Just Between You and Me, Page 2

  “How long are you going to be gone?” His face radiates such care, I find myself drawn into his hug.

  “Three days. Then I’ll fly out to the show location.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  I smile at his predictable statement. Of course he will.

  He pulls back and cups my face in his hands. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. I needed to tell you that I—”

  “John . . . I think we should use this time apart to really think about our relationship.”

  “I think about it all the time.”

  And here’s another one of our problems: I don’t. “I believe you and I are at two different places here. Two different speeds.”

  He takes my hand, kisses it. “You’re tired. I’ll let you pack.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Call me if you need me.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “Talk to you soon.”

  I shut myself in and take comfort in the click of the locks . . . and slide to the floor.

  Me, scared?

  I’ve counted snakes in the rice fields of Cambodia. Eaten things that crawled down my throat in Botswana. In the Amazon, I dodged mosquitos as large as birds.

  But I, Maggie Montgomery, world traveler, have never been anywhere quite as frightening as home.

  Chapter Two

  And if you just sign here, here, and here, I’ll get you the keys to your rental.”

  I scribble my name on the Hertz agreement and wait as the woman types in a few more things on her computer. I think she’s gotten every detail about me but my bra size.

  “Sure you don’t want the weekly special? We’ve got a good deal running.”

  Lady, you could pay me, and the deal wouldn’t be good enough to keep me in Ivy a week. “Three days is all I will need the car, but thanks.” I take the Focus key from her chipped-polish fingers.

  Turning down an offer of help from a gentleman in the parking lot, I heave my suitcase into the Ford, only banging my knee twice. I decided I’d just catch my connecting flight to Taiwan from Dallas, so I packed for three weeks.

  Pulling out onto the Dallas highway, I crank on some country music and let Carrie Underwood sing to me about her cheatin’ man. Ivy didn’t leave much of a stamp on me, but I’ve never outgrown my love for good country music.

  God, I know we haven’t talked much lately. I’ve been really busy the last few weeks. But obviously you have something up your holy sleeve, or I wouldn’t be eastbound and trucking, headed straight for my own version of hell. Why am I doing this? Why is it Dad only has to mention Allison and I’m doing his bidding, no matter how awful it is for me? Maybe this will wipe the slate clean once and for all. I’ll swing by, do whatever needs to be done, and leave my old Ivy ghosts forever.

  Two long, tedious hours later, I stop the car at the Jiffy Qwik gas station and fill up. The gauge reads half a tank, but I might as well get some. What if there was a wreck between here and the five streets to Dad’s, and I had to wait forever and ran out of gas?

  On this last day of March, the sun warms my skin as I stand outside my car, and I toss my light jacket in the backseat. The pump clicks, and I head for the door to pay, as the miraculous invention of pay-at-the-pump has yet to make it to Ivy. Nothing about this place could be easy.

  A bell tinkles overhead as I step inside, and I immediately inhale the scent of popcorn and convenience store hotdogs. Instinct kicks in, and I go directly to the aisle with candy. It’s like I have the gift of sugar prophecy. The Lord just tells me where the goods are. Wrapping my hand around a Snickers and some SweeTarts, I decide to suck up some more time and peruse the wall of drinks. When I’m not in close proximity to my father or clingy boyfriends, I can stay away from the stuff. This is not a time for self-control, though.

  Meandering to the front, grabbing things as I go, I throw my purchases on the counter. Two candy items, plus four Little Debbies, five packs of chocolate minidonuts, a box of Oreos, peanut butter crackers, and some strawberry Jolly Ranchers so I can say I got in some fruit servings.

  “Someone have a sweet tooth or a life crisis?” The clerk lifts one penciled eyebrow in judgment.

  I smile and dig out my debit card. “I got gas at pump three.”

  The register beeps with each item as “Marge” scans my loot. I feel better just looking at all that comfort food. There are some things in life you can depend on.

  “You look familiar.”

  A blush moves up my neck. “I’m just passing through town.” I avert my gaze and stare at the Oreos.

  “You Constance Montgomery’s daughter?”

  And here we go. “Um, yes.”

  “Crazy Connie.” Marge laughs as she whips out a plastic sack. “I haven’t thought about her in years, but I couldn’t miss that wavy red hair. You look a lot like her.”

  “Uh-huh. Thanks.” My hand shakes as I sign the debit slip. Let’s go, Marge. Throw the stuff in the bag and let me leave.

  “I remember you. You and some friends went streaking through my tulips one spring.”

  I close my eyes and swallow back a groan. “That was a long time ago. I’m sure my daddy made me apologize.”

  “No.” Marge smacks her Juicy Fruit. “I didn’t get no apology.”

  “Oh. Well. I’m sorry then.” Awkward! “If it’s any consolation, I’ve given up my streaking ways and keep my clothes on these days. I leave the skin flashing to young Hollywood.” Not to mention the morning I turned twenty-eight was the day I woke up to a new relationship with Miss Clairol and some dimples on my thighs.

  “You were just like her,” the woman says, not letting this go. “Always in trouble, always doing something crazy.” A reluctant smile grows on Marge’s chapped lips. “Your momma was a fun lady, though. She’d come in here and get a bunch of junk just like this.” She hands over my bag. “Usually had a song on her lips and a twinkle of mischief in her eye.”

  I blink back a tear at the unexpected description of my mother. She died when I was in the eleventh grade, and my sister and I lost our champion. Our joy. Like a bad sunburn, the memory of that dark time still remains tender to the touch.

  I gather my purse and bag without another glance at Marge. “Have a nice day.” As I turn to the door to make my escape, another woman walks through.

  “Maggie?” Her eyes round as she squeals. “Maggie, it’s me!”

  I blink at the short, chubby black woman who’s approaching with arms stretched wide.

  “Beth?”

  Her arms swallow me in a fierce hug. “You look amazing.” She eyes my figure, my clothes. “I was a size six once.” Beth laughs. “Before I had four babies in nine years. How long are you in town?”

  “Just a few days.” I stare at the woman who was once my best friend. I practically lived at her house after my mom died. I couldn’t stand to be home. Not with my dad. And not with the memories. “I’m here to see Allison, then head back out.”

  Her mouth forms an O. “Yeah, I heard about your sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m sure your daddy will catch you up.”

  “That would require him turning off the TV and talking. Maybe you could fill me in.”

  Beth reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Not my business.”

  This from the girl who used to write people’s business on the gym bathroom wall.

  “Well, I better get back home. Mark has the kids, and they’ve probably got him tied up and stuffed in a closet by now.” Her expression darkens. “He just lost his job at the tire factory.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. But Dad said he just went back to work there.” Things are starting to get weird.

  “Yeah, there’s talk of the plant closing, so some of the managers got jobs elsewhere. They were lucky to get your dad to pinch hit. Last month Reliant Tires laid off one hundred and fifty employees. My Mark got the cut, as did all the third shift.” She shrugs. “I actually popped in here to get an application. Time for mama
to go to work.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Could I get any more lame? Sometimes when I’m in the real world, I long for the safety of my camera to hide behind. Like now.

  “Stop by the house and see the kids. Let’s hang out before you leave.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m not even here long enough to unpack my suitcase.” Lies are okay if they’re super polite, right? “It was good to see you.”

  “Hey, we’re having a multiclass reunion the first weekend of May. You should come back for that.”

  So people can remind me of all the lunatic, half-illegal things I did in my youth? Um, no. “I’ll see you later, Beth.”

  “I’ll friend you on Facebook!”

  I all but run to the car, holding my bag like a security blanket. I don’t even get my seat belt on before I’m popping SweeTarts like Rolaids.

  Okay, I can do this. Three days. That’s all I have to give my dad, my sister, and this town. Three days.

  Putting the car in gear, I head back onto the road and drive toward my old house. The home where Crazy Connie taught me to dance on the edge. Where I left a sister behind. And where I buried memories that must never be exhumed.

  Chapter Three

  Why rush a good homecoming? I decide to take a little detour and cruise through the town. Very little has changed. The high school’s bigger, the water tower is whiter, and the Ivy Lions now have a new football stadium. But other than that, same old place.

  Before I know it, I’m on the outskirts of town at the Ivy Gardens Cemetery. My mother’s final resting place.

  I step out of the car and let the warm breeze ruffle my long hair. The gravel crunches beneath my flats as I walk down the path, past the oldest graves, and stop in front of the stone of Constance Marie Montgomery. Thirty-seven years old.

  Beloved Daughter, Wife, and Mother.

  Fearlessly She Lived. Joyfully She Loved.

  I trace my finger over the letters and numbers on the grave. “Oh, I miss you.” The strain returns to my eyes, and the tears begin to swim. I swipe them away. I haven’t cried since the funeral, and I’m sure not going to start now.

  Lowering myself down to the grass, I sit Indian-style. “So . . . um, I came back home.” Is it just me, or is this awkward? “Work is going okay, I guess. Our show won an Emmy last year. Well, for cable, but still. I’ll be interviewing for a new job soon.”

  I pull at a blade of grass and twirl it around my fingers. “It would mean traveling even more, but I wouldn’t mind. I’ve got your gypsy blood, you know.” Sniffing, I blink the moisture back as the memories flow. “I know it sounds like I have it all together, Mom, but I don’t. And I wish you were here to talk to. Especially since talking to your headstone feels very Lifetimey at the moment.” It does. It really does. “But I’m a mess with men. And my job . . . I don’t know. I want to make my mark on this world, you know? I want to be . . . somebody.” Having no other choice, I rub my dripping nose across the sleeve of my jacket. “Why did things have to go so wrong? Why does everything in my life go wrong?” I don’t want to be here. In this cemetery. In this town.

  “Watch out!”

  I turn my head at the distant voice just in time to see a blur of brown fur charge my way. I jump to my knees, but the force of a defensive tackle throws me to the ground.

  “Oomph!” My breath lodges in my throat, and I use all my strength to push the beast away. “Get off me!” Licks to the face. Ew! “Stupid dog, get off!”

  “Gandalf, down! Heel! Stop!”

  I dodge the slobbering dog tongue and find two human legs beside me. “A little help, if you please.”

  I see the light of day again as the dog is physically removed. The owner snaps the leash on the collar as I dust off my clothes.

  “Are you okay?” The man holds out his hand, and I finally look up.

  Oh my. This one is beautiful. As in he could be Patrick Dempsey’s fraternal twin. The cuter one. I swipe at my cheeks and bring back dirt. Great.

  “Let me help you up.”

  “I’m fine.” Nothing a fresh change of clothes and some new makeup wouldn’t cure.

  “You don’t look fine,” he says as I stand to my feet. Before I can back up, his hand is on my face, his fingers brushing lightly at my cheeks. The eyes behind his sunglasses find mine. “Better. You just had some dirt smudges.”

  “I wasn’t crying.” Omigosh. Did I really just say that? “I mean, I—”

  He wraps his other hand around the leash once and smiles. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. But, um, yeah, you were.”

  “A gentleman would not point this out.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I’m not a gentleman.”

  “Your dog doesn’t seem to be either. You might want to think about some obedience classes.”

  “Not my dog. I’m training him for a friend.” The wind filters through the man’s dark, wavy hair. He reaches down and pats the chocolate Lab.

  “How nice.” I brush more grass off my jeans. “And I’m quite all right.”

  Mystery man’s mouth quirks. “Oh, I can tell.” He pushes his sunglasses onto his head, and I get the full impact of his blue eyes. Eyes that probably made many a girl forget a curfew back in the day.

  “You know, sometimes it helps to talk things through with a stranger.” His expression holds a dare, a gleam of mischief, and something else that has danger signals blaring in my head.

  Clearing my throat, I look away. “I haven’t talked to my mother in a while. I was just updating her on my life.” I kick a small piece of gravel with my toe. “I was telling her about my life . . . as a Britney Spears impersonator. I really think I’m gonna make it this time, and she would be so proud. And then there’s the fact that I just got out of prison, and I haven’t robbed a bank in three whole months.” My eyes glaze with longing. “Unless you count that Victoria’s Secret store. But I was newly released, and a girl has to have her frillies.”

  He rubs a hand over his stubbly jaw. “Is this your way of telling me to butt out?” He glances at my mother’s grave. Then does a double take. “Maggie Montgomery.” Suddenly the affable charm is gone.

  “And you are?”

  “Connor.” He studies my face. “Connor Blake.”

  The name does not ring a bell. And neither does his cool yet handsome face. “Nice to meet you, but I should be going.”

  “Just in the neighborhood or are you staying in Ivy awhile?”

  His tone is anything but casual, and I find myself bristling. “I’m just here for a few days.”

  His mouth tightens. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Connor slowly walks toward me until there is barely a foot between us. “I said you haven’t changed at all. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

  I give him my most withering glare. “Should I?” Is he an old boyfriend? Did we go out? Blind date?

  I watch the column of his throat move as he laughs. “Have a nice day, Maggie Montgomery. You have a nice quick visit.” And he walks away, pulling his errant dog behind him. Leaving me rooted to the spot. My hands fisted in anger.

  And I don’t have the first clue why.

  I wish Ivy, Texas, had a Holiday Inn, but the town is so small it only has one traffic light, so hoping for other accommodations besides my dad’s house is wasted energy.

  I shift the little red car into park and take a deep breath. Then ten more. God, help me.

  My pulse quickens as the front door opens and Dad steps onto the old porch. Like the chipped clapboard on the Victorian house, Dad has aged since my overnight visit five years ago. Face cleanly shaven, hair now completely gray, he stands before me a thinner man. Not the beer-gut fellow he was when I saw him last.

  He steps down and walks toward me.

  I climb out of the car and put up my hand. “Hi.” I stick my head in the back seat like an ostrich in the sand, then focus all my attention on wrestling with my suitcase.

  “Let me
get that.” Dad stands behind me.

  “Nah. I’m good. Almost got it.” I bump into him, then hit my head on the car. “Ow.”

  “I said let me get it.”

  “I got it.” I glance back his way and soften my words with a small smile.

  He shakes his head. “Some things never change.” Dad takes me by the shoulders and pulls me out of the Focus. “Go on inside. I’ll bring this in and up to your room.”

  I stand there for one clumsy moment. “Fine. I’ll, uh . . . just let you get that then.”

  The screen door creaks as I pull it open, and I walk into the small entryway. Memories of a misspent youth flitter through my head as the scent of home fills my heart. There’s the staircase that Mom and I rode the mattress down like a sled. And there’s the living room wall I crashed into when she gave me my first skateboarding lesson. Walking into the kitchen, I see the black ring on the Formica counter where I learned how to create fire using corn oil, two sparklers, and one shiny black FryDaddy.

  I pour myself a glass of tea and listen as Dad mounts the steps to my room. Last time I was here, it was just like I had left it. Same purple comforter from the nineties. The bulletin board with movie and concert tickets hung on a wall. Still had the list of old boyfriends written on the inside of the closet door, with the dates of the birth and death of each short relationship.

  Dad enters the kitchen and points at my glass. “You want some sugar in that?”

  “No.” He never could remember that I don’t like sweet tea. It makes me a rare breed in these parts. “So what’s going on?” Let’s just get right to it.

  He opens the fridge, and for the first time I notice it’s not the harvest gold number we had growing up. The side-by-side stainless looks foreign in the kitchen.

  “The old fridge went out last year. Had to get a new one. Zeke at the hardware store sold me this floor model.”

  “Nice.” I move in beside him and get some ice from the door.

  “I had planned on replacing the stove too, but things just happened, and I decided to put it off.”

  “Things like Allison moving in with you?” I watch him nod. “How long has she been here?”