“You’re sure it’s hair, not a thread off your shirt or something?”
His grin was slight and lopsided. “I’ve been using deodorant for four days. Dad left it behind.”
“Have you?” She wanted to cry. Her throat tightened. “That’s…wonderful. Do guys in the throes of puberty still hug their moms?”
“I guess,” he said, doing the deed with keen embarrassment and speed.
What would a man do when confronted with a son’s burgeoning sexuality? wondered Justine. She looked at Pip’s feet. No wonder he’d been outgrowing his shoes at a pair every two months.
“Once we’re settled we’ll have a celebration. Dinner, candles, maybe even some champagne punch. What do you say?”
“Aw, Mom. It’s no big deal. I’m just growing up.”
Judy Ann slid off the box and sidled up to her brother. She gazed at him with utter awe. “You can make babies now.”
His face flamed. “Yuk! You’re sick!” He shoved and sent her sprawling.
“Mommy!”
“Pip! Apologize to your sister! No matter what your gonads are doing, that’s no way to act.”
“It’s true, Mommy. When the health lady came to school to talk to us, she said puberty for girls was gettin’ breasts and periods—for boys it meant they could make babies. I remember!”
Justine helped Judy Ann to her feet and dragged a reluctant “sorry” from Pip. “We’ll discuss this later—separately. Let’s find that box of food. We’ll all be in better spirits once we’ve eaten.”
“I could hear the yelling at the other end of the house,” announced Agnes, emerging into the kitchen with an incorporeal Lottie on her heels.
“We’ve settled the problem, Mother Hale. Do you recall which box you packed the canned goods in?”
Lottie wasn’t so easily distracted. She took in the expressions on the children’s faces.
Hooey!
She decided on spite and spoiled. If she were running the household, the boy wouldn’t be standing there sullen or the girl sulky. She’d have them set on their chores and no debate.
“I don’t,” Agnes was saying. “The movers were on top of me. I recall that.”
Lottie sniffed.
There’s a box with food in it,
she said.
Though, truth tellin’, it don’t smell too fresh.
She went to look.
Surreptitiously she parted newsprint. The carton was filled with dishes stained with egg yolk, bits of bacon, jelly, and used coffee beans ground into mush. Lottie gaped.
It was beyond her experience to imagine carting unwashed china from one county into the next. In her day a thing like that didn’t at all reflect well on the woman who ran a household. Why, even during the War, folks kept up. Even after all the hogs had been stolen or run off so there was no fat to render into soap with lye and lard and ash, Lottie and her neighbors hiked to the little creek behind the persimmon orchard for buckets of pink sand to scrub dishes, cook pots, and floors.
She scowled at Justine who by her lights had admitted to being chatelaine. The whole lot of them needed a firm hand. There wasn’t a level head among them. What was needed was a woman of her own constitution, bone strong of back and mind.
Lottie smothered a sigh. She’d have to renew efforts to get herself extended. She just
had
to find a way.
Purple skirts flowing, cane swinging, Agnes elbowed Lottie off center.
Watch it!
Lottie said tartly and alighted on the sink. Amorphous arms crossed, she proceeded to lecture, in no uncertain terms, how she expected the new tenants to keep house, lest every four- and six-legged insect God had ever created think it was invited to dine in her kitchen.
“I hate to tell you this,” Pauline said as she rounded the corner, “but the movers didn’t put up the beds.”
Justine sagged. “They were supposed to.”
“If your father were alive, he’d telephone their home office and insist they send someone out to do the job right. I suppose we could stay in a motel tonight.”
“You suppose?” Justine’s voice was close to scathing. “How much money do you have in your purse right this minute, Mother?”
“You know I never discuss money.”
Agnes arched an eyebrow. “You do—as long as it belongs to someone else.”
“Stay out of this, Mother Hale.” Justine parked her hands on her slender hips. “Well, Mother… how much?”
Pauline flinched. “I—I’m not sure— Three dollars…about. But you know I’m more used to carrying credit cards. If the lawyers hadn’t taken—”
Agnes smirked. “You could have considerably more than three dollars, Pauline, if you’d admit to being at least sixty-two and apply for social security.”
“Age doesn’t have anything to do with it. That’s government money. Evan said never touch government money. Why, he’d turn over in his grave.”
Not so,
said Lottie, following the conversation with acute interest. Souls that got a decent burial spared the devil and stayed peacefully put. Leastways, all the ones she knew had.
“Six and two is eight,” said Judy Ann proudly. “Like me.”
Justine beamed. “That’s good, darling. You’re a smartie.”
Speaking to Judy Ann, but aiming an opprobrious smile at Pauline, Agnes crooned, “Do you know eight times eight, dear?”
“It’s settled.” said Justine. “We’ll sleep on mattresses tonight.”
Agnes’s expression went from scorn to dismay. “I couldn’t.” She straightened and leaned against the great old double-tubbed sink. “I’d never be able to get up off the floor. My arthritis wouldn’t let me. Anyway it’s too drafty in this old house to sleep on the floor. I’d come down with pneumonia. I’m cold right now.”
“It’s the first week in June,” Pauline said pointedly.
“It could be the first week in August for all I care. Why don’t any of you believe me when I say I’m
cold
!”
Pauline smiled wickedly. “Because you’re imagining it?”
“I’m not!” As if to prove her point, Agnes shivered involuntarily.
Lottie leaned forward and put words directly into her ear.
Do those dishes before you go to coming down with ailments, y’hear?
Agnes didn’t.
Deaf as worms, the whole lot of you!
Lottie was suddenly drained of energy, weary, as tired as if she’d been plowing behind a pair of mules. The sensation surprised her, considering she had no bones to ache or muscles to pull. Much as she hated to leave the new tenants on their own, she knew she needed a rest. She dragged herself off the sink, made her way out of the kitchen, into the long dim pantry, and to the door set flush in the wall at the back. She crept behind the door and up the steep stair well into the topmost part of the house.
“Mother Hale, if you’re running hot and cold, maybe you’re coming down with the flu. Take one of the lawn chairs and sit in the sunshine for a few minutes. See if that takes the chill off.”
“What you need, Agnes dear,” Pauline added, “is to check yourself into a nice modern nursing home.”
“Couldn’t you two stop picking on each other?” begged Justine, though deep down she knew remonstrating with them was a waste of time. Each was convinced her way was right, and no amount of persuasion seemed to make them willing to reverse positions or endeavor to understand the other. Justine was feeling increasingly helpless in the face of their ongoing verbal battles, mostly because she always seemed to be caught in the middle.
“Can grandmas get divorced?” asked Judy Ann.
“That’s stupid,” said Pip.
“It’s not. If you can’t get divorced, then fussin’ doesn’t matter. Does it, Mommy?”
Nonplussed, Justine glared over her daughter’s head at the grandmothers.
“I didn’t start it,” said Pauline.
“Neither did I,” Agnes shot back.
“There’s a man lookin’ in the back door,” said Pip.
Filling the doorway, hands on hips, his stance proclaiming to her how certain he was of the effects of his charm, stood Tucker Highsmith. The easy, natural way about him that had communicated itself to Justine that morning was still in place.
“You didn’t give me a chance when I brought over the keys,” he said without preamble, “I just wanted to offer you a neighborly hand … if you need it.”
“We don’t,” Justine replied, voice firm.
“Oh, yes, we do,” insisted Pauline, sweeping past her daughter to graciously wave Tucker into the kitchen. “As it happens the movers didn’t put up our beds.”
“I told you, Mother, I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“The man wants to be neighborly, so let him,” said Agnes, concerned with her own comfort and for once in wholehearted agreement with Pauline.
Justine clenched her fists. Of all the times for the grandmothers to suddenly see eye to eye! To protest further would make her look a fool in front of Highsmith—for the second time in the space of a few hours. She lifted a hand to indicate an ill-humored acquiescence.
Pauline introduced Tucker to the children. When she got to Agnes she said, “This is Justine’s former mother-in law,” placing the emphasis precisely on former.
Though for different reasons, both Justine and Agnes gave Pauline a scathing look. Pauline smiled sweetly and stepped behind Pip.
With her mother’s retreat, Justine knew some small talk was demanded of her.
“Exactly where do you live that you can be so conveniently neighborly?”
There was just enough frost in her tone that Tucker understood he was not forgiven the manner of his earlier approach, or the intrusion of the moment.
“I own the old tobacco barn that used to be a part of the estate.” His eyes rested intently upon her. The glossy hair was now pulled back and tied with ribbon. The style emphasized stubbornness in her well-defined features. She had changed into jeans and knit shirt. Both of which were flattering to her figure. He could see her attributes were provided by nature and not the subterfuge of padding and pinion. His gaze was drawn back to her eyes.
He discovered himself overtaken by a mixture of one part caution and several parts potent longing. He was, he decided, a man in trouble. “My place is out beyond the persimmon trees. You can see it if—”
Justine dismissed the way he was looking at her and ignored the fact that her heart was picking up speed.
“You live in a barn. How quaint. What other animals do you house there?”
“Justine!” Pauline said, her tone registering shock. “We’ve only just met the man, dear. You’re being exceedingly rude.”
“That’s
exactly
how she used to talk to Philip,” sneaked in Agnes.
Justine kept her eyes on Tucker. He was making no move to leave. He wasn’t looking insulted. There was even a hint of a genuine smile on his lips beneath the rakish mustache. Damn. He had to think her an imbecile. She deserved whatever thoughts he had of her. And she certainly wasn’t setting a good example for the children. She took a breath.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line. I have no objection to you putting up the beds. It’s kind of you to offer to help. But I’ll do my own room.”
Distressed, Pauline rattled on. “Justine, you’re making me look as if I were an inadequate parent in front of our new neighbor. I’m sure he thinks your father and I let you run wild. She isn’t usually so high-handed, Mr. Highsmith. It’s only that her patience has been so tightly stretched of late. Her divorce, the death of her father, my husband, our move…”
Oh, Mother! Justine raged silently. How can you be so unthinking? She felt as if her soul had been laid bare for inspection. Worse, Highsmith appeared to hang on to her Mother’s every word.
“Don’t bore the man with our life story, Mother.”
“I’ve been accused of many things in my life,” said Pauline with stiff-necked, regal dignity. “However, being a bore was never one of them.”
“I’m not bored,” Tucker said smoothly. “I’d like to get to know all of you.”
Judy Ann thrust herself in front of Tucker. “Do you have any little girls I can play with?”
“Ah…not yet, but if I ever do, I hope she’s as pretty as you.”
The child preened in response to the compliment. “My dad’s gone off to be a monk,” she gushed.
Justine wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
“It’s kinda like being a preacher,” offered Pip.
Tucker eyed Justine to see if what he was hearing was good or bad. No doubts. Bad. “That sounds … adventuresome,” he said in a carefully neutral tone. “I’d like to hear more about it sometime.”
With a triumphant, quelling glance at her daughter, Pauline gestured toward Tucker. “Come along, Mr. Highsmith. Pip, dear, you can lend us a hand.”
“Just, Tucker, ma’am,” he said, his own expression no less triumphant. He squeezed by Justine, making certain that he didn’t even brush her. Their eyes met fleetingly: Justine’s were narrowed, his full of a self-satisfied gleam.
“A monk?”
he said softly, shaking his head.
Bright hot color blotched Justine’s neck, sped over her smooth cheeks, stopping only before the heat singed her hair. She had run out of worthy retorts. Before she could compose one mentally and get it on her tongue, his back was turned.
Her gaze followed him out of the kitchen. For the next few seconds she was full of rocketing emotions; the most vivid were the turbulence Highsmith aroused, sensations she had not experienced in years. Her feminine instincts, though little used of late, told her that his interest in her went beyond being neighborly. She didn’t want his interest. Her life was a maze of complications already. Even if her life weren’t complicated, he wasn’t her type.
She was gripped by a sudden internal shaking. In the deep recess of her brain a surfacing voice of intuition proclaimed Tucker Highsmith was
every
woman’s type.
“Not mine!” Realizing she’d spoken aloud, Justine looked quickly about and discovered Agnes and Judy Ann had also decamped in Highsmith’s wake.
She gave a thought to joining them, if only to monitor the conversation. No, she wouldn’t. Whatever Tucker Highsmith learned would not give him the advantage. She wouldn’t allow it. She was in control of her destiny. Not Pauline, not Agnes, not the children. Beneath her breath she called him every rogue name she could think of. Feeling much better, she resolutely pushed aside his image and continued searching for the box of food.