Express Duet Page 2

  “Bibles?” I pointed to the shelf behind her.

  “Yes, we used to have church here for the truckers. That is until the owner’s wife died about a year ago. One of the drivers, Jack Weatherby, is a preacher. He always tried to come through here on Sunday. He still checks on us now and then.”

  “Oh, OK.” Church in a diner? Intriguing. “Well, I think I’ll take my drink over to a booth and sit a while, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, take your time.”

  A couple came in the door, and Tracy busied herself waiting on them.

  I sipped on my soda while life decisions stalled in my mind. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t go to Gran’s until I could finish the repairs. Go back to Marshall? Head toward Dallas? Panic paralyzed my thinking. Stranded in a test I hadn’t studied for, I searched for an answer.

  Mom. She’d be worried. I should call, but there was no use discussing what I wasn’t sure about. Too many unanswered questions ate at my tired brain, and I didn’t relish trying to explain. I opted to text her.

  Mom, I’m taking a short vacation. I’ll keep my phone on but really don’t want to talk. I’m OK. Please let Mandy and Macy know.

  I pushed the send button. She’d worry, but more importantly, she would pray. “Help,” was all I could manage to pray.

  Tracy approached. “I just remembered. There’s a sort of bed-and-breakfast about a half mile up the road. The owner isn’t there much, but you might convince him to let you stay.” Tracy moved along to deliver her tray.

  She came back in a minute. “His name is Scott West. He actually owns this diner, the washout across the street, and the B&B that his mom ran. He’s got his hands full now since she passed away. His dad had a stroke about the same time. Scott’s taking care of everybody and everything. He’d probably let you stay there, but you’d most likely be on your own most of the time.”

  “Thanks, Tracy. Where can I find him?” Did I really want to do this? What was the point of running from my problems? I needed to suck it up, go home, and deal with it. My stomach churned at the thought of all the changes that assaulted me, and the changes to come. I could at least look into this bed-and-breakfast.

  “He’s across the street at the Washout Express. You can go over and ask him if you like.” She gathered my glass and napkins with one hand and wiped the table with the other.

  “I might just do that. Pardon my ignorance, Tracy, but what is a Washout Express?”

  “It’s a place for truckers to have the concrete washed out of their beds and trailers so they don’t drip the excess on the city streets.”

  “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll go and inquire of the very busy Mr. West. Nice to meet you, Tracy. I’m Bailey Brown, by the way, and you’ve been great.” She deserved a generous tip. I obliged.

  Business suit and heels were probably not standard dress inside a washout facility. Nervousness jangled my brain as I reached into my purse for a mirror. Yep, my face still looked red and stressed. Whatever. I would just stand tall and be businesslike.

  Confidence, Bailey. Perhaps my nose pointed a little up in the air, overcompensation for my lack of assurance at that moment.

  The grimy counter to the left faced a row of equally not-so-clean chairs on the right. I tapped the little ringer on the counter.

  Five minutes passed with no response, so I rang the bell again. Exhaustion began to settle on me, but my backside was not about to sit in those filthy chairs. Finally, a door behind the counter opened.

  An elderly man hobbled out with a cane. He just stared at me.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. West, please.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” The old man turned and went back through the door and closed it.

  My feet and ankles throbbed in my heels. A crushing headache nearly blinded me. Temptation to sit in those grimy chairs nearly won. Five more minutes passed, and when the old man came back without Mr. West, my patience evaporated.

  “Is Mr. West here or not?” I crossed my arms and glared at him.

  “Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba!” he shouted and pointed his cane at me. “Sit, sit, sit!”

  Dumbfounded, I decided to leave rather than sit in those awful chairs and wait for someone who might not come.

  I grasped the doorknob. I didn’t need this. The point of my excursion was to get away from the stress, not add to it. I’d be better off at home. A young man came rushing through the door behind the counter.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” Tenderly, he put his arm around the old man and walked him to one of the chairs. He spoke quietly to him and then handed him a magazine.

  “Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba,” the old man repeated, pointing his cane at me.

  “Oh, hello, I’m sorry. I’ll be right with you,” the younger man said.

  Moments later, he turned my way. “Please excuse my father. He’s recently had a stroke and has trouble expressing himself. He always says things in threes, and sometimes it’s hard to tell what he means. I’m Scott West. What can I do for you?” The exhaustion in his pleasant voice matched the weariness in those gorgeous blue eyes.

  “The waitress at the diner said that you have a bed-and-breakfast down the road. I’m looking for a place to stay for the night. Would you be willing to rent me a room?”

  “It’s more like a bed-and-bring-your-own. I’m a little shorthanded these days. I haven’t had time to do much business there. Wouldn’t you prefer to drive a few miles into Marshall and get a nice hotel?”

  “I just came from there. It sounds crazy, but I need to stay on this exit tonight. I don’t need much, just a bed.” My eyes began to tear up and my face turned warm. The sound of my crazy, pleading voice alarmed and embarrassed me. The man probably thought I was nuts.

  Scott tilted his head sideways and squinted. He wrinkled his forehead and then pressed his lips together. He finally broke the awkward silence.

  “If you’ll give me a couple of hours to finish up here, I’ll open it up for you, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right, I’ll meet you there at six.” He looked as though he wanted to ask a question.

  Please don’t. My pleading eyes must have gotten the point across. “Thank you. I’ll see you then.” I reached for the doorknob, but not before noticing Scott’s father staring into space. With gentle hands, Scott helped the frail man up and walked him to the back room.

  I drove home and gathered a week’s worth of clothes. I also called the locksmith. He agreed to have the locks at Pinewood Manor changed and the keys delivered to my mom.

  Pinewood Manor would not be a meeting place for Darryl and Phoebe any more.

  ~*~

  Scott West pulled up in front of Shelley’s Heart Bed and Breakfast a few moments after I did.

  “Thomas Kinkaid could have used this sweet old house as a country home subject,” I said as I caught my first glimpse of the two-story home. Shuttered windows like smiling eyes welcomed me. The front porch spanned the length of the house. A row of large, inviting rocking chairs sat among an array of potted plants.

  My delight in the sight of it seemed to please him. He beamed a tired smile.

  “Yes, but the ‘Painter of Light’ would have needed to dim the colors. The old place looks kind of sad. Mom was the light of the place, and now she’s gone, too.” His smile faded a bit as he shook his head.

  The sadness in his voice made me see the rockers as empty arms, the potted plants thirsty…definitely something missing. With the wilted flower gardens lining each side, the quaint old house seemed to mourn its mistress’s passing.

  Scott looked even more exhausted than he had two hours ago, but his eyes sparkled and made me feel welcome. He took off his baseball cap and his black, straight hair tousled about his forehead. His jeans and light blue shirt made his eyes even bluer.

  Scott turned back to the car where his father sat. “I’ll just be a minute, Pe
eps, and then we’ll go get dinner.”

  “Peeps?” I stifled an amused giggle.

  “His name is Paul, but since his stroke he says to call him Peeps. I call him that sometimes because for some reason it makes him laugh.”

  “I wish I hadn’t upset him this afternoon. I’d like him to know that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, but I’ll tell him.” Scott unlocked the front door and we stepped inside.

  Although a little unkempt, the place charmed me. Cozy, floral fabric-covered couches and chairs waited to comfort. The dark rich wood of the paneling and accent pieces shone. The fresh scent of lemon oil wafted through the rooms. A set of crocheted doilies, preserved in vintage frames, accented the fireplace mantle. Crocheted afghans added to the peaceful softness of the room.

  On tables throughout the place, books lay as if waiting for someone to pick them up and spend an enjoyable respite within their pages. Novels, travel magazines, and craft books, especially crochet manuals, must have delighted patrons in the past.

  “The first-floor bedroom is ready for you. The bathroom is down the hall there, and the kitchen is through that door. As I said, there won’t be any breakfast, but you are welcome to use the appliances or go to the diner.” He took my bag and showed me to the bedroom.

  Vintage heart valentines dotted the wallpaper. The snow white down comforter looked like a lacy cloud. Heart shaped pillows sat on the bed in all shades of pink and red. A couch covered with pillows sat at the foot of the bed, facing Battenburg curtains over the windows. I could imagine young honeymooners sinking into this soft, simple elegance.

  I could not see myself sleeping in that room.

  The remembrance of my loss slammed into my chest. Dizziness weakened me. I dropped my purse and bent to pick it up at the same time Scott bent to steady me.

  Our heads crashed together. Hard.

  I stumbled backward onto the bed, and everything faded to black.

  3

  I blacked out for only a few seconds. Someone was patting and rubbing my hand. I heard a voice. I blinked my eyes open and shook my head, trying to make sense of the words.

  “Are you all right?” Blue eyes filled with concern peered at me from under a worried, wrinkled brow. “Would you like me to get a doctor or take you to the ER?”

  Reality returned. Oh yeah, I was down the Washout Exit, and I’d just thoroughly humiliated myself in front of this guy.

  “Uh, no, I’m fine.” I sat up too quickly and my head swooned.

  “Quite a bump. Let me get you some ice.”

  Steve? Sam? No, Scott.

  He bounded out of the room to the kitchen and returned with several ice cubes wrapped in a plaid dishcloth. He sat on the bed beside me and cradled the ice to my head.

  I relaxed a bit and leaned into him for a moment. How nice to be tended to after all I’d experienced.

  Footsteps shuffled up behind us and a voice rang out.

  “What, what, what?”

  Ice cubes crashed to the floor as I flew to my feet.

  Scott stood. “Nothing, Dad, we had a little accident, bumped heads.”

  “Yes, I’m fine now. It’s all right. Thank you.”

  A trickle of blood trailed down Scott’s forehead.

  I reached into my purse for tissue and mopped at it. “Sit down a minute and let me get a good look at that. You probably need some ice yourself.”

  “It’s nothing. Just glad it wasn’t more serious.” His cheeks blushed, but he sat on the bed anyway and let me finish cleaning up a little cut.

  Mr. West left the room, muttering in threes under his breath.

  Scott stood looking at me for a few seconds. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  His tender eyes tempted me to tell him everything.

  “Sure, it’s just been a long day. I’m looking forward to catching some sleep.”

  “OK, then. Have a good night. My cook makes a mean omelet at the diner, if you’re interested come morning.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my number if you need anything.”

  I followed him to the front door. His father cracked a toothless smile and waved as they drove away. I hoped that meant he forgave me for acting like the Queen o’ Sheba.

  Suddenly what little energy I had drained out completely. A rummage in the honeymoon room’s closet produced an extra blanket and pillow, so I settled myself on the couch in the living room.

  Questions began to swim in my mind again. How long was I going to stay here? What would I do when I went home? Why couldn’t I hold on to Darryl? Wasn’t I good enough? Why did Phoebe have to show up and ruin everything?

  Hate wanted to take over, but deep down I knew Phoebe couldn’t be blamed for what I lacked. Darryl might be shallow, but didn’t most of the world prefer beauty queens? If so, I didn’t have a chance. I’d smiled my way through life, trying to be the best at everything. Still, Daddy left us because I wasn’t good enough, and Mom was alone because of me.

  The truth remained: Bailey Brown was not enough.

  ~*~

  Morning dawned with the chirping of birds. I peeked out from under the blanket. The rose-print wallpaper of the living room came to life with the swaying shadows of the trees outside the windows. Birds played from branch to branch. This peace comforted me for half an hour.

  The sun should have been up by then, but dark clouds gathered. Trees began to sway violently, and the screen door blew open and closed again with a slam. An East Texas rain pelted the windows. I sat up on the couch and swaddled the blanket around me to watch the storm. I remembered what had brought me to this place, and my mood melded with the weather. Images and emotions of the last twenty-four hours churned like a tornado in my soul.

  It didn’t make any sense. Just weeks ago Darryl and I had shared such a tender moment.

  “You’re my only family, Bailey. All I have in the world.” He’d clasped both my hands to his chest and pierced my heart with his pleading eyes as he’d begged to let him give me power of attorney. “Let me have this legal bond now, darling. Of course we won’t need it after we’re married. But if anything happens before the wedding…”

  I raised my hand to his mouth. “Shhh. Nothing’s going to happen, but if it means that much to you, I’ll sign it.” I read every word of the straightforward document. It was so simple, I couldn’t understand why it even meant so much to Darryl, but the day we signed it became the happiest day of my life.

  As I put pen to paper in front of the notary, Darryl surprised me. “Hurry, Bailey, I have something for you.” He pulled his suit coat aside and patted the shape of a small box in his dress shirt pocket.

  “My ring!” I quickly signed the document, and then Darryl signed and handed it across the desk to the notary. I hardly registered the guy signing and stamping the document; my focus was on that little box in Darryl’s pocket, my mind on thoughts of our future together.

  Moments later, we stepped out of the office. He put the ring on my finger and embraced me, right there on the sidewalk. “Mine, all mine,” he whispered as he held me.

  How could he have been so tender and loving and mere weeks later kick me to the curb?

  Bailey, girl, snap out of it. Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Get up and do something. Gran’s voice came so easily into my heart.

  But what, Gran? What do I do?

  The scent of mulberry potpourri wafted around me, the aroma soothing, but not enough to surrender my anxiety.

  Wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, I got up to search for coffee.

  The scent of fresh ground coffee beans braced me, and I began to come alive. The pot brewed as I looked out the kitchen window.

  A good half acre stretched out behind the house—more secret garden than backyard. Pine trees stood in beds of ivy lining the left side of the property. Yellow jasmine tangled with the ivy, shooting tendrils into the air. Another half-acre of pasture flanked the left side of the property. Three huge magnolia trees se
emed evenly spaced on an imaginary line between the yard and the pasture. Round benches completely encircled the trees.

  A garden mural graced the walls of a small well house. Had Scott’s mother painted it? Lawn chairs met around a barbeque grill next to the well house. A whitewashed barn rested at the far end of the yard. To the left of the barn a gate opened to the thick woods. Lush green grass carpeted the entire scene. The rain subsided.

  As I finished my first cup of coffee, Paul West came hobbling through the gate from the woods. He sat on a bench, leaned his cane next to him and put his head in his hands.

  How frustrating it must be to deal with physical challenges and grieve the death of his wife at the same time. I wanted to go to him, but was sure the “Queen o’ Sheba” could be no help.

  I didn’t have to worry long because Scott came into the backyard from the garage. He took one look at his dad and broke into a run. He sat next to him, hands on his own knees, and leaned forward looking into his dad’s face. They conversed a little, and then Scott put his arm around Paul. The men bowed their heads and appeared to be praying aloud. After a few minutes, Paul smiled. They stood and embraced one another and then walked toward the house.

  In panic mode, I ran to get dressed and brush my hair. I needn’t have rushed because they never came to the door.

  My stomach growled. The omelet Scott suggested the night before sounded pretty good.

  I walked into West House to find Scott and his father eating a big stack of pancakes. I scooted over to say hello, but Paul grimaced.

  “Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba, Queen o’ Sheba!” He grumbled, reaching for his cane. I guess I wasn’t forgiven, after all.

  “Dad, Miss Brown is our guest. It’s OK.” Scott rose and faced me, his cheeks now flushed. “I’m sorry, Miss Brown. He’ll get over it.”

  “No problem, and please call me Bailey. I wanted to tell you that the house is wonderful. Is there any way I could have just a couple more days? No maintenance required. I’m quite fine there the way things are.”

  “I guess so. If my mom was here, you’d be treated like the Queen o’…I mean you’d be given the royal treatment.”