Accusations

    I despise being accused of something I didn’t do.
    I really, really, really, really, really despise being accused of something I wouldn’t do.
    Like chase after another woman’s man.
    Then that woman be oh so sweet and friendly – pretend, of course – when she sees me out somewhere.

    Today was the final straw. Jake Lansing and I were talking about deer we’d seen along roads in our area while in the checkout line at the quick stop. He was showing me pictures he had taken of a few deer, and I was admiring one eight-point buck, when Amelia Benson got in line behind us.
    And started her oh-how-good-to-see-you routine.
    I said what I hoped was a polite-sounding “Alright” to her phony “How are you?” inquiry, then handed Jake his phone and complimented him on the good pictures. As I set my drink and chips on the counter, I heard Amelia ask Jake how his wife, Lucinda, was doing – loud enough that I, and anyone nearby, could easily hear.
    Jake replied that Lucinda was doing fine and enjoying the summer. As I turned from the counter after paying the clerk, and started for the door, Jake said to me, “I’ll talk to you later, Natalie.”
    I said, “Okay. See you later,” which is pretty well my standard end of conversation statement to whomever I might be talking to, and walked out of the store to my truck.

    I was about halfway home when my cell phone rang. I glanced at it: Jake. Wondering what he wanted, I pulled into the rock quarry’s wide entranceway and answered.
    He barely gave me time to say “Hello” before wanting to know what I’d done to Amelia.
    “Nothing,” I told him. “Why?”
    “She said that if I knew what was good for me that I’d never speak to you again, and that she was of a mind to have a talk with Lu.”
    Damn jealous women. And vain ones. And self-centered ones. And gossipy ones. And know-it-all ones. And . . . hell . . . damn ’em all.
    “She got it in her head after Ben died that I was after Earl, just because we talked some. I sure hope Lucinda has more sense than Amelia or you’re gonna catch hell when you get home.”
    “You think she’ll call Lu?” Jake asked, sounding surprised.
    “Yep. Probably on the phone to her right now. You didn’t help yourself any by saying you’d talk to me later.”
    “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not kidding, Jake. I don’t know what Amelia’s told other women in the neighborhood, but three or four won’t speak to me now, and one will even turn and go the other way if we meet in an aisle at Walmart.”
    I didn’t get a reply so had no idea if Jake was thinking or had driven through a dead zone. “Jake?” I queried.
    “I’m here,” he said. “I can’t believe anyone would think that about you. I knew there wasn’t anyone for you or Ben but each other. Even now. What’s wrong with Amelia?”
    “Other than being jealous, I don’t know. But she’s not the only one who thinks I’m after a man, and all I have to do is speak to one and smile.” I told him about the clerk in the store telling me that the police chief was taken and I couldn’t have him, and all we’d done was talk about the weather while waiting in line.
    “Now you’re making things up.”
    “No, I’m not. Even had one of my friends accuse me of flirting with my pastor because we both laughed about having to have our trucks worked on.”
    “Aw, c’mon, Nat. No way.”
    “Yes, way. I’ve been done this way for years.”
    “I find that hard to believe.”
    “Believe it, Jake. And if you get an earful like I’m expecting you will when you get home, tell Lucinda to talk to me instead of yelling at you.”
    “You’re serious.”
    “I am. We’d better hang up before Lucinda starts calling you and wonders why your phone is busy.”
    “Alright. But I still don’t believe you.”
    “Maybe I’m wrong about Amelia calling Lucinda, but don’t be surprised. I’ll talk to you later.”
    “Alright. Have a good evening, Nat.”
    “You, too, Jake.”
    I hoped Lucinda wasn’t the jealous type.

    After we ended the call, I pulled back onto the road and finished my drive home.
    A while later, my comments to Jake were proven to be correct. Lucinda called me.

    Apparently Jake had been able to mostly convince her that I wasn’t interested in him as a replacement for Ben, but I could hear an edge to Lucinda’s voice when she asked, “How often do you talk to Jake?”
    I told her that our “talks” were at random times as we only saw each other if we happened to be in a store at the same time. And, yes, sometimes we did talk for several minutes, about a little of everything. And, no, while I like Jake and think he’s a really nice guy, that my heart belongs to Ben and always will.
    From the tone of her voice, Lucinda was somewhat mollified by the time we finished our conversation. More accurately, her interrogation of me. I gave short, sometimes one-word answers, to her increasingly intrusive questions. When she broached the subject of sex, I decided enough was enough. 
    “Lucinda, I have no idea what Amelia said about me, but am sure none of it was complimentary. If you believe what she told you, especially without knowing anything about me, I can’t do anything about it. All I can tell you is that my love for Ben fills my heart and there’s no room there for any other man. I’m sorry Amelia upset you, but there’s nothing I can do about that either.” I paused. Should I or shouldn’t I? I decided to.
    “She said you’d . . . ,” Lucinda started.
    I cut her off. “I’m not done. If it upsets you that I occasionally talk to Jake, I’ll stop. But I want you to know he feels like a brother to me, because of his friendship with Ben. That’s also the way I feel about Earl.
    “I can’t help what you and Amelia think about me, but I’ll be damned if I apologize for something I didn’t do.
    “I’m done. I’m off here, and consider this topic closed.”
    I hung up, then turned off my phone. I tapped it on the chair arm and hoped Lucinda didn’t give Jake any more grief than she already had.
    Damn! It was bad enough Amelia made me out to be a Jezebel to women in the neighborhood, but to start spreading tales about me to someone she barely knew was a whole other ballgame. I’d figure out some way to get my due, might take some time, but the occasion would arise when I least expected it.
    A couple of months later it did.

    I was at the end of a slow-moving checkout line in Walmart when Amelia spotted me and came over to do her “friendly” routine. And she had an audience, of course. She never spoke to me unless someone was nearby. Guess she thought that being seen speaking to me would make people think she was a forgiving wife and above such petty annoyances as me.
    Well, this time I was deliberately going to do something. When she finished her effusive greeting, I said, loud enough that I figured most of the people in earshot could hear it, “Have you ever told Earl which one of your boys isn’t his?”
    Her gasp said it all. The couple of snickers I heard behind me added to the ambience.
    The checkout line moved forward, and I pushed my cart closer to the conveyor belt. Yeah, I was being a vindictive bitch, but enough was enough.

Murder From the Grave

Rosemarie and I were sitting in the outdoor dining area of a local steak house. We had been to her oncologist appointment. She had received the news she and I both expected: The treatments weren’t slowing the spread of the cancer she had been fighting for three years. We had cried in the doctor’s office, but by the time we were in my truck and on the road, Rosemarie’s tears had stopped and she was furious.
    “Dammit it all to hell, Josie! Why do some doctors want to make anything sound possible? You and I both knew after that last bone scan that nothing could be done. What did I get? Maybe one more year? Another year of useless treatments and Richard hiding his head in the sand?”
    I agreed with her. Her husband had been in denial since her diagnosis. Rosemarie asked me to take her to doctor appointments so she wouldn’t have to listen to Richard’s ‘Honey, it’ll be okay ’ when she tried to talk to him about her impending death.
    “So,” Rosemarie stated, “I’m going to do as much living as I’m able to. First on the list is prime rib, a loaded baked potato and a pitcher of margaritas. Hell, I’ve behaved myself for years. Time to cut loose a little.”

    We had an enjoyable meal, talked about everyone we knew (the good and especially the bad), and laughed at silly things we’d done together. As the waiter removed dessert plates from the table, Rosemarie’s mood turned serious.
    “Josie, Richard and I are both forty-seven. Too young for this to happen to us. I know he’ll probably remarry, probably too soon, as men tend to do. I sure as hell hope he marries anyone but that damned next door neighbor of ours.”
    I knew exactly who she was talking about. Prim and proper Louisa Ann Raines, who, if there was even a smidgen of truth to any of the local gossip, enjoyed nothing more than some side action, even though she had had a handsome, loving husband at home. Since his death, Rosemarie had complained frequently about Louisa Ann calling Richard for help on some ‘project’ (Rosemarie’s term) around her house.
    I commiserated with Rosemarie about that possible situation. When Rosemarie suggested that Richard and I get together, something she knew was not going to happen, I laughed and told her, “You’ll just have to kill Louisa Ann.”
    Rosemarie set down her coffee cup and stared at me. “Did I hear you correctly? Kill Louisa Ann? I may be dying but I don’t think that would exempt me from punishment.”
    “Set it up to look like a health issue.”
    “Health issue? Josie, what on earth are you talking about?”
    “Have you ever heard of Alpha-Gal?”
    “No. What are you talking about?”
    “Mammal meat allergy. I’m oversimplifying, but basically, when the body breaks down the proteins in mammal meat, it causes an allergic reaction that has killed people. You have heard of anaphylactic shock?”
    “Yes. But what’s that got to do with Louisa Ann?”
    “She’s one of the people with the most severe form of Alpha-Gal. Can’t even be in a house if someone is cooking beef or any other mammal meat. Can’t eat out, especially deep-fried foods, except at one or two seafood restaurants because the vegetable oils used often have beef by-products in them. Can’t even have dairy products.”
    “You are kidding me.”
    “Nope. Check it out.  But not on your computer.”

* * * * * * * * *

    For two weeks Rosemarie researched Alpha-Gal. She told Richard her computer wasn’t acting right and went to the library at times she knew she could find the computer José Mendenez had used and not logged off of. Sometimes doing volunteer work came in handy.
    She learned enough to formulate a plan. Now to figure out how to put the plan into action. Her strength was fading and she knew she was running out of time.

    Friday afternoon gave her the answer. Louisa Ann showed up at the back door with a casserole dish in hand.
    “Louisa Ann, what a nice surprise. You didn’t have to bring us supper,” Rosemarie stated with what she hoped was a welcoming smile.
    Evidently she could do some acting for Louisa Ann smiled back. “I know it’s probably hard on you to keep up with the household chores so I made this chicken casserole. It’s rather spicy the way I like it so I cut down on the hot peppers since I didn’t now if you and Richard like spicy food.”
    “The hotter and spicier the better for Richard, but this will be fine for me,” Rosemarie told Louisa Ann. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy it for supper.”
    “I usually serve a simple salad with it,” Louisa Ann said, “but carrot and celery sticks would work. Something simple and easy.”
    “Thank you so much,” Rosemarie said, then watched Louisa Ann walk across their backyards to her back door.

    More computer research for a very hot and spicy chicken casserole. Rosemarie found two recipes. After reading them she decided the one called Double the Heat Spicy Chicken was the one Louisa Ann had made.
    The leftovers from Louisa Ann’s casserole were in the freezer, labeled with the date and other pertinent information, something Rosemarie had done for years. Her replacement leftover casserole would be somewhat more ‘spicy’ than Louisa Ann’s, with some additions.
    A trip to the grocery store with a list of ingredients, plus one, and Rosemarie was ready to prepare casserole.

    Richard enjoyed the spicier version and told Rosemarie he hoped the leftovers would be as good; she assured him they would be. After supper, she dumped Louisa Ann’s leftovers into the garbage disposal and replaced them with that night’s leftovers.
    Rosemarie smiled as she placed the container back into the freezer. Just let him bring that hussy into my house, she thought.e

* * * * * * * * * *

    Three months later, I am at the funeral home where Richard is mourning the loss of his second wife. As I near the casket, I wonder exactly what Rosemarie did to achieve this, for she hadn’t mentioned Alpha-Gal, nor Louisa Ann, to me after that afternoon conversation.
    Richard was in tears, as he had been at Rosemarie’s viewing. I will give him credit for loving the women in his life, and being tenderhearted. I will deduct from that the scant two weeks it took for him to remarry, and for that woman to be Louisa Ann.
    “Josie,” he said, when I was next in line. “How did this happen? How did this happen to me?” He gripped my hands tightly. “I didn’t know Louisa Ann had an allergy of any kind. The ME said it was something to do with meat.”
    Richard may be kindhearted but he has never wanted to hear about any health problems of any kind, even something as minor as a hangnail, so his being ignorant of Louisa Ann’s allergy could somewhat be excused.
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “We had leftover casserole that she had brought us a couple of weeks before Rosemarie died. It was in the freezer, labeled when it was put there. You know how Rosemarie was about that.”
    I nodded.
    “We reheated it. Louisa Ann said it was spicier than she remembered but we decided that was because we hadn’t eaten any spicy foods for a few days. Everything seemed fine until a little after midnight when she woke up and couldn‘t breathe. She kept waving toward the bathroom but I had no idea what she wanted and called 9-1-1. By the time they got there it was too late.”
    I squeezed his hands. And tried to remember if I’d seen any of the local EMT’s in the crowd for I felt Richard was going to need some medical attention himself.
    “Richard, take a deep breath,” I told him. He did and it seemed to help.
    “Josie, I didn’t know eating beef could kill you!” He broke down sobbing, and an EMT among the mourners came over and escorted Richard away from the casket.
    I walked to the seating area and took a chair near the back, wondering who I could ask about the cause of death.

    A couple of minutes later, Sally Sue Johnson sat down beside me. And filled me in . . .
    “Did you hear? The casserole they had for supper is what killed Louisa Ann. It was full of beef broth. No one seems to know how that happened.”
    I managed not to smile. “That’s terrible. Poor Richard. Two wives gone in less than six months. Poor man.” I could say the expected words.

    But I knew what Rosemarie had done.

Outlaw Love: 6

    I would’ve kicked gravel at the flat tire on my Jeep, but I was wearing my best boots, freshly polished. I was on my way to meet my friend Jeannie and her husband Ted at Rio Lobo Steakhouse. They were going to introduce me to this “guy who is just perfect for you.”
    I hate blind dates.
    By now, Jeannie should’ve realized that setting me up with some “guy who is just perfect for you” isn’t working and would stop insisting that I agree to the dates. At least she and Ted agreed to make it double dates in decent restaurants, although that hasn’t made it any easier for me to like the “guy who is just perfect for you” that they introduce me to.
    Apparently they think I need an “educated” man . . . The stuffy stockbroker. The snooty attorney. The unkempt professor. The distracted surgeon. The arrogant engineer.
    I hate blind dates.

    So, I’m standing by my Jeep, at the side of the road, debating whether or not to call Jeannie and inform her of my mishap and that I’ll be late, or just not show up at all and let the “guy who is just perfect for you” think I’m a flake.
    Hmmm  . . .
    I decide not to call. Maybe that’ll make Jeannie think before she sets up another blind date for me.
    To help on that matter, I turn off the ringer on my phone and stick it in the seat cover side pocket before assessing my situation. Yep! The rear tire on the driver’s side is definitely flat. I have no idea what I ran over a mile or two back, but it must’ve made a pretty good size hole as the tire went flat rather quickly. It doesn’t help matters that I have no idea if the spare has enough air in it to even make it worth looking at, much less taking it off the rack and getting out the jack and tire iron.

    As I’m beginning to think I’ll kick gravel, freshly polished best boots or not, I hear a vehicle approaching. I turn and see an old Ford pickup pulling to the side of the road behind me. Its red paint is faded, but it’s clean, and the motor is rumbling smoothly. I notice the new-looking tires, the Rebel flag on the front bumper, and the fully loaded gun rack in the rear window before the driver cuts the engine and opens the door.
    And I wonder what kind of person is stopping to help a damsel in distress.
    As the driver steps out of the truck, I definitely notice him. Around five-ten. Slim with muscles the T-shirt doesn’t disguise. Levi’s jeans. Western boots. Black hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. And facial features to draw a woman’s eyes.
    He walks to stand by me and looks down at the flat. When he looks at me, I wonder if those nearly black eyes soften when he has his arms around a woman.
    “Need help?” he asks.
    “I’d appreciate it,” I reply, then tell him my doubts about the spare.
    “No problem,” he says, then walks back to his truck and returns with a tool box. He sets the tool box on the ground and squats beside it, giving me a good view of his well-muscled back. “There’s a tire gauge in here somewhere. May take me a minute to find it.”
    “That’s okay,” I tell him, and don’t really care how long it takes as I’m enjoying watching the play of his back muscles as he digs through the tool box.
    “Got it,” he announces and stands up.
    He checks the air in the spare and says it should be okay to get me to town as it’s only about five miles, and I can take my time getting there.
    “That’s good. I need to remember to check the spare once in a while.”
    He chuckles. “Don’t think many people think about it until they need it.” 
    He removes the spare from its rack, opens the tailgate, and lifts the load floor; thankfully, the jack and tire iron are in their appropriate places. I’m glad he knows where to look for such things; I would’ve had to get out the owner’s manual.
He sets the spare on the ground, then squats and loosens the lug nuts on the flat. I have another nice view of supple back muscles at work, and wonder if they look that good without the shirt.

    While he is making quick work of tire-changing, he makes a comment or two about the weather and I agree with him. As he’s tightening the last lug nut, he says, “I hope the flat hasn’t made you late for anything important.”
    I grin. If he only knew what I was glad I was missing . . . 
    “Nothing important,” I tell him. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you in any way.”
    As he replaces the jack and the tire iron, then the flat in place of the spare, he answers. “Naw. My friends will understand.”

    After he makes sure the flat tire, sagging on its rim, is securely fastened in place, he pulls a red bandanna from his tool box and uses it to wipe dirt and grease from his hands. He replaces the bandanna and tire gauge in the tool box, and closes and latches it before picking it up. As he turns to walk to his truck, I ask, “What do I owe you?”
    He looks back at me and grins. Oh, my — I may owe him for that also. 
    “Not a thing. My good deed for the day,” he replies, and goes to his truck.
    I return to the driver’s seat of my Jeep, start the motor and retrieve my cell phone from the seat cover pocket. I pretend to be checking for calls as this kind stranger in a red pickup truck slowly rolls past.
    I watch the truck until it’s out of sight around a sharp curve, and wish Jeannie and Ted could find some “guy who is just perfect for you” like the one who just drove away.
    I sigh in frustration, put the Jeep in gear, and decide to go directly to the steakhouse. I’m hungry, and Rio Lobo’s filet mignon would be a good finish to the day. The flat tire can be dealt with tomorrow.

    I park at the far side of Rio Lobo’s parking lot, facing out, and walk to the restaurant. When I am inside, the hostess greets me and I tell her who I am looking for. She informs me that the third person in that party arrived just a couple of minutes ago. I hope this “guy who is just perfect for you” isn’t habitually late, as I usually run ahead of schedule.
    I hate blind dates.

    As the hostess leads me through the steakhouse, I see a few people I know. We nod hello or say a quick “Hi” in greeting as I pass their tables. Jeannie and Ted are at a table near the windows, which overlook a pond in the city park next door. The “guy who is just perfect for you” is seated with his back to the hostess and me, but I notice his black hair.
    Jeannie sees me headed their way and waves. When the hostess and I are at the table, I thank her and am amused when the “guy who is just perfect for you” rises from his seat and pulls out a chair for me. None of the 'educated' blind dates have done that.
    He turns around and I stifle a gasp. The “guy who is just perfect for you” is the good Samaritan who changed my tire.
    Jeannie notices my surprise and asks, “Do you know each other?”
    The “guy who is just perfect for you” and I laugh. “Not exactly,” I tell Jeannie. “My Jeep had a flat tire and he changed it.”
    “And I don’t even know her name,” he says.
    Jeannie hurriedly introduces us. “Meg, this kind gentleman is Tanner Jones. Tanner, officially meet Meg Rawlings.”
    Tanner and I shake hands and I enjoy the warmth of his hand and the ease with which our hands fit together. I also notice those nearly black eyes soften as he looks into mine.

    I do believe this is my last blind date.

Outlaw Love: 5

Lenora McDougal stopped her Bronco II at the top of a rise and looked at the gently sloping road in front of her. It led down to a blind curve to the left and was lined on each side with a dense woodland. The overcast sky and occasional distant rumble of thunder made her wonder why she had decided to take a job as a census worker. Oh, yeah. Retirement was boring.
    She had heeded Maggie Jones’ suggestion to print a map of the area she was working in instead of relying solely on her GPS and was glad of it. The GPS had not given her a correct turn all morning, and when she typed in Black Jack Swamp Road, no results were found. Nor did any results appear when she added the county road number. Now she was wondering why swamp was part of the road name as this neck of the woods didn’t have swamps, just slues and streams of all sizes.
    She shook her head, took her foot off the brake and rolled on down the slope. Around the left hand curve there was more woodland and the road narrowed, as county roads often did when running into lightly populated or poorer areas of a county. Although she had seen a few dented mailboxes at the ends of overgrown lanes leading into the woods, no mailboxes were visible on the straight stretch in front of her.
    She was glad she had also taken Maggie’s suggestion that she work the remote areas in the mornings so she would be near town before dark. Lenora wasn’t certain she would want to be in this area at high noon, much less as night moved in. 
    As she eased around the next curve in the road, she spotted a road sign, dented and rusted. When she was close enough to read it, “Black Jack Swamp” was legible. She turned onto the road, stopped and consulted her map. Mileage from the end of the road to Clayton Hudson’s residence wasn’t on the map. There was no box number on the address, just the road name, so Lenora wasn’t sure how much further she would have to travel through this heavily wooded area. She hadn’t thought there were still places like this in the county. At least none that anyone lived in.
    She drove slowly down the road, wondering why a narrow gravel road had a name. Probably someone’s buddy from years ago, she thought, and this is a private driveway that the county maintains. Sort of.
    After a half mile on the curving road, she could see an opening in the woodland. At least there was a spot with some sunlight visible. She slowed down, wondering what she was going to find. 

    A fortress, it seemed. Well, if you could call a large, rough-hewn log cabin situated on what looked like an acre surrounded by chain-link fence and the entrance blocked by a gate with security cameras and a touch pad a fortress. 
    Now what? she wondered. Do I just press a button and see what happens?
    As there wasn’t much other choice besides backing out of this wooded area to the ‘main’ road, she stopped the Bronco a few feet from the gate, put it in Park, and stepped out onto the gravel. She walked to the gate, looked closely at the keypad and saw a button labeled “Visitors.” Hoping pressing that button didn’t immediately bring down the wrath of Clayton Hudson – or whoever did live here – she counted to ten, took a deep breath and gently pressed the button.
    No response. In a way she was relieved, but if she didn’t make contact today, she would need to make further attempts. A second press of the button gave her a recorded message telling her that the resident wasn’t available at the time and to leave a message. 
    Leave a message? How? She saw no obvious function on the keypad for that. Assuming that the security system recorded whatever it observed, and as she was getting somewhat annoyed, she called up her college theatre days. She cocked one hip, placed a fist on it, and as haughtily as she could manage, gave her name, cell number and reason for being in this godforsaken place. Yes, she did say “godforsaken.” 

    Back on the ‘main’ road, she went to the next residence on her list for the day. After eleven interviews – all but two quick ones, and no lunch, Lenora was glad she was less than three miles from town at five in the afternoon. Even McDonald’s seemed like a gourmet meal right now. She upgraded her food choice to Kentucky Fried Chicken, and, once home, sat at her kitchen table and enjoyed the two-piece meal she had ordered.
    Cats fed, towels in from the line – the thunder had traveled away and left a nice day for drying them, and changed into cut-offs and a tank top, Lenora went outside with a Pepsi and sat under the maple trees in front of the garage. Songbirds were merrily darting from tree to tree. A few butterflies were flitting around the wildflowers in the pasture. An occasional tree frog was calling, and an owl hooted once in the hollar behind the house.
    A nice night for lightning bugs, Lenora thought, and they should be appearing soon. If the mosquitoes don’t come out in full attack mode, I’ll sit out here a while.
    Lenora watched lightning bugs rise from the grass and drift around the yard, some barely above the grass, others near treetops, each of them an occasional flash of light against the darkening sky. When she tired of swatting mosquitoes, she went inside and did a little light housework, then sat down and read on a murder mystery novel until bedtime.
    As she dressed the next morning, Lenora wondered if she was to finish yesterday’s list or start on a new one. She contacted Maggie and was told she could start on a new list, and if there was anyone on today’s list she didn’t interview today, to add them and Clayton Hudson to her list for tomorrow. Lenora mulled over that option. Her plan for interviews was moving her away from Clayton Hudson’s residence; maybe she should try him first thing in the morning and hope he was home.
    The day’s interviews went well except for a couple who were both rather hard of hearing and she had to repeat every question a few times before they understood what she was asking. They were nice people, so she didn’t mind.
    Once home, Lenora scrambled eggs and had them, an apple and a banana for supper. She washed a load of sheets and hung them on the clothesline a little bit before dark. Lightning bugs were rising from the grass while she was hanging up the sheets, and she stopped and watched them for a few moments. While walking back to the house, carrying the clothes basket and clothespin bucket, she enjoyed looking at the trees around the yard, silhouetted against the evening sky.
    She finished reading the murder mystery and was in bed by nine-thirty. After she turned off the bedside light, she settled under the covers and wondered if she would catch Clayton Hudson at home tomorrow.
    The next morning, she was up, dressed, breakfasted and on her way to Clayton Hudson’s residence by eight a.m. After a forty-five minute drive, listening to the “not available at this time” recording again, and once again leaving a message about her reason for being there, Lenora drove to the first residence on her list for the day.
    That afternoon, as she headed toward town after completing the stops she had planned for the day, Lenora wondered once again why she had taken this job, even if she was bored. Of the twelve people on today’s list, only nine had been home, so she would attempt to contact the other three tomorrow. She hoped they would all be home and, as tomorrow was Friday, maybe she could complete today’s list, and tomorrow’s list, easily and quickly. There was a new movie in town she’d like to see.

    Friday was an easy day. Everyone was home, agreeable and quick with their answers. Lenora was finished by three p.m. and decided to stop at Walmart for a few things on her way home. Clayton Hudson would be her first stop Monday morning; hopefully  he would be home and she could mark his name off her To-Do list.
    While waiting in the check-out line, Lenora was startled when a deep voice behind her stated, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
    She wheeled around and looked at the man behind her. “Excuse me?”
    “I’m Clayton Hudson. You’ve been to my place twice.”
    She didn’t answer immediately. Just by looking at Clayton Hudson she didn’t know if she wanted to go his place to interview him. While he was definitely handsome, well-built and muscled, he wasn’t what she had expected. Unfashionably torn jeans. T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Scuffed and grimy work boots. Unkempt hair and beard. Working man, Lenora guessed, but she wondered how he had gotten into Walmart with the automatic pistol and hunting knife in their holster and scabbard on his belt. No, she did not want to interview this man at his place.
    “Yes, I have. I need to fill out census forms on you.” She paused. She had nearly asked him when would be a good time for her to return to his place. “Would it be possible for you to sit down with me at McDonald’s and answer the questions?”
    He slowly looked her up and down.
    I feel like he’s looking over a cow he’s considering buying, Lenora thought. I’m not sure I even want to meet him at McDonald’s.
    “How long would this take?” he asked.
    “If I have the short form for you, about ten to fifteen minutes. If it’s the long form, maybe forty-five minutes.”
    He studied her again before answering. “Alright. Let’s get checked out and I’ll meet you there.”
    Lenora nodded, hastily set the items in her shopping cart on the counter and waited impatiently as the cashier rung them up. A couple of minutes later, she had paid for her selections and walked out of Walmart, not looking back to see if Clayton Hudson was finished with his transaction.
    After she stashed her purchases in the Bronco and drove to McDonald’s parking lot, Lenora turned off the vehicle’s engine and retrieved the folder marked “Clayton Hudson” from the passenger seat. She opened the folder and was relieved when she saw it contained the short form.
    Good, she thought. I won’t have to talk to him long nor endure his scrutiny. She was, however, glad she had chosen new jeans and a dark blue V-neck T-shirt for today’s interviews.
    She got out of the Bronco, went into McDonald’s, and ordered a Coke just as Clayton Hudson walked in. As she handed the boy at the counter a five-dollar bill, Clayton Hudson spoke. “It’s on me, Jason.” The boy said, “Okay, Clay,” and ignored Lenora’s five.
    “That’s not necessary,” she said. “I’m not allowed to accept gifts.”
    “Don’t tell me you’ve insulted some sweet little old lady by refusing the glass of lemonade she offered you.”
    Lenora clenched her teeth. She had accepted lemonade, tea and soft drinks when offered. Being polite helped her get answers.
    When she didn’t reply, Clayton Hudson said, “Consider this the same, for if you were at my place, I’d be offering you lemonade.” He paused and grinned. “Maybe something stronger.”
    “I don’t drink,” she snapped, and clenched her teeth again when he chuckled.
    “Of course you don’t,” he said as the clerk set their Cokes on the counter.
    Lenora picked up a Coke, turned her back to Clayton Hudson and stalked to a table near the front windows. She set the drink on the table, sat down, laid the file folder on the table and opened it as Clayton Hudson sat down.
    “You in a hurry or something?” he asked. “I thought there might be some introductory material you were supposed to go through first. Here, I’ll get us started.” He extended his right hand across the table. “Hello. I’m Clayton Hudson.”
    Embarrassed that she hadn’t properly introduced herself, Lenora extended her right hand. When Clayton Hudson clasped her hand, she was surprised. The heat from his hand, combined with an intense tingle, made her glad she was sitting down. She took a deep breath to steady herself before speaking.
    “I’m Lenora McDougal,” she managed do say without stammering. “I work for the U.S. Census Bureau and I have some questions I need you to answer.”
    Clayton Hudson kept his hold on her hand. “So formal,” he said. “Even after visiting my ‘godforsaken’ place.” He grinned. “Your attributes came across well on video.”
    Lenora jerked her hand away from Clayton Hudson’s. “My attributes are not pertinent to this interview.”
    Clayton Hudson laughed as he withdrew his hand. “Formal and snippy. And call me ‘Clay’.”
    “I apologize for being snippy, Mr. Hudson,” Lenora said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do my job. Please answer the questions on this form.
    “The first question is . . .”
    Clayton Hudson picked up the census form and quickly scanned it.
    “You can’t do that,” Lenora snapped. “I’m supposed to fill out the form myself.”
    “Too late,” he muttered as he pulled a ball-point pen from a pocket. He quickly filled in answers on the form, placed it in the folder, closed the folder then laid his hands on it.
    “Now that this ‘interview’ is completed, you can call me ‘Clay’ and we can talk of other things.”
    Lenora reached for the file folder but Clayton Hudson slid it to the far end of the table. And had the nerve to grin.
    “Please hand me the folder so I can make sure you answered all the questions,” Lenora said.
    “I did,” was his reply.
    “You are interfering with a government employee’s duties.” She was tired of his attitude. She didn’t know if she was allowed to call law enforcement to force him to return the file folder. That idea was rendered moot when a deputy sheriff stopped at their table.
    “How’s it going, Clay?” he asked.
    “Good, Will. Haven’t seen you for a while.”
    “Been working the other side of the county. Meth lab there we can’t locate.” Will glanced at Lenora. “Mind if I join you?”
    “Have a seat,” Clayton Hudson said. “This is Lenora McDougal, census worker. I doubt she’ll mind.”
    Will grinned at Clayton Hudson. “Um-hmm. Think I’ve heard that line from you before.”
    “I should be going,” Lenora said as she rose from her chair. “Mr. Hudson, if you’ll hand me that folder, I’ll be on my way. Thank you for your cooperation.”
    The deputy snickered as he sat down. “See you’ve not lost your touch, Clay.”
    “It’s a specialty of mine,” Clayton Hudson said before picking up the folder and slowly handing it to Lenora. “This one is quicker on the draw than most.”
    “Or you’re exaggerating,” the deputy replied before taking a bite of his burger.
    Lenora managed not to snatch the folder out of Clayton Hudson’s hand. She gave him a curt “Thank you” before making sure the form was completely filled out, snapping the folder shut, then walking away from the table.
    “Sheesh, Clay, what did you do to that one?” she heard the deputy ask.
    Lenora didn’t hear Clayton Hudson’s reply, but she heard the deputy laugh as the exit door closed behind her.
    Back in the Bronco, Clayton Hudson’s file folder placed in the ‘completed’ bin, and his name marked off the Monday list, Lenora was still fuming. She had met annoying people off and on, but she hadn’t had anyone get under her skin like Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ did. Nor make her hand tingle like his did.
    Lenora recalled that sensation and shook her head. She wasn’t interested in Clayton Hudson.  The census form was filled out, his name was off her Monday to-do list, and she had no reason to see him again.
    Yes, Clayton Hudson’s hand was warm, but it was summer. Yes, her hand tingled when he wrapped his around it, but she was irritated when she sat down and that can cause odd sensations.
    But those weren’t reasons for her to be wondering what he was doing tonight. He had marked ‘Single’ on the form, but that didn’t mean he was unattached. He had not listed anyone else living at his house besides himself. He had . . .
    Lenora was fuming at herself as she drove out of McDonald’s parking lot. He’s arrogant. He’s condescending. He’s . . . Dammit, she thought. He’s irritating and I’ve had more than enough irritation in my life.
She thought of the daily drama she had tried her best to ignore as office manager in a dental clinic. How many times had she wanted to tell the gossipy and griping hygienists and others to not say a word unless it directly pertained to their job – more times than she could count, for certain. Now, Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ had her more irritated than those drama queens ever did. How had he managed that? she wondered. Today is the only time I’ve seen him and I probably won’t ever see him again.

    Lenora was finished with the census work by mid-October and was contemplating what sort of decorations she wanted to use this Christmas. A few Christmas items were appearing in stores even though Halloween was the upcoming holiday.
    She had stopped at a hardware store for a new doorknob for the garage and was wondering which one would be the easiest to install, when someone said, “So, we meet again.”
    It can’t be, she thought, as she turned to see Clayton Hudson behind her, some tools in his hand.
    Lenora looked up at him, said, “Hello,” then turned her attention back to the doorknob display.
    He chuckled. “Still snippy, I see.” A few seconds later he asked, “Do you need any help?”
    “No, I’m fine,” Lenora replied, even through she would have appreciated some advice on replacing doorknobs.
    “So it takes you more than five minutes to pick out a doorknob when there’s only . . .” He paused. “. . . seven choices. Hope you find one you want before the store closes.”
    Lenora felt her cheeks getting warm as she listened to Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ walk away. The nerve of that man, she thought. How did he know how long I’ve been here unless he was watching me? How dare he!
    She snatched the nearest doorknob off the display rack and went to pay for it. When the clerk told her the price, Lenora nearly said she’d look for a cheaper one, but didn’t want to run the risk of having to speak to Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ again. When she was securely ensconced in her Bronco and driving away from the hardware store, she wondered why she got so tense and snippy around him. It wasn’t as if she had to talk to him regularly, and even through she knew where he lived, she had no reason to ever be in that part of the county, so why did this meeting today irritate her so much.
    As she pulled into her driveway, her cell phone dinged, announcing an incoming text. Figuring it was her friend Sally Sue, Lenora parked and shut off the Bronco before checking her phone. 
    “It’s Clay. Hope you got the doorknob you need.”
    How did he get my number? Lenora wondered, before remembering she had left it on his security system in July. Twice. And should I reply?
    She decided to ignore the text, and took the new doorknob and a few other purchases into the house. The late lunch she’d had at the steak house would suffice as supper also, so she sliced an apple and a pear to serve as dessert.
    ‘Dessert’ eaten, clothes changed to outdoor work attire, Lenora took the doorknob to the garage. As she was getting a Phillips screwdriver out of the toolbox, she heard a vehicle coming down the driveway, and wondered who it might be.
    She stepped out onto the ramp at the side garage door.  A red F150 was easing to a stop.
    No one I know, Lenora was thinking as the driver opened the door and stepped out. That thought turned to Oh, shit, when she saw who it was: Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay.’ What is he doing here?
    As he walked toward the garage, Lenora pulled the door shut behind her. She didn’t want him snooping through the disarray inside.
    “Why are you here?” she asked, aware her tone was less than friendly, and not caring.
    “Thought I’d lend a hand,” Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ replied. “You looked rather lost in the hardware store.”
    I was lost in the hardware store, Lenora thought. Replacing doorknobs isn’t in my skill set. Nor is dealing with presumptuous men. As Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ neared the garage, Lenora’s thoughts turned serious. I didn’t leave my address on his security system.
    “How did . . . ” She stopped, took a deep breath, then finished the question. “. . . you find me?” 
    “Ran your plates.”
    That simple statement changed Lenora’s irritation to wariness. The only people she knew of who were allowed to do that were law enforcement personnel – and Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ didn’t seem like law enforcement personnel to Lenora, even though the deputy in McDonald’s seemed to know him well.
    He was at the corner of the garage, ready to step onto the ramp and Lenora wasn’t sure if she should go into the garage and lock the door behind her, or scream, hoping someone would hear and come to investigate. It didn’t help her wariness when she remembered her cell phone was lying on the kitchen counter.
    Lenora hadn’t released the doorknob when she shut the garage door, so she turned the knob, intending to go inside. The knob did its thing – it didn’t turn so she could open the door, even though it wasn’t locked – the reason she was replacing it. She jiggled the knob and swore.
    Just as she was preparing to scream, Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ laughed.
    And her irritation returned. “I don’t know what you think is so funny, nor why you think I need your help. I can figure out how to replace a doorknob all on my own.”
    “I’m sure you can,” he replied, “but it’ll be much quicker if I do it, and you wouldn’t have to worry about breaking a nail.”
    Lenora released the doorknob and shoved both hands into her pants’ pockets. She didn’t think she’d bitten her nails into the quick this week.
    “I’ve had broken nails before,” she said. “And why is it any concern of yours? You can leave so I can get back to what I was doing.”
    “And if I don’t leave?” he asked.
    She didn’t know how to answer. Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ was only a step or two from her now, and Lenora could’ve sworn she could feel his body heat – or was it her anger? She couldn’t blame feeling his warmth on it being summer this time, even though it was a warm October day.
    Lenora sighed, and looked down. She stood that way until he said, “Well?”
    She looked up, into his hazel eyes that were nearly the same color as his hair. Why haven’t I noticed that before?
    “Since you’re here, and I can’t get into the garage, I guess you can see if you can deal with the doorknob.” She looked at the unrepentant doorknob, then back at Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’. “If you’ll let me get out of your way, that is . . .”
    He grinned. “Let me get some tools,” he said, but didn’t move for a few seconds. As Lenora was debating jumping off the side of the ramp, he backed off the ramp and walked to his truck.
    Lenora hastily walked down the ramp and stopped. She watched Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ open the tool box on the bed of his truck and select a few tools. As he started walking back toward the garage, she stepped to the side, giving him plenty of room to access the ramp.
    When he got to the bottom of the ramp, he stopped. “I’m not going to bite, so stop acting like I’m an attack dog,” he said, then walked up the ramp to the garage door and the misbehaving doorknob.
    Abashed by her behavior – the man was being nice enough to help her after all, Lenora stayed silent as he jimmied the door open and proceeded to remove the doorknob.
    “Cat got your tongue?” Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ asked when she hadn’t said anything by the time he had removed the contrary doorknob and placed the parts on the floor just inside the garage. When she didn’t reply, he added, “Can you at least tell me where the new doorknob is?”
    Reluctantly, Lenora walked up the ramp to the door. Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ stepped back far enough from the door that she could enter the garage without bumping into him. As she walked past him, she felt heat emanating from him and wondered if his body heat was like that all the time.
    Not the time for such thoughts, she told herself as she walked to the shelf beside the toolbox and picked up the doorknob. As she turned to walk back to the door, she saw that Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ had followed her inside and was looking around at the jumbled assortment of tools and storage bins.
    “I know,” she said, suddenly feeling like a disobedient five-year-old. “It’s a mess. I’ll work on it more since the weather is cooler.”
    He turned his attention to her and grinned. “Not as bad as some I’ve been in,” he said as he extended his hand. “Let me have that doorknob and I’ll install it, then we can discuss garage organizing.”
    Lenora handed him the doorknob, but didn’t walk to the door while he was working. Instead, she picked up a few tools off the work bench and returned them to their appropriate places in the toolbox. She wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss anything with Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ but didn’t see any way around being polite and offering him a cold Pepsi. She was glad she had a small refrigerator in the garage so they wouldn’t have to go in the house.
    When he announced he was done, Lenora walked to the door. He handed her the keys and said, “Give it a try.”
    She opened and closed the door a time or two, and made sure both keys worked. Satisfied that they did, she pocketed the keys and asked Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ what she owed him.
    “Supper,” he replied, and when he saw her startled expression, he added, “With me, in a nice restaurant.” He paused, and grinned. “And a kiss.”
    “A kiss!” Lenora’s temper flared. Asking her to pay for a meal was one thing. Asking for a kiss was definitely sexist, and could be construed as sexual harassment. “Why you . . .”
    That was as far as she got. Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ reached out, pulled her into  his arms, and kissed her. Lenora surprised herself by returning his kiss, and wanting more. More of his kisses. More of his warmth against her.
    As she was wondering if it was possible to melt into him, Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ pulled back from the kiss, though he kept her close against him. She looked up into his hazel eyes, now looking as warm as he felt. He smiled and she couldn’t help but smile at him.
    “You fascinate me, Lenora McDougal. I never thought any woman could cause me to want only her and no one else, but you have, from your first stop at my ‘godforsaken’ place. I’ve been wanting you in my arms and your lips on mine ever since.” He paused and his tone turned serious. “I know you’ve been leery of me because of my appearance; I could see that on your face in Walmart. I’m a U.S. Marshall, and don’t always wear a uniform.”
    Clayton Hudson ‘call me Clay’ gave Lenora quick kiss, then asked, “Will you have supper with me tomorrow night, Lenora? You can pick the restaurant.”
    Lenora gave him a firm hug and replied. “Clay, I would be delighted to have supper with you. Any time. Any place.”

I Wish I Was Wrong

My Darling,
    I can't help but feel that you are through with me. I am not surprised, for deep down I always seemed to know that you would move away from me. As Travis sings, “I Wish I Was Wrong.” 
    I will still check for messages from you, hoping for one, even if you send nothing more than a “Hi” once or twice a month. Hearing from you always brightens a day, no matter what my mood may be. 
    I miss hearing from you consistently, the times we were able to chat for a few minutes. The times you called me your angel.
    You know how to contact me if your life changes. I will call up all the willpower I have to resist contacting you, for I feel at times that it annoys you when I do. And it will require great amounts of willpower, discipline and resilience to deny myself any small bit of contact with you.
    I am alone, and apparently that is the way I will be for the rest of my days.

    You will always be in my heart.

Love,
Your Angel

Hugs

“I’m going to hug your wife!” Jason would call out to Leon as he was walking my way.
    “Be careful. She bites,” Leon would answer.
    Jason never seemed to think that I would bite, for he always hugged me, whenever he saw me, wherever we might be. He is a good hugger.
    Better than Leon? No. But then Leon is the only man who I wanted to melt into when he had his arms around me.
    I have never felt as though Jason’s hugs were a come-on, just friendly hugs, though once in a while, I have felt that if each of us were free, something might develop.

    Now, I am free. My sweet Leon is no longer of this earth. I mourn his loss deeply, miss him every second, wish things were different. 
    But Jason isn’t free. He is an honorable man so we are at an impasse as far as any possible relationship developing. Add in he is three thousand miles away, and that impasse will continue.
    Neither of us has ever mentioned how we feel to the other. It’s an unspoken bond that will stay unspoken unless something changes in Jason’s life.
    If something does change in Jason’s life, will his hugs ever feel to me like Leon’s did, in any way? Somehow, even though a connection is there, I doubt it. Since the odds are against our ever having a deeper connection, I may never find out.

    I do need a hug.

Textures

Selena ran her fingertips over the faux-fur collar on a denim jacket, then down a sleeve. The plush softness of the fur. The smooth toughness of the denim. Each pleasing to touch.
    As she walked through the clothing store, Selena occasionally lightly touched a piece of clothing that caught her eye. A blouse here. A sweater there. Socks on a sale display. Glove and scarf sets.
    Different textures. Different fabrics. Different uses. So many to look at. So many to choose from.
    Is that what is missing from my life? she asked herself. The textures of daily life. The things no one never thinks about until they’re gone.
    Selena walked from the clothing store to the food court. As she considered which option she would prefer this afternoon, she thought of Blake. The soft thickness of his hair. The sweetness in his voice. His warmth. His impatience. All the things about Blake that were no longer in her life.

    Nibbling at the french fries she had ordered, then taking a sip of her Coke, Selena decided that had been her problem since early summer. She had textures in her life – cats, Blake‘s Levi jacket,  chenille sweaters – but she lacked the texture of male companionship. The contrast to her personality. The knowing that a day’s plans could be changed on a whim. The spark that kept her interested in doing even the simplest of things.
    Well, she thought, now that I’ve determined what is at the root of this don’t give a damn mood I’ve been in for months, what do I do about it.
    While mulling over her dilemma and possible solutions, Selena watched shoppers walk through the food court. Women carrying various-size bags from the stores in the mall. Women with children accompanying them. A few couples. Occasionally a lone male, either looking lost or as though he was considering other things to do.
    Wonder how many unattached men have been through her today? Selena mused. And how many of them feel as at loose ends as I do?

    Deciding she’d walk through the mall one more time for the exercise, Selena gathered the debris from her snack and deposited it in the nearest garbage can. As she turned to walk toward the main part of the mall, she heard someone say, “Selena, we’ve not crossed paths in a while. Are you shopping for Blake’s Christmas gift?”
    She turned and looked up into the blue eyes of Hunter Johnston, a high school classmate. The few times she’d seen him since graduation, Blake had been with her.
    There wasn’t anything but the dismal truth in her reply. “Blake died two years ago. Cancer.”
    Hunter’s smile faded. “I am so sorry. I hadn’t heard. Are you okay?”
    “I’m alright. Still adjusting.”
    “Do you still have the business?”
    “No,” Selena said. “We officially closed when Blake got his diagnosis. I sold everything this past spring and retired.”
    “Oh,” Blake replied. “What do you do now?”
    “Mostly just things around the house. Occasionally help a friend with something.”
    Hunter was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I’m planning on retiring next year. Maybe we’ll cross paths more often then.”
    “Maybe,” Selena replied. She smiled at Hunter. “It was nice seeing you today. I’ve got a couple of things to do, so I’d better get going. Hope you can retire and enjoy it.”
    “So do I,” he said. “Just have to see how things go. Again, I’m sorry to hear about Blake. Take care of yourself and give me a call if you need anything.”
    “I will,” Selena said. “You take care of yourself also.”

    Selena left the food court and walked through the mall. She stopped a few times to look at window displays. Each one similar. Each one different. Each one containing many textures, from clothes to toys to shoes to books. All of the stores ready for Christmas.
    As she observed the different stores, Selena thought of Hunter, and what she remembered about him from high school. She hadn’t known him well, just had several classes with him. He had been a good student, quiet, and, as far as she knew, never caused anyone any problems of any kind.
    Has he changed?  she wondered.

    His black hair had some touches of gray, but his eyes were just as blue and friendly. He had traded button-down shirts, chinos and loafers for a T-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt, blue jeans and western boots. Were the clothing styles all that had changed? Selena considered that. Hunter seemed less self-conscious today than he had in high school. Was that a result of aging itself? Or life experience?
    Selena considered textures. How different would Hunter’s textures be from Blake’s? And do I really want to know?

    As Selena walked to her car, she noted the late-November breeze didn’t feel quite as nippy as it had when she arrived at the mall. At her car, she looked around the parking lot. She and Blake had shopped here quite a bit – another layer of texture that was gone from her life.
    Selena got into the car and started the engine, while she pondered if she was ready for new textures in her life.