And then, suddenly, she did move, casting her eyes to the floor. I watched as she struggled to swallow, her jaw set like she was determined to . . . Lord, if I knew.
Unable to help myself, I silently scrutinized this strange creature. She closed the door behind her with precise movements. Her chest expanded and she lifted her chin, avoiding my gaze and crossing to her locker.
I leaned against mine, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side, brazenly studying her. She was strange. I knew people. Intrinsically, without much thinking about it, I knew what made them tick. I knew how to charm them, make them happy, and make them feel special.
My read on Miss Sullivan as an arrogant and vain human-porcupine hybrid had been reinforced with every single interaction since we’d met. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Shelly Sullivan disliked me just as much as I disliked her. Yet, her appreciation for my body had been clear as day—both a moment ago based on how she was looking at me, and now based on how she was pretending I didn’t exist—and that was entirely unexpected.
While I inspected her, she opened her locker, took out a pair of coveralls, draped them over the locker door, and then whipped her dress over her head.
I took that as my cue to avert my eyes.
Which I did.
Because I’m a gentleman.
But not before I comprehended a flash of black lace and flawless, bronze skin stretched over her long, beautiful form.
My neck heated. I felt her eyes on me, or I thought I did, but I didn’t check to confirm. Not only was I a gentleman, but I had intentions for another lady. Noticing Miss Sullivan as anything other than an irritant was both problematic and inappropriate.
Nevertheless, I did notice her.
And then some.
Hot everywhere, my body restless, I used that hot restlessness to hasten my progress. Try as I might, I couldn’t turn my mind from wondering whether she always wore lacy underwear beneath her coveralls. And, if so, why? Or for whom?
She didn’t say a word and neither did I. We dressed in tandem, both facing the interior of our lockers, not more than four feet from each other. All the while I was plagued with increasingly inconvenient thoughts about this woman I couldn’t stand.
I finished before she did, slamming my locker shut harder than intended after grabbing my work boots. Seeing no need for small talk, especially since I’d never seen the woman suffer small talk, I left, waiting until I was in the downstairs office to pull on my shoes.
A deep breath was required, followed by another. My mind in chaos, I told it to hush, reminding myself I was in a hurry.
If I didn’t want to spend all Sunday working on Mrs. Cooper’s Cadillac, I needed to get moving, and I couldn’t afford pointless contemplations about Shelly Sullivan slowing me down.
* * *
Mrs. Cooper decided to ride along on my return trip to the shop. She brought her notebook—for writing poetry—and I didn’t mind the company. I liked that she wrote poetry. It reminded me of my momma and my sister, both of whom shared a love for reading and writing poetry.
“Thank you for giving up your Sunday for me.” Mrs. Cooper held my arm as we traversed the gravel lot.
“It’s nothing at all. You know I like to help.” I disentangled her hand to open the roller door, careful to keep my backside out of her reach. We were on the cusp of real autumn weather. It wasn’t hot, I just didn’t want Mrs. Cooper sitting in the garage without some ventilation.
“Your momma raised you right.” I could hear the smile in her voice and my suspicion was confirmed as I turned around, having lifted the door on its track. “Your momma could be a pistol when she needed to be. But that wasn’t her. At heart, she was a sensitive soul.”
Both my momma and sister could hold their own, and often showed a tough face to the world. I liked their sensitive sides the best. Ready with a hug, a soft touch, a secret hope to share. A precarious balance between sweet and sassy, I was convinced women of their quality were one in a million.
Granted, I loved them. I might’ve been biased.
Try as I might, I couldn’t return the older woman’s smile. The corners of my mouth turned downward and I admitted before I could catch the words, “I miss her.”
Mrs. Cooper tsked, the curve of her lips and the twinkle in her eyes turning soft, almost maternal. “Of course you do.”
“I wish she would’ve . . . left my daddy sooner.” Again, I was speaking without thinking, but why censor myself? Mrs. Cooper had known me a long time—my entire life in fact—and it was a relief that she didn’t require a smile from me in that moment.
I supposed that’s what I was looking for in Darlene, someone I wouldn’t need to smile with all the time.
Eventually we’d get there.
Maybe.
If she’d return your calls.
“Some folks would say your momma was too free with her regard, too forgiving. And they might be right.”
“They are right, she was.”
“But, Beau, if she’d been any different, she wouldn’t have been herself.” She reached for my hand, squeezing it. “And then Roscoe wouldn’t be here, or Ashley, or Cletus.”
“Or me and Duane,” I added, conceding her point.
Abruptly, her eyes widened, searching mine, and her smile wavered. When she spoke, she did so haltingly. “Uh . . . yes. Of course. Well, you wouldn’t be who you are, that’s for certain.”
Her response struck me as strange, and I was about to question her further when a cacophony of profanities cut through the moment.
Glancing over my shoulder, I searched for the voice—a voice that wasn’t quite human—as it went from referring to my momma in unpleasant terms to telling me what I should go do to myself. And, as though once weren’t enough, it told me what I should go do to myself several times.
Over and over.
Facing the garage fully, I searched for the spewer of the obscenities. The rattle of metal against metal, plus something that resembled the flapping our chickens made when they thought they could fly, sounded from the left side of the garage.
Squinting in the dim light, the perpetrator came sharply into focus, and I made eye contact with the source of the lewd suggestions.
It was a parrot, perched on a Pontiac. And he—or she—was glaring at me through one eye.
And then it screeched, “Darin, you asshole!”
“What in the hell . . .”
“Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Go to hell!”
“Oh my!” Mrs. Cooper clamped her hand over her mouth and I settled an arm around her waist, wanting to protect her from . . . I wasn’t sure.
The demon parrot?
The fowl’s foulness?
Movement toward the back of the garage caught my notice. Shelly Sullivan—fully clothed in coveralls and work boots—was jogging toward us, her long hair loose around her shoulders. For all the ruckus she was making it sounded like she had ten legs.
“Oh, Beau. Look at the dogs.” Mrs. Cooper grinned, pointing at two mammoth beasts, black as midnight.