Coming Home to Texas (9 page)

“Katie? Now, she was all elegance and style,” Ellie continued. “Everything that was effort for me came naturally to her. I felt fancy and important having her for my best friend. I thought we balanced each other out, the same way Derek and I balanced each other out.”

Nash could see where this was headed. No wonder Ellie seemed to have lost her nerve—this Derek idiot clearly had decided he was better served by “trading up.” Nash had met women like Katie—even dated some of them until the shellac of their personalities had worn thin. He didn't have to meet this Katie to know he wouldn't like her and wouldn't ever find her as authentic and genuine as the woman in front of him licking barbecue sauce off her fingers. He started to say something, but then decided it was better just to let Ellie keep talking.

“At first he told me what he liked best about me was how different I was from him. I guess it became just too much effort to bridge the gap between us.” Her eyes glistened with the threat of tears. “On the really bad days I wonder if he just was ashamed of me, if I was some country girl he'd taken on as a project, whose amusement factor wore off when I couldn't be fancied up enough.”

Was it any wonder Nash had found her barreling down the highway back home that night? Her eyes were filled with hurt that ran way deep. He had a thing or two to say about Derek's supposed taste.

“We really thought we loved each other. I bought into the whole Prince Charming fantasy, you know?” Ellie swiped at her eye with a corner of her napkin. “Sorry. I'm still broken up about it.”

Clearly. She was a mess—and deserved to be. “Hey, it's okay.”

“And it's bad enough about Derek, but Katie? Her, too? What kind of best friend does that? How is it ever okay to betray someone like that?”

Nash had been fascinated with women before, but never in love enough to propose marriage. He didn't know how it felt to be engaged—or to have it all fall apart. The sting of betrayal, however? That he could relate to easily. How it dug right down to the bones, how it made you second-guess everything you thought you knew about people and relationships. “It's never okay to betray someone like that, Ellie. If either one of them could do that to you, they don't belong in your life or your heart.” He hadn't meant to make a declaration like that, but the look in her eyes pulled it out of him.

“Suddenly all my friends' comments about ‘I never expected the two of you to get together' and ‘I guess opposites really do attract' made a bit too
much
sense. When word got out—and you can imagine how quickly it did—everyone was very sympathetic and sad, but they all had that little edge of...un-surprise that just made me want to die. As if no one had ever really expected it to work out in the first place.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Honestly, I felt like everyone had these comforting words, but behind them they were all just thinking ‘Nice try' and ‘I could have told you so.'”

He knew what it was like to feel as if someone had painted
failure
on his back. Sure, he had known many successes in his work with the teens in LA, but the one teen who had turned and shot him seemed to wipe all the rest off the map. Was it so hard to see how this one “failure” knocked Ellie's confidence in all aspects of her life?

She ran her finger down the side of her glass of root beer, making a little swirly trail in the condensation—even her fidgets were artistic. “I feel like I can't do anything right. I mean, I know that's not true, but I don't trust my judgment. If I can be so wrong about something as big as planning to spend the rest of my life with someone like Derek, and everyone else could see what I couldn't, then what can I count on? How can I trust myself or my choices?”

“So it's not really all about the bison fur, is it?” Even he could see this endeavor was just Ellie's way of finding her confidence again. That didn't make it wrong or silly; it just explained her over-the-top passion for something that didn't strike him as especially urgent.

“Not fur—the fiber's called bison
down
, actually. And, yes, I suppose it's about a lot more than just Blue Thorn Fibers.”

“Oh, so you've picked out a name already.”

She blushed. The pink in her cheeks did the most amazing thing to the color of her eyes. Nash chose to ignore the gentle thudding that had started in his gut. That, and the growing certainty that this Derek was a first-class fool who liked a slick, superficial life instead of real worth and didn't know a good, honest treasure when he had one.

“I certainly couldn't let Gunner do it. He's terrible at naming things. I can see the whole thing clearly in my head, you know. The colors, the weights, a few silk blends for the really fancy stuff, everything. People will pay a lot of money for good bison fiber.”

Nash couldn't help himself. “Okay, so I have to ask. What kind of good money?”

“I've paid over seventy dollars for a really good skein of one hundred percent bison. It's soft and light and strong—”

“Seventy dollars? For
yarn
?”

That got her back up. “And worth every penny. Can you sit there and tell me you haven't paid good money for quality car parts?”

There was an ashtray fixture he'd just ordered from Japan sitting in his garage ready to call that bluff. “Well, I suppose I see your point.” It was good to see the fight rise in her eyes—defeat didn't become Ellie Buckton at all. “But I don't see how the girls fit in to making the case for Blue Thorn Fibers. You wouldn't really give such expensive stuff to girls just learning, would you?”

“On the drive out here, you said you told the boys they could drive your car if they earned the right. This is the same thing. But more than that, I want them to help us make it. Maybe you saw the brushes we set up in the pastures when you were out there with Gunner. We used those to...” She put her hand up. “You're not really interested in all the technical mumbo jumbo. I know I tend to—and this was Derek's favorite term for it—overshare.”

Again, this Derek jerk had taken what was one of her best qualities—her enthusiasm—and labeled it a fault.
You
'
re so much better off without him
, his brain yelled at the woman gleefully selecting her next rib, but he kept silent.

“I always teach with good quality fiber and needles. It makes the whole experience so much more satisfying. Learning goes faster, and the results are always better. Surely you can see that.”

Based on what he'd learned about his boys, he could see the flaw in her thinking. He had to tread carefully with what he said next. “I'm not so sure these girls have the cash to work with seventy-dollar yarn.”

Ellie sat back. “Of course they don't. Which is why they'll help us make it. They'll earn their yarn by the end of the program. What they're working with now I paid for out of my own pocket.” When Nash took a breath, she held up a hand again. “Don't start. I know that's not how it's supposed to work, but Theo didn't give me nearly enough money to do this right, and you said so yourself, this is about more than just yarn. I need this to work. I don't mind the expense just this once.”

Nash looked at Ellie and the energy practically zinging out of her fingertips. This woman never did anything halfway or “just this once.” How was she ever going to slide through these weeks and just hop on back to Atlanta?

That
'
s not your problem
, he told himself during dinner and on the drive home through the stunning night sky.
Don
'
t make it your problem, either
.

Chapter Nine

A
bell clanged loudly Friday night as Ellie pushed open the door to Wylene's Beauty Spot. The place hadn't changed one molecule since Ellie's high school days. Wylene stood in one corner arranging hair-care products. She wore a pale pink smock embroidered with her name on one side in swirly letters. Her head was piled high with a mountain of yellow-white hair so shellacked in place that as a child Ellie had believed Wylene took it off at night like a motorcycle helmet. The shop owner gave up a hoot and waved her arms. “Ellen May Buckton, as I live and breathe.” She shifted back on one hip and took in Ellie from head to toe. “Well, look at you, all citified.”

Each of the six women in various stages of various treatments looked up with various degrees of welcome. Ellie, in a pair of cropped khaki pants and a patterned shirt that wouldn't draw any attention in Atlanta, looked at the collection of young moms in T-shirts, jeans, yoga pants and ponytails. She had known each of these women when they were all teenagers, yet the older, parental faces they had now made them seem like total strangers. She'd talked herself into coming here—determined to make more substantive connections with Martins Gap's twentysomethings—but now doubted the choice. She was the same age as these women, but Ellie didn't feel nearly old enough to be a mom, much less a mom to twins like Dottie was. It had been a mistake to come. “Hi, y'all,” Ellie said as she waved, hoping her reluctance didn't show in her meek greeting.

“Dottie has filled us in about your unfortunate heartbreak,” Wylene commiserated. With a gulp Ellie remembered Wylene was on husband number four. “There's no better balm for a broken heart than pretty toes and fingernails. Unless you want to go dramatic and become a redhead or some such thing.”

“LuAnn Marker did just that,” said a woman from the pedicure chair in the corner. Ellie eventually recognized her as cheer captain Lydia Jacobs. “She cut her hair short and dyed it bright red when Archie joined the army.” Lydia, once the owner of long blond tresses half the high school boys had drooled over, now sported a sensible bob. “'Course, LuAnn always was one for the drama, bless her heart.”

“One of my finest hours,” Wylene boasted as she led Ellie toward a chair. “It was like watching a phoenix rise from the ashes, it was.” Without asking, she began running her fingers through Ellie's hair. “That man was thunderstruck when he came home for Christmas. They named the baby after me that fall.”

Laughter filled the room. “They did not!” called Dottie from the manicure table. “That baby's name is Walter.”

“Well, you can't very well name a boy Wylene, now, can you?” Wylene returned to her examination of Ellie's hair. “I got the W, and that's all I need.” She clicked her tongue. “Darlin', what have you been doing to this hair? It's as dry as a hay bale.”

Ellie had seen enough salon breakup disasters to know now was not the time to ponder a dramatic change in her hair. “I'm always busy at work,” she offered. She'd been growing her hair out so she could put it up for the wedding, so it probably did look a bit shaggy. She and Katie had planned a spa day for next month to start getting Ellie ready for the wedding. One more thing to cancel. “I really just want to do my nails tonight. Nothing else.”

“You sure? Give me two hours and I can make you positively dreamy.” Wylene tilted Ellie's chin this way and that as if collecting ideas. “Those Buckton eyes. What a color. My sister in Galveston says you can buy contacts to turn your eyes that blue even if they're brown. Can you imagine?”

Ellie had disliked her turquoise eyes and honey-colored hair as a child. They marked her identity before she ever said one word. Back then she hadn't liked being just “another Buckton,” but now she held great affection for the family characteristic. She loved her family—most of the time. She just often felt overshadowed or misunderstood by them. It hadn't been that much fun to be sandwiched between a memorable brother like Gunner and dynamic twins like Luke and Tess.

“Long layers?” Wylene persisted. “Maybe highlights to really make those eyes sparkle?”

“No, thanks, Wylene. Not today. Maybe in a few weeks.” She'd committed now to the six weeks of the girls' knitting classes, but after that, where would she be? Even if she chose to end her career at GoodEats, Atlanta apartments weren't that hard to sublet—she could end up just about anywhere.

Dottie came up to them, holding her hands upright to protect the fresh manicure. “Now, Wylene, our Ellie's smart enough to avoid the trap of breakup hair. Don't you go nudging her toward anything drastic.” She wiggled her bright pink fingernails. “Keep the red to your fingers and you'll do fine. Here, take my station while I dry.”

Ellie sat in the manicure chair and spread her fingers on the small counter. Her eyes fell upon the empty spot on her left hand and the familiar sting returned to her chest. She'd kept her nails so pretty when she was engaged, eager to show off Derek's sizable ring, but the ranch work and simple neglect had made her hands look shoddy and inelegant. “I need the works,” she said to the technician.

Dottie sat down in the next chair, admiring her own nails. “I'll probably go home to a mess of a house tonight with Ted watching the twins, but at least my nails will look nice.” She gave Ellie a look. “I love the twins to bits, but they are a handful. The other day, when Jackson made me a rose out of clay, I thought my heart would melt, and then I laughed till I cried when Jason said the thing looked more like an octopus.”

“You look really happy,” Ellie offered, because it was true. Dottie had said she wanted to be a television newscaster in high school, and she was pretty enough to have had a shot at a media career. She'd never pursued it, though, opting instead for marriage right out of high school. Family life wasn't a wrong choice—Jackson and Jason looked to be adorable boys—but Dottie looked content in a way that felt nearly impossible to Ellie right now. “Motherhood agrees with you,” she offered.

“It's exhausting, but, yeah. Those boys make me happy.” Dottie leaned back. “I'm just glad I had twin boys while I'm young enough to keep up with 'em. Ted's talking about a third, but I don't know if I've got enough energy to be outnumbered like that.”

Lydia, whom Ellie now realized was considerably pregnant, wiggled her toes in the pedicure chair. “Wayne says we're gonna have to shift to zone control when this one comes.” Of course, Lydia had married Martins Gap's star quarterback Wayne Jacobs. Tiny little Lydia expecting her third child—Ellie could hardly get her mind around the idea. Sure, Martins Gap felt as if it hadn't changed, but the people in it sure had.

Only,
had
they? Or had they just continued along the expected track she'd fought to avoid? She'd gone off in search of a career and found one. She had done really well for someone only a year out of college. She had nice clothes, a sleek portfolio of public relations campaigns and a good apartment. She had professional prospects. She'd eaten food from all over the world and had even met celebrities.

And been cheated on by your fianc
é
with your best friend
, her heart reminded her with a surge of ice to her veins. How long would it be before that black spot would stop wiping out five years of achievements and adventures? It didn't seem fair that Derek and Katie could steal so much of her confidence and the pride she used to feel for the life she'd built when she wasn't the one who had done anything wrong. Why weren't
they
the ones hurting and running home? Why did it still feel as though they'd won and she'd lost when
they
were the cheaters?

“Bright red, please,” Ellie declared to the technician.

“There you go!” called Wylene as she opened a box of blondies from Lolly's and began setting them on a cake plate. “You shout your fine self to the world, honey.” She pointed to the technician. “What's the name of that new color came in last week, Jean?”

Jean reached behind her to pull out a bottle of very bright red nail polish and held it up to squint at the label. “Damsel Undistressed.”

“That's the one for you,” Wylene called. “And maybe get one of them bitty rhinestones on your ring finger. You know, just for a little extra oomph to make up for what ain't there no more.”

Ellie didn't think she had to go that far. She'd had enough of shiny things on ring fingers for a while. “Just the red polish, please. Skip the bling for now.”

Wylene slid a napkin topped with a large blondie on the counter next to Ellie. It had a bright pink fork stuck in the top. “I find the fork makes it easier to eat one-handed. No chance of ruining Jean's good work that way.”

The tiny bit of consideration sparked a welcome warm glow in Ellie's heart. “Thanks, Wylene.”

“Tell us about your big-city career, Ellie. It has to be exciting.” Lydia shifted in her chair, one hand on her bulging belly. “I could use a dose of the good kind of exciting, not the ‘Mom, Billy just ate a spider' kind of exciting.”

Ellie's Atlanta life felt hectic and crazed, but she supposed it would appear exciting by Martins Gap standards. She allowed herself a tiny pleasure at the admiration in Lydia's voice. Back in school, how often had she looked at cheerleader-perfect-prom-queen Lydia and her handsome prom-king-quarterback boyfriend and envied their lives? What passed for important had been so different back then. It made her want to gather the knitting girls and find a way to make them understand how real life wasn't anything like high school.

“Do you go to lots of elegant parties? Ones with celebrities?” another woman asked.

“Sometimes,” Ellie replied. “Although sometimes when you meet the celebrities, they don't end up being nearly as nice or glamorous as what you expected.” Ellie told the story of the swanky singer known for his velvety romantic voice who turned out to be a mean, demeaning boor in person. “I went home and threw out all of his CDs,” she told the wide-eyed group of women. “Our janitor is more of a gentleman than he is.”

Just to balance things out, Ellie told the story of the beautiful woman who played everyone's favorite meanie on a popular soap opera. “She was even more beautiful in person. And she was so nice. Not a thing like her character. She sent a huge basket of muffins to the office after her party to say thank-you. Turns out, she's only a witch when the camera's on.”

Everyone laughed, and Ellie felt the knots in her chest start to loosen. Maybe tonight wasn't such a mistake after all. Maybe reconnecting with these women she'd known as girls wouldn't be as difficult as she'd imagined.

By the end of the night, Ellie had gained more than pretty fingers; she'd gained a few new old friends. And that was the best pampering of all.

* * *

At the second garage session, Nash noticed that one of the boys—Mick—came to the church garage an hour early for the after-school program and was the last to leave. That Friday, Nash had noticed Mick repeatedly passing by the sheriff's office on a bicycle. Saturday morning, Nash looked up from sweeping out his house garage and caught sight of Mick leaning against a fence across the street. The boy was trying hard not to look as though he was watching Nash, but it was easy to see. Mick's body language told a familiar tale—he wanted to come over, yearned to connect, but wasn't quite ready to take the leap of being friendly with a lawman.

This was the open door, the foothold into a kid's life that used to get Nash so excited. Back in LA, it meant that all the time and energy he was pouring into troubled kids was finally taking hold.

Don
'
t go back there
, a corner of Nash's heart shouted in warning.
You
'
re not ready to get into this again.

Nash went back to sweeping for another five minutes but ended up stealing another look at Mick and the conflict in his eyes. The kid wanted to talk—needed to talk—but couldn't bring himself to come launch a conversation. Nash knew that look. He knew exactly the opportunity that look presented.

Nash's fingers tightened their grip on the broom, resistance warring with a call he knew would never truly disappear. Yes, he could stay safe and just deal with the kids as a group. It would do a little bit to help. Or he could risk going deeper and truly connecting with these young men. Put himself on the line and risk ending up hurt...again.

It surprised him how fast his old life—the burden to help, from which he now carried scars—sucked him back in. Was this who he was? Would always be? He could choose not to dive in. Then again, the way his gut reacted to Mick's cautious eyes and his hard-set shoulders, did he have a choice?

You could choose to be selfish. No one would blame you for protecting yourself after what you
'
ve been through
, his sensible side argued.

And do this halfway?
His other side retaliated. These kids' lives were filled with people who cared
halfway
. Teachers, neighbors and even parents who knew
of
them but didn't
know
them. The urge to help hadn't gone because the gift of helping hadn't gone. Whether Nash chose to recognize it or not, his heart still carried a burden for kids such as Mick. Besides, hadn't he already made that decision in some ways when he'd said yes to working with these kids?

Nash felt his new life slip a bit from his careful grasp as he put down the broom. He walked over to the small refrigerator set up beyond the tool bench. Out of force of habit—or was it something else?—he'd stocked it with a variety of sodas, as it had been in LA. Back in California, kids came to his garage “for a drink,” but always stayed for much more. He would be opening up more than his garage to Mick if he walked across that street. Nash could shield himself from the pull of their lives and their stories as a group, but not one-on-one. The torn confusion in Mick's eyes gave him no choice.