Nancy Bartholomew - Your Cheatin Heart

He looked away then, throwing the Taurus into reverse and backing out into my alley. He picked up the microphone that lay between us and barked into it. Weathers was back on the job, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt as if I'd missed something important.

Weathers pulled the Taurus right up in front of Jack's loading dock, put it in park, and sat waiting for me to leave. Funny thing was, now I didn't want to go. I felt like I wanted him to understand something about me, but I just couldn't lay my hand on what it was.

"That picture," I said, my thoughts trailing to a stop.

"Yeah?" His hand rested on the wheel, but he was watching me.

"That was six years ago. We were just clowning around at the beach." Weathers didn't say a word. He waited. "The Spiveys rent this big house at Holden Beach every year. It was kinda fun, you know?"

He nodded ever so slightly.

"I didn't come from a family that did stuff like that. It was one of the things I liked best about the Spiveys." I was taking up air space and saying nothing. But it was almost as if I had to keep moving my mouth to get around to what I was thinking.

"Jimmy was a sweet boy, Detective. He meant well, but he couldn't help himself. He just lacked ambition. I don't know what he would've done with the love of a good woman, but Roxanne wasn't the one. I tried to be like a big sister to him. I guess he took it wrong. But you should know this: I never did anything to make Jimmy think I loved him. I never violated my vows to Vernell. Not with anyone. Not ever."

Weathers had turned a little in his seat and was giving me his full attention.

"And I was plenty lonely, Detective. So you go on and check me out. You root through my underwear drawer and dig up my past. You take it to mean whatever you want, but you won't find a murderer. I'm guilty of a lot of things. I've been foolish in love, and probably gullible in situations you'd see coming a mile off. But I don't intentionally set out to hurt people, Detective, even when they've hurt me."

I reached down and picked up the photo of me and Jimmy. He looked so young and happy. Who in the world had killed him? He'd loved me, in his own lost-boy way, and somehow, I'd let him down. Not just by not loving him the way he wanted me to love him, but by not listening, not hearing something that might've saved his life. And now maybe I was the only one with sense enough to find his murderer. Maybe I was the only one who really cared. Vernell was stuck inside a bottle and Roxanne only wanted Jimmy's money. I looked at the picture again for a moment, remembering the crash of the ocean behind us, and the smell of the salty air that hot August day. Then I stretched out my hand and offered the picture to Weathers.

"You keep this," I said. "I don't need it anymore."

Weathers reached out and took the picture, and his fingers brushed mine. Our eyes met and held, the shock of skin on skin dancing up my arm, flipping my stomach over like the drop of a roller-coaster. He leaned across the seat and cupped my chin with his fingers. Ever so slowly and gently, Marshall Weathers kissed me. I melted into him, feeling myself sinking deeper and deeper.

He pushed back, his face inches from mine, looking deep into my eyes.

"Like I said, Maggie, you can do better."

I pulled away and turned to fumble with the door handle. I had to get out of the car because I'd suddenly had a memory that Weathers couldn't know about and I couldn't explain.

"How will I know, Mama?" I'd asked one summer day out on the porch, the two of us swinging on the wooden porch swing.

"Honey," she'd answered, "when the right man comes along, you'll know."

Suddenly the air inside the car was too close, and my head was spinning. I was too tired. My mind was playing tricks on me, and I was too tired.

"Good-bye, Detective," I said, my voice coming out in a husky whisper.

"I'll be in touch," he said.

I couldn't look at him. Suddenly, I was eleven, sitting on the porch swing with Mama, while part of me, the adult Maggie, was running just as fast as she could.

I ran up the steps to the loading dock and hit the remote button. Behind me, I heard the crunch of Weathers's tires pulling away and I sighed with relief. The garage door moved too slowly, and all I could think about was getting inside. I half expected to see Jack, but the downstairs was empty, another relief. I didn't need to deal with any more men at this particular moment.

I wandered over to the couch and sat down, pulling off my boots and searching for a quilt all in the same move. I wasn't going upstairs. I was going to pull myself into a little ball, right there on the sofa, and sleep and sleep and sleep, until all my crazy thoughts went away.

I woke up suddenly, startled and disoriented, but wide-awake. I had been dreaming about something, something important, something about Jimmy, but whatever it was vanished as I opened my eyes. In front of me on the coffee table sat Jack's white coffee carafe, a clean mug beside it. Jack had come and gone, it seemed, and this time he had not left a note.

I poured a cup of his strong French roast and proceeded to indulge in my one secret passion: the motivational infomercial. Aside from being held hostage by the Bonita Faye cosmetic lady once every few months, infomercials were my main personal indulgence. Especially this one guy. He was a tall man who sat out by his pool, behind his mansion, talking about how I, too, could become more successful than my wildest fantasies.

He was always on. If I flipped through the cable channels, he would be waiting for me, and I knew almost every word of his message by heart. He was a poor child, outcast by his peers because of his immense size. But he believed in himself. He called upon the power within, and rose through the ranks to finally parlay himself into a multi-million dollar corporation. His eyes shone as he stared out at his beleaguered audience. "You can do this," he'd urge. Then he'd bring on a bunch of shiney-eyed women, who all told tales of personal despair turned to gold.

This morning as I listened, I realized that I had been focusing on the wrong path. I had allowed myself to be caught up in the reality of my accusers. I had veered from the course to my financial success. There was a whole side to this situation that I had ignored. Jimmy was dead, there was no going back and fixing that situation, but he had left me a gift. I had a responsibility to myself, Sheila, and Jimmy's unsuccessful memory. If what Vernell said was true, and I had no reason to doubt him, I owned forty-nine percent of a very successful mobile home business and it was time to step up to the plate and assume responsibility for its continued success.

It was after two o'clock in the afternoon. For most of the business world, things would be winding down, but not the mobile home sales business. They seemed to be almost always open, that is, if Vernell's hours while we were married had been any indication. "We stay open until the last customer leaves satisfied" was their motto.

I stretched and poured a second cup of coffee. I was about to go down to the intersection of Holden Road and I-85 and claim my inheritance. If I knew Vernell, he'd be thinking that I was going to be a silent partner. He was probably thinking he could buy me out for a quarter the value of the business. Maybe that was why he'd been acting so peculiar and friendly. Maybe he was thinking I was an easy mark. Well, that might've been true a few years back, before I bought the Curley-Que Beauty Salon, but not now. It was time to look at the books.

I raced upstairs and hopped into the shower, my mind going ninety miles an hour with ideas. Mr. Motivation said that you must always dress like the successful person you intend to be. That was going to be a problem, as I had only country-and-western success clothes here and I wasn't going back to my place to hunt up a suit.