Outlaw Love: 4

    It’s three-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. I’m having early supper – burger and fries, Pepsi and a couple of Ivy’s delicious chocolate chip cookies – in Hank’s Hideout. It’s too early for the supper crowd and only one late-luncher is still in the dining area. Hank has turned the jukebox off and has the sound muted on the television hanging on the wall behind the cash register. There are a few sounds – the light whoosh of air through the ceiling vents, the humming of the refrigerator under the bar, and an occasional clink as Hank does a final spot check in preparation for the five o’clock rush.
    I’m sitting at a table about twenty steps from the bar. Enough distance for privacy but near enough that I can hear the murmur of Hank and Leroy’s voices as they discuss the ballgame playing on the TV. Hank occasionally points at the TV, a cleaning rag wadded in his hand, and Leroy has tipped his long-neck Bud toward the TV a time or two.
    It’s a beautiful early summer day, and I was surprised to see Leroy’s Harley (black, of course) in the parking lot when I arrived a few minutes ago. He was at the bar when I came in. I nodded ‘hello’ to him and Hank then placed my hamburger order with Ivy before I sat down and began reading my latest book acquisition. 
    Ivy, Hank’s sister, is super efficient in the kitchen so I have time to read fewer than a dozen pages before she places my supper in front of me. I thank her for bringing the food, close my book, and begin eating.
    And study Leroy.

    He is in his usual attire: well-worn (and well-fitting) Levi’s, faded blue T-shirt (snug across muscular shoulders), scuffed western boots (that look comfortable), and a black ball cap. I mentally run through a checklist: Tall? Check. About six-two. Dark? Check. Wavy black hair I’d love to get my fingers in. Handsome? Check. Rugged cowboy looks.
    Leroy appeared in Hank’s Hideout around eight months ago, and soon became a regular. He’s in here most late afternoons, occasionally until Hank’s midnight closing. He sits at the bar so I don’t have a chance to wait on him while I work as Hank’s hostess and waitress.
    I’ve said hello to Leroy a few times, and that’s all I’ve ever gotten in return. The only people I’ve seen him interact with, besides Hank, is law enforcement personnel who sometimes have short, apparently intense, conversations with him. A few female customers have attempted to strike up conversations with him but haven’t gotten any further than I have. Leroy always leaves alone.

    I finish the hamburger, decide not to eat the last few fries on the plate, and wrap the cookies in a napkin – I’ll stash them under the counter; there’s usually a lull in the crowd around eight-thirty so I’ll eat the cookies then. By the time I take the plate and glass to the kitchen and don an apron, Leroy is leaving; I hear his Harley start and rumble down the road. I put my book and the cookies under the bar, and since there’s no one in the bar or dining area besides me and Hank, I decide to ask about Leroy.

    “Hank, do you know anything about Leroy besides his name and favorite beer?” I ask. “You’re about the only person I ever see him talk to.”
    Hank laughs. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask about him. I’ve seen you eyeing him.”
    I feel my face getting red. “I hope he hasn’t noticed,” I say.
    Hank pats my arm. “I don’t think he has. He’s pretty well self-contained.”
    “Does he ever say anything about what he does? You know, like a job?”
    Hank’s reply is slow in coming. “I’ve not asked and he doesn’t volunteer personal information. We discuss whatever’s on TV when he’s in here.” He swipes the cleaning rag over a non-existent spot on the counter. “And I’ve never wanted to ask.”
    I nod, disappointed that Hank knows no more about Leroy than I do.
    As I turn to start wrapping silverware in napkins, Hank says, “Felicity, I know you have more than a slight interest in him. But I think you should be careful. Very careful.”
    Hank doesn’t give me any more information as he walks around the bar and toward the front door, on his way out for his afternoon stroll. He’s always been like a big brother to me, but has never cautioned me about anyone I’ve dated – not that dating is something I do much of.
    I apply myself to readying the dining area for the supper crowd – placing menus and silverware on each table, ensuring salt and pepper shakers and condiment containers are filled and clean. Satisfied that the dining area is above reproach, I walk to the kitchen to see if Ivy needs my assistance in any way; she has everything under control, as usual, so I return to the bar, pull out my book, and perch on a barstool to read for a few minutes before the supper crowd arrives.

    Two weeks later, and much more wrapping of napkins around silverware and waiting on tables, I’m surprised Thursday afternoon when Hank asks me to run the bar as well as the dining area all day Monday and Tuesday morning.
    “Run the bar? Aren’t you going to be here?” I ask. I’ve never run the bar past occasionally pulling a cold beer from the cooler, and while I could make a whiskey sour or Jack and Coke, I don’t think I could manage an elaborate mixed drink.
    “Wanda’s mother’s sick. We’re going down Sunday morning and won’t be back until Tuesday. Think you can manage the bar and the dining area on your own that long?”
    “I should be able to but what about mixing drinks? I’ve never done that.”
    “Monday’s lunch crowd is usually light,” Hank replies, “and most everyone drinks straight bourbon or beer, so you shouldn’t have to do more than a simple Jack and Coke.” He eyes me for a moment. “You do know how to do that?”
    “I can do that, but what if I put in too much whiskey? Won’t that hurt your profits?”
    Hank laughs. “I doubt you’ll use that much whiskey. It’s not Friday or Saturday, so people won’t be drinking as heavily as they do then. You’ll be okay.”
    On Friday and Saturday I work both days and evenings so I can watch Hank mix drinks. He’s right. Most people drink straight bourbon or beer, sometimes bourbon with a beer chaser. The few patrons who request mixed drinks are Jack and Coke or whiskey sour drinkers. I make a few notes and Hank shows me the mix book in case someone does want something else. 
    Leroy comes in Saturday just before lunchtime, which is unusual. He and Hank immediately get into a discussion about the current news item on CNN, so Leroy and I just nod hello to each other. I walk through the dining area to make sure everything is ready for customers. The lunch crowd is light, and we have the usual Saturday night assortment of diners and drinkers, so the evening runs smoothly. 

    Sunday, I skim through the mix book. Hank told me to look it over before Monday, and I definitely need to make sure that I take it back to work. If I don’t it’ll be my luck someone will request something that I’ve never heard of. Hopefully, if they do, the recipe is in the book, and Hank has all the appropriate ingredients on the shelves.

    Monday arrives and I’m thankful Hank’s Hideout doesn’t open until ten-thirty and doesn’t start serving alcohol until noon. And that the lunch crowd is lighter than the supper crowd, and it’s Monday and the supper crowd isn’t usually too bad, so maybe I can tend bar and keep the dining room running smoothly without any major disasters. 
    Leroy comes in just as the lunch crowd starts arriving. I’m surprised to see him at this hour. He sits at the bar. The TV is off so I hand him the remote then ask, “Your usual?” before I realize it’s not quite eleven.
    Evidently Leroy knows the liquor laws in town, for he says, “In an hour.”
    Though embarrassed by my gaffe, I manage to ask him if he wants lunch. I’ve never seen him eat a meal here so have no idea if he will.
    “In a bit,” he replies.
    When noon arrives, I retrieve an ice-cold long-neck Bud from the beer cooler and set it on the bar in front of him. He nods his thanks, and I ask, “Do you want lunch?” 
    He replies for the second time, “In a bit,” and takes a long pull of the Bud.
    Most of the lunch regulars are ordering salads – must’ve gone off their diets over the weekend – so handling the dining room and running the bar isn’t too difficult. Hank was right – the Monday lunch crowd doesn’t imbibe heavily; a few people request beer with their lunch, and two men ask for a shot of bourbon.
    By one-twenty, most of the lunch crowd have returned to their work. Leroy is still at the bar, taking occasional sips of his third Bud. He hasn’t ordered any lunch; I asked him once or twice if he wanted anything and got a “Later” in response.

    At one-thirty I finish cleaning the dining area. I stop by the bar on my way to the kitchen with a tray of dishes. “I’m putting in my lunch order. Do you want anything?” I ask Leroy.
    He gives me a long look. About the time I decide he’s not going to answer, he asks what I’m going to have.
    “A BLT. Maybe some fries.”
    Another long look before he says, “Tell Ivy to fix me one also. No mayo or such.”
    “Okay,” I reply and take myself and the tray of dishes into the kitchen.
    Orders placed, I return to the bar. Leroy has been the only one sitting at the bar so it’s still clean from my morning wipe-down. I notice his Bud is about half-gone and ask if he wants another one. He shakes his head, and I get myself a glass of Pepsi from the fountain. As I lay a few napkins on the bar, I’m wondering if I could get a conversation going with him. Ivy interrupts that train of thought by setting our BLT’s and an order of fries in the pick-up window and ringing the bell. I retrieve our food and place it on the bar in front of Leroy.
    I pull out the stool Hank keeps stashed under the bar, sit down and begin eating lunch. About the third bite, I notice Leroy hasn’t started eating. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
    He grins. “Naw. Just like to see someone enjoy a meal.”
    I feel myself blush, and am thankful the lighting in here is somewhat dim, so maybe Leroy won’t notice. My mother was always distressed by my eating habits – I wasn’t the dainty Little Miss Priss Ruffles and Bows daughter she thought I should be. I enjoy a good meal and have no qualms about “digging in.”
    “Ivy’s a great cook,” I reply, and take a drink of my Pepsi.
    He grins again, picks up his sandwich and begins eating. “You’re right. Ivy’s a great cook.”
    I apply my attention to the food, as does Leroy, and we quickly lay waste to the BLT’s and fries. 
    I reach for the last fry just as Leroy does. Our fingers meet and I’m amazed at the warmth I feel. I jerk my hand back and say, “You can have it.”
    He picks up the fry, breaks it in half and hands a piece to me. I hesitantly take it, then lay it on my plate. Leroy raises an eyebrow. “Afraid of cooties?”
    I  laugh. I hadn’t heard of cooties until I was an adult, and to hear this usually barely-communicative Harley rider ask if I’m afraid of them is funny. 
    “No,” I reply, then pick up the fry and eat it. 

    As our plates are empty of food, I collect them and return them to the kitchen. When I return to the bar, a twenty is laying by the empty Bud, Leroy is gone and I can faintly hear his Harley traveling away from Hank’s Hideout.
    I turn off the TV then refill my Pepsi. I sit down on the stool behind the bar and wonder why Leroy was in here at lunchtime. The only reason I can come up with is that Hank asked him to be. Then I wonder why Hank would do that as I’ve worked here long enough he should know I’ll do the job the way it’s supposed to be done. Then decide that men are indecipherable and I could use my time better by reading whatever book I have handy.
    I decide to take a short break. I utilize the ladies’ room, then walk outside to the picnic tables under oak trees at the edge of Hank’s property. There’s a nice breeze and several birds are singing merrily in the treetops. I wish I could sit here a while, as I sometimes do, but I’m in charge of the bar, and even though mid-afternoon customers are rare, I need to tend to my duties, so after enjoying the breeze and birdsong for a couple of minutes, I head back inside.

    Around two-fifteen a couple of construction workers enter, and request grilled cheese sandwiches, fries and beer for lunch. They sit at the bar,  which relieves me of busing a table when they leave. By the time Ivy sets their orders in the pick-up window, they’re ready for their second beer, and as I set the beers on the bar, one of them asks, “Where’s Hank?”
    “His mother-in-law is sick and he and Wanda are at her house. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
    “Tell him we hope she recovers quickly,” the man replies, and starts eating his lunch. The other man nods his best wishes as he takes a bite of his sandwich.
    I leave them to their lunch and check the order of bar items. I’ve not used a lot of  glassware, just several coffee cups, some water glasses, and the two shot glasses, so it doesn’t take me long to get things back in the order Hank had it when he closed Saturday night.
    It’s around three when the construction workers finish their lunch. I tell them how much they owe, give them their change and thank them for the tip, then watch them walk to the door and out into the sunshine. I take their plates to the kitchen, then return to the bar and wipe it clean. That took all of three minutes. 
    I’ve not been at work this early in the day, nor needed to be here the entire time Hank’s Hideout is open. I’ve done a little less than I expected I’d need to do, so I’m getting antsy – maybe bored is a better word. Even though I know there will be a few people drifting in for an early supper in a half hour or so, I’m wishing I knew of something to do that looked like I was working. I had asked Ivy if she needed any help when I took the plates from the construction workers’ lunches to the kitchen and she said she had everything under control – and I’m sure she does. 
    I walk through the dining area, and everything is in readiness for the supper crowd, so there is nothing to do about my boredom except wait for customers to arrive.

    A few minutes later, two couples come in. I greet them, telling them to sit wherever they like. I get their drink orders while they peruse the menu – two coffees, water with lemon, and a bottle Corona.
    Just as I set the customers’ meals on the table, Leroy returns. He sits at the bar and I open and set a Bud in front of him. He nods his thanks and takes a long drink before setting the bottle down on the bar.
    I consider asking him what he’s done today, then decide it’s probably better if I don’t. I know nothing about him other than his first name, what beer he drinks and that he rides a Harley. And I have no idea what he’d think if I did ask him anything that didn’t concern me doing my job. Instead of questions, I hand Leroy the TV remote; he clicks the TV on and tunes in a ballgame
    I pretend to be busy, at least as busy as one can pretend to be when all the chores are done and one is simply waiting for customers to finish their meals or to arrive.

 
    About the time I’m ready to start biting my nails, two young men enter Hank’s Hideout and sit at the bar. They both order Heinekens and, because of their apparent youth, I ask to see their I.D.’s. One of them makes a snide comment about a “dive“ not needing to follow the rules. Before I can reply, Leroy turns to them and quietly tells them that if they can’t respect a lady, the door works both ways.
    The young man starts to argue, but after he takes a good look at Leroy, he gets off his barstool, pulls his buddy off his, and they make a hasty exit.
    When I look at Leroy after watching them leave, he is calmly sipping his beer as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
    Unsure about what to do or say about the incident, I carefully wipe the already clean bar, and wish Hank was here.

    Before I get any more perturbed, customers begin to drift in, and I see that Monday nights are a little busier at the bar than Hank indicated. Even though I rely on Hank setting cups of coffee and drinks of all sorts on the bar for me to deliver to customers, it hadn’t dawned on me just how many of those he does set on the bar during a night. Nor do I have to tend to the cash register, as Hank handles that also. At least tonight the alcohol orders are beer (Thank goodness Hank stocks only bottled beer.) or shots, so I don’t have to mix any drinks.
    I keep food orders delivered to the tables, and emptied dishes returned to the kitchen. The supper crowd comes and goes in a steady stream, but not at an overwhelming rate. By seven-thirty, the stream of customers is slowing considerably, and I think I’ve handled the bar and dining area fairly well by myself. By a few minutes after eight, only two tables are occupied.
    As no other customers appear by the time the people at those tables finish their meals, pay their tabs and leave, I decide to have something to eat myself. As I pass the bar, carrying a few dishes to the kitchen, I ask Leroy if he wants anything. A “not right now” is his reply, so I order sweet potato fries for myself and return to the dining area to wipe down the tables and sweep up what few crumbs are on the floor. 
    I finish just as Tommy, the evening grill cook, sets my fries in the pick-up window. I move them to the bar, get a Pepsi from the fountain, and nibble on a fry, deciding whether or not to sit down for a few minutes. My aching feet tell me that the stool behind the bar is a good idea, so I pull it out and sit down. 
    Leroy turns his attention from the TV to me. “Tired?” he asks.
    “My feet are complaining,” I tell him, then realize that he has actually started a conversation with me. Now what? 
    ‘Now what’ is Leroy returning his attention to the TV after he gives me a  nod. I eat fries and sip Pepsi, while keeping watch on the door, and avoiding looking at Leroy as often as I’d like.
    When the fries are about half gone, three men enter and I leave my seat, greet them and take their drink orders – coffee all around. They have decided on deluxe cheeseburgers by the time I set their coffees on the table, so I relay their requests to Tommy.
    When I return to the bar to finish my fries, the plate is empty. I look at Leroy, the only suspect. He is watching a baseball game on TV, his fingers barely touching the bottle of beer in front of him. It’s nearly empty, so I pretend not to notice the missing fries, point to the beer and ask, “Want another?”
    He shakes his head without taking his attention away from the TV, so I turn my attention to the bar area. As nothing besides the coffeepot needs any attention, I start a new pot brewing. Tommy sets the cheeseburgers in the pick-up window a couple of minutes later and I deliver them to the customers. One gentleman requests extra dill pickles and I go to the kitchen for them. When I return to the table, another man has joined them, and he requests “what they’re having.” I give Tommy the new order, then deliver coffee and creamer to the customers’ table. They don’t request anything else, so I return to the bar and sit down, to the relief of my aching feet; I’m glad I don’t have to do this every day!
    Leroy’s attention is still on the TV and I don’t interrupt him. I sit down to wait on the additional cheeseburger to appear, and it soon does. I deliver it to the table, taking the coffeepot with me, and top off the cups of coffee. No one requires anything else, so I return to the bar and once again take mercy on my feet by sitting down. Leroy is still watching the ballgame.

    The four gentlemen finish their cheeseburgers and coffees in a timely fashion, and after I check them out and clear their table, the bar and dining area are empty except for Leroy and me. I’m used to Monday nights slowing down by this time, with only a dozen or so customers between nine and midnight.  However, I am wondering how to deal with Leroy. I want to talk to him, but have no idea how to start a conversation. Even the weather is out as a topic for it’s been another beautiful summer day that everyone has enjoyed. Tommy brings out his supper of grilled chicken salad and sits at the bar to eat. And doesn’t attempt to start a conversation with Leroy.
    The regular Monday night beer drinkers drift in and out, one of them requesting a grilled cheese sandwich which he eats at the bar. Two men want shots of Maker’s. At eleven-fifteen I start preparing to shut down for the night. I sweep the dining area, wipe down the tables, straighten the chairs around the tables, and turn off the lights there. I straighten things at the bar, empty the coffeepot and wash it, and go into the kitchen to see if Tommy has everything in order there for the night – he does, and has already clocked out. I lock the back door and turn off the kitchen lights. 
    When I return to the bar area, Leroy is still there. I ask if he wants another Bud and he tells me he’s good for the night. I pick up the remote, turn off the TV, and check to make sure all is in place behind the bar. When I look up, Leroy is gone but I don’t hear his Harley rumbling.
    I figure he’s not had time to start it, so turn off the lights over the bar, walk to the front door, and flip the switches for beer signs and the ‘Open’ sign to Off. I take a final look back into Hank’s Hideout. The one light near the cash register is still on, as Hank prefers, so I open the door, step outside and lock the door.
    I turn to start the quarter-mile walk to my house and see Leroy leaned against his Harley. I’m not sure what to make of that as he’s never been waiting before.
    “I figured you were nearly home by now,” I say, not adding that I have no idea if he even has a home.
    He smiles. Thought I’d walk you home.”
    I freeze. Hank’s not here, and I’ve suspected a few times that he’s driven by my house on his way home, even though it’s out of his way. And I know way too little about Leroy. Has he waited for a chance like this?
    “Um. That’s not necessary,” I manage to say. “It’s not that far.”
    “I know. I make sure you get home okay at night.”
    Now I do begin to worry. Is he a stalker? Hank’s ‘be careful’ comes to mind. Was he aware of Leroy’s activities?
    “Um. That’s nice of you, but not necessary. I’ve done this for years.” Okay, only three, but no one has ever bothered me.
    He stands up and stretches. “Come on. I’ll walk back for my bike.”
    All I can do is join him.

    As we begin our walk, I decide to bite the bullet and question him. “What kind of work do you do”
    “None at this time,” he replies.
    “Must be nice,” I say, not exactly sounding cordial.
    “Don’t need to anymore. I developed a program for police to use in their investigations. It makes it easier for them to acquire information on similar crimes. Speeds up their paperwork so they can get back to the streets quicker. It’s even helped catch two serial killers no one suspected.”
    “Sounds complicated,” I say.
    “Writing the program was, ” he says. “Using it isn’t. That’s what makes it so useful.”

    When we arrive at my house, I stop at the end of the front walk, and turn to face Leroy as I pull my keys out of my pocket.
    “Well, this is home,” I say, then feel silly as he already knows where I live. “Thank you for walking me home.”
    Before I can step onto the walk, Leroy says, “Wait a minute,” and puts his hand on my shoulder. I am once again aware of the warmth of his hand.
    I look up at him, and he leans down and lightly kisses me.
    “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I set foot in Hank’s Hideout.” He straightens back up, looks at me for a second, then says, “Hell! I’ve been wanting to do this . . .”
    He pulls me into his arms and kisses me with an intensity I did not expect. I feel the warmth of his body against mine, and know I will always crave that warmth.

The TNT Tour

I stand back stage, watching Creed and Charles perform the final song of their TNT Tour. Creed Thompson. Charles Thompson. No relation.
    They met by chance at The Nashville Palace. Charles had come in after his performance at the Grand Ole Opry. Creed was sitting near the stage with me, as we wound down a week’s vacation in Nashville, enjoying the night spots and sleeping until noon. Charles noticed Creed singing along with the performer on stage, and when he took the stage, called Creed up to sing with him.
    And a tour was born.

    One year, ten months and countless miles. Jam-packed venues of all sizes. Thousands of dedicated fans. Chart-topping recordings. And a blending of voices that added depth to any song they sang, no matter the genre.
    After much discussion and overcoming Creed’s reluctance, they had chosen “Too Much Fun” as the opening song for tonight. The fans loved it and showed their appreciation with screams and whoops that nearly drowned out the music. Charles and Creed played to and for the fans, giving them a night they would most definitely remember. And a night they themselves would remember.
    For their final song they’d chosen “A Country Boy Can Survive,” which kinda surprised me as I thought they’d choose one of their own. No matter. The fans loved it. Both Charles and Creed were into the night and the music. As was the band. The concert had started at eight and it was now past midnight. I wasn’t certain that this ‘one last  song’ would be the last one tonight.
    As they neared the end of the song, Charles turned toward the band and raised an eyebrow. The band members glanced at each other, then they all looked back at Charles and nodded. And I grinned.

    These two musicians, my two guys, were loving the night, living their dreams, and giving their adoring fans more than they could possibly have expected.

    Five songs later, Charles announced, “This song is the ‘last’ for tonight and the tour. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed ourselves up here and hope y’all’ve had as much fun as we have. Hope you enjoy this song . . . Hit it!”
    I didn’t recognize the introduction the band played. When Charles and Creed started singing, I was shocked. I didn’t know they had even played this song together, much less considered singing it on stage. “My Way,” changed to “Our Way,” and done in their unique style. I didn’t think it was possible but the screams and whoops became even louder.

    As we were walking toward the bus, Creed’s arm around my shoulders, and Charles walking behind us, I heard the chorus to “People Are Crazy” and wondered who was calling me at this hour . . .

    I awake. Sunlight is shining through the bedroom windows, but there is no Creed beside me for he has been in his grave six long years. I have many memories and a few songs Creed had recorded of himself singing at home. Charles is beyond my reach but I have his CDs to listen to at any time.

    And a dream that will haunt me forever . . .

A Final Christmas

    Josephine paused while boxing the felt cardinal ornaments. She wondered who had given them to her for they weren't a design she favored; she preferred more realistic-looking cardinals.
    Garland was the only decoration left on the tree. The ornaments had been placed in their boxes, and the tree skirt carefully folded. The star lay on the library table, its box beside it. Josephine was considering whether or not to keep it with the other decorations; it was Tyler's favorite tree topper. Perhaps she would display it on top of the china cabinet.
    Josephine put the lid on the box of felt cardinals. This Christimas was possibly the last time she would decorate for the holidays. Three Christmases without Tyler asking what she had in mind. Three Christmases without hearing him say "That looks nice" before hugging her while they looked at the Christmas tree. Three Christmases she had retrieved decorations from storage and wondered what Tyler would like to see on the tree. Three New Year's Days taking down the decorations. Three Christmases too many of missing and grieving for the love of her life.
    Josephine picked up the star and ran her fingers around its edges. She looked at the nearly bare tree and wondered why she had bothered decorating this year. She had had no interest in any Christmas activities. Without Tyler and his smile, Christmas had become just another day.
    Finish the chore, she thought, and decide next year what to do with the decorations.

    Garland removed, the tree dismantled, decorations back into storage, and the living room returned to its pre-Christmas arrangement, Josephine sat in Tyler's favorite chair and wondered what to do with the rest of the day, a day Tyler would have interrupted whatever she was doing by saying, "You can finish that tomorrow. Let's go ride around." A day they would have spent together, enjoying each other's company.
    This was possibly the final Christmas she would be in the house she had Tyler had built, for Josephine was contemplating moving. Why, she did not know, but the unsettledness she had felt since Tyler's death was growing stronger, and driving for a day was no longer tamping it down. But did she want to move? Deep down she knew the answer was no. But how to deal with this unsettledness.
    "Get out and do something," some people said. "Don't sit home alone," others would tell her. "Go out to eat with someone," she heard often. "Find a man,"a few people would add.
    Josephine knew people had good intentions. They didn't want her to be alone, mourning Tyler, not ever venturing out into the world again. She also knew that most of them had no idea what she did with her time. She shopped as needed. She frequently ate meals in restaurants; yes, most of the time by herself, but that was okay. She did things -- like attend concerts in other towns, spending the nights in a local motel. She wasn't pining away alone in the dark.

But this unsettledness. "Antsy," her nightclub-owning Aunt Bess would call it. 
Aunt Bess, Josephine thought. I should call her. Even if she doesn't have an answer she'll have some wisecrack that'll make me laugh.

A two-hour conversation later, Josephine was laughing as she ended the call with Aunt Bess. They had talked of Josephine's loneliness, her missing Tyler's love and strength, and her unsettledness. When Josephine mentioned one of Tyler's buddies suggesting she go to Nashville, get a hotel room and get drunk, Aunt Bess had said, "I'll do you one better. Get your ass down to Westpoint and you can get as drunk as you like and no one will do a thing about it, no matter what you do. The men won't dare touch you if you don't want them to for they know they'd never be allowed to set foot in my club again."
    One thing about Aunt Bess, Josephine thought, she speaks her mind.
    And perhaps knew more than Josephine was aware of, for Tyler had been the only person whose touch she welcomed. An occasional pat on the shoulder, a quick hug that conveyed someone's concern about her, but anything past that . . . hands off.
    Maybe that is all I need, Josephine thought. A visit with Aunt Bess, away from the house for a few days, think things over in a different atmosphere. And, of course, listen to Aunt Bess's opinion on it all . . .

     A month later, Josephine was boxing a few things in preparation for moving to Westpoint. A whirlwind romance had been the last thing she expected to find at Aunt Bess's nightclub, but she and Nathan had hit it off the first night. Now she was leaving the home she and Tyler had shared, maybe not for good, but for a while. Nathan was Aunt Bess's right-hand man, and Aunt Bess was delighted with the arrangement.
    Josephine didn't know if the romance with Nathan would be as stable and lasting as what she had had with Tyler, but she had told him she would give it a chance. Six months, she had decided. Six months to see if her heart had healed sufficiently to allow love into her life again.

Tough Guy Talk

    As I got into Rusty Dillingham’s souped-up F350, I wondered how this “date” would go. He had been pestering me for several months, calling two or three times a week, asking me to go out with him. I liked Rusty well enough, from what little I had been around him, but what I had heard about him – football hero, championship marksman, Harley rider – made me wonder if we had anything in common. I didn’t have anything planned for this weekend, and didn’t really want to entertain myself, so I agreed to a “date.”
    When Rusty asked what I would like to eat, I told him anywhere but a sushi bar would be fine, so I had no idea where he would go. He headed west on the parkway and I asked where we were headed.
    I got a grin – nice one – and he said, “There’s a steak house at Ransomville. My buddies say it’s good. Is that okay with you?”
    “Sure,” I replied. “A rib-eye is always good.” Maybe the restaurant would have a good salad bar to accompany the steak.
    We rode a few miles in silence. I didn’t know how to start a conversation as Rusty and I hadn’t interacted much besides chatting a bit when occasionally standing in the same check-out line or he happened to sit by me when I was eating at the pool room, so I just watched the scenery passing by.
    Rusty broke the silence. “What kind of music do you like?”
    He hadn’t had the radio on when I got into his truck, so I didn’t have any idea what he liked. “Sixties rock and some country rock. The Class of ’89 mostly.”
    “The Class of ’89,” he said. “I’ve not heard anyone mention them recently.” He turned on the radio. Clint Black was singing ‘Untanglin’ My Mind.’ “Is that okay with you?” he asked.
    “Clint is good most any time.” That got me another grin and I wondered why I’d not noticed his amazing grins before. Or his deep blue eyes.
    We rode several miles without talking, just listening to some Clint, interspersed with some Waylon and Willie, Merle, Hank, and an Alan Jackson song or two. When Sawyer Brown’s ‘Some Girls Do’ came on, I glanced at Rusty. He was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along.
    He sensed me watching him, glanced over, and asked, “Are you some girl?”
    I didn’t know how to answer that, so said, “I don’t know.”
    He  laughed lightly and we lapsed back into silence.

    We got off the parkway at the Ransomville exit, and went right, away from town. Just as I was starting to worry a little, I saw a sign that said “Pete’s Eats Two Miles Ahead.”
    “Is that the place?” I asked, wondering who – well, evidently Pete – would give that name to a restaurant.
    “Yep,” Rusty answered. “It doesn’t sound like a name for a steak house, but my buddies say it is. Guess we’re going to find out.”

    Just as we approached the seven-mile marker – the sign had been at the five-mile marker, the restaurant came into view. It sure didn’t look like a steak house to me, more what I considered country Victorian, a simple two-story roomy house like many I had seen growing up. Rusty pulled into the parking lot, backed the truck under an elm tree at the western side of the lot, and turned off the motor.
    “What do you think?” he asked, while leaning on the steering wheel, studying the structure. He turned to look at me. “Are you ready to try this?”
    I nodded, suddenly unsure if he was asking about the restaurant or an evening with him.
    He gave me an encouraging smile, and we got out of the truck. When we met at the front of the truck, Rusty surprised me by reaching out and taking my hand in his. He held my hand lightly and I curled my fingers around the warmth of his. I looked up at him to find him looking at me seriously.
    “What?” I asked.
    He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I didn’t think you would ever go out with me.”
    I didn’t want to ask why he thought that, so told him, “I am now.”
    He smiled, tugged on my hand and we walked to the restaurant’s entrance, then went inside.

    I definitely did not expect the restaurant to look the way it did. Instead of westerny-type decor I expected, it was similar to the houses my grandmother and ladies her age lived in when I was a kid. Nothing fancy. Hardwood floors. Painted tables and chairs. Tablecloths with printed borders. And all of it lit with simple light fixtures.
    A hostess met us just inside the door and led us to a table near a double window that gave us a view of a vegetable garden. I hadn’t seen the garden when we drove into the parking lot. The hostess noticed me looking at the garden and said, “Pete insists on using only tomatoes he grows, so salads or sandwiches with tomatoes are seasonal.”
    “That’s unusual,” I said, but nice.”
    She smiled, laid two menus on the table and said a waitress would be here shortly to get our orders.

    The menu was varied –  steaks, fish and chicken, along with a good selection of side dishes and sandwiches, including tuna salad and egg salad sandwiches; I hadn’t seen them on a menu recently.
    Rib-eye steak was on the menu, as were sirloin and T-bone. Today’s special was baked chicken, so I decided to try that, along with a sweet potato and mustard greens.
    “What will you have?” Rusty asked, and looked surprised at my choices.
    “That sounds good, and I’ve not had any mustard greens for a while. I hope theirs are good,” I told him.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’m getting the T-bone, baked potato and sliced tomatoes. It’s nice they’ve got garden tomatoes.”
    I agreed just as a waitress came to take our orders. We told her what we wanted, and she took our orders to the kitchen and returned quickly with our drinks and some rolls.

    I picked up one of the coffee cups that were sitting on the table, something else I’d not seen recently in a restaurant. It was a white cup with a blue line around the rim, and the saucer had a matching line.
    Rusty watched me for a bit, then said, “I’ve got a really pretty set of china. It was in a house I bought and the lady said I could have it.”
    “That was nice of her,” I told him. “Do you have it stored somewhere?”
    “I’ve got it in the china cabinet that was also in the house. In my kitchen. The cabinet is really pretty, too.” He described the china – white, with pink roses bordering each plate and the outside of the cups. 
    I was amazed at the details Rusty told of the glass-front china cabinet and the china. He talked about the thinness of the cups, and the tiny gold line around the rim of the cups and the edges of the plates, as well as the oaken china cabinet and the shape of its curved glass door and shelves. This ex-linebacker, who did construction work, rode a Harley, fished, and was a champion shooter, was about the last person I would have expected to wax eloquent about a set of china. There was more to this man than what met the eye.
    I told him that it was nice to have a pretty set of china, even if it wasn’t used often. Just to be able to see its beauty each day would be a pleasure. I think I embarrassed him when I said that, for he quickly looked down at the roll he had been buttering before he started telling me about the china.

    I chose a roll from the linen napkin lined bread basket, broke it apart and took a bite. Delicious. I could live without bread, but if all breads were as delicious as this roll, I might change my eating habits.
    We ate a roll apiece, and finished just as the waitress brought our meals. We thanked her, and when she asked if we needed anything else, we told her we were okay at the moment. She said she’d check on us in a few minutes, and went across the restaurant to another table.
    Rusty cut into his T-bone and took a bite. I took a bite of my chicken, which was extremely tender. We glanced up at each other, and nodded at the same time. His buddies were correct – really great food.
    We ate in silence, savoring a well-done meal, and when we laid our silverware and napkins on our plates, the waitress returned, carrying dessert menus. As she carried the empty plates to the kitchen, we read the dessert menus.
    “See anything you’d like to try?” Rusty asked.
    “I’m full,” I said, “but a home-baked chocolate chip cookie would be a nice finish.”
    “Okay. I’ll order two,” he said. He gave the order to the waitress and she wasn’t long in returning with the cookies and refills on our drinks.
    Evidently we had ordered just before the cookies were taken out of the oven, for they were piping hot. I quickly laid mine back down on the plate, and Rusty did the same a few seconds later.
    I was looking out the window at the butterfly weed bordering the restaurant’s wraparound porch, when I saw three hummingbirds appear. They were happily getting nectar from the bright orange blossoms. I was enjoying watching them, and looked across the table at Rusty. He was watching them also. I smiled, thinking how unusual it was that a man like this was quietly watching hummingbirds.
    “I like watching hummingbirds,” I said. “They dart around so quickly, then hover while sipping nectar.”
    “Have you ever had one light on your hand?” Rusty asked.
    “No, but I’ve had them get close enough I could feel the breeze from their wings.”
    “If you sit really still, and hold your hand out toward where they’re feeding, one will light on your hand. I’ve had several do that this summer. I’ve got flowers by my porch that they like,” he told me.
    Talk about surprises. One, that this man put out flowers that hummingbirds liked, then sat still to let one light on his hand. Two, that he would tell me about it. Kinda went against all the macho image he projected when I saw him out around town.
    “That is neat. I’ll have to sit by the butterfly weed in my fencerow one afternoon and see if one will light on my hand.”

    Our cookies had cooled, so we enjoyed the flavor of freshly-baked cookies. As we sipped our drinks afterward, the waitress brought our bill and Rusty paid her, adding a generous tip. She thanked him, asked if we wanted anything to take home; we both told her no. She thanked us again, and wished us a good evening.

    We returned to the truck just as the supper crowd was beginning to arrive. I was glad Rusty had made our “date” time late afternoon instead of evening. We  had enjoyed a quiet meal, and I guess each other’s company, as this was our first “date.” I wondered what would happen now. Would he take me directly home or have something else in mind?
    As we settled into the truck, and Rusty started the motor, he asked, “Would you like to ride around a while?”
    “That sounds good,” I told him. “I’m free all evening.”
    He pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot and headed back toward the parkway. Once there, he headed west again.
    “Do you bowl?” he asked.
    “Badly,” I replied, “but if you want to bowl some, I can watch you and keep score.”
    “We’ll do something else.”
    “Okay,” I told him.

    We rode in silence for a mile or two. Rusty had turned the radio off when we arrived at the restaurant, and hadn’t turned it back on after we got back on the road.
    “Anything you’d like to do?” he asked.
    “Nothing I can think of at the minute.”
    “Would you like to go to the overlook at the Westfork dam? It’s a pretty view.”
    “That would be nice,” I said. “I’ve not been down there for two or three years.”
    He took the next exit and the road to the dam. I wanted to learn more about this man, but didn’t know how to start a conversation with him. After his discussions of china and hummingbirds, I had no idea what to say.
    Rusty finally started a conversation.
    “What do you do with your spare time?” he asked. “I seldom see you out except during the week.”
    So . . . he watched for me.
    “I read a lot. Write some short stories. Do yard work and house work. Listen to music. Nothing much, really. What about you?”
    “I keep up with my target practice. Fish when the mood strikes, and do regular upkeep on the yard and house. When I’m caught up on all that, and the weather is good, I’ll take my bike out for an afternoon.” He paused, then asked, “Do you like to ride motorcycles?”
    “I’ve not thought about it, to tell the truth. I tend to do quiet things.”
    “You are quiet, aren’t you?” he asked, then didn’t say anything else.
    We were nearing the overlook, and I looked at the lake as we crossed the dam. When we got to the overlook area, Rusty parked and asked,” Which side of the dam do you like to look at?”
    “I’ve like the lake side,” I told him, “especially at this time of day with sunset reflected on the water.”
    “Me, too,” he replied as we got out of the truck.

    Once again he took my hand. We walked to the lake side of the overlook. Whomever had designed this overlook apparently enjoyed sitting and watching sunsets as there was a bench running along the side of the overlook nearest the lake. 
    We sat on the bench at the furthermost end,  still holding hands. We sat there quietly, watching a few boats heading toward the docks on the other side of the lake. Some ducks were paddling near the dam, and I could hear songbirds in nearby trees. It was cool enough that a cricket or two were chirping.
I was enjoying the view and the sounds of nature when Rusty lifted my hand and kissed my fingers.
That surprised me. This man definitely had two sides – the “don’t mess with me” attitude he projected in public, and this softer side I was seeing today. Now I had to learn which one was an act.
I tightened my fingers around his, and felt his tighten in return. I looked up and he was smiling at me.
“Where do we take it from here?” he asked.
Talk about unexpected questions. “What do you mean?”
“Will you go out with me again?” He looked at the lake. “I’ve been wanting to take you out for quite a while, but didn’t know how to ask. You’re always nice when I speak to you but never give any indication if you’d be interested in me.” He looked down at our hands, then at me. “I finally decided I’d ask until you agreed to a date.” He smiled. “And now I don’t know what to do.”
    I smiled back, and studied Rusty’s face. I did want to learn more about this ruggedly handsome man.
    “Neither do I,” I replied. “Maybe start by getting to know each other better.” I looked down at our linked hands. “If that’s okay with you.”
    He squeezed my hand tightly. I looked back up at him, and now he was grinning.
    “Will you go out with me tomorrow night?” he asked. “And many more nights?”
    I agreed, and we watched the sunset and talked until the mosquitoes caused us to retreat to Rusty’s truck.

Money Talk

    Jeanine looked at her phone. After this latest communication with Dylan, she decided her brother Jason was correct – Dylan was an arrogant little shit.
    “I am an idiot,” Jeanine said to herself. “It is that simple. I am an effing idiot.” Why had she let this . . . person . . . become involved in her life?

    As she pulled back into the midweek midday traffic, Jeanine reviewed her ten months of dating Dylan. They had met in a bar in Lexington in July. He wanted to get serious sooner than she liked, but he was fun to talk to, they had similar interests, and she felt at ease with him.
    Jason had disliked Dylan on sight, but he hadn’t been fond of any man Jeanine had dated except for William, her fiancé who was killed in Afghanistan three years ago. Since then, Jason had become over-protective, and Jeanine suspected he had discouraged more than one potential suitor.
    No matter. If Dylan didn’t stop being so unreasonable about her money, she was going to unceremoniously dump him. Maybe into the Cumberland – in small pieces.

    Things had been going good between them until a few days after Valentine’s Day. Dylan had gone from seldom mentioning anything about money to constantly telling her what to do with her money. Jeanine was tiring of the questions . . . Why she bought new shoes when the ones she wore two weeks ago were perfectly good. Why she paid someone to wash her truck when she had a water hose at home. Why she ate in a restaurant at lunch instead of brown-bagging it – yet if she paid for a restaurant meal she and Dylan had shared, or bought him a pint of Blanton’s on a whim, that produced no complaints.
    She had ignored his comments, but wondered about this current obsession with how she spent her money. Both of them had good-paying jobs and plenty of work. Neither of them had had an illness nor any other unexpected expenses.

    But this phone call was over the top. Dylan had ranted about her having the oil changed regularly on her new truck – it cost too much. She shouldn’t’ve bought a new truck that needed the oil changed on a schedule to keep the warranty in effect. And the clincher – she should sell the tires that came on the truck and buy cheaper ones.
    Damn! Jeanine thought. The Cumberland was looking better by the second.

    When Jeanie got home and parked, she debated whether or not to tell Jason of this latest conversation. He would blow his stack over the bit about the tires. Why not tell Jason? At least now she would vent to Jason about Dylan’s foibles and not just listen to Jason tell her why she should dump Dylan.
    A twenty-minute venting to Jason cooled Jeanine’s temper somewhat. Jason was as incensed about the tire comment as she was. By the time both of them finished venting about Dylan’s current outlook, Jeanine had arrived at a decision. No more.
    No more. Enough was enough. Dylan might be cute, a good conversationalist, fun to be with, but she was not, under any circumstances, going to be made feel like she was a second-class citizen because she spent her money the way she deemed appropriate. She wasn’t a spendthrift, but once in a while she did splurge on a new pair of shoes.
    Her lifestyle was her business, no one else’s. To think that she had seriously thought about marrying this . . . person . . . if he had proposed. Jeanine could not believe she had been that foolish, even if she was lonely at times.

    Knowing she needed to calm down before talking to Dylan again, Jeanine walked around the pasture, then sat on a log by the branch. She listened to the rippling water and the birds singing in the trees. Spring flowers were in bloom, breaking the monotony of wintered leaves on either side of the branch. Minnows darted from side to side of a still pool under a sycamore’s roots. A light breeze was causing the spring blooms to sway side to side, as if they were waving “hello.”
    Her mood leveled out and Jeanine walked up the hill to the house. Once inside, she debated whether to call Dylan tonight or tomorrow. Tomorrow she decided, then had supper and read a while before bedtime.

    The next morning, Jeanine was at the auto dealership, waiting while they were changing the oil in her truck, when Dylan called. He wanted to know where she was.
    Jeanine told him and he immediately began telling her all the reasons that was wrong. She interrupted his tirade with, “Good morning, Dylan. How are you this morning?” which he ignored, continuing his rant.
    Jeanine listened for a couple of minutes before interrupting him again. “Dylan,” she said. “Dylan. Listen to me. You are in no position to tell me how to spend my money. You spend your money the way you want and I don’t say anything about it. Give me the same courtesy.”
    “You are being unreasonable,” he said. “You know I have expenses you don’t know about. Things I can’t tell you about. And you keep on asking questions.”
    “Okay,” Jeanine said. “I’ll stop asking questions. You stop telling me how to spend my money.”
    “There you go, being unreasonable again.”
    Jeanine took the phone away from her ear, held it in front of her and wondered if a cell phone drove some people crazy. Putting the phone back to her ear, she said, “Dylan, I have no idea why you’ve become so obsessed with my money, but it is bothering me. It makes me feel that you think I’m an idiot, and really makes me think that you want to control me, and that I will not tolerate.
    “What caused you to get this way?”
    “You have no idea what my life is like when you’re not with me,” he said. “There are things I can’t tell you about.”
    Or won’t, Jeanine thought. They lived in different towns and had dates only two or three times a month, so Jeanine was certain she didn’t know what Dylan did other times. This sudden change bothered her. If he loved her as he said he did, why this change? She had suspected more than once that he was married but hadn’t asked any direct questions.
    Was it time to test the waters?
    “When did your wife find out about me” she asked.
    “How did you . . .?” he said, then stopped talking.
    His silence answered Jeanine’s questions.
    “Thanks for your honesty, Dylan,” she told him, ended the call and turned off her phone. She tapped the phone on the arm of the chair. She could hear Jason now – “I knew the s.o.b. wasn’t worth your time” – and his description of Dylan would go downhill from there.

    Jason had been right all along. Dylan wasn’t someone she needed in her life. She hadn’t been looking for romance when they met – she could live without romance in her life. She didn’t need romance, nor did she need a man. 
    Life on her own could be lonely at times, but Jeanine decided loneliness was preferable to a controlling man.

Violets

    The violets in the backyard were blooming today. I haven’t mown yet this spring so they were tall enough for a bouquet. I carefully picked a handful and gently tied a fescue blade around the stems.
    I walked up the hillside to where my heart is buried. As twilight deepened toward night, I laid the violets on his grave, then sat beside him to watch stars appear as the sky darkened.
    I remembered him fussing when I let violets grow in front of the porch, his complaints about “vines.” After he learned that violets don’t vine and they have dark purple blooms, he ceased complaints and enjoyed their blooms and lush foliage. 
    Purple and red blooms were what he liked. Dark purple violets and crocuses, red tulips.
    I have tried to get violets to grow on his grave, but they succumb to the heat of summer, as the hillside here is in full sun all afternoon.
    So, I brought him a bouquet today. Purple violets from our yard. Gathered tenderly so I wouldn’t bruise the blooms. Carried cupped in my hand so the fragile bouquet would stay intact.
    They will be wilted by morning, perhaps scattered by some woodland creature. I know they won’t last a day, but my love for him will last until the end of my days.

Keeping Watch

    I watch Ariel slowly walk down the hill. Her sadness shows.
    Grief hasn't released her heart. I thought by now she would be free of it.
    I was wrong.

    My woman. My wife.
    I have no way to ease her pain.

    She tells me she wants to dream of having my arms around her. I wish I could be in her dreams each night, holding her close, to ease her heart.
    I know she is lonely. She's been visiting me twice a day the past few weeks, says she needs the peace God gives her while she is sitting by my grave.

    Before my death, I told her not to be alone, to find someone to be with. She laughed, said the list was short -- Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott. I know there are men who would be good to her. She has told me of a couple of dates; she says the guys are nice but they're not me. That they always come up short in comparison.
    She says she doesn't understand people who have remarried a year or so after their spouse died, sometimes sooner. Wonders if love was really there between them, how they could turn their backs on a love that was true, if they even cared enough to say good-bye.

    I know Ariel understands death, that we will never be together again on this earthly plane. I know she mourns me, no matter where she may be.
    I wish I could tell her how to say good-bye, how to step into a future without me. But I don't think she wants to try, maybe doesn't really care.

    All I can do is watch her quietly become more alone.