Cold Tea on a Hot Day (16 page)

“Vella?” he said hoarsely, and found the name was not familiar on his tongue.

He went upstairs to find her in their bedroom, grabbing clothes out of her dresser drawers and throwing them into two suitcases that lay wide-open on the bed—the suitcases she had bought when she made that trip to New Orleans to look at roses a couple of years ago and that he thought were way too high priced.

“I am leavin’ you, Perry. I can’t go on like this another minute.”

Perry didn’t know what to say. He tried to think of something, but nothing would come. He had a sense of being in the
Twilight Zone
television show.

She wouldn’t leave. She was a sixty-four-year-old woman. Or maybe she was sixty-five, he wasn’t certain.

The next minute she fastened the bulging suitcases, grabbed each handle with her blue-veined hands, dragged the cases off the bed and past him, and threw them down the stairs, denting and scratching the wall they’d paid big bucks to have painted six months ago, and the banister and the floor at the bottom. One by one she hauled the cases out of the house and threw them into her car and drove off into the hot ball of a western sun.

Perry blinked against the glare. The picture left in his mind was of her enormous breasts in white cotton swaying as she slipped behind the steering wheel.

When Vella flew past in her car and saw Winston in his yard taking in his flags, which he could finally do alone these days, she pressed the accelerator harder to keep from stopping and flinging herself into his arms.

It wasn’t until she got to Main Street and passed the drugstore, where her daughter Belinda would be working the counter, that she realized she had no place to go. She could not go in and talk about this to Belinda, for heavensake. Belinda was no more a conversationalist than her father, except with Deputy Midgett, with whom she now lived in sin; thank God she had moved out at last, even if it was to the apartment over the drugstore.

There was Minnie Oakes, but generally Vella found Minnie’s brain stuffed with straw. Minnie rarely had an original thought, and their friendship was one of sharing stain removal tips and ice-cream cones, not confidences.

Outside of Minnie, Vella could not name a close friend. At least, not a woman friend. There was Winston, but she could not go to him. She certainly didn’t want to be included in his “old lady collection.”

She drove on along the highway. Maybe she would just keep on driving clear to California and the ocean, take off all her clothes on the beach and walk right into the water naked.

That she was repeatedly coming back to sensuous thoughts became clear to her. She had been battling them for months, and yet they kept getting stronger and stronger.

Tears streamed down her face.
Oh, Lord, what has happened to me? What have I done?

About five more miles and the cool air blowing on her breasts brought it to her attention that she needed to pull over and fasten up her blouse.

Tate Holloway
was
flirting with her.

Marilee could no longer dismiss the fact of his flirting, as she had tried to do ever since her very first meeting with the man. Trying, and mostly succeeding, to not let Tate’s attention be unduly flattering, she nevertheless admitted to herself that she would have to be dead not to find it quite nice.

And she kept recalling how he had told her, in her own kitchen that Lindsey was not a man up to “a woman like her.” She wanted very much to question him about that provocative statement, however, she did not think she would like his opinion. She told herself to focus on his instructions for the use of the new whiz-bang computer.

She knew instantly that she had a fine mind to be able to handle so many conflicting thoughts coming into it at one time, yet she did not overly congratulate herself on such a trait, because science had shown that the ability was present in all women. She thought maybe God had sensibly installed it into the female species as a strategy for survival in a man’s world.

“Now, Miss Marilee…you don’t have to hit that button. You can just tap this little mouse window you’re usin’ with your finger.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She liked that.

“Are you havin’ trouble seein’? Maybe the screen isn’t bright enough. All you have to do is use this button. See?”

“Oh, that
is
better!”

“Who is that in the picture?”

“What? Oh, that’s my ex-husband, Stuart.” It was silly to feel uncomfortable about being asked about Stuart. She noticed that Tate had blue eyes, like Stuart.

“Devil-may-care fellow.”

“Yes…he was, pretty much.”

“He looks familiar to me.” But his blue eyes were on Marilee’s, as if he were trying to see into her mind.

She averted her eyes. “You might have seen his work, or even met him. He was quite a well-known photographer. Lots of his stuff in
National Geographic, Life,
a few in
Time.
” And
he
had been a flirt, too.

Tate frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I have…but I think he more reminds me of Parker Lindsey.”

Gazing at the screen, Marilee typed. The letters came out crazy.

“Your left hand needs to move over a key,” Tate pointed out.

“This keyboard is awkward.”

“You can plug in your big one. I’ve got the ergonomic ones on order.”

“Oh.”

“Want me to plug your big one in now?”

“Yes, that might be a good idea.”

He did all he was supposed to, quite efficiently; he apparently knew electronic gadgets. She tried the bigger keyboard and found it worked well.

“Does this little thing do the same as a mouse?”

“Yep.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Your choice.”

When they finally closed the computer, Marilee was so relieved and delighted to be able to work it that she not only felt compelled to apologize for her sharp behavior but was actually able to do so.

“I’m sorry for being so snippy earlier,” she said, almost choking on the words. She thought of how she had been sharp with Parker and knew that she would probably never master the art of apology.

“Ah, Miss Marilee, I don’t think I’d give a penny for a woman without some spunk.”

He was looking at her in that way of his, as if thoroughly pleased with every bit of her that he saw. A warm flush fell over her and gathered between her legs.

Averting her eyes, she rose and headed for the kitchen. Willie Lee and Munro had fallen asleep together on the couch, and Corrine was sitting in the big chair, reading an
American Girls
book. Marilee didn’t think Corrine should see her in that moment. Corrine was too observant by far; she would understand immediately that Marilee felt an attraction for this man. Good Lord, Marilee didn’t want anyone to see her being such a fool.

She poured two glasses of iced tea and turned, intent on taking his into the living room, but there he was draped in the doorway.

“Thank you for bringing the iced tea.” She held out the glass, and he came over to take it from her.

Drinking deeply from her own, she thought the best course was to drink the tea quickly down and then tell him
good-night. She would not ask him about his comment the previous evening. She was going to ignore it.

“You’re welcome,” he returned quite happily. “It is my way of returning what I borrowed.”

“You borrowed an entire box.”

“I know. I’ll return it a little at a time, all made up.”

Then, without benefit of invitation, just as he had done the previous evening, he pulled out a chair and sat himself at the table, saying, “The important thing to know about brewing good iced tea is to use distilled water. And tea bags are okay, but I prefer to use loose tea—black-and-orange pekoe—and pour the hot water over it. You can’t go off and let the tea sit there longer than eight minutes, either, because then you get the tannic acid comin’ out, and that makes the brew bitter. ‘Course, tea made in the sun can sit longer.”

“You are a quite a connoisseur of cold tea,” Marilee said, both impressed with a man who would take care with such a small thing and wondering how in the devil she would tell him goodbye now with him sitting himself down.

“Good cold tea on a hot day is the secret of life,” he replied.

She gazed at him. “I think I’ve heard you pronounce about three different things as being
the
secret to life.”

“Well, you know, Miss Marilee…”

Tate pulled on his ear and grinned that grin, charming enough to coax bees from their hive, “…I’m still searchin’ for that one major secret to life.”

Marilee wrapped an arm around her middle and held on to herself, quite possibly to keep from going straight
to him, throwing herself on his lap and seeing what the kiss in his eyes would feel like on her lips.

The idea was preposterous. The idea of kissing him scared her pants off.

Thankfully, he quite suddenly quit flirting and led the way into discussing the needs down at the newspaper. He said he had that afternoon hired a new layout man, a young guy fresh from college with a graphic art degree. “With the salary I can pay, my choices of experienced people are limited,” he said. “He’ll be here the end of next month.”

Marilee asked him forthrightly if he intended to let any of them go.

“No,” he replied instantly. “I may need to switch people around to different jobs, but I’ll find a place for everyone.”

“You won’t be able to switch Zona to another job,” Marilee said and moved to sit opposite him at the table. She had to find a way to make certain Zona remained protected.

But Tate said in an understanding manner, “No, I won’t be switchin’ Zona,” and gave a wry smile. “I’ve begun to wonder if she sleeps in that office. I don’t ever see her come or go.”

“She does not intend anyone—especially you—to see her. Give her time, though. She’ll thaw a little when she gets to know you. It’s just that she has a very hard time with change. And with men.”

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked bluntly.

“The gossip is her overbearing father. What is known,
however, is that she suffered severe schizophrenia in her twenties. Treatment has helped her, allows her to operate outside a hospital, anyway. After her parents died, she was destitute. Then one day Ms. Porter brought her in and made her the bookkeeper. It turned out Zona is a genius with numbers, and somehow Ms. Porter had discovered this. I think Ms. Porter had been trying to help Zona all along.”

“Muriel was always like that,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “She doesn’t look like an altruistic pudding heart, but she is.”

Marilee watched his eyes drift down to the table and saw emotions flow across his face. She looked at the tender spot where his hair curled behind his ear. It was white hair there, mingling in with the sun-streaked blond.

Then he was looking back at her, cocking his head. “How many know that Charlotte is in love with Leo?”

Marilee, quite struck by this further proof of his powers of observation, said, “Well, I know, and now you know. I’m not certain Leo knows. He is so used to women doing for him that Charlotte getting coffee for him each morning isn’t going to mean much. And Charlotte may be denying it to herself. She’s so hungry for a romantic relationship and scared to death of it at the same time.”

“That’s a common place to be,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

She thought his eyes most remarkable, and then she realized he was gazing at her in that way that was sizing her up.

“I read your piece on the detention center,” he said. “You did a very good job of keeping to the middle ground.”

“I can take that as approval?” She decided to size him up in return.

“Oh, yes, ma’am…I think your ability to present a story without biasing it with your opinions is very good. I think, too, that when you decide to move people with a feature, like the piece I read in the files that you did about the retirement community the MacCoys are building, or the one you did about the young man getting crazed on drugs and threatening people with an unloaded gun, you’re even better. You are good at putting your heart in your work. You should do more of it.”

Marilee had not before heard much analytical praise for her writing; Ms. Porter had never been one for even the mildest praise of one of her writers. Either what you had written was adequate or it was not, that was all there was to it. Now Marilee wasn’t certain how to respond. She felt decidedly uncomfortable.

Tate said, “I want you to do a feature on detention centers across the state, and how each community has been impacted. I want you to show the good and the bad. Then when you come to your own conclusion, you write a piece reflecting that.”

“What if I don’t come to a conclusion?” she asked right off.

“Then reflect that.”

She nodded, thinking immediately of the children.

As if he heard her thoughts, he added, “It’ll mean some traveling, but I believe you can take the children with you.” He raised an eyebrow.