Brenda Novak - A Husband of Her Own

“Oh, the problem isn’t her looks,” Doyle said. “Least not anymore.”

Though she’d been far too thin and lanky in high school, Rebecca had filled out since then. Josh didn’t think she’d ever be curvy, exactly—her breasts were high and small, her hips a little too narrow to be ideal. But he happened to like the way she was built.

He imagined her as he’d seen her last summer, lying on his bed with most of her clothes on the floor. Sure her breasts were small, but they were well-shaped and firm. And all the angles that had made her features appear exaggerated when she was young had evolved into…an arresting face, he decided, the perfect setting for her expressive eyes. Perhaps her top lip was a little too thin, but Josh couldn’t see how any man could hold that against her. Not when she kissed with such abandon. When her defenses were down, and she was looking up at him as she had that night, without the usual distrust and resentment, she was actually quite beautiful.

“It’s that temper of hers,” Doyle was saying. “Why would anyone want to put up with her?”

Josh could have added an “amen” to that. Poor sap probably didn’t know what he was getting into. But he wasn’t going to involve himself by stating an opinion. “What’s her fiancé like?” he asked, hoping to spin the conversation in a new direction so he wouldn’t have to comment on Rebecca’s suitability as a wife.

Doyle shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks—his nod to casual dress for the weekend—and jingled his change. “He’s not from around here. She met him on the damn Internet, not that I’m complaining. At least she’s got herself a man. Lord knows no one around here was willing to take her on. But I worry.” He jingled his change some more as he seemed to mull over his concerns. “He’s too mild-mannered for her, if you ask me.”

“But you like him?”

“I’ve only met him once. I don’t really know him. And I’m afraid she doesn’t, either. He certainly isn’t the type I would’ve expected her to choose.” Doyle leaned a little closer and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “He’s not much of a man, if you get my drift. He’s soft. A bookworm. Doesn’t look like he’s done a hard day’s work in his life. Once a few months go by, I have no doubt she’ll be leading him around by the nose.” He straightened. “And on top of everything else, he’s younger than she is.”

“He is? By how much?”

“Too much.”

Too much? What was that supposed to mean? Curiosity prompted Josh to ask, but he overrode the impulse. Now that he’d done the right thing in coming here, he just needed to bide his time until she got married and moved. Resolution at last.

“But we’re happy she’s finally found someone and is settling down,” Doyle went on. “Maybe she’ll get turned around yet, like that Armstrong fella.”

“You told me on the phone last night that she’d mellowed,” Josh pointed out.

The other man grinned. “Had to tell you something to get you down here. We’ve got that anniversary party coming up. Her poor mother couldn’t survive another embarrassing ordeal like the last one.”

Josh cleared his throat. What had happened at Delia’s wedding was more his fault than Rebecca’s. Rebecca hadn’t even touched him. “I think she has mellowed…a little,” he said, because honesty demanded it.

“She’s mellow only when it suits her. Yesterday she stormed out of the house again. I should be used to it by now.”

“What does her fiancé do for a living?”

“Something with computers. Likes his job and doesn’t want to leave. Least that’s why they told me they’ll be living in Nebraska.”

Rebecca was on her way back. Doyle bowed his head closer and lowered his voice, “Could be worse, I guess. Booker Robinson’s in town. She could’ve hooked up with him.”

Booker had visited Dundee for the summer once while he was in his teens. He’d come to stay with his Grandmother Hatfield, or Hatty as everyone called her, because his parents couldn’t handle him. And he’d left quite an impression—on everyone. As a typical red-blooded American boy, Josh had figured he knew how to cause trouble. But his version of raising hell was good clean fun compared to Booker’s.

“Did you say Booker’s back?” Rebecca asked.

Doyle grimaced. “Now I’ve done it.”

“When’d he get back?”

“I don’t know the exact day he rolled into town. Louise over at Finley’s Grocery saw him when he came in last Tuesday.”

“And he’s staying? For longer than a couple of weeks?”

“He told Louise he’s here to take care of Hatty now that her health is failing.” Doyle nudged Josh. “More likely he’s hoping for an inheritance.”

“He hasn’t called me,” Rebecca said, as though she wasn’t really listening.

“I’m sure he will,” her father said. “If I know him, he’ll be looking for a partner in crime. But if you talk to him, you might want to tell him that I’m having Chief Tom keep an eye on him. He won’t get away with anything this time.”

“Would you give him a break, Dad?” Rebecca said, her patience obviously slipping. “He’s been gone for…what? Twelve years? He was just a kid back then. I’m sure he’s changed by now.”

Josh couldn’t help noticing that her father’s verbal jab had included Rebecca, what with the “partner in crime” reference, but she said nothing in her own defense. Had she become so used to belittling remarks that she didn’t even bother to respond?

He didn’t want to think so. That threatened to pull him out of the “neutral zone,” and, when it came to Rebecca, he wasn’t about to abandon his central objective: to achieve peace, a sense of finality and very limited future involvement. The truce between them was already tenuous; he definitely shouldn’t overstep his bounds. She wouldn’t thank him for becoming her defender.

“If I know Booker, he hasn’t changed enough,” Doyle replied. “But I’ll let you two finish up. Good to see you, Josh. You ever get a chance, stop by City Hall and I’ll take you to lunch. And don’t forget the anniversary party.”

“Thank you,” Josh said. “I won’t.”

He and Rebecca watched her father go without saying anything. Josh had nothing to say. He didn’t like Booker, didn’t want Rebecca to connect with him any more than her father did. He didn’t like the fact that she was marrying someone who sounded so ill-suited to her—and so young. More than anything, he didn’t like the condescending way her father had just treated her. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say or do about any of it because what happened in Rebecca’s life was none of his business.

Tossing a twenty on her vanity, he jammed his hat on his head.

“You don’t want me to finish?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s fine the way it is,” he said and walked out.

TALL, WIRY AND SLIGHTLY BOWLEGGED, with a head of thick dark hair that fell low on his brow, often shading his eyes, Booker T. Robinson hadn’t changed much. He’d grown, of course, several inches from the look of him, and he’d filled out. But judging by the tattoos on his arms, the calluses and scars on his hands, and the long jagged scar on the right side of his face, the years hadn’t been kind to him. Even the clothes he wore, a plain black T-shirt with a front pocket and tattered blue jeans, added to his tough-guy image.

He was a rebel, all right. But Rebecca liked him. Probably because he was one of the more honest people she’d met. At least he was generally honest with himself. He wasn’t a pillar of the community. He probably never would be. But he didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. He cussed and smoked and sometimes drank to excess. He said what he wanted to say and he offered no apologies or excuses.