Leslie Kelly - Killing Time

His mother sniffed, knowing better. Mick watched, amused, while the very predictable Marnie Winchester picked up a napkin, wiped off the seat and made a harrumphing sound as crumbs floated to the floor. She sat across from him, keeping her purse in her lap, hands folded neatly on top of it. He knew darn well she’d ask the waitress to wipe off the table before she ate a thing.

“Sophie seems to think you knew her before.”

Sophie, you’re a dead woman.

He merely shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, hoping his mother had lost that whole mind-reading ability once her kids were out of the house. But he doubted it.

“Well?” she persisted, not at all put off by his signals.

She’d been relentless about Caroline since the afternoon when they’d bumped into her coming out of his house. She’d been there baking him a nice homemade pie. Why? Because his mother was convinced he hadn’t eaten a decent meal or a good wholesome home-cooked treat since leaving home ten years ago.

“I’ve told you, she’s a producer with the TV show,” he said.

“The TV show?” Tina Laudermilk, who was sitting at the next booth listening to every word they said, turned around and gave Mick a good-morning smile. “I hear they’ve started to arrive.”

From behind him, Mick heard a man’s voice. “I saw a bunch of trucks at the inn yesterday when I was making my deliveries.” It was Earl Donovan, the UPS guy, and an aspiring actor who’d been following the TV show goings-on with avid interest.

Earl and Tina began a conversation right over Mick’s and his mother’s heads, talking back and forth as if the other booth was not between them. “I stopped by the trailer and picked up the paperwork to be an extra.”

“Is it true they’re going to do scenes here?” Tina asked.

Ed, the owner and cook, popped his head up from behind the half wall separating the kitchen and the counter. “Yep. And they’re paying me, too.”

“Better save the money for future food poisoning claims,” Mick muttered.

Judging by the way his mother’s lips twitched, she’d heard.

“I saw the director fellow in the drug store yesterday,” Tina said. She made a gooey-eyed face that told Mick what she’d thought of the man. “And did you hear the host is going to be Joshua Charmagne, from that cop show? What a dream.”

The whole thing was more like a nightmare to Mick.

“He’s a flamer.” This from Donnie Jordan, a truck driver who ran diesel throughout the state. He swiveled on his stool and jumped into the conversation. “No real man wears purple shirts like he did.”

“He’s no such thing,” Tina retorted. “He was a gentleman detective and back then in Miami men did wear purple shirts and white suits. I bet he doesn’t wear purple shirts in real life.”

Donnie was not convinced. “Nope. Probably wears those rainbow ones to show his pride.”

Before Tina could launch herself across the table to tackle Donnie for casting doubts on the manhood of her favorite has-been TV star, Mick figured he’d make his getaway.

“Check, please!” Mick hoped to pay his tab and escape while his mother was distracted by the conversation that had erupted around them. That was typical. Everywhere he went these days, the topic of conversation surrounded Killing Time in a Small Town.

His mother wasn’t distracted. “She was very pretty.”

“Who?”

She just smirked. Yeah, she still had that mind-reading thing going on. Caroline hadn’t left his thoughts for a minute.

And his mother was right. Caroline was beyond pretty. She was damned beautiful. Thank God there was no way she’d really move in with him when she arrived for her month-long stay. “Was she? I didn’t notice.” He dropped his napkin onto his plate, trying to make eye contact with the waitress as he feigned indifference.

He should have known better. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” She reached over and put her hand on his forehead, like she used to whenever he tried to fake sickness to get out of going to school.

“Am I feverish?”

“Delirious.”

His mother’s droll tone made him laugh and drop the pretense. “Okay, yes, she was very pretty. But not my type.”

“Is there such a thing?” This came not from his piercing-eyed mother, but from Deedee Packalotte, his regular waitress.

Deedee had been trying to rekindle an affair with him for years. Not that an affair was what he’d call the three or four afternoons they’d shared in her parents’ basement, back when he’d been delivering papers and she’d been a teenager going to beauty school. She’d dropped out. Which would be pretty obvious to anyone who took one good look at her hair.

No, he and Deedee had had more like a Mrs. Robinson thing. She’d been the older woman—though only by four years—who’d taught him how to last longer than sixty-five seconds in the sack. Or, rather, on top of the washing machine, or the nearest flat surface they could find in the basement. He wondered if Deedee would be surprised to know he’d once gone sixty-five minutes. Not counting the foreplay.

“I’ll have coffee.” His mother frowned at Deedee for interrupting. “And, dear, would you get a rag and touch up this table?”

God love her.

Mick used her distraction to firm his resolve against talking about Caroline to his mother. His sister had been bad enough. It was hard to keep anything from Sophie. She was an observant person who hadn’t been put off by his claims that Caroline had been a casual friend. Luckily, since Sophie had moved in with Daniel and begun telling people her real identity, she had enough to focus on without worrying about his love life. Or, past love life.

Not present. Caroline was definitely not part of his present.

“So you’re going to rent out a room in your house. I still can’t understand why you didn’t just tell us if you needed help making the mortgage.”

An old story. His parents were always trying to help, whether it was popping by to cook enough food for a battalion or offering him money. No matter how many times he’d told them he didn’t need their help, they never stopped offering. Sophie suffered the same endless good will.

“I don’t need help making the mortgage.” True. He was fine, at least until the slow winter season came. That was the worst time of year in his business. So he’d thought he’d rent out a room in his big house—which he’d bought at auction and fixed up over the past two years—to fill in some. Of all the bad ideas he’d ever had…

“And this Caro, she’s going to be living in your house, but you still say she’s not your type?”

“She’s not going to live in my house,” he insisted as he sipped his rapidly cooling coffee, inhaling its aroma. Ed’s served good coffee. Good thing, since the food sucked.

“What do you mean?”

He sipped again. I mean the minute she finds out she’s signed a lease to room with the big bad wolf, a Day-Glo green room or a little cigarette smoke ain’t gonna seem so bad.

“She’ll make other arrangements when she arrives Sunday.”

In fact, he was going to make damn sure of it. He was ninety-nine percent sure Caroline would storm out on her own the minute she found out she’d rented a room in his house. And he’d give her every penny of her money back. The look on her face would be payment enough.

But just in case, in the slim event that she liked his house enough to overlook the company, he’d developed a plan to help…uh…convince her.

He wasn’t sure how yet, but one thing was definite. When Caroline Lamb arrived in Derryville, she was going to find a welcoming committee she’d never forget.

CARO HATED FLYING. It seemed unnatural that something so big should stay in the air, defying gravity. If humans were meant to ride in airplanes, they’d be born with a frequent flier card and an airsick bag.