The Talk of the Town (23 page)

And then he remembered.

He remembered the wonderful evening, the beauty of the night enhanced by the beauty of Roxie. He remembered the feel of her, the creamy texture of her skin, the silken softness of her hair. He remembered the rosewater scent that grew stronger with her ardor and the passionate fervor that heightened with each kiss. He remembered, and he felt himself warming with the memories.

He opened his eyes and slowly bent to pick up the almost-empty jar. He remembered, then, which corner of which road. Remembered, too, the way the rotgut whiskey he’d swilled had made his eyes water, his nose run, and his throat burn. It was the worst-tasting, most potent stuff he’d ever put a lip on, and he’d erroneously figured it was the best way to help him forget what had transpired.

The end of the evening had been the end of his dreams and the beginning of his descent into a drunken hell. He had done what he had to do, for Roxie’s sake, but it had cost him dearly. It would be so much more lonely going on without her now than it would have been had he never met her.

As if to add to his suffering, the church bells rang. In his mind’s eye he could see her dressed in her Sunday best. He imagined how the morning sun would glimmer in the honey-gold strands of her hair as she climbed the steps to attend the weekly worship service. He pictured her sweet face turned to the front as she sat in the pew between her mother and father, listening to the preacher’s sermon. He heard her clear voice singing one of those old-time hymns he remembered from his childhood.

What would she pray for? When she bowed her head, would she pray for him and for his salvation? Or would she simply ask the Lord to help her forget she’d ever met a heathen such as himself?

A spurt of rage shook him. How he wished he’d never met her! How he wished he’d never come back to Blue Ridge! But in addition to everything else, he’d had some wild and crazy idea about moving into his grandfather’s old house, rolling up his sleeves and working the orchard and tending the beehives. Foolishly he’d thought he might even gain a measure of respect from the townspeople in the process.

It had been a mistake, coming back, another damned act of pride that had ultimately backfired on him. Hadn’t he learned by now he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone else? He only had to prove himself to himself.

So what had he proven? He’d proven he could still drink like a fish. Or like his father. The difference being he could quit and his father never could. To prove that last, he straightened and, on legs that felt like the marrow had been sucked out of the bones, weaved back to the bathroom, where he poured the contents of the jar down the drain and then tossed the empty into the wastebasket under the sink. For all the good it had done him, he had at least had the sense to bring the stuff back to his room and drink alone. More important, he’d stayed away from trouble, even if he hadn’t achieved anything more worthwhile than a head-pounding, stomach-churning, knee-wobbling hangover.

He’d also proven that he couldn’t drown his misery in alcohol. That was the worst part of it. Because this was the unsinkable kind of misery, the kind you had to learn to live with, day in and day out.

Back in his room, he stretched out on his bed, which to his great relief remained motionless, and offered up a prayer of thanks that he had the day to sober up before he had to go to work. Not that he could keep his drunken night a secret. There were no secrets in Blue Ridge. That was how he’d known where to find the bootlegger. He’d overheard some of the fellows in the warehouse talking about where he was located and what he sold, and he guessed he must have tucked the information away in the back of his mind.

By now half the town probably knew he’d visited the bootlegger last night, and they were probably busy enlightening the other half. That was how it went around here. What one knew, everyone else soon would. How he yearned to get away from it all, from the prying eyes and the pointing fingers, from the ongoing censure and the unending gossip.

He remembered telling Roxie he intended to leave town and start fresh somewhere else. It would be the best thing for both of them. Eventually, people would forget he even existed and forgive her for daring to give him a chance. Yes, the farther he got from her, the better. Maybe the misery that the liquor couldn’t blot would fade with distance.

But he needed money to start somewhere new, and though he lived frugally, he hadn’t saved nearly enough. He was stuck in Blue Ridge for the time being. Stuck with the continual reminders of Roxie and the aching and the wanting and the loneliness.

If he just had the money, he’d get away from it all.

Chapter 12

It was hard to say which was worse, the heat or the humidity, Roxie mused. Regardless, a storm was brewing. And it promised to be a big one if those low clouds filling every inch of the sky and the close, almost suffocating air were anything to go by.

Just as bad was the effect it was having on everyone’s mood at work. Lana unreasonably snapped at Vicky within five minutes of her arrival and the two fumed in antagonistic silence the rest of the morning. Barbara accidentally spilled her cup of coffee over a stack of letters she had just finished typing and snarled if anyone so much as glanced at her. Fesol had shut himself in his office to try to reconcile, at Roxie’s request, the inventory and audit numbers from last week’s ledger that, no matter how often she had reworked them, were not computing as they should have and which had totally messed up her bookkeeping for the month. Even the normally genial Gary was grumpy as an old bear, growling at anyone and everyone who set foot in the warehouse.

It occurred to Roxie as she watched all these dynamics play out that a good storm might clear the air inside as well as outside the warehouse. She didn’t say it aloud, however, as her apathy outweighed her annoyance. That was the reason she had asked Fesol to check the ledger, something she normally wouldn’t dream of doing. But she couldn’t get worked up enough to care, not about her job, not about her life, and certainly not about those numbers. More than a week had passed since her evening with Luke, and she still couldn’t find an interest in anything.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart,” she said listlessly when he complained to her about the way everyone had been acting this morning.

His eyes widened with distress behind his spectacles. “Oh, no, not you too. I can’t stand it.”

“Stand what?” Roxie asked, her tone heavy with indifference.

“This widespread attack of Monday-morning blahs.”

Roxie shrugged.

His wooden swivel chair creaked as he leaned back in it, slid his thumbs under those red suspenders of his, and cast a disappointed look at her. “I was counting on you to be the ray of sunshine amidst all the doom and gloom around here.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart,” she said again.

He sat up abruptly, dismissing her with an abrupt wave and a terse order. “Don’t come back in here until Tuesday. And don’t let anyone else in here today, either. I can’t stand Mondays like this.”

It amazed Roxie to find that her feet were moving one after the other, carrying her back to her office, when her body felt like deadweight. She concentrated on this astounding accomplishment, watching each step her feet made. It took effort, but by dint of focusing her thoughts on her amazing feet, she was able, for a moment, to elude the continual hounds of her “what ifs.”

What if she refused to give in? What if she went to Luke and told him straight out that she loved him? What if she told him she wasn’t going to give up without a fight? What if she said she would follow him to the ends of the earth? What if she dogged his heels the way thoughts of him dogged her?

Feet, she reminded herself. She should be thinking about her poor feet, having to haul around this sluggish uncooperative body. She looked down past her dull gray skirt to her sensible black pumps, sensibly taking her to her office, and came to a crashing halt as she smashed head-on into a masculine chest.

Socks and shirts of every size and color showered over her. Two boxes went flying, one to the right and one to the left, before hitting the floor with thumping plops. A highly descriptive expletive reverberated in the air.

“Sorry,” Willie Newcomer grumbled as he righted himself. He didn’t sound very sorry. He sounded thoroughly disgusted. He looked even more so as he inspected the array of clothing littering the floor.

“I’m the sorry one,” Roxie said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He gave her a glance that clearly said, why the hell not? But he didn’t say a word. Bending he began scooping socks and shirts into the boxes in willy-nilly fashion. They would have to be sorted and refolded later, before they were shipped, but for now this would have to do.

Roxie plucked a pair of men’s black dress socks off the shoulder of her pale gray pleated blouse and gave them to him. Then she stooped to help him retrieve the rest. As she picked up the last shirt, she again apologized.

“Forget it,” he growled, sounding as if he would remember it until his dying day.

“Okay.” The message she wanted him to deliver to his girlfriend popped into her head then. “But would you do me a favor and tell Margaret—”

“Don’t mention Margaret Clark to me,” he interrupted brusquely. “Not today. Not ever again.”

That said, he snatched the shirt she was still holding from her hand and stomped on down the corridor. Roxie gaped at his back until he disappeared around the corner. Great, she thought. On top of everything else, a lovers’ quarrel.

It must be the wrong time of year for lovers, she decided with a mental sigh. Romance seemed to be in a mid-summer slump. Maybe if she waited until next spring, Luke would be more compliant. She thought of spring, of the joyful rejuvenation of nature, the planting of crops and the birthing of farm animals, the blossoming flowers and budding trees. She spun a ridiculous daydream of sprinkling wild flower petals over Luke’s dark, glossy hair, of raining a kiss for every petal . . .

Another sigh, this one glumly audible, accompanied her into the refuge of her own office. She ought to know better than to permit such dreams to enter her head. Dreams led to disappointments, and she’d had enough disappointments to last her the rest of her life.

She sank into her chair to wait, then realized she had no idea what she was waiting for. Giving herself a good shake, she reached for the small stack of paid receipts that had been left on her desk and began entering them in this week’s ledger.

* * * *

If asked, not a single employee at Stewart’s Warehouse would have thought Monday afternoon could possibly be worse than that Monday morning. If so asked, every employee would have been wrong. Directly after lunch a minor accident on the dock sent two of Gary’s loaders home for the day, shifting an extra burden onto everyone else. Then one of the pickers up and quit without notice, leaving Gary even more short-handed than before.

He ranted for a good five minutes to Roxie, who finally worked up enough concern to demand to know why Fesol had not yet returned the ledger she had asked him to check.

“Because,” he explained icily, “I haven’t balanced it yet.”

“So get it balanced,” she snapped, and both stamped back to their respective offices, their doors slamming one right after the other.

An hour later Fesol charged into her office with the ledger and another sheet of paper under his arm and insisted she accompany him to Layton Stewart’s office. She warned him that it wasn’t such a good idea and asked if this could wait until tomorrow, but Fesol was adamant that it had to be taken care of today. Grudgingly, she followed him down the hall.

Judging by the frown that furrowed his brow, Layton Stewart wasn’t too happy to see either one of them.

Ignoring that frown as well as the fact that it really should have been Roxie who was pursuing this discrepancy, Fesol laid the ledger in the center of their boss’s desk, stabbed a long, skinny finger at a column of figures and said triumphantly, “There. Right there.”

Layton Stewart painstakingly lifted his employee’s finger and removed it from his sight before perusing the itemized figures. Roxie clasped her hands together and studied them, trying to recount precisely how many days, weeks, months, it had taken her to stop pining for Arthur. She estimated, then doubled, tripled the figure—her estimate for how long her heart would grieve for Luke.

“What’s where?” Layton Stewart finally asked Fesol.

The payroll clerk huffed out a sigh to underscore his annoyance with the entire situation. “There.” He leaned forward and indicated a credit figure. “That’s the imbalance that Roxie couldn’t find.”

Layton Stewart looked up at him. “So?”

“So it doesn’t correspond with the deposit receipts.” Fesol spread out the separate accounting sheet he had prepared on top of the ledger. He indicated a difference of slightly over one hundred dollars in the total amount.

Frowning now, Roxie sidled around the desk to study the figures. She was doing her best to understand what they were saying. But she’d been in this fog for over a week and felt like she would never understand anything again, no matter how hard she tried.

“First I checked the ledger item by item against the ladings,” Fesol continued. “Then, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I went through the ledger from front to back and found this.” With a flourish he produced a thin blue piece of paper. A square of smeary red ink read PAID IN FULL. Beneath that, handwritten in, was the word CASH. The amount corresponded to the penny with the figure on the accounting sheet. It was slightly over one hundred dollars more than the sum of the bank deposits.

“Where was that?” Roxie couldn’t recall ever seeing it before.

“Stuck in the back, behind the last page.”

Thinking the problem had been resolved, Roxie inched toward the door. “I’ll just be going—”

“Hold on a minute.” Layton Stewart gestured imperiously. “You need to see what this is about.”

Roxie had no choice but to obey his order and return to the desk. She didn’t care to know what it was about. She didn’t care about anything. Didn’t anyone around here understand that?