Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style
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Lori Copeland
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Chapter 1
“BETH DEAR! I’m off to play bingo now!” Harriet Morris stood in the doorway wearing an inflatable rubber tube around her waist
“Aunt Harry, you’re wearing an inner tube,” Beth muttered.
Harriet looked down. “Oh, well. I didn’t think I’d buy a belt this wide.”
Bethany Davis was balancing precariously on the edge of a stepladder, attempting, so far in vain, to hang a plastic pumpkin. This was not one of Harry’s better days. “Why don’t you wear that nice brown leather belt I bought for your birthday instead?” Beth suggested, patiently trying to loop the pumpkin’s hanger over a hook. A cold gust of October wind whipped around the corner, making her hair stand on end.
Aunt Harry insisted on celebrating every holiday by decorating their house and Beth was in charge of putting up the decorations, then taking them down. Right now the Morris house looked just like the residence of Herman and Lily Munster.
Cardboard witches, black cats and grinning pumpkin faces were plastered in every window of the three-story Victorian house. The wide, wraparound porch was laden with funky bird feeders year round, and wind chimes that Beth was sure would eventually drive her right out of her mind.
“Yes, I’ll go put on that belt you got me right now. Thank you, dear.” The screen door flapped shut, and Beth sighed. Oh what she’d give for a nice, sane existence away from the stifling small-town life in Morning Sun. If only she had a chance, in a heartbeat, she’d flee Pennsylvania and go live in a large city with expensive restaurants, theaters, museums—a place where she could enjoy life like she’d had when she’d lived for a short time in Washington D.C., instead of merely tolerating it as she did now.
She loved Aunt Harriet, bless her heart, but her aunt was the town crazy. No one had asked Beth what family she’d wanted to be born into. If they had, she would have screamed, “Please, God, not the Morris family!” But since no one had asked, she’d been delivered in the back seat of a 1959 Ford station wagon one stormy spring morning in 1971 to Alice Morris Davis, wife of Gustave Davis.
Gustave had taken off soon afterward.
That had left Alice, and her sister, Harriet, to raise baby Beth. Beth would never deny the fact that they had done a fairly good job taking care of her. She had clean clothing, regular nutritional meals, and a roof over her head at night. She was taught to wash her hands before meals, and brush her teeth before she went to bed.
The trouble had begun when her mother had gotten sick. Beth had returned to Morning Sun to look after her mother and Aunt Harry. Her mother had died two years ago. Harriet, on the other hand, enjoyed robust health. She had only one problem, but it was a colossal one.
Aunt Harry was certifiably nuts. And her penchant for decorating was promising to drive Beth down the same road. Every holiday—including National Potato Day—they decorated. Now that was really an event to celebrate. Baked potatoes, spuds sliced, diced, hashed, mashed, or sucked through a straw for that matter, were no problem for Beth. But potatoes dangling beneath every light fixture in the house?
Even the outrageous bird feeders hanging from the eaves had to be decorated. Beth tried to explain to Aunt Harry that changing the feeders’ appearance so often was perhaps the reason they attracted so few feathered friends. Harry patiently listened to her, but refused to accept the idea that birds were put off by flashing red and green electric lights.
Halloween was Aunt Harry’s favorite excuse for decorating, with Christmas a close second. Beth sourly eyed the orange crepe paper covering the door, which now resembled a lopsided pumpkin with triangular eyes and nose. The mail slot was a pursed mouth.
Thank goodness the small town of Morning Sun was accustomed to the Morris girls’ eccentric ways.
“A good thing, too,” Beth grumbled, stretching to hang another pumpkin. “Any other town would have had them committed.”
Harriet was the younger of the Morris sisters and frequently caused more talk in Morning Sun than Alice ever had. Folks were generous when they said the sisters were strange.
“Crazy,” Beth muttered.
Anyone who insisted on lining the front walk with pink and red hearts for the entire month of February, shamrocks and leprechauns in March, red-and-white candy canes in December, miniature flags in May and July, turkeys in November, and a giant Mr. Potato Head for, well, National Potato Day, had to be more than just a little strange.
“Nuts!” Beth conceded.
Not that she didn’t love Aunt Harry. She did. She just wished she could escape this town, escape her crushing responsibilities...and live a normal year or two before she died.
But she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. She was never sure which. Harriet couldn’t live alone, and no one having any dealings with the Morrises wanted anything to do with the odd situation. Men included. Especially men, Beth had discovered.
“So, who wants marriage and a stable family life anyway?” Beth muttered, draping another brightorange crepe paper streamer from the eaves. “It would probably be so boring, I’d start decorating for holidays.” She laughed aloud at the prospect.
She was halfway down the shaky stepladder when the pumpkin-faced door burst open.
“They’ll be sorry,” Harriet announced to the world in general.
Beth gathered up the unused crepe paper in both arms, relieved to see the inner tube gone. “Who’ll be sorry?”
“That sorry lot at the bingo hall will be sorry, that’s who. I may not go back when they come begging.”
This was news. Aunt Harry had played bingo with the regulars at the Senior Citizens’ Center for the past three years. They had banned her?
Beth stuffed the rolls of leftover paper into a large storage bag. “Why?”
“Because I win, that’s why!” Always overly dramatic, Aunt Harry threw both hands into the air with the attitude that the reason for her banishment was obvious. “They accused me of cheating! Can you beat that? Like you can really cheat at bingo? A bunch of sorry losers, that’s what they are.”
Beth opened the screen and tossed the trash bag inside, following it with the dozen or so extra plastic pumpkins. Straightening, she groaned when she spotted the tall figure in gray sweats jogging toward the house. The hood of the sweatshirt obscured his features, but Beth would recognize Russ Foster anywhere. He’d been in Morning Sun a couple of weeks, and he jogged every morning, and walked every evening. His slight limp wasn’t evident now but was discernible when he walked late in the day. Rumor had it Russ was recovering from an on-the-job accident, but no one knew exactly what the mysterious job was, or what had caused his injury.
Beth made it a point to avoid him. It was not easy, since he was staying at his brother’s house two doors down from Aunt Harry. Oh, he’d noticed her Sunday morning all right, when she had been down on her hands and knees, picking wet toilet paper off the rose bushes. Local testosterone-enraged teens papered the Morris house and their neighbors on a regular basis. It had rained late Saturday night, so the tissue had been glued to the bushes.
She had deliberately kept her head down when Russ had slowed on Sunday, apparently curious why she had been crawling around the wet grass in her housecoat at six-thirty in the morning. She hadn’t been inclined to initiate a conversation and had quickly crept into the garage with as much dignity as possible—which hadn’t been much. It hadn’t been just the curlers in her hair, it was the sight she must have been pushing great gobs of wet toilet paper across the lawn ahead of her.
Ten years was not long enough for Beth to forget Russ Foster had no interest in crazy old Harriet Davis’s niece.
Harriet looked at the sky, rubbing her bare arms. “Brrr. It seems awfully cold for August. I hope the weather doesn’t stunt the tomato plants. Come inside, dear. You’ll catch the sniffles.”
“It’s October, Aunt Harriet.”
“Oh, darn. Tomatoes just don’t do well in the fall. Come along.”
She followed her aunt into the parlor, then stepping casually to the side window, she watched Russ jog on down the street.
“They don’t understand. It’s not my fault I keep winning.” Aunt Harried padded in slippered feet toward the kitchen. “I was born under a lucky star. Everyone knows that. I can’t help it if I win raffles. I pay my money, I take my chances. Spoil sports!”
“Oh, yes,” Beth said. “You always win.” The cluttered house was proof of that. Aunt Harry solved puzzles, entered contests, sweepstakes, scratched off “lucky numbers” and won nine times out of ten.
Her luck was uncanny, to be sure. A constant parade of UPS men carried in boxes and packets containing everything from free pens to teddy bears, microwave ovens to chiming mantel clocks and coffeemakers—lots and lots of coffeemakers. Unfortunately, Aunt Harry kept everything. She also played the lotteries—Big Four, Pennsylvania Daily, Cash Five, Wild Card, Super 6 Lotto—but had won only small prizes on those.
Every flat surface, every shelf, every corner of the house held a prize. Whenever she entered the house, Beth was overwhelmed by a feeling of claustrophobia. Teddy bears and other stuffed animals lined the stairs. There were awards of lamps, coolers and cardboard boxes of laundry soap. You name it, Harry won it.
Every room had at least two radios and three televisions. Even the front door knocker was first prize for a local grocery store contest. The fact that it was a Bugs Bunny face made no difference to Aunt Harry. “We can always use more Easter decorations, dear,” she had explained happily.
Beth wearily closed her eyes. If Russ Foster thought her mother and aunt were batty ten years ago, he must undoubtedly be convinced Beth didn’t fall far from the tree since she was living here now.
“They’ll beg me to come back. They’ll miss my lemon bars,” Aunt Harry called from the kitchen.
“I’m sure they will.” Beth stored the excess pumpkins in the closet under the stairs.
Except her lemon bars were raspberry.
Returning to the living room, she began taping colorful cutouts of witches and black cats to the front windows. Her gaze focused on Russ who was jogging back, running slower now, his eyes trained on the Morris front window. Did his blue eyes still hold that boyish charm that had so captivated her the first time they’d met? From where she stood, he was as handsome as ever. If anything, he was even better looking.
Her mind skipped back twelve years. The Fosters had moved to Morning Sun in Beth’s junior year of high school. David Foster had been her age and had been quickly elected yearbook editor at Morning Sun High, a post he’d held until graduation. Russ, on the other hand, had been a basketball standout, named to the Pennsylvania All American team and had been in his senior year.
Even now, Beth blushed at the thought of how she had adored him. It was the mother of all crushes. Of course, half the girls in school had felt the same. The evening he had asked her to the school dance, her feet had never touched the sidewalk on the way home. For over a week, she had floated on cloud nine. Russ Foster had asked crazy old Alice Davis’s daughter to a dance. Improbable, but true, nevertheless.
When he’d picked her up in his old Volkswagen, she couldn’t stop smiling. She’d been so happy that she’d forgotten even to be embarrassed by Aunt Harriet and her mom, who, dressed like toy soldiers, had been standing at the front door to see her off.
Beth closed her eyes, swallowing against the sudden tightness in her throat. That evening had been pure magic. There had been envy in her friends’ eyes, but she’d hardly noticed. The only person she’d seen that night was Russ.
A local disc jockey had played and replayed “Only You”, by The Platters. To this day, she couldn’t hear the song without her eyes misting. When Russ had taken her hand, drawing her out onto the dance floor, she’d felt like Cinderella. Words hadn’t been necessary. They’d danced every dance, talked softly, laughed at nothing. She could still smell his starched shirt.
After the dance, they, along with half the school, had stopped at a local fast-food joint for a soft drink. The hangout had been crowded and it had seemed everyone stopped by their table to visit. She’d been jealous of each minute his classmates had claimed, wanting every second of Russ to herself.
Finally, it had been late, and she’d known the magic would have to end. All the way home, she’d worried whether he’d want a good-night kiss and whether she’d let him kiss her. She smiled now at her innocence.
The worry had been needless. When Russ had stopped in front of her home, he’d sat behind the wheel for a long moment—so long she’d started to worry. Did he expect her to get out? Just like that? No innocuous good-night peck? She’d reached for the door handle. He had gotten out and had come around to help her out. They’d walked to the door holding hands. Then, the moment she both had anticipated and feared had been there. He’d hesitated as if weighing a decision, then had squeezed her hand and had said a very proper good-night.
The prick of disappointment still stung, and Beth blinked back tears. Strange, that after all these years, she clearly remembered running inside the house before Russ could see her hurt.
Of course, it couldn’t have turned out any differently. The fact that he’d asked her out in the first place had been a miracle. She didn’t need a crystal ball to know why he’d never asked again.
He’d left for college soon after graduation, then went on to a job in Washington D.C. It hurt that her most exciting night was one that was only a whim for him. A man like Russ Foster wouldn’t give crazy Alice Morris’s daughter a second thought.
Over the years, gossip had kept her informed of Russ’s whereabouts. He’d been engaged for a brief time, but had broken off the relationship. Someone had said he worked for the CIA. Another had said the FBI. Someone even had hinted he was a mercenary working in Asia somewhere. That, she hadn’t believed. Her pride had kept her from inquiring about him.
She didn’t know what he did, and no one else had seemed to know either. But she was surprised when she heard he was back in Morning Sun, staying in David’s house while Dave and his wife were away on an archeological dig.
She sighed, sticking the last decoration on the window. He was going on with his life. She was still single. Only once had she come close to an engagement to Jerald Morrisey, and Aunt Harry was still Aunt Harry.
She’d thought about putting Harriet in a health care facility, but that wasn’t practical. Neither she nor Harry had the money for her to go to one of those fancy nursing homes, and the state run institution was two hours away. Beth wouldn’t get there as often as she should, so she decided to keep things as they were. Besides, she had promised her mom that she would look after Harry, at least until she had family of her own. She released a deep sigh.
And that hadn’t happened, nor was it likely to, especially when the men in Morning Star saw Aunt Harry wearing a flowered muumuu, racing after the trash truck, waving an empty milk carton, her hair done up in those horrible psychedelic Velcro hair rollers.
Her one serious romance with Jerald had ended when she’d told him she could not leave Aunt Harry in Morning Sun. During the three years they’d dated, Jerald had been away during the week at school, and he had been full of advice about what she should do with Aunt Harry. It hadn’t been much of a decision to tell him to go on to New York to set up his practice without her. Actually it had been a relief when he’d left. She could not picture herself married to a psychiatrist anyway.
Her gaze focused on Russ’s trim backside as he bent over to tie his shoe. Oh yes, he got better looking all the time.
Beth Davis, stop this! She dropped the curtain back into place. She was going to have to get over this juvenile crush some time. She tried practicing reverse psychology, by pretending Russ looked like Ralphie Mencuso. Ralphie, a fellow classmate, was forty pounds overweight now with a disgusting pizza and beer belly, and, if gossip was to be believed, fallen arches and prostate problems.
Leaning against the windowsill, she peered around the curtain, watching Russ disappear down the sidewalk.
Ralphie Mencuso—nah, Ralphie he was most definitely not.
SATURDAY MORNING was downright cold. The radio announcer predicted two inches of snow before evening. Having numerous errands to run, Beth had put on a hot-pink running suit. She pulled her gingerbrown hair into a thick ponytail, ran a light coat of lipgloss over her mouth, then went downstairs to breakfast.
“Enchilada casserole just coming out of the oven!” Aunt Harry sang out as Beth walked into the kitchen.
“Sounds perfect.” Beth was accustomed to offbeat breakfasts. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen eggs and bacon on the table in the morning.
Harry danced a Spanish jig around Beth, a plastic rose in her mouth, clicking her heels, and snapping her fingers like castanets. “Sefiorita Beth, pleeze make the coffee. I em not soo good at eet.”
Beth smiled to herself. Aunt Harry never did make decent coffee so the task always fell to Beth. Not that she minded.
Harriet whisked out of the room, and a moment later, Beth heard the front door open, and the screen door flap shut. After several minutes, she went to check on Aunt Harry. She often forgot why she went outside. Just as Beth reached the front door, it opened, and Harry appeared, dragging none other than Russ Foster in her wake.
“But you look cold, and don’t tell me you’ve had breakfast. You haven’t eaten my enchilada casserole.” Aunt Harry spotted Beth. “Look, it’s Senorita Beth! Guess who I found jogging by the house? Little Davie Foster. Dave, this is Bethany, my sister Alice’s daughter. No...Bethany is my niece.” She frowned. “Which is it Beth?” She didn’t leave time to answer, but continued, “Oh never mind. Bethany, you remember Davie, don’t you? I’ve invited him in for breakfast. Pour the boy a cup of coffee.”
Russ stood in the doorway, decidedly uncomfortable. He was taller than Beth remembered, or perhaps it was just that the living room was so crowded with prizes he took up all the extra space.
Her gaze touched on his functional gray running suit, and the well-broken-in Adidas. He looked at her as if unsure he should be there. Beth understood his hesitancy. She felt the same way.
Harry nudged him into the room. “Come in, David. Beth, pour Dave a cup of coffee.”
Russ met Beth’s stricken gaze, smiling easily. “Hello, Beth.”
“Russ.” Beth tried to be as at ease as he. “It’s nice to see you again.” Her eyes automatically checked the ring finger of his left hand. Bare. Thank you, God.
“Your aunt—”
“Makes a wonderful enchilada casserole.” She motioned him toward the kitchen. “It’s Russ Foster, Aunt Harry. David’s brother.”
“Russ?” Harry frowned and studied her prisoner. “Are you certain dear? I think it’s David.”
“It’s Russ, Aunt Harry.” There was no doubt. It was Russ in a huge way!
In the kitchen, Beth busied herself pouring coffee, hoping Russ wouldn’t notice her trembling hands. “I heard you were back,” she said pleasantly. “Enjoying your visit?”
“Actually, I am.” He took a seat in a lattice-back chair in the sunny breakfast nook. “The town’s hardly changed.”
“Morning Sun never changes, but your parents’ house has. Dave and Carol did a beautiful job remodeling it. I hear that new home repair magazine is going to do an article on their renovation next month.”
“They are. Dave’s real proud of the house, and Carol, well, Carol’s a born decorator.”
“Here you go,” Aunt Harry set a plate of bananas in front of Russ. “Hot sauce or salsa?”
Beth quietly picked up the plate of fruit, and set a helping of enchilada casserole in front of him.
“Neither one, thanks.” Russ glanced at the clock, then at Beth. “A little too early in the day for the hard stuff.”
Beth poured coffee while Aunt Harry chatted, filling Beth’s plate. “Now, David, tell me what you’ve been up to,” Aunt Harry said, drowning her enchiladas in hot sauce.
“Actually, Miss Morris, I was out of the country until the last couple of months.”
Harry nodded. “I heard that. You’re the President, aren’t you? I guess we can’t talk about that, though, can we, son?”
“No.” He smiled, glancing at Beth. “I guess we shouldn’t talk about that.”
Talk about wanting to crawl in a hole! When he looked at her, Beth’s heart thumped like a schoolgirl’s, and she had to force herself to remain calm. His eyes were still the same crystal blue, though there were a few light lines fanning from the corners now. They gave his face character.
He dug into the casserole. “What have you been up to, Beth?” he asked in a soft baritone.
“Me? Oh...well, nothing actually.”
“You must have been up to something.” He smiled. “Where did you go to college?”
“Oh...a small school on the outskirts of Washington. I worked for the DNR for a few years after I graduated. Then, when my mom got sick, I came back to Morning Sun. That’s it. I’m working now for the Watershed Committee.”
“What’s the Watershed Committee?”
“The county, city, and utility company formed the committee a few years ago. It’s a not-for-profit corporation led by a six-member board to assure water purity in our area. My job with the Department of Natural Resources gave me the background I needed for this.”
“And what does Beth Davis do?” He took another bite of casserole, seemingly enjoying the bizarre breakfast.
“I keep the water clean even before it goes to the treatment plant and, eventually, to your house.”
“Sounds worthwhile. That your only job?”
“No, I do statistics, too. Water tests.” She took a bite, thankful he was making a difficult situation easy. But then he’d always been smooth. Smooth and confident. “Right now, I’m trying to get a grant to monitor water quality in the recharge area for Madison Spring. That’s about twenty percent of the water supply for the town. I help with the testing, analyze results and provide the information for the committee meetings.”
“I don’t remember us having any biology classes together.”
She reached for the salt shaker. “You were more interested in basketball, as I recall.”
He smiled. “You like statistics?”
“They’re my life,” Beth returned dryly.
The truth was, they were boring as dry bread, and after four years of crunching numbers she felt equally boring. No wonder her social life was nonexistent. She knew every eligible man in town between eighteen and forty, and now that Jerald was gone, there wasn’t a promising suitor among them. Even worse, the men had known her for most of her life, and they all knew Aunt Harry. Even if she were Madonna, being batty Harriet’s niece would foil the bravest suitor.
And if Aunt Harry weren’t enough to scare a man away, the black curse that hovered over Bethany was. She could keep a dozen complicated equations in her mind, explain the most difficult statistic to the utility board, but send her out on a date, and she was hexed. It was as if the bad witch had battled the good witch for her future and had won the right to control her love life.
She shuddered, recalling the first fiasco after she and Jerald went their separate ways. The back door of an ice truck had come unlatched, dumping 236 bags of crushed cubes onto her date’s convertible. They had sat, only their heads free, staring at each other, while buried under a mountain of ice for over an hour until a road crew had dug them out.
Next she had blithely accepted an invitation from an engineer who was new in town. He had wanted to have dinner on the top floor of a sixteen-story hotel between Morning Sun and Erie. That little adventure had ended with the two of them trapped in the glass elevator halfway between the eleventh and twelfth floor until 4:00 a.m. the next morning.
It might well have been a romantic memory, with the right man. Unfortunately, Grant Crain was claustrophobic. In order to keep him from shattering the superthick glass with both fists and leaping to his death, she’d been forced to talk for nine and a half hours straight to keep him reasonably calm. She had laryngitis for a week afterward.
“How long did you say you would be in town, Kenneth?” Aunt Harry asked, sipping her coffee.
Beth smiled, correcting under her breath. “Russell, Aunt Harry, Russell.”
Aunt Harry frowned. “Who?”
Russ politely intervened. “I’ll be around until my knee heals, which I hope isn’t too much longer. There’s a possibility I may have a job waiting for me back in Washington D.C.”
Washington D.C.! Only 130 miles south of Morning Sun. Might as well be a million. Beth kept her smile cordial, offering him a bowl of salad.
He shook his head, refusing. “I’ll pass this morning, thanks.”
Harry brightened. “Washington? The seat of government? How exciting. Will you be working with the President?”
Russ pushed back from his half-eaten meal. “No. I doubt he’ll know I’m in town. And I don’t have the transfer yet.”
Aunt Harry leaned to peer over the table. “What happened to your knee?”
“Aunt Harry, maybe Russ doesn’t—” Beth began.
“It’s okay,” Russ said. “I tore some ligaments jumping out of a helicopter.”
Aunt Harry blinked. “Jumping out of a helicopter? Why would you do that?”
“I’m not fond of crashing.”
Beth smothered a laugh. She adored men with a sense of humor.
Harry frowned, clearly misunderstanding. “Are you crazy?”
“After I landed I decided I must have been.”
“Was it broken?” Harry asked.
“The helicopter? Yes, it was.”
“No, your knee.”
“No, but it might as well have been. I’m still in therapy. The doctor wants me to exercise it twice a day.”
Harry picked up the cream pitcher. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hollywood.”
“What sort of new job awaits you in Washington?” Beth asked quietly.
His gaze met hers, and lingered for a moment. “I’m thinking about leaving the field, going into supervision. It’s a chance to advance, but I like the diversity of what I do now.” He glanced at his knee. “Unless this doesn’t heal the way it should. Then, who knows?” He shrugged, and it was easy to tell the prospect was a worry.
“Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Beth smiled.
“Thanks. I don’t have the job yet.”
“Does Russell still have that big dog?” Harriet asked.
Beth automatically corrected her. “David, Aunt Harriet.”
Harriet looked blank. “I thought he was Russ.”
“He is Russ. David’s his brother.” She glanced at Russ, biting her lip. This was insane. He undoubtedly was racking his brain for a polite way to end this madness. “Russ is staying in David’s house while David and Carol are away.”
“Well then, does he still have Jasper?”
“Jasper?” Russ seemed surprised at the name.
“Jasper—the Irish wolfhound David got from the Humane Society a couple of years back. You know, the one with the clear black eyes and two black nails on his right front paw.”
Beth sighed. Aunt Harry could remember the name and eye color of a stray dog a neighbor adopted, and whether his toenails were a different color, but she couldn’t remember to put on her shoes when she left the house.
Russ frowned. “Jasper’s the dog’s name? David’s writing is so bad I thought he said the dog’s name was Astor. No wonder the animal hates me.”
“Hates you?” Beth laughed, relieved to see he was taking Aunt Harry in stride.
“The dog doesn’t like me. He attacked me the moment I walked in the door, and he lays in wait for me every time I leave the house.”
Aunt Harry laughed. “That dog loves everybody. I wonder why Russell got such a large one?”
“David,” Beth corrected.
“I thought you said...”
“Dave likes his animals big,” Russ interrupted, draining the last of his coffee. “The mutt must weigh a hundred pounds. Pins me to the floor the minute I walk through the doorway. Takes me a half hour to persuade him to let me up.”
Beth bit back another laugh, and Russ’s gaze caught hers. She suddenly felt as if her air supply were shut off.
“David and Carol left before I got here. They left a note on the kitchen table, but Astor-or-Jasper ate half of it. It said something about the house not having modern conveniences. The stove is wood burning, and the hot water heater can’t hold more than five gallons.” He paused. “I’ve taken a lot of cold showers since I’ve been back.”
Beth thought, after seeing him today, she might be taking a few cold showers herself.
“I heard Carol is a naturalist.” Beth stood up and began clearing dishes from the table.
“More like primitive if you ask me. I knew Dave was a little strange, but I never thought about him gutting the house of modern conveniences.”
Beth scraped casserole into the garbage disposal. “You talk to your brother often?”
“No. I’ve been out of the country most of the past six years. I had no idea Dave had turned into a kook.”
She didn’t know he’d been out of the country. What did he do? Was it dangerous? Must be, if it required jumping out of helicopters.
“You’re out of casserole,” Harry announced.
Russ raised his palms. “No...thanks. But it was delicious.” He winked at Beth, and she couldn’t breathe again. “My morning cornflakes will pale in comparison.”
“More coffee?” Beth offered, praying he would refuse.
“Sure, why not.”
She refilled his cup, wondering why he was hanging around. He must have a thousand more interesting things to do than sit in her kitchen and listen to Aunt Harry try to get his name straight. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
Setting the pot back on the burner, she murmured, “I’m going to finish the last of the Halloween decorations. You’ll excuse me?”
Disappearing out the back door, she began attaching crepe paper to the porch railing. Taking deep breaths, she tried to rid herself of Russ’s scent of Irish Spring soap. Unrolling a length of crepe paper, she looped it over one arm, and wound the other end around the railing. Voices drifted through the open door. Aunt Harry was back on the subject of Russ’s work. She winced when she heard CIA mentioned.
Finally she hung the last of the decorations, relieved to be finished.
She looked around. Wild horses couldn’t pull her back into the house to listen to more of Aunt Harry’s inquisition. As if she’d even remember where Russ worked an hour after he left. It wasn’t so bad with people who knew Aunt Harry. They understood she asked questions and promptly forgot the responses. What would Russ think? “I’m going out to the car,” she called. “Anything you want put in the mailbox?”
“The green envelope on the entry table! I’m entering the Florida contest. The prize is a round trip to Orlando. I haven’t been to Disney World in ages.”
“Sixteen months, Aunt Harry,” Beth corrected under her breath. “But who’s counting?” Toting the envelope to the mailbox, she could hear Aunt Harry still grilling Russ.
During her lunch hour the day before, Beth had gone to Roeberry’s Furniture to purchase a table. She’d been thrilled to find a small, carved solid maple library table that would be perfect for her room. Aunt Harry’s prize winnings occupied every corner of every other room of the house, but Beth insisted on keeping her room a sanctuary. It was a tiny oasis she called her own.
Beth had left the table in the car after work. The young warehouse boy who had loaded the furniture box into her car had made it look simple, but now, Beth wasn’t sure she could get it out as easily.
Propping the car door open, she shoved the driver’s seat forward. Bracing herself against the frame, she tugged, trying to force the box through the narrow back seat opening. By the time she managed to maneuver it free, she was on the verge of swearing.
She wrestled the box onto the driveway, listening to Russ and Aunt Harry chatting inside the back door.
Grasping the box in a bear hug, Beth dragged it toward the porch, scooting her feet backward with each jerk of her load.
Russ appeared in the doorway just as her heels met solid resistance, and she sat down hard on the third step. “You want me to get that?” he called.
“No, I’ve got it,” Beth turned to eye the steps, wondering how she was ever going to get the table up them. Her rear was numb, and she needed a moment to recover. “Just enjoy your visit!”
By the time she had the box on the porch, her ponytail was half down, and she’d heard something pop in her lower back. Something serious, something even more serious than a bruised tailbone, she feared. But she’d done it without Russ Foster’s help, a fact that gave her immense satisfaction. He and Aunt Harry had disappeared into the interior of the house and were nowhere to be seen.
After breaking two nails, she managed to get the packing staples out of the cardboard. She sat back on her heels and slid the tabletop onto the porch. Four legs followed with a packet of hardware. She went inside to get the Handy Dandy Tool Kit Aunt Harry gave her for Christmas two years earlier. Tool kit in hand, she went back onto the porch, and began assembling the table.
Three of the legs went on without a hitch, but the fourth refused to cooperate. After three tries, she measured and found the holes in the leg didn’t match those on the mounting block.
“Darn!” She sat back, staring at the uncooperative pieces of wood. No doubt she would have to dismantle the partially constructed table and return it to Roeberry’s for a new one. “I just hate it when this happens!” she muttered aloud.
Aunt Harry had Russ cornered in the living room now, complaining about being banned from bingo. Russ wore a decidedly panicky look as Beth sailed through to get her purse and coat.
“I have to take my table back,” she informed Harry as she passed the room.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? You can return it on your way to work,” Aunt Harry said.
“No, I want it today.”
Russ quickly seized the opportunity. “I’ll get that box for you.”
“No.” Beth smiled, recognizing desperation when she saw it. “Thanks, but I can handle it.” It gave a small bit of satisfaction that he turned to follow her, even if Aunt Harriet clamped a hand on his arm and prevented him from leaving the room.
She tugged the unwieldy box across the lawn. Why couldn’t she swallow her pride and take his offer? Why must she prove that she didn’t need his help? How long could she carry a grudge? They’d had one measly unsuccessful date ten years ago. It wasn’t as if he’d wronged her, or made a fool of her, or shattered her life. One date, and she never saw him again—not socially.
What was her problem?
The problem was, she was still hopelessly, foolishly, irrationally attracted to the man. Even when she had been dating Jerald, she’d never stopped comparing him to Russ and had hated herself for doing it.
Grunting, she wedged the box back through the narrow space leading to the back seat, ignoring the sharp pain in her lower back. It was times like this, she realized, she should have a key made for the trunk to replace the one she lost years ago. Lifting her foot, she rammed the box, forcing it into the back seat. She bit her lower lip and grimaced at the shaft of pain that shot up her leg.
Slamming the door shut, she brushed off her hands and glanced toward the front door where Aunt Harry now had Russ trapped against the porch railing.
There was nothing—absolutely nothing ever—between her and Russ Foster.
Just ask Russ.
