Talk of the Town (15 page)
What kind of business could someone like Carter possibly have here?
Pulling up near the church sign, I stopped and rolled down my window. The man mowing released the lawnmower handle and let the engine die, then headed my way. I recognized him as he came closer—Otis Charles, the feed store customer who’d told the story about battling for Amber’s calf at the Reunion Days calf scramble. His shirt said
UT Athletics
on the front.
He smiled as I leaned out the window. “Can I help you?”
I tried to look casual, pleasant. Just a run-of-the-mill tourist, out in the middle of nowhere, stopping to ask for directions. “I think I’m a little lost. I was wondering if you could tell me, is this the Caney Creek Church?” I pretended not to see the rather large sign beside us that said
HARVES CHAPEL
.
O.C. glanced at the wood and stone billboard. “Yes, ma’am, it is. Don’t mind the sign. Last year, the church council voted to give the place an official name, Harvest Chapel, but the
T
fell off. Since my Grandpa Harve’s the pastor, we left it for a joke. Most folks still call it Caney Creek Church, anyhow.” Bracing his hands on his hips, he gave me a bemused look. “You’re the third person who’s asked me that today.”
“I am? Is that normal?”
O.C. rolled his eyes then blinked at me as if I were daft. “Not hardly. Nobody ever comes down this road. Did you need to talk to Grandpa Harve? He’s inside.” He glanced toward the building, seeming ready to turn me over to someone else and finish the mowing.
“Oh, no thanks.” At least for now, the less attention I called to myself, the better. “I was just trying to figure out where I was. Could you tell me how to get to the fairgrounds from here? I wanted to see the sheep . . . contest. My friend has sheep. In the contest.”
That was lame
.
O.C. blinked, his lips parting into a wide, white grin that said,
Okay, lady, whatever you say
. “You’re a little ways off from the fairgrounds.” Scratching his forehead, he paused to think. “Let’s see . . . to get there from here, you’d go down this road till you get to the T. Take a left on 2102, then right by the big old white barn and you’re almost there. Can’t remember the number of that road, but you’ll see the barn. There’s an old Mobil Oil sign painted on the side of it.”
“I’m sure I can find it. Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Sounds like you’ve had a lot of interruptions around here today.” I left the statement open-ended, waiting to see if he would volunteer more information about recent visitors.
“A bit—you, and some people in a slick-lookin’ motor bus, and the dude who’s in the church talking to Grandpa Harve.” He motioned over his shoulder and I glanced toward the church. Two men were coming out the front door, engrossed in conversation. The older man, I guessed by his imposing stature, was O.C.’s grandfather—Harve of Harve’s Chapel. The younger man, I recognized instantly. Carter Woods. In the flesh. Looking chipper today in jeans, cowboy boots, and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. He’d slicked back his hair in waves that curled over his ears and caught the sunlight on the back of his neck. At the moment, he was focused on a notebook the old man was holding. The pastor turned the page and pointed at something, and both of them laughed.
“What’s he doing here . . .” I muttered.
Otis Charles assumed the question was for him. “Came by to talk to Grandpa Harve. Didn’t say what about.”
“Huh . . .” I mused, watching Carter in the side mirror, my suspicions blooming like flowers in time-lapse photography. If I’d wanted to believe last night that Carter was just a nice guy, traveling through Daily on some unnamed business errand, the notion seemed utterly ludicrous now. What were the odds that the stranger who’d happened to show up in town when I did would also happen to turn up at some middle-of-nowhere church a few hundred yards from Amber Anderson’s childhood home? A supposition of coincidence can only go so far before venturing into the realm of blind stupidity. Carter Woods was not my friend, or my protector, or my happenstance hotel mate—he was up to something.
“You can go ask him if you want,” O.C. offered. “Looks like they’re about done.”
“Oh . . . ummm . . . no thanks. I’d better take off. Thanks for the directions, though.” Best to move on while Carter was still occupied. No sense letting him know I’d seen him hanging out in Amber’s neighborhood.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Backing politely away from the window, Otis Charles shielded his eyes and peered down the road toward the Anderson place. “I’ll be dogged. There’s that motor bus again. What’n the heck . . .”
I didn’t turn around to look at the RV, just waved a thank-you to O.C., circled the sign, and pulled out, watching Carter and Pastor Harve in the mirror until a hedge blocked my view. Neither Carter nor Pastor Harve ever looked up. Whatever was in that book was not only amusing but very interesting. They kept turning the pages, pointing, nodding, and occasionally laughing.
Curiosity needled me like one of the fluffy angora sweaters my mother used to make me wear to church. LA was usually too hot for angora, but my mother thought I looked cute in fluffy pastel things. By the time I came along, she was forty-three and realizing that her days of Mary Janes and lacy skirts with petticoats were numbered. At the age of twelve, I revolted. I vowed that I’d never wear tights or angora again, and I never had, but I still remembered the feeling—hot, itchy, vaguely crawly and prickly, a sensation that stuck with you even after the garment was safely back in the closet.
Pulling over, I sat on the side of the road, watched the glistening blue motor home stop in front of the Anderson place. A woman in a brown suit got out, walked to the fence and checked out the house, then opened the gate. An assortment of dogs and farm animals bounded toward her, and she jumped back through the opening, slamming the gate shut just in time to prevent the pet calf from escaping. Checking over her shoulder, she hurried to the motor home in a high-heeled trot, then stood for a moment stroking her short, spiked blond hair, watching the trailer home as if hoping someone would come out. Finally, she disappeared into the RV.
She had
reporter
written all over her.
Great
. I waited for the RV to come closer so I could see if there was a logo, but there was nothing. The RV was probably a loaner from some local dealer, given in exchange for promotional consideration. Glare on the window blocked my view of the driver, but the woman in the brown suit was sitting in the passenger seat, alternately checking her mirror and trying to unfold a map. Spotting Otis Charles in front of the church, she pointed, and the motor home made a wide-swinging turn into the church parking lot, swaying back and forth as it bumped over the culvert.
I sat on the side of the road a moment longer observing, then finally let off the brake and drove on through the patchy sunlight, trying do some creative problem solving. There had to be a way of keeping everything under control until after we’d brought Amber home and completed her location shoot.
Unfortunately, nothing was occurring to me. I felt like a ninetypound weakling confronted with a brawny beach bully. Any way I played this, I was going to end up smashed to a pulp with sand in my face. I wanted to go home. I wanted to plop down on my parents’ couch and have my mother offer me hot chocolate and prescription medications.
It occurred to me, as I headed toward the fairgrounds, that in my moment of desperation, I should have been yearning for David. His voice should have seemed like a comfort, his arms a refuge. Instead, the thought of him brought more stress. Where was David, anyway? I’d tried calling him six times—four yesterday and two this morning after the production meeting. All I’d gotten was David’s voice mail. No answer, no call back. He had to be out on the boat. He’d probably gone on a pre-honeymoon shakedown just to make sure everything was in shape for our trip.
Even so, knowing I was traveling, couldn’t he have called?
Sometimes, even though I was now one half of a couple, I felt more alone than ever. There were good things about operating with a fair amount of independence—David liked that about me, especially considering that his ex-wife had been clingy and controlling. Having spent the last twelve years of my life making my own decisions, I appreciated the fact that David saw me as an equal, capable of taking care of myself. I didn’t want someone checking up on me all the time, asking where I was, demanding reports on what I was doing, delving into my checkbook and my dinner dates with Paula.
Paula predicted that when David and I actually did move into the apartment together we would have some space issues. That was perfectly natural, she said, considering my past history of trying to wrestle my independence from a pair of overprotective parents and David’s past history of a nasty divorce. It would take some time to work out the details of which level of relationship was enough and which level was too much.
It bothered me a little when she said that. Could you be
too
married? Wasn’t marriage supposed to be all the way?
Right now, alone in Daily, Texas, with David out of touch on the high seas, our present situation felt like too little commitment. It would probably be different when I got back home.
Sighing, I turned on the radio. Music always helped when I was descending into the blues.
“And that’s your ‘Mandy in the Middle,’” the DJ said. “Hey, all you listeners out there. Hope your Friday’s rolling along just as fine as frog hair. The big news around Central Texas and the Hill Country today—still no official confirmation, but word is that local favorite Amber Anderson is a shoo-in for the Final Five on
American Megastar.
. . .”
The lunch rush was already underway and looking busier than usual when I got back to Daily. Quite a number of cars were parked out front, and through the window I could see that the booths were already full. Some of the countertoppers had come in for lunch, which was surprising, considering that it was the opening of Reunion Days. Granted, it wasn’t the big event it once was, when former Dailyians used to return from all over the country, but the fair and rattlesnake weigh-in were still pretty popular. I’d have thought Doyle, Harlan, Ervin, and the rest of them would be at the fairgrounds, buying sausage on a stick and wandering through the cow barns, trying to pick this year’s sure-fire grand champion steer, or at least sizing up the yearly catch of rattlesnakes.
With the rush on in the café, I knew I shouldn’t stop by the beauty shop, but I had to tell Donetta what I’d learned at the checkout stand in Wal-Mart. Before I could get a word in edgewise, she started rattling on about her plans to get the rooms painted. She’d talked to her nephew, Coach Rollins, over at the school, and she had the entire baseball team and a half-dozen cheerleaders coming to help with cleaning and painting the rooms as soon as school was out. In the meantime, she’d happened across Amber Anderson’s grandpa when she was down at the hardware store, and she’d hired him to start filling the cracks in the walls, then give directions to the high school kids when they showed up.
“You hired Verl Anderson to paint your hotel rooms?” I said, even though I knew I didn’t have time to get into a discussion. “Donetta, what were you thinking? That poor old man probably can’t even make it up the stairs, with his leg the way it is.” Years ago, Verl had slid off a barn roof and wrecked up his leg pretty bad.
Donetta put her hands on her hips. “Well, I figured he could use the work. What with Amber off in Hollywood and not bringing in a salary here at home, things must be pretty tough around the Anderson place. Besides, at least one of them Anderson boys is on the baseball team, so he’ll be over here working this afternoon. Verl can keep those baseball boys in line and take on whatever work he’s able enough to do.”
Donetta leaned close, shutting out even Lucy, who was busy packing their supply cart to head over to wash and style hair at the old folks’ home. “Besides, what with them TV folks staying upstairs, it just wouldn’t hurt for them to look at the shape Amber’s family is in. They might see she needs that million-dollar recording contract more than anybody else.”
A sheen of moisture came into Donetta’s eyes, and I got a warm, prickly feeling all over me. Donetta was always looking to do good for somebody. “DeDe. You’re a wonder.” I reached out and hugged her, and we just stayed that way for a minute.
A loud crash in the café pulled us apart. “I need to get over there,” I said, and even though I hated to do it, I handed Donetta the sack with
The National Examiner
and
Worldwide Scoop
. “Better take a look at these.”
Before she could open the sack, I hurried off through the wall, feeling like a big fat thundercloud about to douse Donetta’s ray of sunshine.
Nobody even noticed when I came into the café and closed the bookshelf behind me. I could smell right away that Bob was letting something burn on the fry grill. Maria was busy trying to wait all the tables, and in the booths by the window, a couple of cowboys from the Double T Ranch were looking toward the kitchen with some concern, wondering, no doubt, if they’d ever get food.