Chapter 11
“Thank you for everything, Tater Wayne.” Cherise stepped away with satisfaction, relieved to see that the mattress and box spring fit perfectly inside the old iron frame in the front bedroom. It was the room her parents once shared, the one with an unobstructed view of the lake.
“Happy to help, but I really think it’s a bad idea to stay out here tonight. The house ain’t ready. Viv said—”
“I’m ready. I have everything I need.” She gestured to the boxes, suitcases, and plastic trash bags on the bedroom floor, stuffed with her clothes, linens, and kitchen things. Cherise patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Tater.”
He scowled, which sent his left eyeball into a spasm. “There ain’t even any lights in here, except over the kitchen sink!” Tater threw his hands up in exasperation. “You know you can’t use the tub until the grout sets. There’s hardly a stick of furniture in this place, and I barely brought over enough firewood for one night!”
“It’ll be fine, Tater.”
“But Viv told me to make sure y’all went back to her place tonight. She said—”
“Doesn’t matter what she said.” Cherise motioned for Tater to exit the bedroom ahead of her, then shut the door behind them. It gave her great comfort to know there was one room, one little corner in Bigler, that was all hers.
“She’s gonna tan my hide.”
Cherise chuckled, walking behind Tater down the hallway. “You’re a grown man. Just tell her to f*ck off.”
Tater spun around, his dirty blond hair whipping across his forehead, his eyebrows raised in shock. “You ever tell Vivienne Newberry to f*ck off?”
Cherise had to acknowledge that she had not. “But I’m this close,” she said, holding up her thumb and index finger. That made him laugh.
The two of them strolled into the living room, still laughing, when Cherise caught sight of J.J. out in the front yard, close to the water’s edge. He had his back to her and he was still half naked. His jeans were soaked through, clinging to his lower half like a wet suit. Had his ass always been this tight? Had his thighs always been this cut? As she pondered these important questions, the sexual need sliced through her once more, hot and sharp. She gasped.
“Y’all all right?”
She whipped her head around to Tater. “Fine.”
He offered her a tentative smile. “It’s nice that J.J. pitched in. I didn’t ask him. Viv and Garland said they didn’t ask him, either—said it must have been his idea.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and tried her hardest to appear disinterested. “It’s a free country.”
Tater shook his head. He ran the toe of his work boot through a patch of sawdust that had drifted in from the new porch. “J.J.’s a good man, Cheri,” he said, looking up. “Seems not many people know how to be decent anymore, but he does. Y’all ought to try to be nice to each other again.”
Cherise’s mouth fell open in surprise. Decent? J.J. DeCourcy? Cherise decided to change the subject. “So how late y’all staying today, Tater?”
He sighed. “Not much longer. The sun’s getting ready to set. Most of us will be back tomorrow and we should finish up before supper, but we ain’t gonna get to cleaning the inside.”
She patted Tater on the shoulder. “I’ll take care of that.”
He frowned. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said, guiding him out onto the porch. “At least you got all the old moldy stuff out. In a way, I look forward to cleaning the place.”
“Don’t that beat all,” he said. “I figured you for the type that has a maid.”
Cherise laughed. “Oh, I used to, let me tell you. Those were the days.” When she glanced up at Tater’s confused expression, she was horrified by her own carelessness. She kept forgetting to remember that she was wealthy! “What I mean is I miss the housekeeping service I retain back in Tampa.”
“We got ’em here, too, you know. I’ll just make a phone call—”
“That’s okay. Anyway…” Cherise scanned the front yard for something else to talk about—anything else to talk about. She found it immediately. Gladys was making a beeline toward the slicked-down J.J., a hungry look in her heavily made-up eyes.
“I better get Gladys back to town before she makes a spectacle of herself,” she said, heading down the steps. “See you tomorrow, Tater.”
“That you will.”
Cherise made it as far as the gravel driveway that curved around the house when she stopped. J.J. had just lifted Gladys playfully off the grass. Gladys squealed and beat on his shoulders like she couldn’t stand the idea of being tossed around by a half-dressed man less than half her age. J.J. eventually put her down, laughing.
Cherise froze. Her face went hot. Her knees shook. Her chest felt like it was weighted down with a huge boulder of sadness. And just like that, she was on the edge of tears. Something about the sight of J.J. dripping wet and laughing, standing in the grass by the lake, the sun setting behind him … and her heart had begun to split open. Memories began to pour out.
The days she’d spent with J.J. before college were happy ones. She had no way of knowing it at the time, but she’d never experience happiness like that again. Not in a way that was so simple. Real. With so much laughter. Gentleness. Patience. Water, sunshine, kisses …
Her heart nearly exploded with joy that day he showed up on her doorstep in Tampa, the same old J.J., smiling, handsome, making her laugh, telling her he’d missed her like hell and refused to go another day without seeing her.
Maybe it had been so good with J.J. because she’d been loved and had loved in return—effortlessly.
Cherise heard herself gasp. She prayed no one else did. She turned on her heel and jogged to the DeVille, climbing behind the wheel. She started the engine, moved the car so it faced the main road, and waited for Gladys to get the hint that it was time to go.
With an eye on the rearview mirror, Cherise told herself she was crazy. She had to be PMS-ing. There was no other explanation.
Tears? Seriously? Tears for what? For whom?
Tears for a fantasy, that’s what. The J.J. she’d held in her most private heart for all those years wasn’t real. The real J.J. was the man who’d impregnated and then abandoned Tanyalee. The real J.J. couldn’t decide whether to kiss Cherise or slice her to ribbons with his sharp words.
She needed to remember that.
Gladys threw open the passenger side door and slid onto the white leather bucket seat, giggling like a middle schooler. Cherise drove back to town so fast that Gladys’s earrings swung against her cheeks and she clung to the overhead strap with a white-knuckled desperation.
“You’re a terrible driver, Cheri,” she said.