Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

I’ve never met her.” Odd and odder, I thought. Greg never said that he was a big company, but I’d always had the impression he was. “We better see about tracking down this Doreen Miller. Junebug said he was going to be calling up to Boston; I’ll tell him he needs to find Ms.

Miller as well.” Lorna nodded. “Her number must be in a file on Greg’s laptop somewhere.” I didn’t remember seeing it, but I’d double-check anyway. “One more question. What was going on with the Loudermilk women when you were standing with them? Jenny looked like she was crying and Dee looked upset.” Lorna shrugged. “I don’t know. I met them both briefly when I got into town; Greg introduced me to them.

They seemed kind of twitchy.” She paused. “There’s an undercurrent of bad feeling between them; Jenny was sassy to her mother a couple of times while I was at their house, but Dee just ignored it. Typical teen-and-mom strife, I guess.” I didn’t answer, lost in thought. Until I noticed Lorna’s hand idly playing along the bedspread, weaving through the two feet of space that separated us. “You’ve been exceptionally kind to me, Jordan.” I suddenly felt nervous. “Well, sure, Lorna. Glad to.” “I don’t excel at playing the helpless female.

Neither does Candace. Maybe that’s why you like her-she reminds you of me.” I definitely wanted to skirt this discussion. I stood. “Maybe so, Lorna. Listen, it’s been an exhausting day. Let’s get some sleep.” I moved to the light switch, raising one hand in a quick wave of farewell. “Not going to tuck me in?” she asked coyly. She didn’t sound so tired anymore. And her modest white robe had somehow shaped itself to the curves of her generous body. I stared down at the floor. “No.

Like you said, you’re not the helpless female. Good night, Lorna.” And with that, I made my escape to my own room, like a nervous teenager dashing home without a good-night kiss. Sleep didn’t come easily. I lay awake rehashing all that had happened earlier. First of all, why was Freddy Jacksill in Greg’s room? Or near Greg’s room? The room had been yellow-taped as a crime scene. Was Freddy simply curious? Or had he had some business in Greg’s room he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about? Could he have been involved in Greg’s scam? Surely not, I thought. It would have ruined his business in town. I needed to know a little more about Freddy Jacksill. And the explosion-if it was indeed the work of Mirabeau’s mad bomber-suggested two possibilities. First, Freddy was the bomber and had planned to blow up the Mirabeau B. (or Greg’s room, to be more specific) and the bomb went off prematurely. I thought I could dismiss that theory; Freddy wouldn’t know squat about explosives. Second, the bomb had been placed in Greg’s room and Freddy was just unlucky enough to be there. Why bomb Greg’s room? Perhaps, because of its sudden notoriety in town, it presented itself as an appealing, attention-grabbing target. Why were the bombings happening anyway? Clyda Tepper’s ridiculous doghouse, Fred Boolfors’s town-famous shed without a single tool that belonged to him (not to mention that legendary collection of Playboys), a series of mailboxes exploding in a synchronized dance. There was a strong air of desperate theatricality about the incidents, like a child who throws a particularly creative temper tantrum so he’ll be paid extra attention.

The Loudermilks troubled me, too; an air of unhappiness hung about that family, as though they’d recently suffered a loss. Dee’s being upset, Parker’s weird watching of the fire, Jenny’s crying-perhaps I was conjuring up my own theories about the Loudermilks on flimsy suspicion, but my intuition registered that something wasn’t right in the mayoral mansion. I gave up worrying about all these folks and finally drifted off to sleep. I’ve never been a light sleeper, so I don’t know how long Lorna had been lying next to me in the dark hollow of my bed. Her fingers awakened me, rubbing slowly in an arc from my waist up to the basin between my shoulder blades. A kiss touched the tender joint where neck meets back. I jerked awake, aware of her presence and my own involuntary response. I usually sleep in the buff, so I yanked the sheets up to protect my modesty. My arm throbbed when I leaned against it. “Lorna, what the hell-” “Jordy. Can I call you that, since everyone else does?” she said, her face very near to mine.

“I can’t sleep. I’m scared and I’m lonely. I need to feel you near me.

I resented the position she’d put me in-or wanted to put me in. “It’s not a good idea, Lorna. Really.” “No one has to know. Candace is okay, I don’t want to hurt her. But I have needs, too. I can’t be alone right now. You know how good we are together.” She was pulling at her own robe with one hand and pulling me toward her with the other. I pushed back. “No! It’s not true that no one would know. I would know.

I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us. But I’m not risking what I have with Candace just because you want a roll in the hay. Now go back to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.” In the darkness I couldn’t see her face clearly, but her silence spoke for her. “Good night, Jordan. I hope you never need anyone the way I needed you right now.” Her voice was like ice on my skin. When she left the room, I rolled over-somewhat painfully. Until sleep finally claimed me again, I tried not to think of all those wonderful nights in Boston.

When it’s a pleasant morning, mama likes to sweep the back porch. The exercise is good for her, the doctors say, and I think she might get a vague comfort out of doing a job well. Alzheimer’s patients use simple, repetitive actions as their own security blanket, as though cleaning a porch for six hours replaces having a life full of fear and love and joy and sorrow. The next morning I found Lorna sitting on the back porch with an unusually dapper Mama, talking to her while Mama clenched her favorite broom. As I poured myself a cup of coffee I could hear Lorna’s voice through the screen door. “Of course Jordan isn’t the easiest person to love. I guess you know that.

He likes his own way sometimes, and he can get a little sharp-tongued.

My mother never could stand him; she thought he was a real hick, despite his urbanity when he lived up north. I hope you’re not offended by that, Mrs. Poteet.” The gentle swishing of the broom against wood was the only answer. Mama had been unusually quiet since Lorna’s arrival. I paused by the door, not wanting to listen-but not being able to help myself. This sounded like the Lorna of old, the one who lived behind the bravado, and the one I’d been missing. “I think I understand now how Jordan felt when he lived up north. Missing home doesn’t sound so silly anymore. Of course he had you and Arlene and Mark to come home to. I’ve got a sick fern and a pile of bills.” I coughed loudly in the kitchen and slammed a cupboard door, letting her know I was around. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear much about Lorna’s lonely life up north. Maybe it was lonely now only because Greg was dead. She met my eyes as I came out onto the porch with the coffee, then glanced up toward heaven. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” was all Lorna ventured by means of conversation. I had to agree with her. The Saturday-morning sky was a faultless blue, shimmering toward white in the early-morning warmth. It was going to be another hot summer day, without a hint of rain. Or at least for the next five minutes. They say if you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait five minutes and it’ll change. Summer afternoons often brought quick, drenching showers when moist air pushed in from the Gulf. Afterward, it was like being in a sauna, your clothes adhering to your skin in the heavy humidity.