Ladies' Night (38 page)

“Hey, you guys,” Wyatt started, but then he felt his bare foot impaled with a piece of sharp plastic. He stooped over and held up a yellow Lego. “Ow!”

“Dad!” Bo protested. “You messed up my Mega-Bot.” He started to scoop up the scattered red, yellow, green, and blue blocks. “I’ve been working on this all day. Now I gotta start all over.”

“Now you gotta clean up this mess,” Wyatt told him. Nelson looked up from his chair.

“Both of you,” Wyatt said firmly. “We’ve got company coming in fifteen minutes, so I need all hands on deck here. Bo, pick up all your Legos and stash them in their basket, where they belong. Get your uniform and put it in the laundry room, then clean up all this trash on the coffee table. Dad? Didn’t you say you’d fold the laundry and put it away?”

“
You
said I’d fold the laundry,” Nelson muttered, bracing his hands on the recliner’s arms as he struggled to stand. “And what are you going to be doing while me and Bo slave away in here?”

“I’m going to clean up the kitchen, sweep the floor, and take out a week’s worth of garbage. I already cleaned and disinfected the bathroom, so don’t either of you dare go in there.”

“What if I gotta pee?” Bo asked.

“Take it outside,” his father said.

“Who’s coming over, the queen of England?” Nelson griped. He was folding T-shirts and shorts and underpants, matching socks.

“It’s Grace, Dad’s new girlfriend,” Bo told his grandfather.

“Who told you Grace was my girlfriend?” Wyatt said. “I never said that.”

“Well, she is, isn’t she?” Nelson asked.

“Anna said it’s okay for Dad to have a girlfriend, since Mom already has you know who,” Bo commented.

“Remind me to have a discussion with Anna about minding her own business,” Wyatt said. “In the meantime, just get busy, you two. She’ll be here in, like, ten minutes. And she’s bringing dinner, so be nice. And whatever she brings, pretend like you like it.”

“What if she brings fried liver?” Bo asked. “Or lima beans?”

“Or tofu?” Nelson said darkly. “I’m warning you right now. I don’t do tofu.”

“If she tries to make me eat liver and lima beans, I’ll blow chow,” Bo said.

“She’s not bringing liver or tofu,” Wyatt said. “Just remember what I told you. Nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Nelson said under his breath. He looked over at Bo, who was busily wadding up the newspapers and paper bags and stuffing them under the sofa. “Aren’t I always nice?”

Bo gave it some thought. “Mostly. Except when my mom calls.”

*   *   *

Wyatt sprayed the chipped Formica countertops with Windex and surveyed the kitchen. He had no idea what Grace’s reaction would be to his place. He knew she’d lived in some mansion, because he’d surreptitiously looked at pictures of the place on her old blog. It was huge, with something like five bedrooms and four bathrooms, a screening room, home gym, swimming pool, pool house. Hell, from the looks of it, her pool house was bigger than his crappy little double-wide.

Still, she seemed happy enough, working over at the house on Mandevilla, even admitting she’d fantasized about living there. Maybe she wouldn’t turn around and run screaming into the night after she got a look at this dump.

At least it was a fairly tidy dump now. He’d picked some zinnias from the flower bed by the back door and stuck them in an empty jelly jar. The table looked okay, set with his mother’s good dishes, the ones with little sprigs of blue cornflowers and gold edges. The silverware all matched, and there were paper napkins at every place, which was a huge step up from the usual roll of paper towels he kept on the table.

But there were only three chairs. How had he missed that? At one time, the dinette set had four chairs, but just a few months ago Bo had been leaning back in his chair when one of the back legs buckled and cracked. He’d meant to try to fix that. But it was too late now. He hurried through the house, looking for an extra chair. Nothing. In desperation, he went out to the carport, found an old plastic beach chair, and dragged it inside. He frowned. It was too short. He went out to the living room, where Nelson and Bo were again wrapped up in the baseball game. He snatched a throw pillow from the sofa and tossed it onto the seat of the chair, just as he heard a knock at the door.

Wyatt wiped his sweaty palms on the seat of his shorts and went to answer the door.

*   *   *

As Rochelle’d predicted, the taco casserole was a hit with the Keeler men.

“Pretty good,” Nelson said, scraping a last bit of hamburger, tomato sauce, and cheese from his plate. He pointed at the nearly empty Pyrex dish Grace had used to warm up the casserole. “Is that a Frito?”

“Afraid so,” Grace said. “Not very healthy, I know, but…”

Before she could apologize further, Nelson reached across the table and scooped up the last remaining spoonful.

“Dad loves Fritos,” Wyatt said. “Almost as much as chicken potpie.”

“Just the Marie Callender’s ones,” Nelson said. “Not Swanson. The Marie Callender’s are more expensive, but I can usually find a coupon in the Sunday paper.”

“Dad does most of the grocery shopping,” Wyatt said. “He’s a fiend for those coupons. Knows where all the best deals are.”

Nelson beamed at the compliment. “Do you like baked beans? Because I’ve got an extra BOGO for Bush’s baked beans at Winn-Dixie this week.”

“What’s a BOGO?” Wyatt asked.

“Buy one, get-one,” Grace said. “And yes, I’d love a coupon, if you’ve got an extra.”

Dinner, she thought, had been a breeze. It was so cute, the way Wyatt had obviously gone to such pains to make a good impression. She looked down at her plate. “I know this china pattern. It’s Bachelor’s Button, right?”

“Uh, maybe,” Wyatt said.

“That’s right,” Nelson volunteered. “It was our wedding china. Peggy picked it out. Blue flowers were always her favorite.”

“Mine too,” Grace confided. “Bachelor’s buttons, or cornflowers, any shade of hydrangea, iris, those deep-blue pansies with the little clown faces…”

“Plumbago?” Wyatt said. “You like plumbago?”

“I love it, especially the ferny leaves,” Grace said.

“I grow it in our nursery here,” Wyatt said. “We could dig up some clumps and plant it at Mandevilla if you want, maybe a swath of it in front of the gardenias by the porch. The lighter green foliage would be a good contrast against the dark-green gardenia leaves.”

“Great idea,” Grace said. She looked around the table, beaming at the sight of all the empty plates. “I brought dessert, if anyone’s interested.”

“I’m interested,” Bo said.

“You’re interested in any kind of food,” Nelson observed.

“Except liver and lima beans,” the child said. “Gross.”

Grace laughed. “I have to agree with you there. Totally, gag-me-with-a-spoon gross.”

She’d sliced the brownie pie into generous squares and arranged them on one of the chipped white plates she’d found in the cupboard. Now, she set it in the center of the table. “My mom’s brownie pie. It’s her secret recipe, so I don’t know what’s in it, but we always sell out at the Sandbox.”

Each of the males at the table immediately reached for a square. They were all munching happily.

“Bo, I meant to ask, how did your big T-ball game go today?” Grace asked.

“We lost,” Bo said, spraying crumbs of chocolate over his plate.

“Not with your mouth full,” Wyatt warned.

Bo chewed for a moment, then, his eyes on his father, carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We lost to the stinkin’ Pythons. Our archenemy.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said.

“But we played great,” Wyatt said. “Bo hit a triple and a double. And he hit a smokin’ line drive that probably would have homered, except their third baseman, who I totally think is on growth hormones, because the kid is six and he’s like six feet tall, made a diving catch.”

“But then I struck out. Twice,” Bo said sadly.

“Boy, you’re batting four hundred,” Nelson reminded him. “That ain’t too shabby.”

Bo eyed the last slice of pie on the plate, his hand hovering just above it, until his father nodded approval.

“Granddad, I’m four hundred for the week, three-fifty for the season. This kid on the Wolverines, he’s batting six hundred. Scout’s striking out, like, two kids an inning.”

“Wow,” Grace said admiringly. “You really do know your statistics. Your dad told me you’re quite a math wizard.”

“He’s a freak,” Wyatt said, gazing fondly at his son. “But he’s our freak.”

Bo looked longingly toward the other room. “The game’s still on, Dad. Can I be excused?”

“After you two clear the dishes. And thank Grace for the dinner she cooked.”

“Don’t thank me,” Grace admitted. “My mom fixed everything. I just carried it over here.”

“Dinner was awesome,” Bo said, gathering the dishes.

Nelson stood slowly. “Anytime you want to bring over some more of that taco casserole, please feel free.”

Wyatt looked at Grace, who was starting to gather up the silverware. “That’s Dad’s job,” he said. “It’s not too hot right now. I thought maybe I’d take you on a tour of the park. If you’re interested.”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Grace said.

40

The golf cart bumped noiselessly along the crushed-shell pathways, an occasional limb or branch slapping harmlessly at Grace’s arm. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of damp earth and tropical flowers. It was twilight, and birds and squirrels twittered from the thick tree canopy. And from somewhere off in the park came an unearthly shriek that made Grace startle, so much that she nearly fell off the cart. “What was that?” she asked, clutching Wyatt’s arm for balance.

“Peacocks,” Wyatt said. “The bane of my existence. If only that damned coyote had jumped a peacock…”

“But they’re so beautiful,” Grace said. “So elegant.”

“So noisy and cranky and a major pain in my ass,” Wyatt said firmly. “People in the neighborhood around here are always calling the cops to complain that we’re torturing animals over here. We can’t make ’em understand that it’s just normal peacock behavior.”

“Why do you have them if you don’t like them?”

“Jungle Jerry’s has always had peacocks,” Wyatt said. “The first pair, Ike and Mamie, were my grandmother’s pets. After they died, we thought we were through with peacocks, but no, somebody was always ‘gifting’ us with new peacocks. People get them because they think they’re such a classy addition to a garden or an estate. Then they hear that ungodly banshee screeching and they can’t get rid of them fast enough. They don’t even ask us. They just drop the damned things off in the parking lot in the middle of the night, like stray kittens.”

He pointed to a huge banyan tree a few hundred yards ahead. “They like to roost there.” The path wound around the tree and a clearing came into sight. It was ringed with flowering bushes, and a tall rose-covered arch was centered in a swath of grass.

“That’s the butterfly garden,” Wyatt said, pointing. “And the wedding chapel, in the middle there.”

“How pretty,” Grace said. “Do you get many weddings here?”

“Not so many lately,” Wyatt said. “Couples seem to want to get married at the beach. Anyway, we don’t have the kind of upscale facilities a lot of brides want. The only bathrooms are back at the gift shop, and they’re not too glamorous. And let’s face it, Jungle Jerry’s ain’t exactly a classy destination.”

“That’s a shame,” Grace said. “It really is a lovely setting, with all the trees and flowers around, and that sort of meadow in the middle. You could bring in a tent and those fancy port-a-potties that are on trailers, with running water and everything. A good wedding planner could pull off an amazing event here.”

“Know any?” Wyatt said gloomily. “Me neither.”

The path made a sharp left and suddenly they were surrounded on both sides by a dense wall of bamboo. A light rain had begun falling, so she moved away from the open sides of the cart. Grace caught a glimpse of some kind of structure through the curtain of green.

“What’s that back there?”

“That’s what’s left of Jungle Jerry’s big-cat house,” Wyatt said. He explained about his grandfather’s short-lived career as a lion tamer, and how all the big cats had long ago left the premises.

“From what I’ve heard, they used to really pack ’em in for the shows,” Wyatt said. “At one time we had a ‘Safari Train’ that ferried people from the parking lot back in here. It was really nothing more than a glorified tractor with a bunch of open cars tacked on the back. Dad sold the train for scrap after we farmed out all the animals more than twenty years ago. But the cages and the remains of the grandstand are still back there. Mostly rust and dust. He planted bamboo to try to provide a natural barrier, but he didn’t really understand back then how invasive the stuff is. It’s a constant, losing battle, trying to keep it from totally taking over every inch of the park.”

“I had no idea what all was involved in running a place like this,” Grace said, studying Wyatt’s strong, stubborn profile. “I’m amazed you’ve been able to keep it running after all these years.”

He turned and flashed her a rueful grin. “No more amazed than me. But it’s not like I really had a choice.”

Her hand crept across the bench seat and gave his forearm a squeeze. They rode along for several more minutes with nothing louder than the sound of the rain lightly falling and a breeze ruffling the bamboo until the path took a sharp left.

The bamboo hedge ended abruptly in a large field. Rows of flowers and young trees were laid out in straight lines. A tin-roofed shed was off to one side, under the shade of a large tree.

“This is my favorite place in the park,” Wyatt said. “My nursery.”

He pulled the golf cart up to the shed and jumped out. “We can hang out here ’til the rain stops.” A moment later he was back with a pair of rubber boots. “It’s pretty muddy,” he warned, handing them to her. “You might want to wear these.”

Grace slipped out of her sandals and plunged her feet into the boots, which were four sizes too big and reached nearly to her knees. She giggled as she climbed clumsily out of the cart, lumbering forward in the oversized boots.