The Comforts of Home Page 7

  Ronelle lost interest in the meeting within minutes. She slid down in her chair and began a crossword puzzle. Halfway through it, she heard a familiar voice. A voice she’d never forget. Marty Winslow.

  Looking between the two overweight women in front of her, she watched as Marty presented a plan. He sat in his wheelchair, his black hair pulled back, almost making him look like he’d cut it. He rattled off numbers while someone flipped charts behind him.

  “Who is that?” Ronelle whispered to her mother.

  “Some high-powered financial planner,” Dallas answered in her not-so-low voice. “Must not be too good. Don’t even look like he can afford a haircut.”

  One of the two heavyweights in front of them turned around and glared at Dallas.

  Dallas huffed at the woman as if to say Mind your own business. The woman had the good sense to turn back around.

  “Don’t pay him no mind, that man who obviously thinks he’s a genius.” Dallas pointed with her head toward Winslow. “Everybody knows those financial types are always telling other people how to spend their money and then committing suicide when they can’t handle their own. I bet it’ll be hard for him to jump from a window with that wheelchair. He looks more like the kind to blow his brains out with a forty-five. Then what good will they do him splattered all over the wall like so much ground liver.”

  Ronelle closed her eyes. She knew without looking that every person within five feet of them was staring at her mother with that drop-dead-lady look in their eyes.

  Thank goodness Hank Matheson stepped to the mic and said, “Let’s give Marty Winslow a round of applause for all the work he’s done. This looks like a plan we can make happen if we all head in the same direction.”

  One old man yelled, “Yeah, if we live long enough,” but everyone else clapped.

  Ronelle slipped out the side door. She knew the minute the crowd broke someone would confront Dallas, and that was her mother’s favorite time. She’d debate the existence of hell with the devil himself.

  Standing in the cold, Ronelle tried to make herself invisible, and as usual it worked. When she’d been little she used to believe that if she didn’t see people, they couldn’t see her. She’d practice moving through stores without looking at anyone. Now, she pressed her shoulders against the wall and wished she were thin and flat-chested so she could mold against the building unseen.

  The two firemen huddled by a booth set up to sell chili didn’t notice her. One was Willie Davis. He was younger than Ronelle, but she knew him because he was the one who usually came out to fix the streetlight by her house. Her mother always tried to give him a hard time about why he didn’t try to catch the criminal shooting out the light and not just keep coming by to fix it, but Willie Davis just smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am, you’re right.”

  This infuriated Dallas. People agreeing with her left little room for argument.

  The other fireman beside Davis was a big guy of about the same age: twenty, maybe twenty-one. He reminded her of the man she’d seen on the motorcycle outside Marty Winslow’s house, but he looked a little older and not quite as frightening.

  He might live here, but he seemed like an outsider, like her. When she glanced back at him, he caught her eye for a moment and gave a slight nod as if to say that he recognized someone who didn’t fit in. They might never talk, but Ronelle decided she would say hello to him if he ever addressed her first.

  She couldn’t see any tattoos, but he might have them. Everyone under forty had them but Ronelle. Her mother told her once that if Ronelle ever got a tattoo she’d cut it off her skin with a potato peeler. The threat hadn’t frightened her because she’d never considered it seriously, but the knowledge that her mother was serious about the potato peeler did.

  Someone inside the fire station opened the bay door and people poured out. Bowls of chili were sold for three dollars, and a long table had been set up for baked goods. Ronelle wasn’t much with numbers, but she figured it would take longer than one lifetime to save up for a fire truck with money from bake sales.

  “Stop standing there like a doorstop,” Dallas snapped from behind Ronelle. “We might as well go home. All these folks are interested in is food. I’ve never seen such a basket of nuts.”

  Ronelle knew Dallas would not stay to eat. She often reminded Ronelle never to eat anything at potluck dinners or bake sales. One person hating the town could wipe out the entire population with poison.

  Looking around, she saw everyone eating and had a horrible thought. If they all died, that would leave only her mother and her in town. While her mother stopped to talk to Willie Davis, Ronelle slipped a piece of corn bread into her pocket. It would be all in crumbs by the time she got home, but she planned to eat it. Just in case.

  Chapter 12

  SUNDAY

  FEBRUARY 21

  WINTER’S INN BED-AND-BREAKFAST

  TYLER HOPED TO LEAVE EARLY ENOUGH TO HAVE LUNCH with Kate in Amarillo before her flight, but when he got to the bed-and-breakfast to pick her up, Mrs. Biggs had a huge breakfast cooked. There was little in the way of food that Tyler could resist, and homemade cinnamon rolls with nuts on top would never make the list.

  Kate shrugged as if to say she couldn’t hurt their feelings and invited him to join her. Of course Martha Q sat down across from them, ending any chance of private conversation.

  The innkeeper wanted help with the wording for a flyer about her lonely hearts club. “I need a name that doesn’t sound sad,” she complained.

  “Don’t look at me,” Tyler said. “I only write obituaries.”

  Kate laughed and patted his knee under the table. “I’m no more help.”

  “Well, Want to hook up sounds too modern.” Martha Q tapped her head with her pencil. “Singles club sounds like a bar. Finding the right one sounds too vague.”

  Tyler nibbled on a cinnamon roll he’d pulled from the platter placed in the center of the table. He didn’t know if they were the centerpiece or the appetizers, but he couldn’t resist them when they were hot out of the oven with the buttery sugar mixture still dripping. While he tasted, he tried to keep his mind on the conversation. “Do you think many people find the right one?”

  Martha Q frowned at him. “Of course. I did several times.”

  “How about Ending loneliness?” He tried again. He had little faith that any club Martha Q started would last longer than bananas in the sun.

  Both women shook their heads. Kate sighed. “It needs to be something uplifting. Something like Embracing change in your life.”

  Martha Q thumped her forehead with the pencil a few more times. “We’d get as many women wanting to divorce as we’d get ones looking to marry. It’s been my observation that some of the loneliest people in the word are lingering in bad relationships.”

  “It would be like a swap meet. One woman’s bum might be someone else’s Prince Charming.” Tyler was proud of his idea until he saw both women glaring at him. After that, he decided he’d just eat his breakfast and let them figure it out.

  While the women talked, he did what he often did in the presence of people he didn’t particularly like; he began planning Martha Q’s funeral. Finally, when it was time to go, he stood and said, “You ladies will have to continue your dreaming and scheming another day.”

  “That’s it!” Martha Q yelled. “We’ll call the club Dreaming and Scheming.”

  Apparently, to Tyler’s surprise, women didn’t consider scheming a derogatory trait in looking for a man.

  When he and Kate were finally in the car heading toward Amarillo, she was in a talkative mood, wanting to know all about Martha Q’s colorful past. Tyler told her what he knew, but he wasn’t good at coloring. His father had taught him two things: Never judge and never gossip. It was hard to talk about Martha Q without doing one or the other.

  When the conversation slowed, Kate began to talk about her work. She described three burned bodies she’d had to maneuver around in the last arson fire she investig
ated and how horrible they smelled.

  Tyler didn’t need details. He’d picked up bodies burned to death before, but he let her talk. He told himself he should be glad she was confiding in him. She probably had no one to just talk to. He tried to listen to every word she said, but the hope of how he thought this weekend could have gone kept drifting though his mind like deadwood on a midnight lake, shadowing reality with what might have been.

  They were at the airport before he realized he hadn’t said anything he’d meant to say to her. He wanted to ask her to wait a while before rushing for the security check, but she seemed in a hurry and talked about all she had to do when she got back to the office. By the time he unloaded her bag, she was on the phone, already back in her world.

  “Good-bye,” she said, shuffling her carry-on bag to her shoulder.

  “I’ll see you next time.” He tried to smile.

  She kissed his cheek. “Of course. E-mail me.”

  She was gone before he could answer. He watched her moving through the maze, checking in, showing her ID, tugging off her shoes.

  He watched, wondering if his Kate was running toward or away from something.

  His feet felt heavy as he walked back to his car. By the time he drove out of the airport, snow had begun to fall. He knew he should stay on the main roads, but he veered off onto a farm-to-market two-lane. Nothing helped him think better than driving in the country. It would take him an hour longer to get home this way, but he didn’t care. No one was waiting for him. Not even his housekeeper.

  Tyler was a man who never allowed himself self-pity. He knew from the time he could reason that he was the only son of an aging funeral director. He would be expected to take over the responsibilities of a family business and, to his surprise, he loved them. When he wasn’t thinking about being alone or why Kate didn’t want to see him more than once every few months, he stayed busy. He helped people. He was there when they needed him.

  He’d ask Kate to stay with him the next time she came. Or, he wouldn’t. Passion was not something either one of them seemed to have in their lives, so why expect it now? They were both beyond the years of thinking about having children, so time could drift for a while. Maybe all they were meant to be was friends. Maybe they’d find a quiet kind of love in their later years.

  That was all he could hope for. A quiet kind of love.

  Tyler pulled off at a small gas station and got a few snacks. Even in winter, he liked ice cream. The kind with chocolate wrapped around it. Since he knew there would be no meal waiting for him later, he picked up a dozen homemade tamales and hot sauce. Remembering he hadn’t gotten anything green, he grabbed a large bag of M&Ms, figuring he’d eat the green ones first and have the others for dessert.

  Laughing at his own joke, he walked to the car and thought he’d have the greens right now with his Dr Pepper.

  By the time he passed Lone Oak Road it was getting dark, but Tyler had had a long talk with himself. He’d even decided he wouldn’t e-mail Kate tonight to check if she made it home. He’d never been all that special to anyone; why would he have thought he would be to Kate? He should be happy with what he did have. Good friends, a job he loved, and long drives to clear his head.

  Tyler smiled, thinking of the people who did think he was something. Saralynn, Hank’s niece. She might be only eight, but she thought he was her knight. Hank, his best friend, always called if he didn’t make breakfast at the diner every Tuesday. A good-looking rancher and a chubby undertaker might look like a strange pair to be friends, but it worked. Tyler thought it was because they both cared about people.

  Names, one after the other, came to him as he drove toward the cemetery. People who’d cried on his shoulder and told him they couldn’t have made it without him. The guys at the fire station, who depended on him to man the phones when there was an emergency. Tyler decided he might live alone above his office, but he had a whole town for family. Maybe he should just be thankful for what he had and stop wishing for more.

  He circled by to lock up the cemetery and noticed that the old Ford was still out by the back gate. Since he was in his Rover, he plowed down the dirt road to have a look.

  The banged-up car looked like it hadn’t been moved all day. Judging from the shape it was in, it might have been abandoned.

  Tyler’s four-wheel drive might have held the icy road steady, but his leather dress shoes almost slipped beneath him as he climbed out to take a closer look. A thin layer of snow had settled over a sheet of ice. Halfway to the car, he thought of turning back to the warmth of his Rover, but he felt like this was one thing in his life he could get settled tonight. Clicking on his flashlight, he moved forward.

  He checked the doors. Both locked, but he could see what looked like a woman’s purse on the passenger side. Abandoned cars didn’t usually come with purses.

  Shoving more snow off the window, he tried to see inside, looking for any information that would help him figure out who owned this piece of junk.

  Something moved in the backseat.

  Tyler jumped back, holding his flashlight as a weapon.

  After taking a few deep breaths, he looked again, telling himself an animal might have crawled inside the car looking for shelter from the freezing wind and been trapped.

  He thought he saw a tennis shoe. Then another. He rapped on the window. “Is anyone in there? This is private property; you can’t stay here.”

  Tyler remembered hearing his father tell about hobos camping out in the back of the cemetery, and now and then Tyler had caught kids sneaking in on a dare. Only this time, he had no idea what he faced.

  Pulling out his cell, he dialed 911.

  The dispatcher picked up on the first ring.

  “This is Tyler Wright,” Tyler said as he watched someone moving around in the cramped backseat. “I’m at the back gate of the cemetery. Could you send someone? I have a trespasser.”

  “We’re on our way, Mr. Wright. Do not confront. I repeat. Do not confront.”

  Tyler smiled, guessing the dispatcher was reading from a book. What did the man think he was going to do, tackle the guy in the car and hold him down until help arrived? Flipping the phone closed, he waited. When whoever was sleeping in the car climbed out, he didn’t plan to do anything but talk. If the stranger tried to drive off, he would simply get out of the way. After all, all Tyler wanted was the car gone.

  It took a few minutes, but finally the passenger door flew open and long thin legs appeared. Then hair. Half a bushel of curly sand-colored hair almost brushed the ground as the intruder leaned forward and planted tennis shoes in the snow.

  In the beam of the flashlight, he couldn’t be sure, but the moment she flipped her hair back, Tyler realized the squatter was a girl.

  “What do you want, you idiot?” She didn’t sound very friendly. “You woke me up.”

  “You’re parked in the cemetery.” Tyler said the obvious.

  “I haven’t heard any of the neighbors complain.”

  Her clothes were wrinkled, her fist clenched, but he didn’t miss the sparkle of fear in her eyes as his flashlight turned on her face. “I’ve already called the police.” He tried to sound calm, but nerves made him yell.

  “Don’t threaten me,” she shouted as she moved forward.

  “And get that damn light out of my face.”

  Her hand swung at the flashlight.

  Tyler stepped backward, avoiding her advance. Her arm hit the flashlight. Tyler jumped, almost dropping it. His feet went flying out from under him. He hit the cold ground with a hard thud. His head seemed to bounce against something and hit a second time before the flashlight vaulted from his hand and slammed against his forehead.

  The world had turned to one giant snow globe in his mind, but he thought he heard a squeal a moment before the woman landed on top of him.

  In all of Tyler’s life he’d never been a fighter. In fact, he thought, generations of possum blood must run in his family, because their first and only line
of defense seemed to be to roll over and play dead.

  The woman tried to shove herself off him as the sound of a siren filled the air. Tyler closed his eyes, letting pain rattle through his entire body while the night grew even darker.

  In what seemed like only a blink’s worth of time passing, Tyler found himself in an ambulance with an EMT who had Charles written across his chest pocket telling him he was going to live.

  Tyler pushed the man away. “Of course I’m going to live.”

  Charles looked as if Tyler had just moved from the victim line to the nutcase line. “You must not remember, Mr. Wright. You were violently attacked at the back gate of the cemetery. Deputy Phil Gentry has the woman in the back of his squad car. He’ll have her locked up by the time we get you to the hospital. She was one yelling screaming ball of mad when we pulled her off you.”

  Tyler felt his throbbing headache getting worse. “She didn’t attack me,” he said as he pieced everything together. “I frightened her. She yelled at me and I slipped on the ice. I must have hit her when I went down because a moment after I fell, she landed on top of me.”

  The EMT leaned closer. “You sure about that, sir? It sure looked like she was pounding on you when we pulled up.”

  “I’m sure, Charles. Get a hold of Phil and have him bring her to the hospital. She’s as likely to have injuries as I am.”

  The EMT hesitated. “It was so dark. We thought . . .”

  Tyler nodded, then regretted it. No matter how bad he felt, he couldn’t let some poor woman spend the night in jail because of what was as much his fault as hers. He shouldn’t have yelled at her like he did. Shining the light in her face must have scared her to death. And telling her the police were on their way probably didn’t do much good either.

  If his head weren’t pounding, he’d say he was sorry. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the EMT trying to explain everything to the deputy. Apparently, they hadn’t saved his life, they’d just picked up two people who’d fallen on the ice.