Debbie Macomber: A Little Bit Country

Rorie winced at the way Mary described her.

“I’m a plain talker,” Mary said on the end of an abrupt laugh. “Always have been, always will be. Knowing Clay—and I do, as well as his mother did, God rest her soul—he’ll pine for you awhile, but eventually everything will fall back into place. The way it was before you arrived.”

Tears stung Rorie’s eyes. She felt miserable as it was, and Mary wasn’t helping. She’d already assured the housekeeper she was leaving, but Mary apparently wanted to be damn sure she didn’t change her mind. The woman didn’t understand...but then again, maybe she did.

“Have you ever been in love, Mary?”

“Once,” came the curt reply. “Hurt so much the first time I never chanced it again.”

“Are you sorry you lived your life alone now?” That was what Rorie saw for herself. Oh, she knew she was being melodramatic and over-emotional, but she couldn’t imagine loving any man as much as she did Clay.

Mary lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Some days I have plenty of regrets, but then on others it ain’t so bad. I’d like to have had a child, but God saw to it that I was around when Clay and Skip needed someone.... That made up for what I missed.”

“They consider you family.”

“Yeah, I suppose they do.” Mary pushed out her chair and stood up. “Well, I better get back to work. Those men expect a decent lunch. I imagine they’re near starved after the dinner you fed them last night.”

Despite her heartache, Rorie smiled and finished her coffee. “And I’d better get upstairs and pack the rest of my things. The mechanic said my car would be ready around noon.”

On her way to the bedroom, Rorie paused at the framed photograph of Clay’s parents that sat on the piano. She’d passed it a number of times and had given it little more than a fleeting glance. Now it suddenly demanded her attention, and she stopped in front of it.

A tremor went through her hand as she lightly ran her finger along the brass frame. Clay’s mother smiled serenely into the camera, her gray eyes so like her son’s that Rorie felt a knot in her stomach. Those same eyes seemed to reach across eternity and call out to Rorie, plead with her. Rorie’s own eyes narrowed, certain her imagination was playing havoc with her troubled mind. She focused her attention on the woman’s hair. That, too, was the same dark shade as Clay’s, brushed away from her face in a carefully styled chignon. Clay had never mentioned his parents to her, not once, but studying the photograph Rorie knew intuitively that he’d shared a close relationship with his mother. Blue wandered out from the kitchen and stood at Rorie’s side as though offering consolation. Grateful, she bent down to pet him.

Looking back at the photograph, Rorie noted that Skip resembled his father, with the same dancing blue eyes that revealed more than a hint of devilry.

Rorie continued to study both parents, but it was Clay’s mother who captured her attention over and over again.

The phone ringing in the distance startled her, and her wrist was shaking when she set the picture back on the piano.

“Phone’s for you,” Mary shouted from the kitchen.

Rorie assumed it was George at the repair shop in Riversdale; she’d been waiting all morning to hear from him.

“Hello,” she said, her fingers closing tightly around the receiver. Her biggest fear was that something had happened to delay her departure a second time.

“Miss Campbell,” said the mechanic, “everything’s fine. I got that part in and working for you without a hitch.”

“Thank God,” she murmured. Her hold on the telephone receiver relaxed, a little.

“I’ve got a man I could spare if you’d like to have your car delivered to Elk Run. But you’ve got to understand fifty miles is a fair distance and I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you extra for it.”

“That’s fine,” Rorie said eagerly, not even bothering to ask the amount. “How soon can he be here?”

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