Liz Talley - The Way to Texas

So as soon as Miss Aggie left, she had a date with a glass of chardonnay and the bathtub.

As she grabbed the cordless phone, the color-coded calendar she kept on the bulletin board next to the butler’s pantry caught her eye.

And that’s when she saw it.

Highlighted in orange.

Tyson Hart. Tuesday. 5:30.

Nellie must have penciled the appointment in on the backup calendar. It hadn’t been in the day planner Dawn had set on the counter but couldn’t find that morning. Damn.

Tyson Hart was the contractor Nellie insisted they hire to finish the upstairs of the center. She’d raved about Tyson all week. About the success of his business in Dallas. About his knowledge. His skill. His broad shoulders and whiskey-colored eyes. The last two attributes had Dawn worried. She didn’t need Nellie trying to match her up with random guys no matter what color their eyes were. Presently the romantic part of her life was closed for reconstruction. C-L-O-S-E-D. As in the last thing she needed was another guy to deal with. Between her brother, son, ex-husband and the elderly men at the center, she had plenty of testosterone to juggle, thank you very much.

Still, another one was about to invade whether she wanted him to or not. And he’d do it, according to the microwave clock, in fifteen minutes.

No bath. No wine. No rest for the weary. Double damn.

She shut down her whiny thoughts as a knock sounded on the back door. Big Bubba Malone poked his head in.

“Hey, I smell somethin’ good.”

Though Bubba was another man to deal with, Dawn couldn’t stop the smile that crept to her lips. After all, very few people could resist smiling at Bubba. “Hey, Bubba. Nellie baked a pound cake.”

“So I smelled from the drive,” he said, stepping into the roomy kitchen. His affable smile offset the hulking shoulders, unlaced work boots and meaty paws. He was a mountain of a redneck with a heaping side of good ol’ boy.

“Well, help yourself. Coffee, too, if you want,” Dawn said, tapping the schedule with one of the highlighters attached by a brightly colored ribbon, wishing the appointment would magically vanish from the box in which it had been written. “Nellie’s in the office with Miss Aggie if you want to say hello.”

“Actually, I come to fetch Miss Aggie. Homer called me and he’s runnin’ late. I’m gonna run her over to Judy, whose doin’ something to Betty Monk’s hair though I can’t imagine what—she ain’t got as much as me,” he said, cramming a piece of pound cake in his mouth. Crumbs fell onto the tiled floor. Like a typical man, Bubba didn’t see them. Or he pretended he didn’t see them.

“Well, she’s not going to want to go to the Curlique, but I can’t worry about that now. I have an appointment with a contractor.” Dawn set the cordless phone in the cradle.

“Tyson Hart, huh? Knew him back in the day. He’s solid.” Bubba poured a cup of coffee and gulped it down like mother’s milk. He drank his Budweiser the same way. Cold. Hot. Didn’t seem to matter to Bubba.

“Yeah, well at least it’s not Brent Hamilton.”

Bubba laughed. The sound reminded her of rusty stovepipes. “Yeah, Ol’ Brent’s good at his job, but he’s a horn dog. Tyson ain’t thick-headed like that.”

Horn dog was right. Brent Hamilton, the contractor who’d added safety rails and ramps to the lower floor a few months ago, figured himself to be Oak Stand’s answer to stud muffin extraordinaire. Good looking enough to qualify, the man romanced everything in a skirt. Or shorts. Or jeans. And if Dawn hadn’t vowed to stay away from all men, she might have been tempted. But, the past year had proven what she’d suspected all along. She was bad at picking men. And she wasn’t ready to sacrifice herself upon that painful altar again. At least not until she found direction in her life.

So Tyson Hart had better not follow in Brent’s footsteps.

Bubba stomped off toward the office, and even though she didn’t need another cup of coffee, Dawn refilled her mug. After adding some flavored creamer and a package of pink artificial sweetener that she knew probably caused brain cancer, she took a sip and sighed. Mmm. Good. She propped one hip on the gleaming granite countertop and drank almost the whole cup.

Bubba lumbered into the kitchen with Miss Aggie on his arm. “Alrighty, I’m takin’ this pretty lady home with me,” he said winking at Dawn. “Don’t wait up on her.”

Miss Aggie beamed and punched Bubba on his beefy biceps. “You do know how to make a girl feel special.”

“It’s what my momma always said.” Bubba’s smile held firm, but his eyes flashed with pain. Bubba had lost his mother to cancer only four months before. Wilma “Willie” Malone had been the inspiration for Tucker House. The idea for a senior care center had bloomed after Nellie had cared for Miss Willie while Bubba worked. All of Oak Stand seemed to feel the absence of the courageous woman who’d made them laugh with her wry sense of humor and lightning-quick wit.

“And Willie was a smart woman,” Miss Aggie said, patting Bubba’s arm this time. She unclasped her purse, pulled a wadded pink tissue from the depths and wiped her eyes. “I do miss her.”

“We all do,” Nellie said from the doorway of the kitchen.

Nellie’s eyes met Bubba’s, and they both smiled. The small-town oil heiress and the backwater redneck. Go figure. There couldn’t have been a more unlikely pair of friends in all of Howard County, Texas.

“Later, ladies,” Bubba called, opening the door for Miss Aggie and helping her down the back steps.

“Bye, Bubba,” Dawn said, finishing off the last of her coffee. She eyed the carafe, wondering if she should have a third cup or not. Something more to fortify her for a late afternoon appointment with a contractor who would want to show her blueprints and codes and whatever else contractors liked to talk about. But she didn’t need more, so she dropped the mug into the empty sink.

“Ready to meet with Tyson?” Nellie said, as she sank into one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting area of the kitchen.

“I guess.” Dawn sighed, pressing a hand over the yawn that appeared from nowhere. “I still think we should put off construction. With the baby due in a couple of weeks, there’s too much going on.”

“The center can still function with ongoing construction. We need the room so we can meet the demand. We have a waiting list.”

“I hate you’re going through all this trouble. The rooms above us are perfectly functional. They need some refurbishment, that’s all.”

Nellie shifted in her chair. “We need a kitchen upstairs and an up-to-code bathroom. The rooms need to be gutted and converted to smaller rooms for resting. Now is the time. I know this is temporary for you, but eventually someone else will step in as the director and I want Tucker House to be fully operational.”

Dawn’s heart trembled at those words. She’d taken this job when she’d been forced to close the doors of her antiques redesign shop in Houston last spring. The damn economy had stomped her dream to dust, and with her son, Andrew, on partial baseball scholarship at the University of Houston, she needed money. Tucker House had opened for business a mere two months ago under her direction. She’d told Nellie she’d stay for a year, no more.

But she had no idea what she would do when the year was up. She’d leased her house in Houston to an oil and gas consultant whose rent covered her mortgage. But she had no leads on a job, no idea what she wanted to do. Didn’t know if she even wanted to go back to Houston. Currently she floated with no tangible future to grab on to. And she couldn’t stand not knowing what direction she should take. She needed a plan.