Calamity Jayne Heads West (5 page)

“What?” I managed, looking up into eyes more deli-ciously brown than Cadbury chocolate.

“You’re flirting with danger, Tressa,” he said, and I sensed he wasn’t just being melodramatic. “The longer you let this fiancée fantasy play out, the harder it will be to cut yourself loose when the time comes. And any-thing connected to Manny Demarco, no matter how innocent or well-intentioned, holds a certain element of risk,” he said. “It’s just the nature of the beast.”

I winced. Having someone refer to your faux fiancé as a beast is hardly the stuff fairy tales are made of. And let’s face it. I sure as heck wasn’t the belle of any-one’s ball.

“I really don’t think there’s anything to be con-cerned about,” I said. “Like I told Aunt Mo, when I get back home the three of us are going to have a nice long chat and we’ll explain things to her in a calm, lov-ing, non-stress-inducing manner.” I thought about it for a second. “Can a person rent a heart defibrillator, do you think?”

Townsend’s lips twitched, and I was ready to declare myself a free and unattached woman right then and there and cover his sensational sexy lips with mine when Mr. Mucous Mouth exited the bathroom.

“Do you two want to be alone?” he asked.

I was about to yell, “You’re damned right! Now get the hell out!” (being nookie-deprived has manifested in some rather unpleasant side effects) when Townsend turned to block me from his nephew’s view and I slipped my shirt on over my head.

“I was just asking Tressa here if she wanted to tag along with you, me and your sister to Sedona tomor-row,” Rick said by way of explanation. He turned back to me. “We’re looking for souvenirs and the obligatory wedding present for the happy couple,” he added. “But I imagine you’ve already got that covered. Right?”

“Of course,” I said, lying. To be honest, buying a wedding gift hadn’t even occurred to me.

“What did you get them?” Nick asked, coming over.

“Why, the gift of my presence at this auspicious oc-casion in their lives, of course,” I replied.

“Huh?” the kid said.

“Me! I’m their gift! My being here is gift alone,” I told the preteen.

“Didn’t you, like, have to come?” he asked. “Like me? So how is that like a present?”

I gritted my teeth. I wondered if it was true that all kids went to Heaven. This one was close to finding out.

“You’ll understand when you grow up,” I told him. “And realize that sometimes the most valuable gifts cost nothing,” I said, and patted his head when I wanted to paddle his behind.

“Sounds to me like something a cheapskate would say,” he said, sloughing my hand off his head. “Why don’t you ask Taylor to come with us again, Uncle Rick?” he said, looking up at Townsend. “I bet she’d come if you asked her real nice. I bet she’s gonna buy a real gift for Grandma Hannah and Grandpa Joe,” he said. “Let’s ask her.”

Townsend gave him a wobbly smile and then ex-tended it to include me.

“You already asked Taylor to go?” I said, as the warm glow I’d gotten over Townsend’s invite cooled like hot fudge drizzled over hard-packed ice cream.

Townsend swallowed. Once. Twice. I kept count by the up and down of his Adam’s apple.

“I planned on asking you, Taylor, and your cousin Sophie to go along,” he explained. “But your Aunt Kay said Sophie has classes tomorrow morning and Taylor isn’t feeling up to another car ride so soon. So, what do you say, T? You up for a day of sightseeing in Se-dona with a trio of Townsends? Lunch is on me,” he added with a wink, trying to cinch the deal.

I thought about it. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. My track record with Townsend men on my home turf wasn’t good. Taking a road trip with two of them over a thousand miles from home down winding switchback roads and off the beaten path smacked of lunacy. Still, there
was
the issue of a wedding gift. Maybe I’d be able to talk Townsend into buying one from the both of us—and reimburse him for it later, of course. Hey. I hear that snickering. You all know I’m good for it.

Plus there was that free lunch and all those fabulous restaurants to consider.

I sniffed. “Thank you for your offer and, although I was apparently third on the list, it’s still nice to be asked,” I said with a miffed-but-would-live-with-it-tilt to my nose. “I accept your invitation to Sedona—and to lunch. You realize, of course, that I was joking about not getting the geezers a gift,” I went on. “As a matter of fact, that was first on my list of things to do for to-morrow,” I said. “Right after my five-mile jog and bran cereal breakfast but before my full-body wax.”

“Eeeoww! Gross!” Townsend the smaller said, cover-ing his ears while Townsend the taller grinned and reached out and tweaked my cheek. (Face, not butt. Dang it anyway.)

“We should be back in time for your wax job,” he said with a lusty leer. “And if you need help buffing, just let me know. Come on, dude,” he said, putting a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “See you at eight sharp, Tressa.”

“Bye, Tressa,” Eddie Munster said as he climbed the stairs. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. I left that DVD we talked about so you can watch it late tonight. When it’s dark. Before you go to bed. Sweet dreams,” he added with a grin only a mother who had spent ten years and twenty thousand bucks on fertility treatment to have kids could love, and hightailed it upstairs before I could think of some pithy comeback. And no, I don’t have a lithp.

How the hell did Townsend stand that nuisance of a nephew? Even more puzzling was that he actually seemed to be fond of the adolescent.

I dropped to the sofa and pondered that for a sec-ond. Hmm. Now that I thought about it, maybe Craig wasn’t ready for fatherhood just yet after all. It was cer-tainly something to think about.

CHAPTER FIVE

I awoke late the next morning, my sleep fitful and episodic thanks to a diabolical ten-year-old whose rep-tilian repertoire had led to a long, restless night for me. Every time I closed my eyes and slipped off to sleep, I ended up dreaming of something crawling into the bed with me and getting into my pants (and not in an “ooh, baby” sort of way) and I’d awoken to find the sheet twisted around my legs.

I squinted and rolled over, expecting to find a lump next to me that represented my cousin, Sophie, but the bed was lumpless. Well, except for the consider-able ones in the pull-out mattress, that is. I frowned, wondering how I’d slept through Sophie crawling in and out of bed with me and, for a fleeting minute of temporary insanity—blame this on the munchkin, folks—wondered if my dreams had some basis in real-ity and Cousin Sophie had . . . issues.

I had yet to even see Sophie since we’d arrived. She hadn’t been home by the time the weary travelers had wandered off to bed. I could tell my grandma wasnone too happy with her granddaughter’s no-show routine by the set of her shoulders and the pout of her lips. Oh, and by the fact that she crossed Sophie’s name off her wedding guest list.

It had been three years since I’d seen my cousin So-phie. Shy and rather reserved, Sophie obviously took after Paw Paw Will’s side of the family like her mother and my father. My dad is so unobtrusive, half the time you don’t realize he’s in the room. As a result, he’s scared the bejeebers out of me a time or two. Dad likes to sit back and fade into the woodwork and observe the chaos around him.

The evening before, I’d watched my dad and my Aunt Kay visit, Dad on the end of the couch, Aunt Kay on a nearby glider. It was obvious the twins not only shared similar features, but they also shared a special bond. I’d stared, noticing the same shiny sparkle to my dad’s eyes he wore when I caught him looking at my mom and he wasn’t aware I was watching. Or when the Hawkeyes were about to play and he had the big-screen TV all to himself.

My gaze had shifted over to Taylor, who was still sip-ping lemon lime soda and nibbling on crackers to set-tle her stomach. Not for the first time, I wished we got along like my dad and Aunt Kay. Or my mom and her sister, Aunt Reggie. Or Gram and Great Aunt . . . Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

I sighed. Maybe someday.

I checked the time. With two hours difference due to daylight savings time, it would be around nine o’clock back home. I reached for the phone. Time to check on my replacement who wasn’t really a replace-ment at all. Or so Stan the man claimed. I punched in the number for my cell phone—well, the cell phone that was assigned to me that Stan had made double-dog sure I relinquished to Shelby Lynn before I left.

It rang several times before it went to voice mail.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Shelby Lynn Sawyer,
Grandville Gazette
. Press one if you wish to leave a message.”

I stared at the phone. I’d been gone less than twenty four hours and already the opportunist had switched my voice mail message. I punched
one
and waited for the tone.

“Hey, Shelby Lynn. Tressa here. I’m sure you proba-bly have tons of questions by now. Don’t hesitate to give me a call at my aunt and uncle’s house. The num-ber is on my desk pad. Along with my folks’ number, Craig and Kimmie’s number, the groom’s number and the number for The Titan Hotel where we’ll be staying later this week. And remember, there’s no shame in reaching out for help. I’m here for you, girl.”

I hung up and immediately dialed Stan’s number at the
Gazette
.

“
Gazette
. Rodgers.”

“I wondered if you had a reporter available to cover a breaking news story,” I said, altering my voice.

“What story?” Stan asked.

“Read all about it! Hazel’s Hometown Café is elimi-nating trans fat from their menu, and Thunder Rolls Bowling Alley and Bar is going smoke-free,” I said. “Read all about it!”

“Turner. Even long-distance you manage to be a pain in the ass,” Stan said.

“It’s a gift,” I told him.

“Well, I haven’t got time to chit-chat. We’re up to our ears in real news,” he said. I sat up.

“Oh? Is Shelby Lynn not carrying her weight?” I said, trying to keep the hopefulness in my voice to a minimum.

“Carrying her weight? She’s a regular pack mule,” Stan said. I frowned.

“Uh, so what’s the problem?” I asked.

“Let’s see. The Farm Supply store burned to the ground last night. A city clerk was arrested on embez-zlement charges. And we’ve got a parade of presiden-tial hopefuls heading to the county park for the Historical Village Celebration Saturday.”

“All that has happened since I left yesterday?” I said.

“And more,” Stan said. “But with Shelby Lynn’s help, we’re on top of things,” he added.

At six feet two, she’s bound to be on top of things, I thought.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to come back early?” I said. “I could skip the cruise and fly back home,” I offered.

“Hell, no,” Stan said. “Take your time. Enjoy that cruise. We’re ship-shape here. Thanks to Shelby Lynn, we’re operating at peak efficiency. She even got Smitty to organize his work space.”

Uh-oh. This was bad. Very bad. Smitty thrived on clutter. He still had last year’s calendar on his desk and candy from Christmas in his drawer. His filing system consisted of file folders made of oversized construc-tion paper with masking tape labels he stuffed in plas-tic milk crates.

“I really don’t mind missing out on the cruise—”

“Wouldn’t hear of it, Turner. You just have a good time on the high seas. With Shelby Lynn on board, it’ll be smooth sailing back here, too.”

“If you’re sure—”

“With Shelby Lynn signing on as first mate, we’ll weather any storm back here,” Stan said. “Bon voyage, Turner!” Stan added and hung up.

I shook my head. Who the heck did Stan think he was, anyway? Commodore Rodgers? The skipper on
Gilligan’s Island
was more like it.

I rolled out of the sofa bed and tugged the sheets offand folded them, stuffing the sleeper mattress back in the frame and replacing the cushions. I checked the time again, cursed, and grabbed a pair of black jeans, a tailored white shirt and underwear, and hurried to the bathroom. I’d showered and was getting ready to step out of the shower to dry off when a distinctly cold draft hit my “nekkid” (my gammy’s pronunciation) bod. I stood shivering in the shower, somewhat alarmed to see the cloudy outline of a figure on the other side of the shower curtain.

The shower scene in
Psycho
entered my head. Okay, so I admit the possibility that the figure behind curtain number one belonged to Rick Townsend also got me thinking of a steamy shower scene from one of those highlighted passages in one of my gammy’s romance novels. Either scenario gave me a birthday suit made of gooseflesh.

I held my breath and stood stone-cold frozen in place—like the statue of David but even more exposed—hoping to avoid any movement that would draw attention to the shower. And bare little ol’ me.

A hand suddenly reached past me to grip the shower faucet handle and turn it on. A blast of cold water struck me at chest level and I couldn’t hold back a shocked yelp. Outside the shower a surprised gasp prompted me to grab the opaque shower curtain and drape it around my wet body. I gathered my courage (I’m a cadaver collector, remember?) and peeked out-side the shower.

“Sophie?”

“Tressa?”

“Who else were you expecting?” I asked. “Janet Leigh?”

“Sorry. I thought you’d left already.”

“Left?” For the first time, I looked at her. Heavier than the last time I saw her, the Sophie I rememberedrarely, if ever, wore makeup. This Sophie had on more mascara than Captain Jack Sparrow. A nonsmoker—or so I thought—Sophie reeked of cigarette smoke. “Sophie? Are you just getting home?” I asked, grab-bing my towel off the towel bar and wrapping it around me as I stepped from the shower.

The twenty-one-year-old avoided eye contact.

“And if I am?” she said, with a challenging tilt of one eyebrow.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“I was at work,” Sophie said, grabbing a tissue and beginning to wipe the gunk off her eyes.

“Work? I thought you worked at a restaurant,” I pressed.

“I do.”

“And it’s open all night?”

“I went out afterwards.”

“Alone?”

Sophie finally met my gaze in the mirror.

“Who are you? My mother?”

I blinked. Ouch. Definitely a new attitude to go along with the new Sophie.

“No, I’m not your mother. I can go and get her if you like, though,” I offered, heading for the bath-room door.

“Like that?” Sophie motioned to the towel barely concealing strategic places.

I shrugged.

“Everyone has probably already seen Gram in simi-lar
dishabille
”—this a new word also from one of Gram’s highlighted romance excerpts—“so I’ll seem ho hum by comparison,” I told her, preparing to leave.

“Wait!” Sophie reached out a hand to stop me. “Please! Don’t tell Mom.”

I stopped and turned back.

“What’s going on, Sophie?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. Not really. I just don’t want to worry my folks,” she said.

“Worry them?” Now
I
was worried.

“They wouldn’t understand.”

They
wouldn’t understand? I was clueless cubed.

“Tressa!” Aunt Kay called down for me, and Sophie tensed. “Your ranger is here.”

Sophie looked at me, a pleading look in her eyes.

“You and I are so gonna talk!” I whispered. Then, “Tell my gentlemen caller his ladyship will be with him momentarily,” I yahooed up the stairs and then turned back to Sophie. “Later,” I said. “You, me, and a whole lot of catchin’ up to do.”

I scurried to finish dressing and put on a face—with a much lighter hand than Sophie—grabbed my back-pack and headed upstairs wondering if there wasn’t more to Cousin Sophie than met the eye.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

We’d been hitting the Sedona shops for the last two hours, oohing and aahing over turquoise jewelry, hand-woven tapestries, and sterling silver belt buckles. Okay, so I was the one making noise over the belt buckles. The workmanship was superlative. And so, unfortunately, were the prices.

Townsend’s niece, eight-year-old Kelsey, sighed. She and I exchanged knowing looks reserved for thoseyoung girls who suffered with royal pains in the be-hind as brothers.

“Yes. Please, please leave us here, Uncle Rick,” Kelsey begged. “And take Nick to the top of that stu-pid Coffee Pot Rock and play Blind Man’s Bluff. He’s spoiling everything.”

Rick smiled, seemingly used to the siblings squab-bling. I, on the other hand, was more than ready to supply said kerchief as a blindfold for yon youngster.

“We haven’t found a gift yet,” Rick reminded his niece.

“And your uncle Rick hasn’t taken us to lunch yet,” I chimed in, not-so-subtly reminding Townsend of his offer to buy.

“The reason we haven’t found a gift yet is because
she’s
too cheap to spend any money,” Nick said, point-ing a nose-picking finger at yours truly.

I looked at Townsend.

“Are you gonna let him talk about me that way?” I asked.

Rick Townsend shrugged. “If the tight—uh, wad fits . . .” he said with a wave of his hands.

“Hey, I’m only doing what they tell me to in school,” he-who-wouldn’t-be-recognized-with-his-mouth-closed stated. “I’m taking what I observe, applying it to what I know, and then drawing a conclusion,” he parroted, sounding just like my schoolteacher best friend, Kari. “Our teachers talk about it all the time. They call it making an inference using critical thinking,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh yeah? You sure that isn’t critical stinking?” I asked with a snort. “ ’Cause you were sure doing enough of that on the plane ride here to get an A-plus,” I said. Kelsey and I high-fived each other. “Yes!”

The squirt gave me a dirty look. “Uncle Rick?”

“Yeah, Nick?”

“Could we go back to that store that had the stuffed rattlesnake doorstop? I think I have enough money to buy it.”

“I’m not sure Grandpa Joe and Grandma Hannah would have a use for something like that, kid,” Townsend responded.

Nasty Nick’s eyes narrowed on me. “I know,” he said.

I gave him a “you want a piece of me?” look. After all, the snake was dead. Taxidermy-style dead, but dead nevertheless. What was so scary about that?

Still, the runt did have a point. Everything I looked at I thought Joe and Gram might like—okay every-thing that
I
might like when they passed gently into that good night and we divided their earthly posses-sions, and tell me this hasn’t crossed your mind on oc-casion when gift buying—was way beyond this lowly cowgirl’s bankroll. A turquoise bracelet for my gammy. A big, shiny belt buckle for me, uh, I mean Joe. An oil painting of Red Rock Crossing. A sculpture of an Indian pony. Perfect, but pricey.

We’d just entered another art shop and I stopped in my tracks. There it was: an absolutely striking statue of Kokopelli, the hunch-backed, flute-playing, Johnny Appleseed of Native American fertility gods. I’d recog-nize him anywhere—with certain embellishments, that is. Gram had a small knockoff in her collection but I’d accidentally knocked off a certain part of his anatomy that was—shall we say—disproportionately represented. I’d tried to glue the—uh, appendage—back on with the rather unfortunate result that my gammy’s knockoff looked like he’d discovered perfor-mance enhancing pharmaceuticals.

I’ve always thought Kokopelli a particularly colorful historical figure. When Gram added the art piece toher collection, it came with an equally colorful biography—one guaranteed to appeal to art aficiona-dos and hopeless romantics who love stories of randy Romeos who roam the countryside in search of fair maidens to plunder and pleasure. And in Kokopelli’s case, impregnate.