peered into the glass, then glanced at his clean hands. “Thank you. I haven’t adjusted to the humidity yet,” she quietly explained, “but I will eventually.”
Johnny wasn’t convinced—she looked about as miserable as she could get. He returned to the couch and watched her use the glass to cool her warm cheek. “Carpenters don’t come cheap,” he drawled, watching her slide the glass down her neck, then back up. She had a pretty neck, long and pale.
“No, they don’t. But I imagine carpenters on parole are just happy to be working at all.”
Johnny laughed out loud, liking her honesty. “So I’m supposed to work cheap, is that it? Or am I donating my time?”
She moved the glass to her opposite cheek and closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s something you’ll have to work out with Gran. She sprained her ankle a week ago and she’s in a wheelchair. I imagine we can get our supplies at Craig Lumber, don’t you think?”
“If they don’t carry it, I’m sure they’ll order it.”
“Good, I’ll call them tomorrow and make sure Gran’s account is in order.”
“Jasper Craig still own the lumberyard?”
“Yes, but I’m told Farrel— Ah, his son runs the business now that his father’s retired.”
By the look on her face, Johnny was sure she knew about the bar fight that had landed him in jail—at least, Sheriff Tucker’s version. “My parole states no physical confrontations. What that means, cherie, is I’m not supposed to engage in any violent behavior. I don’t plan on killing Farrel Craig the next time I see him.”
“Should that make me feel better?”
Johnny shrugged. “For the record, I didn’t start that fight at Pepper’s. Even though I’m sure that’s what you’ve heard. The truth is, if I had wanted Farrel dead, I would have killed him years ago. Leastwise, that’s what I told the judge. Now, maybe after I’ve been in town awhile I’ll feel different—Farrel being the number-one jackass that he is.”
“So you’re saying the bar incident wasn’t your fault?”
“I’m saying, maybe I defended myself a little too good.” Johnny paused. “Now about those repairs. The place looks like hell. Where do we start?”
For the next half hour, they discussed what Johnny would tackle first. The rotten roof and porch were the most urgent. But there was more: inside jobs for a rainy day, a dead tree in the front yard, painting, window repair.
After a while, Nicole stood, peeling her legs away from the chair one at a time. “If you could figure out some kind of a supply list, I would appreciate it. That’s really not something I understand. If you can’t—”
“I can.” Johnny stood.
She looked nervous suddenly, and as she attempted to step around the chair she stumbled. Before she landed on the floor, Johnny took one long stride and reached out to grip her upper arm, quickly bringing her back to her feet. She was as lightweight as a hollow-legged bird, he noted, letting her go as quickly as he had rescued her.
Hastily she handed him the empty water glass then pulled herself together without delay, impressing him once more with how cool and collected she could be.
She crossed to the door, surprising him when she suddenly turned around in the doorway. “Gran called you her friend. I’m curious to know if it works both ways. Do you consider my grandmother your friend, Johnny Bernard?”
Johnny stayed where he was, his hands shoved into his back pockets. “I really don’t think that’s what you want to know, cherie. What you really want to know is if she’ll be safe around me? The answer is, yes. I wouldn’t hurt the old lady, or anyone she cares about. Good enough?”
“If you mean it,” she said bluntly, and left.
Johnny listened to her light footsteps descending the stairs. And once the outside door creaked, he moved to the window to watch her cross the clearing.
Part of the reason the heat was eating her up so badly was that she moved too fast, he decided. In Louisiana, things were best done at half speed. She needed to learn that, if she was ever going to appreciate the tropical heat. He should mention it, but right now wouldn’t do much good—she’d be too busy second-guessing his motives to take a suggestion from him.
The afternoon passed quickly. Before Johnny knew it, the sun had melted into the bayou and he’d spent four hours repairing the dilapidated dock that had been ready to float away in the next windstorm. Now as he walked along the trail in the dark, his thoughts turned to the old lady. He couldn’t put off seeing her any longer, though that’s just what he’d been doing. Why, he didn’t know. Maybe because she was going to look at him long and hard with those knowing blue eyes of hers, and she was going to make him start feeling guilty for leaving fifteen years ago without saying goodbye.
The minute he emerged from the wooded trail and glanced across the driveway, he knew he’d put off seeing her too long. The two-story house was completely dark except for one lone light shining in the left wing. Relieved in a crazy way that made him feel like a vulnerable kid again, he crossed the driveway and ambled toward the big house. He could see the improvements Henry had made over the years. Mae’s late husband had been a handy devil. The courtyard had been enlarged, and there was a swing in the backyard he didn’t remember from when he was a kid. Two more sheds had been built west of the big field. The carport had been extended, and now accommodated not only Mae’s ’79 Buick, but a sleek-looking white Skylark.
Henry had died of a heart attack five years ago. Virgil had written the news to Johnny in the Marines. Johnny hadn’t kept in contact with anyone else in town, but Virgil was a persistent old bird and he had tracked Johnny down years earlier. He had written faithfully over the years. Johnny had never been much of a letter writer, but he’d managed one or two a year, which had suited Virgil just fine.
More than once, Johnny had thought about writing to Mae. But he hadn’t known what to say, so he’d just told Virgil to let her know he was alive. The day he’d received the letter of Henry’s death, for one crazy second he’d wanted to come back for the funeral. But then he’d remembered how hard it had been burying his father, and a few years later his mother, and he had chickened out.
In the sheds, Johnny found old lumber and Henry’s carpentry tools. In the older shed, he found Henry’s tan ’59 Dodge pickup. The memories the pickup resurrected were unexpected. Johnny tucked them away after circling the pickup twice, then wandered back to the house and found a sturdy oak in the front yard to settle against.
While lighting a cigarette, he saw someone pace by the French doors in the left wing of the house. Johnny knew immediately who it was—the blue-eyed bird with the shapely legs and long bangs was easy to spot. Smiling, he slid down the tree to the ground and rested his back against the sturdy oak. He ignored the steady hum of mosquitoes overhead and the distant rumble of thunder. An hour passed, and still he watched her pace the room anxious about something, or someone. Was his arrival keeping her up? It made sense; she must have heard some pretty wild stories about him by now.
By the time she turned out the light and went to bed, it was after midnight, and Johnny had smoked a half-pack of cigarettes. He got to his feet and strolled out the yard and down the driveway. Since leaving Angola he couldn’t get enough fresh air, and, although it was late, he
