“Where did you pick up that one?”
“It’s a long story,” he answered, then explained the situation, leaving nothing out.
“Good God, have you lost your mind?” Ernie leaned forward and about tipped himself out of the chair. “What do you think Virgil is going to do? From what you’ve told me, the man isn’t exactly the forgiving kind, and you practically stole his bride.”
“I did not steal her.” John raised his feet to the coffee table and sank deeper into the cushions. “She’d already left him.”
“Yeah.” Ernie folded his arms across his thin chest and scowled at John. “At the altar. A man isn’t likely to forgive and forget a thing like that.”
John rested his elbows on his thighs and raised the bottle to his lips. “He won’t find out,” he said, and took a long swig.
“You better hope not. We’ve worked too damn hard to get this far,” he reminded his grandson.
“I know,” he said, although he didn’t need reminding. He owed a lot of who he was to his grandfather. After John’s father had died, he and his mother had moved right next door to Ernie. Every winter Ernie had filled his backyard with water so John would have a place to skate. It had been Ernie who’d practiced with John out on that cold ice until they were both frozen to the marrow of their bones. It had been Ernie who’d taught him how to play hockey, taken him to games, and stayed to cheer him on. It was Ernie who held things together when life got real bad.
“Are you going to do her?”
John looked over at his wrinkled grandfather. “What?”
“Isn’t that what you young fellas say these days?”
“Jesus, Ernie,” he said, though he really wasn’t shocked. “No, I’m not going to do her.”
“I sure as hell hope not.” He crossed one callused and cracked foot over the other. “But if Virgil finds out she’s here, he’ll think you did anyway.”
“She’s not my type.”
“She sure as hell is,” Ernie argued. “She reminds me of that stripper you dated a while back, Cocoa LaDude.”
John glanced at the hallway, grateful to find it empty. “Her name was Cocoa LaDuke, and I didn’t date her.” He looked back at his grandfather and frowned. Even though Ernie never said so, John had a feeling his grandfather didn’t approve of his lifestyle. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, purposely changing the subject.
“Where else would I be?”
“Home.”
“Tomorrow is the sixth.”
John turned his gaze to the huge window facing the ocean. He watched several white-tipped waves swell, then curl in on themselves. “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
“I know, but I thought you might like a beer buddy.”
John closed his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Linda.”
“We don’t have to. Your mama’s worried about you. You should call her more often.”
With his thumb, John picked at the label glued to the beer bottle. “Yeah, I should,” he agreed, although he knew he wouldn’t. His mother would bitch at him about his drinking and tell him that he was leading a self-destructive life. Since he knew she was pretty much right, he didn’t need to hear it. “When I drove through town, I spotted Dickie Marks coming out of your favorite bar,” he said, again changing the subject.
“I saw him earlier.” Ernie pushed himself forward and rose slowly from the chair, reminding John that his grandfather was seventy-one. “We’re going fishing in the morning. You should get up and come with us.” Several years ago, John would have been the first on the boat, but these days he usually woke up with a splitting headache. Getting up before dawn to freeze his butt off just didn’t appeal to him anymore. “I’ll think about it,” he answered, knowing he wouldn’t.
Georgeanne fastened her maroon bra, reached for the T-shirt, and pulled it over her head. A Seahawks baseball cap, a stopwatch, an Ace bandage, and a good amount of dust rested on the dresser in front of her. Her gaze rose to the big mirror above the dresser and she cringed. Soft black cotton fit tight across her breasts but loose everyplace else. She looked like a fashion nightmare, so she tucked the T-shirt into the baggy drawstring shorts, which only accentuated her large breasts and behind-the two places she’d rather not emphasize. She yanked the shirt out until it fell to her hips, then she threw her shoes into the overnight case and grabbed her Snickers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she peeled back the dark brown wrapper and sank her teeth into the rich chocolate. A euphoric sigh escaped her lips as she chewed her candy bar. Lying back on the blue comforter, she stretched and stared up at the light fixture attached to the ceiling. Two dead moths lay in the bottom of the shallow white glass. As she devoured her candy, she listened to John and Ernie’s muffled conversation through the wood door. Considering that John didn’t seem to like her very much, she found it odd that the low timbre of his voice should soothe her. Perhaps it was because he was the only person she knew for miles, or maybe because she sensed he really wasn’t a jerk as he pretended. Then again, the sheer size of the man would make just about any woman feel safe.
She scooted until her head rested on John’s pillow and her feet lay across her wedding dress, which she’d thrown on the end of the bed. Polishing off the Snickers, she thought about calling Lolly, but decided to wait. She wasn’t in a big hurry to hear her aunt’s reaction. She thought about getting up but closed her eyes instead. She thought of the first time she’d met Virgil in the fragrance department at the Neiman-Marcus in Dallas. It was still hard to believe that just a little over a month ago she’d been working as a perfume girl, handing out samples of Fendi and Liz Claiborne. She probably wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t approached her. She probably wouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with him that first time if he hadn’t had roses and a limousine waiting by the curb for her after work. It had been so easy to crawl inside that air-conditioned limo, out of the heat, humidity, and bus fumes. If she hadn’t felt so alone, and if her future weren’t so uncertain, she probably wouldn’t have agreed to marry a man she’d known for such a short time.
Last night she’d tried to tell Virgil she couldn’t marry him. She’d tried to call it off, but he hadn’t listened to her. She felt horrible for what she’d done, but she didn’t know how to fix it.
Letting go of the tears she’d held back all day, she quietly sobbed into John’s pillow. She cried for the mess she’d made of her life, and the emptiness she felt inside. Her future loomed before her, terrifying and uncertain. Her only relatives were an elderly aunt and uncle who lived off Social Security and whose lives revolved around I Love Lucy reruns.
She had nothing and knew no one besides a man who’d told her not to expect kindness from him. Suddenly she felt like Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire. She’d seen every Vivien Leigh movie ever made, and she thought it a little eerie, and more than coincidental, that John’s last name was Kowalsky.
She was scared and alone, but she also felt a sense of relief that she wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. She wouldn’t have to pretend to like Virgil’s awful taste in clothes and the trashy things he liked for her to wear.
Exhausted, she cried herself to sleep. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off until she woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed.
“Georgie?”
One side of her hair fell over her left eye as she turned toward the sunlit doorway and looked into a face she was sure she’d dreamed off one of those studs calendars. His hands gripped the frame just above his head, and he wore a silver wristwatch turned so the face rested against his pulse. He stood with one hip higher than the other, and for several moments she stared at him, disoriented.