet and cell phones, but sometimes she expected the theme song from
Mayberry R.F.D
to start playing out of thin air. She handed Micah her business card with all her phone numbers on it. “Call me when you're heading over and I'll meet you there.”

“Thanks.” He shoved the card into his vest pocket. “You worried, too?”

“In some way we all became a family yesterday. Billy even commented about how we need to watch one another's backs.” She shuddered. “I'll be glad when we can vote on what to do with that old house. Give our recommendation to the mayor. Forget about the committee. That old place has years of bad vibes. I've heard stories about it all my life.”

“Maybe the drill bit flying was just a onetime, freak thing that happened,” Micah mumbled between bites. “It probably had nothing to do with us, just kids playing around. Maybe they wanted the house to fall thinking there would be a park or something else put in its place?”

“Maybe. But if it wasn't?” She pictured zombies running down Main Street all carrying drill bits as they screamed the committee members' names. Horror movies always had a group of people on the monster most-wanted list. “What if someone singled us out?”

“Then we fight.” He plopped the last bite of the roll in his mouth and stood.

“Great,” Lora whispered as she waved him goodbye. She was going to war with a regiment from the monster appetizers menu and the preacher thought they could fight.

Ten minutes later, when Lora made it to her office, she could still hear Micah's determined words. He surprised her. Weren't
men of the cloth
supposed to be meek? He seemed kind and thoughtful, but meek wasn't a word that
fit that minister. Yesterday when he'd removed his coat and only wore a shirt and trousers, he'd definitely been relaxed. Today in his brown suit he looked more official.

As she turned toward the car dealership's set of offices along the back wall of the showroom, Lora wasn't surprised to see a man sitting on the corner of her desk. Her father thought the floor plan of see-through office walls and no doors except on the restrooms made the place look welcoming and honest. Lora thought it more a bother. Anyone trying to sell her anything could camp out in her office until she showed up. Dora, her father's secretary and the unofficial hostess, would even serve them coffee.

She waved at Dora. The middle-aged greeter waved back. Her father's statement about the right combination of fat and meat crossed Lora's thoughts. She shook the possibility out of her head. Her mother would kill her father by slow endless conversation if he even looked at Dora.

Walking into her cage of an office, Lora ignored the young man dressed as if he had just stepped out of a line dance. She put up her purse and removed her jacket. She couldn't miss the width of his shoulders, or his Western clothes right down to his fifteen-hundred-dollar boots and pressed jeans. He wasn't here to try to sell her pencils and caps with the logo of the dealership.

She raised an eyebrow in interest as she shoved her briefcase under the desk. If he needed a car, he would have been waylaid by one of the salesmen before he could make it to her office.

Finally, with everything in order, she faced him. “May I help you?”

His smile seemed calculated. Not too wide, not too innocent. “I certainly hope so, Miss Whitman. I'm Talon Graham. My friends call me Tal.” He waited as if expecting her to recognize the name.

Lora had seen his type before. In fact, she'd married one of the tribe. Handsome, well-mannered, high-maintenance, used to getting his way. The kind of man who wanted a blonde on his arm. Trouble was, she'd been that blonde once before and no longer wanted the role.

Since he obviously knew her name, she asked again. “How may I help you, Mr. Graham?”

He stood. “I'm in oil exploration by profession, but I'm here as president of this year's Rodeo Association. I'd like you to help me make next year's rodeo the best Clifton Creek has ever seen.”