Mercy

  “When someone gives you a compliment, you’re supposed to say thank you. You look pretty tonight,” he repeated, “in that ‘old thing.’”

  “You like making fun of me, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He’d lied when he’d told her she looked pretty, but he couldn’t put into words how he’d felt when she’d come downstairs. Dynamite came to mind. Breathtaking was another adjective he could have used, but the one word that kept repeating in his head he was too embarrassed to say. Exquisite.

  She would have had a field day with that compliment, he thought. And what was the matter with him? He was silently waxing poetic. Now, where had that come from?

  “It’s a sin to make fun of anyone.”

  Theo opened the door for her, then blocked her entrance while he read the hand-printed sign on the wall. “No wonder it’s so crowded tonight. It’s all-the-beer-you-can-drink night.”

  She smiled. “It’s always all-the-beer-you-can-drink, as long as you pay for each glass and you don’t drive. The locals know about it.”

  “Something smells good. Let’s eat. God, I hope it’s not spicy.”

  “Since it’s Wednesday, you can have fried catfish and french fries, which I’m sure your arteries will love . . .”

  “Or?”

  “French fries and fried catfish.”

  “I’ll have that.”

  As they zigzagged their way to the bar, Theo was stopped more often than she was. Several men and women wanted to shake his hand or pat his shoulder as he passed by, and all of them, so it seemed, wanted to talk football.

  The only person who stopped her was a man who wanted to discuss his hemorrhoids.

  Her father was at the far end of the bar by the storage room, huddled with Conrad Freeland and Artie Reeves. Jake was frowning and nodding at whatever Conrad was telling him and Artie, and he didn’t notice her coming toward him.

  Armand, the cook, was working in the kitchen, while his brother, Myron, tended bar.

  “Daddy’s rooked Myron into helping him,” she said. “I guess I’m off the hook for a little while.”

  “Your dad’s waving to us.”

  When they finally reached her father, he lifted the countertop and hurried over to Michelle. She noticed Artie and Conrad were both frowning at her.

  “Theo, why don’t you go pour yourself a beer and sit at the bar while I have a word in private with my daughter.”

  The look her father gave her told her she’d done something to displease him. She followed him into the storage room and then asked, “Is something wrong, Daddy?”

  “He’s gonna leave, Mike, that’s what’s wrong. The boys and I were talking, and we decided we just can’t let that happen. This town needs Theo Buchanan. Surely you can see that. Most of the folks here tonight came out specifically because they want to talk to him.”

  “They want free legal advice?”

  “Some do,” he admitted. “And then there’s that sugar mill business and the football season is coming on.”

  “Daddy, what do you expect me to do? The man lives in Boston. He can’t commute.”

  “Well, of course he can’t.” He grinned over the foolish notion of flying back and forth to Bowen.

  “Well, then?”

  “We think you could change his mind if you worked at it.”

  “How?” she asked. Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips and waited. Knowing how her father’s larcenous mind worked, she knew whatever suggestion he came up with was going to be a doozy. She braced herself to hear what it was.

  “Put the welcome mat out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Conrad and I came up with a good plan, and Artie thinks it might work. Now, Conrad told me that Theo happened to mention you wanted him to stay at my place.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How hospitable was that, Mike?”

  She didn’t know how he’d managed it, but he’d put her on the defensive.

  “I’m being nice to him now. Honest.”

  “Have you made him your gumbo?”

  “No, but —”

  “Good,” he said. “Conrad’s wife is going to sneak on over to your house with a pot full of her gumbo tomorrow morning, and you can pass it off as your own.”

  “That’s dishonest,” she pointed out. And then it dawned on her what her father wasn’t saying. “Wait a minute. I thought you liked my gumbo.”

  He’d moved on. “What about your lemon pound cake? You didn’t happen to make that yet, did you?”

  “No.” She took a step toward him. “I’m warning you, Daddy. If you say ‘good,’ I’m never going to invite you over for supper again.”

  “Honey, now isn’t the time to be sensitive. We’ve got a crisis on our hands, and we’ve only got a couple of days to change his mind.”

  “Nothing any of us do will matter.”

  “Not with that attitude, it won’t. Get with the program, and don’t be so negative.”

  Her father was so enthusiastic that she felt terrible trying to rain on his parade. “It’s just that —”

  He started talking at the same time. “Marilyn just left.”

  “Artie’s wife?”

  “That’s right. She makes a real tasty chocolate cake, and she’s on her way home to bake one tonight. It should be in your kitchen by noon tomorrow.”

  She didn’t know if she should be insulted or amused. “And Theo’s going to think I whipped that up? Exactly when would I have had time to bake him a cake? I’ve been with the man all day, and tomorrow morning I’m supposed to go to the clinic and start sorting through files.”

  “No, you don’t understand what we’re trying to do. Marilyn’s going to leave a nice happy-you’re-here card so he’ll get the idea how friendly everyone is. Karen Crawford’s smoking a brisket and fixing her potato salad, and of course, she’ll have a nice card all written up. Daryl’s wife doesn’t want to be left out. She’s bringing over a pot of green beans fresh from her garden.”

  “With a nice card,” she remarked as she folded her arms and frowned at her father.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why am I supposed to pretend I made the gumbo?”

  “Because I won’t have Theo thinking you can’t cook.”

  “I can cook.”

  “You took him to McDonald’s.” It wasn’t a comment; it was an accusation.

  Michelle’s appreciation for small-town openness suddenly dwindled. Someone had obviously been spreading the word. Suddenly the big, bad, impersonal city didn’t sound quite so horrible.

  “He wanted to go there,” she argued. “He likes McDonald’s . . . and so do I. They have great salads.”

  “We’re all trying to be friendly.”

  She laughed. When Daddy and Conrad and Artie put their heads together, they came up with some of the most outrageous ideas. At least this one wouldn’t land them in jail.

  “And you want me to be friendly too.”

  “That’s right. You know what I’m talking about. Make him feel at home, like he belongs here. Take him out and show him the sights.”

  “What sights?”

  “Michelle, are you going to cooperate or not?”

  He was getting testy. He only called her Michelle when he was frustrated with her. She started laughing again, which she knew he didn’t appreciate at all, but she couldn’t help it. The conversation was crazy.

  “Okay,” she said. “Since this means so much to you and Conrad and Artie, I’ll cooperate.”

  “It means a lot to the men and women who work at the sugar mill and the boys on the football team too. You should have heard what Conrad told us about practice today. He said Theo had those boys all revved up and ready to go. He also said that Theo knows a whole lot more about football than he does.”

  “Everyone knows more about football than Conrad does.”

  “Theo knows how to organize the boys. He gained their respect just like that.” He snapped hi
s fingers and nodded. “I’ve got a whole lot of reasons why I want him to stay, but you know the one reason that tops all the others?”

  “No, Daddy. What’s that?” She had already made up her mind that if he said he hoped Theo would marry her and take her off his hands, she would walk out of the bar.

  “He went out and bought a fence as a birthday present for Daryl’s boy. You don’t meet too many thoughtful men like Theo these days. And think about the money that fence must have set him back.”

  “I’ll do my part, but please don’t get your hopes up. Theo’s going to go home, and nothing any of us do will change that.”

  “There’s that negativity again. We’ve got to give it our best try, don’t we? This town needs a good, honest lawyer, and Theo Buchanan fits the bill.”

  She nodded. “All right. How about tomorrow I make my étouffée?”

  He looked appalled. “Oh, no, honey, don’t do that. Serve him up Billie’s gumbo. Remember the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “But you love my étouffée.” Her shoulders slumped then. “You don’t love it?”

  He patted her shoulder. “You’re my daughter and I love you. I had to tell you I like it.”

  “Do you know how long it takes to make that dish? All day,” she told him before he could offer a guess. “You could have mentioned you didn’t care for it before now.”

  “We didn’t want to hurt your feelings, you being so tenderhearted and sensitive.”

  “Honestly, Daddy, you could have . . . Wait a minute. ‘We’?”

  “Your brothers and me. They love you too, honey. You’re a fine cook with plain dishes, and your biscuits are still light and fluffy, but we need to dazzle the man now. Like I was telling you, the way to a man’s heart . . .”

  “Yes, I know . . . is through his stomach. That’s hogwash, by the way.”

  “Oh? How do you think your mama nabbed me?”

  When was she going to learn she could never win an argument with her father, no matter what she said? Finally admitting defeat, she said, “Her world famous bundt cake.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t want to nab Theo the way Mama nabbed you.”

  “I know that. It’s the town that wants to nab him.”

  “Okay, I’ll do my part. I promise. Now, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Doing my part means I don’t cook at all, I lie about the gumbo and tell Theo I made it, and, oh, yes, I’m supposed to be friendly. Do you want me to put a chocolate mint on his pillow tonight?”

  Wrapping his arms around her, he gave her a big bear hug. “That might be overkill. Now, go sit, and I’ll bring out supper for you and Theo.”

  Michelle didn’t have another quiet minute for the next three hours. After she and Theo had eaten, she put on an apron and got to work cleaning the tables and helping carry out pitchers of cold beer. Theo was stuck sitting at the bar between two men clutching papers in their hands. A line had formed behind him. Daddy was leaning over the counter making the introductions.

  More free legal advice, she thought. Myron had disappeared over an hour ago, and since her father was busy trying to manipulate Theo, she took over tending the bar.

  By ten-thirty the kitchen was officially closed and cleaned, and the crowd had thinned out. There were only about a dozen people inside the bar when she removed her apron and went to the jukebox. She put in a quarter she’d taken from the cash register, punched B-12, and then sat down at a corner table she’d just cleared. She leaned her elbow on the table and propped her chin in the palm of her hand.

  Her gaze kept going back to Theo. The big jerk looked so serious and adorable in his gray T-shirt and jeans. Did he have to be so sexy? And why couldn’t she find something wrong with him so she could obsess about that and get over him. All she could think about was having sex with him. Oh, God, did that mean she was turning into a slut? The sex would be amazing. Stop thinking about it. Think about something else.

  Another thought popped into her head that was even more depressing. Great. When he left — and he would leave — the town was going to blame her. Oh, they wouldn’t say anything, but they’d all think it was her fault. She hadn’t been friendly enough.

  She wondered how they would all feel if they knew just how friendly she wanted to be. Admit it, damn it. You’re feeling sorry for yourself because he will go back to Boston and his oh-so-sophisticated life there, and you want him to stay in Bowen. Forever.

  Well, hell, how had that happened? How could she have been so stupid? Hadn’t counting up all the reasons why she shouldn’t fall for him meant anything? Evidently not. She’d been too naïve to pay attention to her own cautions. She was a strong woman, so why hadn’t she been able to protect herself from him? Did she love him? Oh, Lord, what if she did?

  Not possible, she decided. Love couldn’t happen this quickly . . . could it?

  Michelle was so busy worrying she didn’t notice him coming toward her.

  “You look like you lost your best friend. Come on. Dance with me.”

  Go away and let me wallow in self-pity. “Okay.”

  Theo dug a quarter out of his pocket, dropped it in the jukebox, told her to choose, and she promptly punched A-1.

  The music started, but it wasn’t until he had taken her into his arms that she realized that she’d made a big mistake. The last thing she needed now, in her vulnerable, feeling-sorry-for-herself state, was to be touched by him.

  “You’re as stiff as a board. Relax,” he whispered against her ear.

  “I am relaxed.”

  He gently shoved her head down and pulled her closer until their bodies were pressed together. Oh, boy. Big, big mistake. Too late now, she thought as she snuggled against him and curled her fingers around his neck. “I love this song.”

  “It sounds familiar, but that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t usually listen to country western music.”

  “It’s Willie Nelson singing ‘Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain.’”

  He was nuzzling her cheek, driving her to distraction. “It’s a nice song. I like it,” he said.

  She tried to pull back; he wouldn’t let her. “It’s a sad song,” she said, cringing over how antagonistic she sounded.

  They swayed slowly to the rhythm of the music.

  “It’s an old story,” she explained.

  “What’s that?”

  He kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear, giving her goose bumps. She trembled. He had to know what he was doing to her. Oh, God, she really was putty in his hands.

  “It’s about a woman who falls in love with a man and then he leaves her and she’s . . .”

  “Let me guess . . . crying in the rain?”

  She could hear the laughter in his voice. His hand was gently stroking her back.

  “How come he leaves her?”

  “Because he’s a big jerk.” Too late she realized she’d said the thought out loud. She quickly added, “It’s just a song. I’m only guessing. Maybe she actually left him, and she’s so happy to be rid of him she’s crying in the rain.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She moved closer, her fingers softly rubbing the back of his neck in tiny circles.

  “You should probably stop doing that.”

  “You don’t like it?” She ran her fingertips through his hair as she asked the question.

  “Yes, I do like it. That’s why I want you to stop.”

  “Oh.” So she could make him nuts too. That wonderful realization made her feel a little reckless.

  “So, you probably don’t want me to do this,” she whispered, and kissed the pulse at the base of his neck.

  “Michelle, I’m warning you. Two can play this game.”

  “What game?” she asked innocently, and then she kissed his neck again, tickling him with her tongue. She felt a bit daring. Daddy was in the kitchen, and no one was paying them any attention. Besides, Theo’s big body pretty much concealed hers. That made her even more reckless, and she p
ressed even closer to him. “If you don’t like what I’m doing . . .”

  The challenge didn’t go unanswered. “You’re bad,” he told her.

  She sighed. “Thank you.”

  “You know what I like?”

  “What’s that?” A breathless whisper.

  “I like the way you smell. When I get close to you, your scent drives me crazy and makes me think about all sorts of things I’d like to do.” She closed her eyes. Don’t ask. For the love of God, don’t ask. “What kinds of things?”

  Until that moment, she had foolishly believed she’d been holding her own against a master. She had been the one to start the erotic conversation, and she knew from the way he was holding her that she’d definitely shaken him.

  But then he began whispering in her ear, and she realized she was in way over her head. In a low, husky voice he told her exactly what he’d like to do to her. In his fantasies, she was, of course, the star, and every part of her body, including her toes, were featured players. The man had an active imagination, and he certainly wasn’t shy about sharing. Michelle had no one to blame but herself. She had asked. But that didn’t matter. By the time he finished describing several creative ways he would make love to her, the blood was roaring in her ears, her bones felt as if they’d turned into mush, and she had melted against him.

  The song ended. He kissed her cheek, straightened, and let go of her. “Thanks for the dance. You want a beer or something? You look kind of flushed.”

  Kind of flushed? She felt as if it was a hundred fifty degrees inside the bar. When she looked into his eyes, she could tell that he knew exactly what he had just done to her.

  “It’s kind of stuffy in here. I think I’m gonna go outside and get some fresh air,” he casually announced.

  She watched him walk away. He had just pushed the door open and stepped outside when she went running after him.

  “That’s it.”

  She caught up with him outside, standing in the moonlight. She poked him between his shoulder blades and said it again, much louder this time. “That’s it. You win.”

  He turned around. “Excuse me?”

  She was so angry she poked him in the chest. “I said you win.”