Better Than This: A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel Page 7

“Unless you can whip us up something from two cans of green beans, coffee creamer, toilet paper, cotton balls, and laundry detergent, we might need to head into town for dinner.” I unlocked the front door and he followed me inside.

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Barbie.” He said it with such sincerity, I almost felt bad that I didn’t see him the way he saw me. He carried my groceries to the kitchen and I followed him. When he set the bag down on the counter, I took the opportunity to lay my cards on the table. His face registered disappointment, but he recovered and smiled at me.

  “Yeah, I’ll be your fu—”

  “My fun buddy,” I interrupted.

  He laughed and said, “That’s exactly what I was going to say. Not the other thing. I respect you too much, Barbie. I won’t be inappropriate, but I’m not going to lie to you. I’m going to do what I can to change your mind.”

  “I need twenty minutes to take a quick shower and get ready.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we were walking to his truck when I heard the familiar rumble coming up my street. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Another woman might’ve seen this as an opportunity to show Jake she’d caught the eye of a much younger man. I wasn’t that woman. I’d never played games, and I didn’t intend to start now. I was wondering if I would have to introduce them. I cringed inwardly when I remembered that I’d gone to school with Dustin’s father. You need to make sure Dustin has thought this through, I reminded myself.

  I busted out with, “You know I’m old enough to be your mother?”

  Dustin looked away from the biker who was slowly coming toward us and said, “You don’t look like any mother I know, Barbie.” The compliment provided the reassurance I was seeking, and I walked to the edge of the yard as Jake brought his bike to a stop.

  I gave him a sincere smile and said, “I thought you already figured out this road doesn’t go anywhere.”

  He didn’t return my smile, but instead looked at me, then Dustin, then back at me. I felt his eyes rake over my body as he took in my loose, flowing skirt, strappy sandals, and tight-fitting tank top. I had a light sweater slung over my arm. The tank top didn’t show too much cleavage, but enough to hint at what was beneath.

  His jaw appeared tense when he said, “I did some exploring that first day. It actually comes out in Pickens County if you know which trail to follow.” His voice betrayed no emotion. It was so even I could’ve placed a level on it.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you knew about those roads.” I paused and asked, “How often do you use my road to cut through?”

  His answer was curt. “Once in a while.”

  I didn’t know if the heat I was feeling was from Jake or the setting sun at my back.

  There was a long, awkward moment that Dustin interrupted by walking up next to me and lightly grabbed my elbow with his left hand. “We better get going, Barbie.” He extended his right hand to Jake and introduced himself. Jake took it but his expression never changed. His blue eyes were sharp and intent as he gave an abrupt nod. He turned his attention to me and I almost shrank under his gaze. But my momentary weakness turned to shock when he said, “You need to change your skirt or keep your legs closer together when the sun is behind you. I’m pretty sure I can see the outline of your radiant orchid.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he revved his bike and sped off.

  Dustin took me to a quaint Italian restaurant about thirty miles west of Pumpkin Rest. I spent the entire drive trying to convince him that Jake was a good guy, and that he only appeared menacing and rude. I spent the rest of the evening trying to convince myself that I believed it.

  Chapter 11

  Fireflies and Flashlights

  Dinner with Dustin was more than pleasant, but if I was honest, I’d rather have spent my evening with a sandwich, a glass of milk, and an old movie. The conversation started out normal enough. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my work, and he asked about and made several good suggestions concerning my home renovation. I was grateful he never touched on my divorce or reason for moving back to Pumpkin Rest.

  I learned that his original dreams were dashed when he suffered an injury on the football field and forfeited his college scholarship. He could’ve pursued another career, but football had been his life and he didn’t have a backup plan. So he decided to stay in Pumpkin Rest and help his father with their family-owned HVAC company. The couple of years he’d given himself to rethink his future turned into more than a decade, and at thirty years old he appeared happy with his decision to stay close to home. He didn’t seem bitter about it, and I admired his positive attitude. He’d expanded the family business and now had a fleet of trucks that serviced several surrounding counties. When I asked him why he wasn’t married, his answer was simple. He’d never found the right woman.

  I remembered squirming in my seat at his last comment and changing the subject. It wasn’t until our small talk circled back to my early years growing up in Pumpkin Rest that I started longing for the comfort of my bed and DVD remote. Dustin seemed curious about the Pritchard farm. He’d grown up hearing tales from his grandfather about the best moonshine east of the Mississippi coming from their illegal, hidden stills. I’d told him it was true, but those stills had long since dried up and the family’s secret recipe had died with Kenny Pritchard.

  “My high school buddies and I spent every spare moment we could combing that abandoned farmhouse and looking for hidden underground bunkers and still sites,” he’d confessed.

  I’d sipped my wine and listened. I was certain Dustin and his friends hadn’t been the only ones to hope something had been left behind that would give up the Pritchards’ secrets.

  A blanket of melancholy washed over me, and I ordered a second glass of wine, hoping it would dull the memories that threatened to steal my buzz along with my peace.

  Hours later, the moon was hiding behind heavy storm clouds as we drove down my pitch-dark road. I blinked my eyes a few times. “Isn’t it late for lightning bugs?” I asked as the gravel crunched beneath the tires of his truck.

  “I guess a new batch showed up ’cause it’s so warm. You didn’t even need your sweater,” he reminded me.

  We eventually rounded a curve and I could see the flicker of my front porch lights in the distance. By the time he delivered me to my front door, I was certain we’d said everything we had to say, and I wouldn’t be receiving a second invitation from Dustin. I was wrong. He’d walked me to my door and lightly held my hand in both of his. He said he’d like to take me someplace a little more fun next time. He told me about a restaurant that served the best wings in the South, and he’d recently learned from some friends that the second Saturday of every month was country music night. They brought in local talent and did live performances.

  “You like country music, don’t you?” he asked. I didn’t want to admit that I’d almost forgotten how much I loved it. It was one of those things I’d left behind when I moved away to college. It wasn’t popular at school and I ended up listening to what everyone else listened to. I’d poked fun at Darlene’s choice of music at the gas station, but truth be told, I loved it. I’d just forgotten I loved it. Without warning, the song I’d heard my first day at Hampton House popped into my head and I found myself swaying to a beat I was shocked I remembered. I couldn’t recall what I wore yesterday, but I remembered the deep timber of the artist’s voice from several weeks back.

  “Yeah,” I told Dustin as I tried not to sound too enthusiastic and stilled my swaying. When he didn’t say anything I looked past him, distracted by the fireflies.

  “Fun buddies, Barbie. That’s all,” he told me. “Good food, good music. A fun crowd. I probably should’ve waited until Saturday and taken you there first. I enjoyed tonight, but I think we took an unexpected U-turn somewhere along the way. Will you give me another chance? Please?”

  I nibbled on my bottom lip, contemplating my answer. I’d enjoyed Dustin’s company until he’d brought up the Pritchard farm. And there
was nothing unusual about that. The Pritchards had been well-known and their escapades had been part of the local folklore going back to before the Civil War. It probably would’ve been more unusual if their name hadn’t been brought up in a conversation about growing up in Pumpkin Rest.

  I accepted his invitation, and before I could explain why I wasn’t going to invite him inside, he brought my hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside and hear you lock the door before I leave,” he informed me.

  I watched from the window as his taillights disappeared from view. I headed for the bathroom and washed my face and brushed my teeth. I removed the night shirt and robe I kept on a hook behind the door and changed into them. Since the house only had one bathroom on the first floor, I usually took care of my ablutions before heading upstairs for the night. I snickered to myself when I thought about how many times I’d recently had to head downstairs in the middle of the night to relieve myself. “You need to get yourself a chamber pot or have your old bedroom turned into a master bath sooner than later,” I said out loud. Stupid menopause. Even though I was on the back side of it, as a physician I should’ve been more prepared for the inconvenient symptoms that sometimes hung around for longer than they were welcome.

  I harrumphed when I reached the top of the stairs and instead of heading for my bedroom, I walked past it. Without turning on any lights, I crept through the dark to the little room just beyond. I felt the weight of memories envelop me like the heavy storm clouds that were threatening outside. When Fancy and I had first moved to Pumpkin Rest, I could’ve shared my father’s old bedroom with her, but I’d desperately wanted my space. I was nine at the time and remembered worrying that hearing me cry into my pillow every night would eventually have a negative effect on my baby sister. My grandmother was against the idea at first, but she changed her tune when she realized the only space available to me could best be described as a storage closet. It was probably the beginning of the malicious mind games she would take pleasure in playing. It was ironic that I’d given her the first batch of ammunition.

  My grandfather spent an entire morning hauling away an antiquated sewing machine, stacks of outdated newspapers and magazines, boxes of canning jars, a broken ironing board, and a plethora of junk just so I could have my own room. The tiny area had probably served another purpose in the past because there was one window facing the west. There was enough space for a twin bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. My clothes that needed to be hung went on hooks that my grandfather installed behind the door. As a teen, I became creative and constructed something along the lines of a clothesline that took up one corner.

  I now stood in front of the door and slowly opened it. It would be the first time I’d looked in this room since I bought the house. The previous owners had left a pile of unwanted possessions, and after hiring a local kid to empty it for me, I’d shut the door and not opened it since. The creaking should’ve sounded eerie, but this room brought back a few warm and happy memories I’d wanted to ignore but couldn’t. Just for tonight I craved to feel what I felt back then. I needed to resurrect that sense of connection to someone who’d cared. At least I’d thought he’d cared.

  There was no light from the moon and I didn’t want to flip on the bright overhead bulb so I took out my phone and used the flashlight app to scan the small space. Too little for a bedroom but definitely big enough for a good-sized bathroom, I’d already had Dustin, the plumber, and the electrician rough out the room. I looked at the markings and noticed where they’d installed pipes in the walls and vents and drains in the floor according to the drawing I’d given them. I aimed my phone at an untouched area of hardwood floor by the window and felt a lump form in my throat. I wonder if it’s still there.

  I made my way to the window and sank down next to the spot. I softly caressed the ancient wood, finding the place where it could be lifted to reveal what lay beneath. I tried to use my nails to dig into the crevices, but ended up getting a splinter instead. If I’d been able to pry up the board I knew I would’ve found a flashlight that had been resting in secret slumber for almost forty years. A flashlight that boasted the initials K.P. scrawled in Kenny’s careless handwriting. We didn’t have permanent markers back then. I wonder if his initials have faded away. Erased by time, like our love for each other.

  I felt the tickling of a solitary tear as it made its way down my cheek. But I didn’t swipe it away. I let it fall. I let the next one caress my heated skin. Before I knew it, water was leaking from both eyes, but I didn’t care. Since I’d heard the news that Kenny Pritchard had run away, I’d kept every tear walled behind my eyes. I now let them rise in an explosion of emotion that I’d been unable to allow before.

  I wasn’t being entirely truthful with myself. I hadn’t cried when I’d heard Kenny had run away. I’d cried when I realized he wasn’t coming back.

  I turned off my flashlight app and slowly went from sitting to lying on the floor in a room so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. I felt a rush of emotion as I remembered the summer when I was thirteen. My grandfather had insisted that I be allowed to go away to a girl’s camp for a week. My grandmother had fought him on it, but he was adamant. I think he may have been concerned that Kenny and I were becoming too close and that I needed to spend some time with other girls my age. This was before I’d become close to Darlene, and he thought it would do me good to get away from Pumpkin Rest for a little while. After all, it was only for a week.

  At first, I didn’t want to go but had to admit the idea of being away from my grandmother, and the extra summer chores she gave me, was appealing. Kenny wholeheartedly agreed. I wrote to him every day for the first seven days. Then something unexpected happened.

  A girl I’d met at camp was staying an extra week, and her parents offered to pay my tuition if I agreed to stay. I hadn’t realized then that this girl was having a difficult time making friends and when we clicked, her parents, who’d been desperate for her to interact, saw it as an extended opportunity for their daughter to fit in. I missed Kenny and Jonathan, who’d followed us practically everywhere. I’d even started to miss my bratty sister, Frenita, but I was enjoying myself and didn’t think another week away from Pumpkin Rest would be the end of the world. I told her parents they would have to call my grandparents at a certain time when my grandfather would be sure to answer the phone. Otherwise, they would’ve gotten a resounding no from my grandmother.

  After fourteen days at camp I could tell by the look on my grandfather’s face when he picked me up at the bus station that he had bad news. We stopped on the way home at a Dairy Queen where we took our food to an outside picnic table that was covered by the dappled shade of a stately old oak tree. It was there over my uneaten cheeseburger and melted vanilla shake that he told me how Kenny had run away days after I’d left for camp.

  “I don’t believe you!” I screamed. “Kenny wouldn’t run away without telling me.”

  My grandfather’s eyes were sad when he told me that our next stop before we got home would be the police station. “I told them I would bring you in to tell them what you know, if anything. They seem to think he’s not a runaway and said that kids who leave home usually show back up in less than a couple weeks anyway, so they didn’t feel the need to make the long trip out to camp to talk to you.” I didn’t ask him why the police didn’t call the camp to speak with me.

  I told the authorities what I’d told my grandfather. Kenny had not shared with me any plans to leave town. My grandfather tried to stop me from spouting off that, more than likely, Mr. Pritchard had done something to scare Kenny away. I told them about the abuse. They pretended to be sympathetic and said not to worry. He would get tired of living on the road and be back before school started.

  The distant hoot of an owl broke the dark, still silence as I rolled onto my back and blinked into the pitch-black abyss of my future bathroom. Determined to stamp down the sadness, I used the sleeve of my robe to w
ipe away the tears and let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth when I remembered why the flashlight was hidden beneath my bedroom floor. This was the happy memory I’d been searching for. The one that made my heart swell. Soon after I moved to Pumpkin Rest and we became friends, Kenny and I set up a secret code to communicate after dark. The Pritchard farm was separated from ours by a wall of forest that included a couple covert tree houses that were used by lookouts back when they ran moonshine during Prohibition. After everyone was asleep, Kenny would sneak out to the one that faced my bedroom window and send me messages using a flashlight. Our code was silly and rudimentary, but it was ours and we eventually perfected it. Our friendship grew along with our private messages we shared at night.

  My grandmother caught us one evening when she went outside after she’d heard thunder and remembered she’d left clothes on the line. Kenny had signaled me it was starting to rain and he was going in for the night. If I hadn’t signaled back we might not have been caught. She marched up to my room, flung open my door and grabbed the flashlight from me, saying if she ever saw it missing from the pantry again, she’d hit me with it. I knew she’d make good on the threat and I told Kenny about it the next morning at the bus stop. A few days later he gave me his old flashlight and told me to find a good hiding spot. I’d used an old-fashioned metal nail file to jimmy up the floorboard closest to my window. My hidden flashlight was my secret and I reveled in having pulled one over on Juanita Anderson.

  I sighed and my smile evaporated when I remembered driving home from the police station. I was still in denial that Kenny had run away. It was well after dark by the time we got home, and without even saying hello to my grandmother or Frenita, I dashed up the stairs to my bedroom. I frantically searched for the nail file. I needed to pry up the board and send him a message. I knew he’d been hiding in the tree house for more than a week and was waiting for me to get back from camp so he could tell me what was happening.