she knew what was hidden behind those woods. The park. The gazebo. Emma’s breath came faster as a different memory overcame her, and a new face intruded on the images of the past.
“Johnny,” she said, his name tasting unfamiliar on her tongue.
She hadn’t thought of him in ages. Well, at least not in weeks. His wide, heartbreaking grin and the spark of devilment in his eyes had never been too far from her thoughts, even though the rest of Joyful had been.
Johnny Walker had been her savior and her downfall, all in the very same night. He’d given Emma her first lesson in raw, hot passion. A lesson she’d never forgotten—and had never come close to repeating.
Then he’d given her a lesson in betrayal.
“The bastard.”
Could he still be here?
No. He’d hated this town. He’d wanted nothing more than to shake its dust off his boots and get out even then. Johnny would be long gone from Joyful. No question about it.
And Emma Jean Frasier wouldn’t have it any other way.
“THE PORN STAR’S pulling up outside!”
Johnny paused, his fingers resting lightly on the can of spaghetti sauce he’d picked up off the grocery store shelf. Porn star? Now, there was something you didn’t hear mentioned often in Joyful, Georgia. Livestock auctions, yes. Dances at the VFW hall, storm warnings, gossip about whose husband was spotted with a female impersonator down in Atlanta…yes.
But porn stars in Joyful? Nossir, he didn’t think he’d heard that one before. Though, given the controversy of a proposed new twenty-four-hour strip club on the outskirts of town, he couldn’t claim too much shock.
Wouldn’t that give the biddies something to chew on? As if they all weren’t already in the middle of a frenzy over the billboard advertising Joyful Interludes, the new club, which had shown up this morning. Now they were likely planning pickets, boycotts, religious protests. Soon they’d be talking legal action. Then they’d be knocking on his door.
Add a porn star to the mix and Joyful might just erupt of sheer titillation.
“Didja hear me?” the voice continued. “Joe Crocker down at the Chat-n-Chew says the porn star who’s opening up that new strip club is heading into town, right here to this very store!”
The words hung in the sunny, late-afternoon air of the Joyful Grocery Store. Johnny thought even the dust motes stopped swirling at the announcement made by the teen who’d burst in off the street, his face red, eyes wide with excitement. The kids buying penny—now dime—candy, dropped their loot and froze. The cashiers at the two front checkout lanes, who’d been exchanging man-tales and smacking bubblegum as they rang up the purchases of the handful of customers in the store, also paused.
Then, as if they were all puppets on the same string, they turned and gawked out the huge front window of the store. Eighty-year-old Tom Terry, who used to own the town’s only barbershop, hitched his pants up and tucked his shirttail in.
The expectant silence, as charged as the air in the bingo parlor before each ball was drawn, was suddenly interrupted by a demanding voice. As demanding as only the voice of a three-or or four-year-old little girl could be. “I spilled my juice, Mama!”
Johnny cast a quick glance at the child, whose lower lip was stuck out in a belligerent pout. She tugged on her mother’s dress. The mother—Claire Deveaux, former newspaper reporter turned chubby housewife—ignored the kid. Claire was just as focused on the front door as everyone else in the place.
“Mama…”
“Not now, Eve,” Claire whispered with a shushing motion. “Somebody important’s coming, baby.”
Somebody important. Miss Fanny Tail? Miss Venus Triple-D’Milo? He almost snickered. Why in God’s name would a porn star be opening up a club here in Nowhereville, Georgia? And why was he the only one who seemed surprised by this news?
Johnny shook his head. Apparently he’d once again been completely oblivious to some juicy bit of fodder on the town from Joyful’s infamous grapevine. That’s the way he preferred it. Growing up in a family that was usually the target of such gossip had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he generally shut down his ears when people were whispering nearby.
This time he’d apparently missed some very serious gossip, which had probably started thirty seconds after the billboard had gone up this morning. He almost wished he’d detoured past it to read it for himself.
Porn stars and strip clubs. Joyful was becoming downright wicked.
Not that he believed Joe Crocker knew a porn star from an opera singer—the man thought any female blessed with an abundance of northern curves liked to be leered at and drooled over. So did ninety percent of the rest of Joyful’s male population. Almost made him feel sorry for the mystery woman. She could be anybody from a college professor to a congresswoman. And sure as hell, some man here in this very store would likely ask her to autograph his butt with a red felt-tip marker as soon as she arrived.
He grinned, picturing her response if she was simply a wayward traveler or a harried housewife doing some shopping. It was almost worth sticking around to see if anybody got slapped in the face. Or kicked in the…
“I had me a porn star once,” Tom Terry muttered to no one in particular.
Johnny couldn’t resist glancing at the old-timer, who stared into the air wearing a look of reminiscence.
“Kep’ her in a box under my bed. ’Bout broke my heart when Buddy, my best hunting dog, found her and bit right into her. Great big holes, right in her leg.”
Johnny could only shake his head. It wouldn’t do any good to try to change the subject. Old Tom was as predictable about his dirty stories as he was about spitting on the sidewalk whenever his archenemy Joe-Bob Melton was approaching.
“Tried to use some packing tape t’fix her up,” the old man continued, not even looking around to see if anyone was listening to his tale of woe. “But it didn’t work. Dern near took m’head clean off when she popped and started flyin’ around the room.” And then, as if he hadn’t painted a good enough picture, he added, “Just imagine one’a them Thanksgiving parade balloons hittin’ a light pole and flyin’ all over the city folk, flashin’ her glory-be-ta-Jesus parts in front a’ the kiddies waitin’ fer Sandy Claus. That’s what she looked like all right.”
Johnny closed his eyes and thought about work, his car. Anything except the image Mr. Terry had put into his head.
“She scared poor Buddy right outta the house and under the porch,” old Tom continued, apparently not noticing that everyone within earshot had edged away. “Whizzed ’round the livin’ room like a balloon pricked with a pin.” He gave a wheezy, dirty-old-man snicker. “Pricked.” Then he puffed his scrawny chest out. “Now, I’m not pin-sized, mindya.”
“Mr. Terry, please,” a nearby woman hissed as she tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the ears of her wide-eyed little boy.
Yeah. This was how rumors got started in Joyful. Pretty soon, the story of Tom’s relations with a plastic sex doll would turn into one of the greatest love
