Wendy Rosnau - The Long Hot Summer

“Look, Mr. Ber—Johnny, what’s important to me is my business. Yours is doing the job you were hired to do, not asking questions.”

“Does that work both ways? You don’t have any questions for me?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Nicole argued. “I’m not on parole. And I haven’t earned a reputation in this town as a troublemaker.”

Instead of being offended his dark eyes softened and he wagged a finger at her. “Shame on you for listening to the gossip, cherie. You know what they say. Half of it usually isn’t true.”

“And the other half?”

“Sometimes fighting back is the only way you can survive.”

It was clear that he was a man ripened by experience and polished by a predatory edge. Still, was he saying all that was just a false front? That he’d reacted instead of acted? Nicole had done much the same thing, only not in such a grand fashion. She’d donned her L.A.-cool facade to survive the pain she’d left behind, and even before she’d lost her baby, when Chad had walked out on them, she’d pasted a smile of indifference on her face.

She didn’t want to dismiss his offenses so easily, but if she was right, she couldn’t help wondering who or what had prompted his less-than-sterling reputation. Surely not just bad blood between him and Farrel Craig.

She asked, “Why did you ignore Gran’s message to stop by the house yesterday?”

“I didn’t ignore it. I came by.”

“You certainly did not.”

“Yes, I did. I started to fix the dock at the boathouse and lost track of time, but I showed up about nine.” He shrugged. “The place was dark, except for this room. I didn’t knock at the front door because I figured the old lady had gone to bed already.”

Was he telling the truth? Nicole didn’t know, but then, why would he lie? “She waited all afternoon and into the evening. That was inconsiderate. Let’s hope today you find the time. After all, she is the one responsible for getting you out of prison early, Mr. Bernard.”

“Johnny. My friends call me Johnny.”

“Friends?” Nicole arched a brow in a mocking fashion that she knew wouldn’t go unnoticed. “So far, the only friend you have in this town—the only one I’m aware of, anyway—is my grandmother. And I’m still confused as to why she’s so willing, when you don’t appear to appreciate her kindness with even the simplest thank-you.”

Her chastising seemed to amuse him. He said, “Actually I have two friends in this town. Maybe in time I could add you to the list and make it three. What do you say, cherie? Think you could stop disliking me long enough to cut me some slack?”

“Cut you some slack?” Nicole sniffed. “And then what?”

“Then we get on with the reason I’m here.”

“Whether I’m your friend or not, Mr. Bernard, you will do the job Gran expects of you. A full day’s work, plus room and board, for the taste of freedom.”

“Yeah, that was the deal we made. But what about our deal?”

“I don’t understand.”

He gave her another head-to-toe. “You’re not exactly ugly, cherie. If you can get past the gossip and give me a fair shake, I’ll see that I keep my hands in my pockets and my dirty thoughts to myself.” He made a show of stuffing his hands in his back pockets.

Well, that was certainly blunt enough, Nicole thought. “Dirty thoughts are dirty thoughts, Johnny. Maybe the deal should be not having them at all.”

His laugh bounced off the walls. “Cherie, I’ve been in prison six months. My dirty thoughts are what kept me sane.”

There was no way she could respond to that without wading into dangerous water, so Nicole kept silent.

A moment later, he rounded the bed to gaze at the painting hanging on the wall. She had painted the picture of Oakhaven’s private swimming hole three years ago when she and her parents had come for a two-week visit. It was the summer before her parents had been killed in a plane crash.

“Nice picture. Someone local paint it?”

“No.” In L.A. Nicole had been a rising star on the gallery circuit. Or at least, she had been until a few months ago. Lately, painting had become as difficult as sleeping.

He turned around, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper. “I’ve got a supply list started.” He circled the bed, stopped less than a foot away from her and handed her the list. “They might have to order some of this, so get on it right away.”

Nicole accepted the paper, but when she glanced at it and none of it made sense, she turned and laid it on the nightstand. “I’ll call today.”

“The shingles come in different colors and styles. They’ll have some samples at the yard you can look at.” He glanced outside. “The coast is clear.”

Nicole walked to the French doors. Sure enough, Bick and Red had left for the bayou. She felt him come up behind her, brush past. She said, “Will you see Gran today? She really was in a mood last night when she finally gave up on you.”

He turned around, waited as if expecting her to say more.

Finally Nicole gave in and said, “Please?”

A lazy smile parted his lips. “Yeah, as soon as she gets her hair combed and her teeth in, I’ll come by.” He started to leave again, then hesitated. “See how easy it is, cherie? A simple ‘please,’ and already you’ve got me eating out of your hand.”

He cut down the dead tree in the front yard before noon. Officially, he had two days before he started work, but the tree was an eyesore, and, anyway, it felt good to do some physical labor.

Sweat-soaked from the day’s heat, Johnny took a good whiff of himself and wrinkled up his nose. A sour fungus growing on something rotten smelled better than he did right now. He glanced at the sky and decided it had to be around one o’clock. He hoisted the chain saw and axe and returned them to one of the sheds, then headed back to the house.

He found the old lady in the garden. He stopped just outside the gate, his chest tightening awkwardly as he assessed her asleep in her wheelchair beneath the old oak. She had always affected him strangely, touching that vulnerable part of him, that little-boy part that was attracted to someone who treated him like they cared. He still didn’t know why she had bothered with him; he’d been a wild little bastard. But if he had any good in him at all, Mae Chapman could take credit for it.

She blinked awake as if sensing he was there, her blue eyes cloudy and content as they fastened on him. Her thinning wisps of white hair were pulled back in an attempt to make a small bun at her nape. She was thinner than he remembered, her frail body lost in the fabric of her simple yellow cotton dress.

“I expected to see you yesterday—this morning at the latest,” she called out, her voice strong and lucid. “You got a reason to avoid me?”

She spoke bluntly, but without rancor. Her raspy voice sent another burst of emotion through him as Johnny swung the gate open and strolled through. He noticed the bandage on her right ankle, smiled when on further inspection, he saw her small feet tucked into a pair of modern-looking tennis shoes meant for a woman half her age. “Heard you were laid up.” He gestured to her injury. “Didn’t see any need to bother you too early.”

“My ankle’s got nothing to do with my ability to get out of bed. And it hasn’t affected my speech, either.” She spun the wheelchair around to face him.

“No, it doesn’t appear so.” Johnny grinned. “Then again, you were never short on words, as I recall.”

His teasing brought a smile to her gaunt face, exposing a row of perfect-fitting dentures. “Land sakes, look at you.” She gave him a prideful once-over. “You still got your daddy’s eyes. Kept his shiny hair, too. Delmar would have liked that.”