Darlene Graham - Lone Star Rising

Taking this job was probably a bad idea, but what choice did she have? If she had waited, Parson would have been forced to fill the position with somebody else. A twist of resentment curled up again as she thought how irresponsible she’d been to let Danny cut corners by dropping his life insurance. But after years of marriage she’d been worn down, arguing with the man about every single hare-brained decision he made.

In the bathroom adjoining to the cavernous, high-ceilinged master bedroom, she studied herself in the oval mirror above the pedestal sink. She’d slept a little better last night—a few hours—with that window properly repaired, but even so she was developing permanent dark circles under her eyes.

This bathroom—there were two upstairs, one downstairs, and none of them were in good repair—was dingy, as bland as clabbered milk. White on white on white, from the tile to the tub to the limp curtain someone had left hanging crookedly at the narrow window. She made some mental notes about adding color as she washed her face.

Most small towns in the Hill Country had old houses like this one: rambling nineteenth-century monstrosities that had devolved into bleak rentals, passed from hand to hand. In the towns where historic restoration caught on, these houses got rebirthed into awesome show-places. Painted Ladies, the civic-types called them. Robbie could envision this one that way, a beauty that shone with civic pride, only three blocks off Main Street.

After she patted her face dry, she attacked her hair with a big brush. Then her fingers went to work, efficiently plaiting the masses of reddish blond curls into a neat French braid.

As she braided, Robbie continued envisioning the house through artistic eyes. What this bathroom needed was one dramatic focal point. Like a giant stained-glass window instead of that scratched-up square of frosted Plexiglas that covered the window above the tub.

And wouldn’t it be cute, she thought, to find an old velvet straight-backed sofa to tuck under the high windows in the kitchen? Wouldn’t it be nice to refinish all these deep window boxes in this house in a coat of purest white and just leave the panes bare and let the sun pour in? Wouldn’t polished mahogany countertops set off those high kitchen cabinets?

When she caught herself thinking like this, she always brought herself up short. Number one, she wasn’t living in an HGTV show. This was life on the broke side of widowhood. Number two, old man Mestor, the crook, would never consent to doing anything expensive or upbeat to the house. Number three…baby.

The little darling kicked as Robbie pulled the stretchy panel of her well-used maternity jeans up over her belly. For a top she pulled on a boxy white shirt. Yesterday, Parson had gently objected to the overalls. Whatever.

She struggled into a pair of thick white socks and slipped her feet into her athletic shoes, and when she had trouble bending to lace them, she suffered a brief sting of tears. Danny had always tied her shoes for her this late in her pregnancies. Stop it, she told herself. You have a lot to do before you go to work.

Downstairs, she chugged down a glass of orange juice. Breakfast could be grabbed at the diner later. She put out bowls and spoons for the boys’ cereal, set out the sack lunches she’d made the night before and stapled a detailed note with instructions to Mark’s, then put the stapler right back where it belonged in her “grand central,” her super-organized lap desk. She had done the tole painting that decorated the flip top herself. Very cute, she often thought—an elaborate pattern, a sort of blend between country quilt and Mexican mandala. Inside the lap desk was the simple system she’d been using to run this family for years and it had never failed her. With her sudden move to town, she was grateful that the whole thing was portable enough to be tossed onto the seat of her minivan.

Lightning flashed, and when hard rain lashed at the window Zack Trueblood had installed only yesterday, Robbie’s thoughts went back to him. She had to admit she longed to see him, if she was honest with herself. Lord, she hated this business of being alone. She had never spent one day alone in her life. Danny had asked her to go on a hayride when they were in the eighth grade and they’d stayed together like hand-in-glove ever after.

Other guys had tried to get her attention, even tried to win her affections, but Robbie was loyal to Danny, always—even later when his irresponsibility began to let her down. Now that he was gone, she felt incredibly disloyal for the way she had been thinking about Zack Trueblood. But my gosh, that firefighter had the dreamiest coal-black eyes on God’s green earth. Well, this was plain silly.

She grabbed her jacket and headed out into the storm. The rain, a driving Hill Country deluge that would flood hard-packed roads and wash out rocky ravines, hit her face and wet her hair despite the hood on her little red jacket. Her front got soaked, too, because the jacket was too small to cover her belly.

She slammed the door of her van and plucked at the soaked white fabric where her belly button poked out like a gumdrop. Nice. Thank God she would slap on an apron as soon as she got to work.

The minivan had to be cranked three times before it sputtered to life. A new worry: car trouble. She couldn’t afford that now. Then it hit her. Who would drive her to the hospital when the time came? She only had five weeks. The days were racing by like ticks of a second hand. Daddy would come, of course, whenever she called him, day or night. But the McBride farm was a good seven miles out of town, and with a fourth baby, labor could be shockingly rapid.

Besides, if she called Daddy, Mother would insist on coming with him. There would be no peaceful labor and delivery then. Oh, no. Mother would boss. She’d boss Daddy. The nurses. Maybe even the doctor. Most of all Marynell would boss Robbie.

Peering out the rain-sheeted windshield and thinking of her mother’s pinched face, Robbie muttered aloud, “Hurry up and get back, Markie. I’ll feel a darn sight safer then.” She could not wait until her sister returned from her honeymoon. Everything would be all right then. None of Robbie’s other babies had come early. Markie would be home in plenty of time and then her strong, competent sister would help her.

It was only three short blocks to the gravel alley that ran behind the Hungry Aggie, but still Robbie breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled into the small lot out back, amazed that she’d made it without stalling out in high water. She slammed the van door again and dashed around rivulets of water and enormous puddles to the back door, where Parson stood holding it open.

“Come on, girl!” he hollered over the din of the pattering rain. “Before you catch your death.”

“You ought not to have come in on a morning like this,” he scolded when Robbie got inside. He was already helping her out of her jacket. For decades, Virgil Parson had been the only black man living or working in Five Points. But Parson never mentioned that fact, and neither did anybody else. He actually lived in another town with a sweet wife and numerous kids and grandkids. He drove to work in Five Points because at the Hungry Aggie he got to do what he did best—dish up food like an old-time chuck wagon cook, though he’d actually learned the art of slinging out large quantities of food for hungry men while serving in the Navy.

“I know how these rainy mornings go,” Robbie said as she smoothed back her damp, frizzy hair. “All the farmers will come into town to get away from their wives. And they’ll end up sitting right here in our booths, jawing ’til the rain stops. We will be busy filling coffee cups until noon.”

Parson chuckled as if that idea plumb tickled him. “That’s a fact. And it’s why I came in early to make some extra pies.” His black eyes sparkled in a face as furrowed as a fresh-plowed field.