He left the curb and sauntered up to the driver's side. "I was wondering how you did your hair," he said. "You know, so it always has that wild look about it. I never dreamed the lengths a woman could go to for beauty."
I opened my mouth to say something smart, but he stopped me. "I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't help it. Tell you what," he said. "I don't live too far from here. Give me a minute to finish up, and we'll go to my place. I reckon I can help you clean out your car before you start mildewing." He peered up at the roof. "Reckon I can take a look at your sunroof too. I mean, it is broken, isn't it? You didn't just elect to do the wash-and-dry job on yourself, did you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, just turned his smirky self back around and walked over to Bess. I wanted to tell him to go jump in a lake, but a chill was starting to set in, and the way I figured it, this was no time to get huffy.
The mechanic had wandered outside to take a look at the cause of the commotion, and while Marshall Weathers talked to Bess, he stood staring at me. He was a thin rat of a man, with greasy coveralls and thickset eyebrows. When I looked right back at him, he began to smile. The guy was actually trying to come on to a woman who had just been hot-waxed. I couldn't believe it. I winked and pulled one lock of my hair straight out from my head. It stuck there, and I believe that's what finally convinced the guy that I was not his type. He turned away, an ill-at-ease smile in place, and walked back into the garage.
Of course, Marshall Weathers turned back around just in time to see me pull out another strand of hair and stick out my tongue at the retreating mechanic. It was just one of those days.
Chapter Eleven
Marshall Weathers was a liar. I figured this as I followed him out of the gas station and away from town on Wendover Avenue. He couldn't live nearby. I didn't figure him for a city boy and we were definitely in urban territory. He'd driven east for approximately three minutes when he abruptly split off onto a narrow road that ran alongside a roller rink. It seemed we'd gone for less than a mile when the paved road ended. We were five minutes from busy Summit Avenue and yet, he had me running down a gravel and dirt lane, out into pure pastureland.
"What is this?" I muttered. "Another cop trick? Drive me out into the country where I can't get away, then interrogate me?" My imagination ran wild. I had to admit the idea of being alone with Marshall Weathers wasn't totally unappealing. In fact, if I recalled the way he kissed me just a few hours before, I could downright anticipate it. However, at the same time, my sweater began to shrink up over my belly button, and my entire body began to itch. It had to be the detergent and hot wax. Human bodies weren't made for the harsh chemicals of a car wash.
We were running alongside a horse farm. Split-rail fences with barbed wire kept a few beautiful bays penned inside a green pasture. Weathers abruptly made a turn into a dirt driveway and slowed to a crawl as we passed two log outbuildings that had to be over two hundred years old. The driveway was lined with cedars that formed a shady tunnel. The trees ended and we drove out into the brilliant sunlight of the clear October afternoon. Marshall's car rolled to a stop in front of a small white farmhouse.
I drew in my breath and slowly exhaled. It was perfect. It was the farmhouse I'd always wanted. Yellow and white gingham curtains fluttered from the kitchen window. Bright yellow chrysanthemums and pumpkins edged their way up the back stoop steps. The roof was red tin, and the woodwork was such a shiny white that I figured he'd painted the place within the past month.
I jumped out of the car and walked toward the front of his house. It sat on the peak of a rise overlooking acres of tobacco fields. It had to be his home place, a farm that had gradually been surrounded by the growing city. I stared at the front porch, lost for a moment in the idea of what it must be to live in this place, to walk outside every morning, coffee cup in hand, and sit, watching the day begin. The air was still and silent, with only a breeze kicking up now and then.
When I remembered to look for Weathers, I found him watching me, leaning back against the hood of his car and smiling to himself.
"Now that's quite a picture," he said slowly. For a second I thought he meant the view from the hilltop, but no, he meant me. I looked down at myself. My jeans were soaked, my sweater was a balled up mass of fiber, and my hair was drying into a solid mass of red tangles. I shivered and he moved.
"Come on," he said. "You're gonna get sick standing out here, and besides that, you might harden up and not be able to move." He reached me and touched my shoulder.
"It's beautiful," I said. "I had no idea this was out here." I turned a little away from him and looked back at the valley. His hand stayed on my shoulder, warm and firm.
"I like it right much," he said. "Now come on inside."
I followed him up the steps, across the wide blue-gray porch and through the thick front door into the house. I squinted, waiting as my eyes adjusted to the inside. We were in a wide foyer. A big mahogany sideboard took up the far wall, holding the day's mail and a worn Braves cap, his cap, I thought. Marshall walked past me, leading me down the center hallway, past the wide staircase with its worn-smooth steps, and into the kitchen. It was a woman's kitchen.
I stood there, taking in the gleaming vintage white appliances, the spotless black and white checkered linoleum floor, and the cast-iron skillets that hung in a neat row along the far wall. A red towel hung from the oven door. The teakettle had a little bird on the spout. African violets bloomed along the windowsill and jars of home-canned vegetables lined the open shelves next to the refrigerator. My heart fell. Here was the kitchen of my dreams and it was most certainly her kitchen.
"Sit down," he said, indicating a chair at the light pine kitchen table. "Want some coffee or tea? It'd warm you up."
He wasn't waiting for me to answer him. He was filling the teakettle with water, his back to me.
"I'm fine. No thank you."
"Suit yourself." He went on bustling about his kitchen, opening the refrigerator, reaching in for milk, then walking across the room to the pantry and pulling out bags that crackled and boxes that opened with a soft popping sound.
I sat there and felt good and sorry for myself. Marshall Weathers probably still carried a torch for his wife. What was I thinking, hoping we could have a relationship? I watched him make the coffee, carefully measuring it into the carafe, pouring steaming water in a thin stream through the filter.
He still loved her. He wasn't ready for anything serious. Hell, he'd told me that. What was I thinking?
Marshall walked toward me, setting a plate of cookies down in front of me. They looked homemade. I figured she brought them over to him, feeling sorry maybe. I decided her name was Wanda. Wanda Weathers. She was a big-haired, big-boned woman who sang in the choir every Sunday. She wore fake eyelashes on New Year's Eve and didn't like to spoil her makeup by fooling around. I figured her for a cross-stitcher, sewing away on cold winter evenings.
"You don't look right," he said, materializing in front of me, a steaming mug in his hand. "Too bad you're not hungry." He sat down across from me and shoved the cookies in my direction. "Sure you won't have any?"
"I don't think so," I said, my voice almost frosted. "I'm watching my figure."
"Uh-huh," he said, his eyes wandering up and down my torso. "Looks fine to me."
"Nope," I said firmly, "no cookies."