The Talk of the Town (14 page)

“I see.” Roxie set the ledger next to the letters. “Have you got the bank packet?”

“Mr. Stewart gave it to me before he left,” Barbara confirmed. “I’ll put it in the night deposit slot on my way home.”

“Well, have a good weekend,” Roxie said and turned to leave.

“About you and Luke Bauer,” Barbara said abruptly.

Roxie froze in the doorframe.

“I don’t care what Willie or Fesol say, I think he’s okay,” Barbara declared in a rush. “He works hard and doesn’t cause any trouble. Besides, he’s a real good-looker. And if any man ever set eyes on me the way he does on you, I wouldn’t care what he’d done either.”

Though she was sorely tempted, Roxie managed not to smile or laugh or do anything undignified. She merely nodded and said, “I’ll see you Monday” and left the warehouse.

But the encounter buoyed her. As they had after she’d hired him, people would gradually come to accept him. She believed that with all her heart. She whistled cheerily as she drove back to town and carried the tune with her when she parked in front of the general store.

The long bench outside the store was empty, which meant she didn’t have to stop to visit with anyone—a welcome change. In the summer, the iceman made a delivery three times a week to leave fifty pounds of ice in the big square soda cooler that stood on the porch next to the door. Those who could afford it bought a soda to sip as they sat there talking about their crops or the weather or their neighbors. Those who could not afford a soda dipped into the cooler and took a chunk of ice to suck on. This summer, it was rumored, there had been more ice taken than soda sold.

Inside the store, Roxie was greeted with conversations dwindling into dead silence and grazing glances of chilling brevity. It was a curt reminder that acceptance wouldn’t come as easily as she had hoped.

“Hello,” she said to one and all.

Agnes Dill sniffed audibly and jammed the package of headache powder she had just purchased into her handbag.

Two women who had been visiting with each other nodded brusquely and turned away to finish their shopping.

The four men who were sitting around the long-range radio in the back of the store and talking over the announcer probably didn’t hear her.

Virginia Jones stepped out from behind the old-fashioned brass cash register and hurried over to give Roxie a quick hug. “How can I help you, dear?”

Though she half-suspected Virginia’s action stemmed more from a desire to further ruffle Agnes’s feathers than to soothe her own, Roxie nonetheless gave her a grateful smile. “I need to buy a can of molasses.”

“Are you making those good cookies of yours?

Roxie nodded. “The Ladies Aide is meeting in the church kitchen this evening to do the baking.”

“It ought to be a little cooler there, being in the basement.”

“I certainly hope so.”

As Agnes swept past them and out of the store, Virginia added fuel to the nosy parker’s fire. “Be sure to save a few of your cookies for Luke.”

Roxie knew exactly what the older woman was doing, and it took everything she had not to laugh. “He said he’d try to come to the sale.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he’ll be there with bells on.” Before she turned away to help another customer, Virginia added, “Just take what you need, dear. I have to work tomorrow, so that will be my contribution.”

“Thank you.” In a much better mood now, Roxie went in search of her molasses.

The store was dimly lit, smelled not unpleasantly of leather and peppermint and tobacco, and was crammed with the necessities of life. A counter ran the length of one wall. In addition to the cash register, it was covered with bottles of patent medicines, a large scale for measuring, glass jars filled with penny candies, pickled eggs, or pickles. Barrels of crackers, kegs of nails and sacks of chicken feed stood at the end of shelves that ran floor to ceiling and were stuffed with everything from shoes to pharmaceuticals to yard goods to groceries.

As she neared the back, a radio bulletin came in about a break-out from the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, immediately followed by a description of the car the jailbirds had stolen after making their escape.

“I wonder which way they’re headed,” one of the men said.

“The announcer said they’re from Chicago,” a second man supplied.

“Which means they’re probably on their way north now,” somebody else speculated.

“Yeah, well, we’ve got our own homegrown convict to worry about,” the fourth man sniped.

Roxie stopped right then and almost said something. She thought of Luke, who hadn’t missed a day of work since he started and who was doing his best to make up for what he readily admitted were his stupid mistakes. Instead, she grabbed her small can of molasses off the shelf and left the store with nary a word.

* * * *

“You’re awfully quiet this evening.”

Roxie pulled her last sheet of cookies out of the oven and, straightening, smiled at Lottie Campbell. “It was a busy week at work, so I guess I’m still a little tired.”

“I certainly understand.” Lottie lifted a hand to push a damp strand of her dark hair back from her brow. She was expecting her first child any day now and could easily have pleaded her late-term pregnancy as an excuse not to participate tonight. But her railroad detective husband was working the Wichita run and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow morning, so she had volunteered to help clean up after the baking marathon.

And a marathon, it was. After sharing a light supper of tuna salad and quartered tomatoes in the social hall, the Ladies Aide group had swooped in and taken over the church kitchen with its wide counters, oversized ovens and deep double sinks. They’d stirred cake batter, rolled pie crusts, chopped various fruits and nuts and dropped spoonfuls of cookie dough until the baked goods they hoped to sell covered every available surface. Now they were just about finished cleaning up their mess.

Roxie turned the nearest floor fan toward her friend, hoping to stir up a little more cool air to offset the warmth from the ovens. “It must be rough being pregnant in this heat.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Lottie snatched a molasses cookie off the cooling rack and then gave Roxie an arch look. “Just wait until you find some nice young man to marry. See what you have to look forward to?”

The innocent statement seemed to have a hidden message. Roxie examined Lottie’s shiny face and decided her suspicions were groundless. She was becoming paranoid. Lottie didn’t mean anything.

Just the same, depression crept in on Roxie. Finding a “nice young man” wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She knew. She’d tried. Now she was beginning to wonder if she ever would. All of her high school friends and most of her college classmates were married, many of them with young children already. She was well past what Blue Ridge considered the normal marriageable age and could, she supposed, be called a spinster.

No sooner had Lottie carried Roxie’s used cookie sheet and spatula to the suds-filled sink to wash it than Candise Sherman chimed in. “Do you remember my friend Robertha, Robertha Homan?”

Roxie thought a minute. “Vaguely, yes.”

“Well, her cousin Ralph has been accepted into veterinary school at the University of Missouri.”

“That’s nice.”

Candise centered her blackberry jam cake on a doily-covered plate. “He’s going to be in town for a couple of weeks before he starts school, staying with Robertha and her husband.”

Involuntarily, Roxie’s stance took on a defensive rigidity. “What’s this all about, Candise? Are you trying to fix me up?”

“Not if you’re not interested,” she replied, unperturbed. “But if you should decide you might be—”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Roxie responded as pleasantly as she could. It was quite a feat, as she wasn’t feeling very pleasant.

“She’s waiting for Charles ‘Buddy’ Rogers to fly in on that airplane of his from
Wings
,” Roxie’s sister-in-law Marlene said with a smirk.

“Or for Tom Mix to come riding into town on his horse Tony,” Ola Barber said on a titter.

Candise shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind—”

The preacher’s wife, Margaret Pierce, came to Roxie’s rescue, clapping her hands and saying, “It’s going on eight o’clock, ladies, and we have an early day tomorrow, so let’s finish getting the kitchen cleaned up and get home.”

By the time all the baking utensils were washed and dried and put neatly away, Roxie sensed a conspiracy in the making. Having happened, said Julia Murphy, to overhear Candise mention Robertha’s cousin Ralph, she couldn’t help relating that she’d met him at a Christmas party last year.

“Such a nice young man,” she declared.

“A nice young man,” Rose Dirks echoed.

The phrase caught Roxie’s ear. She darted a look at Ola, who was in deep discussion with Elsie Martin as they hung their damp towels to dry on the metal hooks above the double sinks. Perhaps she wasn’t paranoid after all.

Within five minutes she was certain she wasn’t. Elsie came first, stepping into place beside Roxie and complaining that she was exhausted. “Thank heaven we’re finished,” she whined, then quickly added, “But you must be really worn out—after working all day at the warehouse and all.”

“It’s not any more tiring than housework, Elsie.”

“No, not physically, but you’ve got to deal with so many problems.”

“You’ve got a point, Elise,” Ola agreed. “Why, I wouldn’t want Roxie’s job for anything, having to handle all the responsibilities she does.” She gave Roxie a look brimming with sympathetic understanding. “You made a tough decision when you took on Luke Bauer. It must take a lot out of you to stand by it.”

Roxie let it pass as she checked her apron for stains. Finding none, she folded it and put it away in the designated drawer. The pattern was beginning to take shape. Divert her with a “nice young man,” then stress the not-so-niceness of the one threatening her, sweetened by a heavy dose of compassion. Her first reaction was sheer anger. At least Fesol had had the courage to tell her outright, even if he did dress it up as “friendly advice.”

But, as always, her wrath was fleeting. Fesol hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said everyone was concerned. She could see it in their eyes, in the way each of them found it so difficult to speak to her. It touched her, this comprehensive caring about what happened to her. Even as she resented the interference, Roxie felt moved by the solicitude.

In a welter of confusion, she welcomed the end of the evening. She boxed up her cookies so the transportation committee could move them to the bank tomorrow and then made her good-nights hurriedly before escaping up the stairs. She wasn’t quite fast enough, however. Marlene reached her side before she reached the top.

“Hold on a minute, Roxie,” her sister-in-law said. “I’d like a word with you.”

Thoroughly tired, feeling as if she’d been plowed under a ton of conflicting emotions, she wanted nothing less than to hear another word about men, nice or otherwise. “Some other time, Marlene. Please, I’m exhausted.”

But Marlene would not be put off. “I won’t keep you long. I just want to ask you to think about what you’re doing.”

Roxie blew out a long, bitter breath. Hadn’t she already heard this lecture? But she didn’t evade the point. “A few lunches together. What’s so awful about that? All we’ve done is talk.”

“It’s what those talks will lead to that worries us.”

“You expect us to tear off our clothes and make love on the tabletops?”

A flash of hurt clouded Marlene’s expression. “Of course not. But for your own good, don’t forget what he is.”

“He doesn’t have leprosy. His past isn’t contagious!” Roxie couldn’t hold in her exasperation.

“We don’t care about his past, dear, can’t you see that? We don’t care about him at all. It’s you we care about, you and your future.” Marlene clasped her sister-in-law’s shoulders and gently shook her. “We love you, and we don’t want to see you hurt. We don’t ever again want to see you looking like the whipped puppy you were when you came back from St. Louis. So, please, think about those innocent little lunches and just what exactly you’re getting into. Okay?”

Roxie’s heart knocked painfully against her ribcage. It seemed to take a lifetime for the word to come to her lips. But inevitably, it did. “Okay.”

On the heels of her promise, she broke free of Marlene’s grasp and bolted up the last of the stairs.

* * * *

Roxie kept to her word. She thought about it. In fact, she thought of little else the rest of the weekend. With careful deliberation she assessed the value of the hints and warnings she’d received. She easily dismissed the common fears that Luke was either a dangerous man or a villainous one. Despite what he’d done nearly eight years ago, Luke was industrious, reliable, determined to reshape his life. She knew no one would believe it, but he was far more conservative than she, even on legal issues. No, she wasn’t worried about Luke’s past, nor even about his possible recidivism.

She was worried about Luke the man. The sensitive, intelligent, gentle man who could make her heart sing with his laughter and sigh with his quietude. And now she was worried about herself.

More than anything Marlene had said, it had been the remark about the whipped puppy that caused Roxie to seriously ponder what she might be getting herself into. As much as it galled her to admit it, she had returned from St. Louis with her head hung and her tail between her legs. She’d been broken emotionally—at the time, she thought irreparably—but time truly does heal all wounds, and as she mended she’d clung to the certain resolution that she’d never again allow herself to be so hurt.

In the past few weeks that resolution had been endangered. Even in such a short time, she’d revealed far more of herself to Luke than she ever had to Arthur. She’d made herself vulnerable to Luke as she had never done with another man, and all because Luke was the one thing Arthur had never been—her friend. And she treasured his friendship.

If friendship were all she felt for Luke, she would defy the whole town, the whole world if necessary, to preserve it. If friendship were all, she wouldn’t give a fingersnap for anyone’s opinion.