Cherry Pie

Cherry Pie

Samantha Kane

www.loose-id.com

Cherry Pie

Copyright © April 2011 by Samantha Kane

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eISBN 978-1-60737-995-9

Editor: Jana J. Hanson

Cover Artist: April Martinez

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 425960

San Francisco CA 94142-5960

www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

* * *

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to the New South. And to small towns and cities everywhere that are struggling to find their place in a rapidly changing world. Second chances aren’t just for people.

“If Heaven” by Gretchen Peters (sung by Andy Griggs)

If heaven was a pie it would be cherry

So cool and sweet and heavy on the tongue.

And just one bite would satisfy your hunger

And there’d always be enough for everyone.

Chapter One

He was there again, sitting in the shade of the scraggly crape myrtle across the street. This was the third day in a row. Well, the second day. He’d arrived two nights ago. So two nights and two days. Not that John was counting.

He looked young, but it was hard to tell from here. He was wearing baggy jeans and a dark hoodie, definitely not your typical Thursday morning uniform here in Mercury, North Carolina. At least not that John had seen in his few months here.

John took a sip of his coffee. It was still too hot. He wished he could figure out how to lower the temperature on the machine, but that kind of shit had been Steve’s job. John hated little gadgets like espresso machines. Which was ironic considering he’d made his fortune as a computer programmer and designer. But the Italian monstrosity that Steve had insisted on didn’t come with a keyboard. It barely came with instructions. Steve had fallen instantly in love with it and talked to the damn thing every morning he’d been home.

With a shaky hand John set his coffee down on the table in the entryway. He blew out a breath and ran his hands through his hair, which felt a little greasy and very messy. He unlocked the door. Now was as good a time as any to find out who this guy was and what he wanted.

As soon as he stepped out the front door onto his beat-up porch, the guy put his book down and stood up, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked defensive. Not in a threatening way, just wary.

“Are you casing the joint?” John called out congenially. He casually leaned against the post at the top of the stairs. It was a big wraparound porch, the kind that made him think of a younger America—families on the porch after church on Sunday, kids and dogs running up and down the steps while the grown-ups rocked on the porch and sipped lemonade and mint juleps. It was why John had bought the house. That and the backyard.

“No,” the guy answered. His voice was deep. He hadn’t even had to yell. John had heard that bass tone easily, spoken from across the quiet street.
No kid, then.

John waited, but there was nothing more forthcoming. He frowned and pursed his lips. Thought about going back in. Rejected that plan. “What are you doing here, then?”

The guy looked down and scuffed his shoe in the dirt. “That was my mama’s house.”

A jolt of surprise went through John. “They told me there was no family. I bought the house at auction.”

The guy nodded and looked to his right, down the street. “Yes, sir. They couldn’t find me. I’ve been gone awhile.”

They stood there for a few more minutes, the stranger studiously not looking at John, and John staring holes through him. Finally he turned to John, and his direct stare shocked John enough to make him straighten up and take a step back.

“I just wanted to come in for a minute,” he said. He spoke quietly, but that voice of his carried on the cool morning air. “I just want to walk around for a bit.”

John shut his ears to the grief in the other man’s voice. “No.” He turned and went back inside.

The day grew warm. And humid. John wasn’t used to the Southern weather. Cool spring in the morning, hot summer by afternoon. Well, hot for him. People around here laughed when he called it hot. That did not bode well, in his opinion, for the summer.

He was still there. He’d taken his hoodie off and wore a faded red T-shirt underneath. Still, he had to be suffering in those jeans. By midday that crape myrtle wasn’t offering much shade anymore. His back was against it as he sat there watching the house, his gaze wandering up and down the street now and then. He had one knee bent and his arm rested on it, pointing to nowhere. A Southern David, waiting for the touch of Robert E. Lee to bring him back to life.

John wondered why no one else found his presence odd. None of his neighbors had come out to investigate. No one had called the cops. True, he wasn’t doing much more than sitting there. His neighbors probably thought he belonged to John. They didn’t know what to make of that Californian who’d bought the old Meecham place. John’s lips quirked in wry amusement. He didn’t know what to do with him either.

He turned resolutely away from the window. Lunch was over. Back to work.

At dusk he was gone. John was irritated that he was worried about him. Did he have a place to stay? He knew he had no family around here.

He shook it off. The stranger’s voice, his demeanor, everything about him told John that he wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. He had the patience of Job to sit out there waiting. A man had to learn that the hard way. John knew all about waiting.

John didn’t go look first thing in the morning. He forced himself to keep to his routine. Not that there was much to it. Roll out of bed, run his hand through his hair, and pull a T-shirt on over his flannel pajama pants. Steve had hated those pants. He complained they made him hot, lying there next to John. So John left them off when Steve was home. He didn’t have to worry about that now. He could wear them whenever he wanted.

This morning’s T-shirt was blue. He’d bought it at a Walmart in Oklahoma City on the drive from California to North Carolina, just because he could. Just because he’d never bought a shirt at Walmart before.

He turned on the coffee machine.
Good Morning
, the LCD screen said.
Your espresso machine is heating.

“Good morning,” John automatically replied. He’d started talking to the machine the morning he knew Steve wasn’t coming back. He didn’t want it to get lonely.

He stared out the kitchen window to the backyard. He’d gotten quite a bit done out there yesterday. He was replacing the fence. The old one had been falling down when he moved in. It was the first major job he had to do outside. He was going to get the yard in shape before he tackled the front porch. And the house needed to be painted. He’d never done any work like this before. It was slow going.

The gardening was going to be tough. He wasn’t a gardener. He didn’t have a rapport with plants. But there was no nice Japanese gentleman here that he could hire to come and make his yard bloom year-round with beautiful exotic plants. He’d left Mr. Natsumi in LA. He’d been one of the hardest things to leave behind. Actually, he was the only thing that was hard to leave behind.

On that depressing thought, John turned back to the coffee machine.
Make your selection
, the screen said.

“Thanks, I will,” John answered. “How about a regular cup of normal coffee, not too hot?” Just like every other morning, there was no response. So with a sigh, he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and got his own too-hot espresso.

John finally allowed himself to check about half an hour later. He was back. John stood there in front of the bay window wearing the khakis he’d replaced his flannels with as he sipped his second cup of coffee. That sort of diligence deserved a reward, he supposed. And he could spare a minute or two while he finished his coffee.

He walked over and opened the front door.

Chapter Two

John stood there, his back to the street, his arm straight out as he held the door open, waiting.

He heard the guy cross the street and open the front gate. The slap of his shoes on the concrete changed to a graveled shuffle when he hit the path from the sidewalk to the porch. At that point John simply walked away. He moved off and went to the kitchen, not sure why he’d left him to enter the house on his own.

John leaned his ass against the kitchen counter, right in front of the sink. He could see straight through the house from here, right to the front door. The stranger came in and wiped his feet on the small rug in front of the door for that purpose. John had to smile. At least he’d been raised properly. Idly John wondered if there had been a rug there when this guy’s mom owned the house. He pulled the hoodie off and looked up to see John watching him. He had dark blue eyes and really dark brown hair, wavy and thick. That was a nice head of hair.
Bastard
. John had always wanted hair like that.

“May I come in?” he asked. His manners should have seemed out of place, but instead they somehow added depth to the picture he made standing there in his tattered clothes with his thick, messy hair.

John waved a hand in front of him like Vanna revealing the letter of the day. “Be my guest,” he said politely. “You wore me down.”

He was a big one. Taller than John by several inches, he barely cleared the low door frames of the old house. His shoulders were wider than they ought to be, as if they used to belong to someone who had more bulk than this tall, lean, young man. John watched him as he turned and closed the front door, producing a quiet
snick
in the heavy silence. He set a raggedy gym bag down on the floor.