kitchen was worse than the bathroom. A tower of dirty dishes filled the sink. More dishes littered the counter and the table. Every burner on the stove had a pot on it and each pot contained something old and dried and unrecognizable. Phoebe cleared herself enough space to cook in. She found a box of oatmeal and a can of Eagle Brand milk in the nearly empty cupboard.
Twenty minutes later, she set a steaming bowl of oats in front of Darla, picked up the can of milk and poured some over the oats, then shoved the sugar bowl in closer. “Eat.”
Darla sniffed and scowled at the bowl. “I hate oatmeal. And that weird canned milk is gross. Ralphie used to eat that. Yuck…” Her face crumpled. “Ralphie. Oh, Ralphie…” The waterworks started in again.
Phoebe grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the table and shoved it Darla’s way. Grudgingly, Darla accepted it. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.
“Eat,” Phoebe repeated, more firmly than before. She dropped into the chair across from Darla and waited, keeping her expression stern. Eventually, Darla ladled on some sugar, picked up the spoon Phoebe had washed for her, and dug in.
As she ate, Phoebe lectured. “It’s enough, Darla Jo. And you know it, too. I know how much you loved Ralphie. But there’s grieving and there’s grieving and you have let this get way out of hand. I’ll send someone over this afternoon to help you clean up this place.” She figured she could get Bernard or Tiff to help out. If not, she’d come back herself. “Whoever I send will take you to the store so you can buy groceries.”
“I’m broke. You know I am. The man I love died on me—and he left me nothin’.”
So Phoebe got up, got her purse and laid two fifties on the table. “You’re buying food. Today.”
Darla slid a glance at the money, then muttered sulkily, “Thanks.”
“No thanks are needed. You clean up this place and get yourself some food and show up at the bar tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why?”
“I’ll put you back on the payroll. We’ll find something you can do.”
Darla shot her a calculating look. “Give me Ralphie’s share.” Her voice went wheedling. “Pheeb. Please. He woulda wanted me to have it. He promised it to me….”
“I can’t. You know that. Ralphie’s share belongs to Rio Navarro.”
Darla’s spoon clattered into the half-empty oatmeal bowl. She threw up both hands. “Rio Navarro was not supposed to get my half of that bar. It was all a big mistake that he got it, and you know it was—and you know what else? That Rio Navarro, he couldn’t even be bothered to come to our wedding, you know that? We invited him, and he didn’t show. Ralphie said he could never talk that guy into coming to Oklahoma. He’ll probably never come. The time will go by and he’ll never show up and it won’t even matter, if you give Ralphie’s half to me. Nobody’s gonna care. And I’ll have something to get by on, me and the baby. I’ll—”
“Darla—”
“Uh-uh. Don’t say different. You know I’m right. That Navarro guy is never even coming around.” She picked up her spoon again, flicked a hank of hair back over her shoulder and wheedled some more. “So come on. You can just split the till with me, at least until you hear from that Navarro guy and he—” Phoebe put up a hand. Darla stuck out her lower lip. “What?”
“Have I got your attention?”
“Stop ragging on me, okay? Just say it. What?”
“I’ve heard from Rio.”
Darla paused—but not for long. “Well, until he gets into town, you could—”
“He is here in town.”
“That bastard. No.”
“Yeah. You’re going to have to give up your plans for the bar, Darla. You’re going to have to accept the fact that Ralphie’s half went to Rio and move on.”
“Real easy for you to say. You got your half….”
Phoebe refused to reply to that. She sat very still and she looked at Darla in a steady, unblinking way.
Darla gave it up. “Okay. I’m sorry. That was a mean thing to say to you and you didn’t deserve it. I love you, Pheeb. You’re the best friend I ever had next to Ralphie and I’m grateful you’re lookin’ after me.”
Phoebe said softly, “Finish your breakfast.” Obediently, Darla scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal and poked it into her mouth. Phoebe waited until she’d eaten it all. Then Phoebe picked up the bowl and carried it to the sink. She ran water in it and put the can of milk in the fridge while Darla sat at the table, slumped over her big tummy, staring out the window beside the back door. Phoebe went to her and put her hands on those sad, sagging shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go sit on the sofa.”
Darla dragged herself upright and plodded along behind Phoebe into the other room, where she plopped down on the ugly brown corduroy sofa. Phoebe sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her. Drawing the younger woman close, Phoebe guided Darla’s still-damp head to rest on her shoulder. She stroked Darla’s arm.
Darla snuggled in. “Thanks for comin’ over. And you’re right, what you said. It looks like crap around here and I need to pull myself together.”
Phoebe made a low noise of agreement and then spoke gently, “Darla?”
“Umm?”
“The baby…”
“Umm?”
“It’s not Ralphie’s, is it?”
With a soft little sigh, Darla snuggled in closer still. “Oh, Pheeb…”
“Is it?”
Darla answered at last in a dreamy voice. “Strictly speakin’? No, it ain’t.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The gene pool could use a little chlorine.
—from The Prairie Queen’s Guide to Life by Goddess Jacks
DARLA KEPT HER HEAD on Phoebe’s shoulder and continued, in that same dreamy voice. “It was…a one-night thing, you know? I met this guy in a bar before I even came to the city. I never got his number and I ain’t seen him since and I never would’ve had sex with him if I’d’a known that in a few days I would be meeting the man I would love until death.” She rested her hand with its chewed-down nails on her bulging stomach. “Ralphie knew the baby wasn’t his. I told him. I always told him everything. He didn’t care. He said the baby would be our baby and that was that. He said we’d tell everyone he was the daddy—because he was going to be our baby’s daddy in all the ways that really count. And Pheeb?”
Phoebe rubbed Darla’s shoulder and stared blankly at their shadowed reflections in Ralphie’s big-screen TV across from the sofa. The last thing she’d expected was a straightforward confession. The baby was not Ralphie’s. Impossible—and apparently, true.
“Pheeb?”
