Matt ducked out, found the cemetery and old stone fence easy enough, the old wrought iron gate, too, just like Dinah had said. But Dinah hadn’t mentioned the flying pig on top of one of the stone gate pillars. It looked fairly new. And big. And not very Rebecca-ish.
Fortunately, the gate was open, so Matt turned onto the narrow gravel road, drove slowly through a thicket of trees, mesquite, and cactus, until he rounded a bend and saw an old ranch house—limestone, one story, lots of crankcase windows, and a big wraparound porch. Along the front railings were a smattering of azalea bushes, still blooming even thought it was late in the season. In two old cast iron kettles, several antique rosebushes were blooming white and pink. On one end of the porch was an old wooden porch swing, the white paint chipping and peeling, and on the other end, tasteful and expensive wicker furniture.
The house looked very charming. Just like its owner.
Matt pulled up, killed the motor, gathered the roses, and climbed out of the Jag, at which point he noticed that what looked like dirt and mulch between the azaleas were actually lumps of dogs, three in all, who were now rising to their feet to greet him in true dog fashion—by charging forward. A big, mean-looking, one-eyed yellow dog charged the hardest at him, fangs bared and fur standing. Matt thought he was going to have to dive headfirst into his car for safety, but the dog ran smack into the front fender, stumbled backward a bit, then sat. And that, apparently, ended his desire for a manwich.
The other two dogs, however, one black, one red brindle, had better navigational skills than Old Yeller and raced around their stunned compatriot, barking fiercely. Matt put one hand down, fumbled with the roses, and looked at the porch. “Hey, hey! Come on, Frank! Come on, Bean! Tater and Tot, which ones are you?” he asked, his voice friendly and light. It worked. The dogs instantly started wagging their tales, sniffing at his crotch and shoes, and were joined by a little three-legged dog that came racing around the corner of the house. Even the yellow one found his bearings again and came wandering over to have a good sniff.
“Thrilled to make your acquaintance,” Matt said to the dogs, and once he was assured no one was going to bite him, he walked up onto the porch, ducking under a wind chime made from old forks and spoons to knock on the door. The dogs all stood behind him, tails wagging, as if they had accompanied him all the way from Austin.
Hearing footsteps and muffled voices, Matt saw a figure behind the opaque glass of the door and steeled himself, adjusting the roses in his arm. But when the door was opened, it was not Rebecca. For a split second, Matt thought he had the wrong house . . . until he remembered meeting the older woman at the bingo bash. “Ah . . . hi. I think we met at the Masters fundraiser—”
“I remember. Matt, right?”
“Right. I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Jo Lynn.”
“Jo Lynn, of course,” he said. “I was looking for Rebecca.”
“MATT!” Grayson shrieked from somewhere in the house, and Matt heard the sound of small feet running across wood floors. “MATT!” he shrieked again as he came skidding into the foyer behind Jo Lynn.
“Hey, pal!” Matt said, grinning down at an anxious little face smeared with chocolate ice cream, surprised by how glad he was to see the boy.
Judging by the way Grayson roughly pushed in front of Jo Lynn, he was pretty glad to see Matt, too, and clasped his hands, stared at him almost pleadingly. “Are you coming back?” he asked breathlessly. “Me and Jo Lynn looked for frogs but we didn’t find any. Can we go frog hunting? Are you going to stay here?”
Matt smiled uneasily at Jo Lynn, who was now eyeballing him with a very curious expression, and he quickly squatted down to talk to Gray. “Dude. You can’t hunt for frogs in the heat of the day! You have to wait until it cools off. That’s when they come out to have a look around.”
“Okay. Can we hunt when it cools off?”
“Maybe.” Provided his mother didn’t send his body floating down the river or hang it from the cottonwood he had seen towering above the house in back. We’ll see.”
“Want some ice cream?” Gray continued breathlessly, and put his sticky hand on Matt’s, tugging him inside.
“Uh . . . not just now, okay?” he said, standing, but Grayson would not let go of his hand. “I need to speak to your mom first.”
“She’s down at the river,” Jo Lynn said, now standing back to let him enter. “I can send Grayson down.”
“Actually, would it be all right if I walked down?” Matt asked. If there was going to be another scene, he preferred Grayson not witness it this time, having recognized, of course, that that was the second most reprehensible thing he’d ever done in his life.