For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2) (6 page)

I wait until he’s closer. "I lost any sensation from the waist up hours ago, man." I shrug as he reaches me and looks down into the hole I’ve just finished.

He scans the others nearby, neatly marked with wooden stakes and twine. "Ronny planning on having a lot of animals die this spring?" he asks.

"I don’t know. I just dug. And kept digging until about ten minutes ago. It’s going to be too dark to see what I’m doing soon, so it seemed like time to quit."

He nods, shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and scuffs a boot along the dirt. "Her car’s gone," he tells me quietly.

I turn my back to him as I pick up my filthy t-shirt from the ground, shake it out, and then put it back on. "Yeah. I saw her drive out."

"So you good?"

I think about it for a moment. I’m nowhere near good, but what should I tell Mike? The old Walsh would say it was all fine, not wanting to disrupt anyone’s mood or fun. The new Walsh knows that’s not the best way to handle things, but what is? How the hell do you let it out and still hold yourself together?

I choose my words carefully, trying to walk that line between honesty and TMI. "It was hard. But I think I need to talk to her more. It’s part of working my steps. Make amends and all that."

"Cool," he answers as he takes his baseball cap off and scratches at the mass of thick, dark hair underneath. "Leanne told me she’s staying in town at the Yellow Rose boarding house."

"That place along First Ave?"

"Yep. Leanne got Tammy a room there."

"Shit. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. Tammy’s not really the small quaint-B-and-B type."

"Yeah, I’m wondering what’ll happen when she starts asking where the towel warmers are." Mike snorts out a burst of laughter.

"Or the valet parking," I add as I feel a grin start to slide across my face.

"The minibar," Mike tosses out as he picks up my shovel and heads to his truck.

"Pay-per-view!"

"Concierge service!"

We both laugh harder and continue listing luxury hotel amenities until we’re bumping down the road toward the house for dinner, my back and shoulders aching but my heart soothed just the tiniest bit.

A
FTER DINNER,
I take a quick shower in our bunkhouse and come back into the bedroom to find Mike sitting cross-legged on his bunk, strumming his guitar, a notepad and pencil nearby.

"When you going to let me hear the whole thing?" I ask.

He shrugs as he adjusts a peg to tune the guitar further. "I don’t know. The melody’s not the hard part. I know Joss thought I couldn’t write, and I never really disabused him of that idea, but I can. It’s the lyrics I wish I had him for. I know what’s in my mind when I write, but I can’t make it come out in words, you know?"

"Yeah, I think I know exactly what you mean. Maybe you can get a lyricist to help out? I bet Dave could hook you up."

Just then, our other roomie, Bart, comes crashing in. "You two seen that old jean jacket of mine? Leanne said she’ll sew up the tear in it if I get it to her tonight."

Mike looks at me and shrugs. "No, man, but since you were over in the other bunkhouse so late last night, maybe you left it there?"

"Good thinking. Thanks, Walsh," he says, and he goes out as loudly as he came in.

Mike just shakes his head. "I swear, man. If I’m still that incompetent at fifty, just shoot me."

I smile. "You will be if you don’t find the right woman to whip your ass into shape."

"Fuck that," he answers, jumping down from the top bunk like a big cat. "I’m never settling down. You know that. I just have to find some uptight-librarian type to be my PA and that’ll take care of it."

"No librarian would ever put up with your ass."

"Yeah, you just wait. It’ll be like Moneypenny and Bond. I’ll find her."

"Whatever. In the meantime you want to give me a ride into town?"

"Let me guess—the Yellow Rose?"

I sigh. "Yeah. I need to take care of this before she leaves town. I don’t think I should go alone though. The Bronco will be hopping tonight," I lament, referring to the town’s largest bar that’s only one block from the boarding house Tammy’s at. I know already that the temptation it offers is nearly irresistible right now. Who knows how much weaker I’ll be after ‘making amends’ to Tammy.

"You got it. I’ll go check out The Bronco while you have your chat. Just text me when you’re ready to go home."

"All right, brotha’. It’s a gig."

W
E GET
into town about twenty minutes later, and Mike pulls up in front of the boarding house. It’s an old Victorian building, maintained immaculately, two stories tall, with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. The front porch wraps around two sides, and through the front windows I can see white lace curtains and bright lights.

Tammy’s rental car is parked on the street in front of the building, so I feel confident that she’s here or nearby. I give Mike a handclasp before I hop out of the truck and make my way through the gate in the little fence, then up onto the big wooden porch with its ornate scrollwork and hanging baskets of flowers.

I twist the large brass lever that rings a bell deep inside the house. Soon, I hear approaching footsteps and the large glass door swings open. A tiny elderly woman stands in front of me, her white hair up in a bun on top of her head and a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. My mind immediately goes to Mike’s description of his perfect librarian PA, and I can’t help but grin at the little gnome in front of me.

"Hi, ma’am," I say, using my best Texas manners. "I was wondering if Tammy DiLorenzo is here?"

"So you’re the boy," she says.

Boy? I don’t think anyone’s called me a boy in about ten years, but I’m not about to contradict her before she’s let me in the house.

"Um, maybe? I guess so."

"You are," she informs me as she motions for me to hurry up and come in.

I step in and stand there while she gives the once-over.

"I’m Mrs. Stallworth. You can come visit between seven a.m and ten p.m., but I don’t allow gentlemen callers on the second floor, and if you expect to have dinner, you’ll need to help clean up. This isn’t a restaurant."

It’s all I can do to keep from patting her on the head. She’s tiny. And fierce. Like a Chihuahua I met once. In order to keep all of my fingers, I refrain from touching her, opt instead to give her my best rock-star smile, and say, "Yes, ma’am."

She nods once then leans forward and says quietly, "And don’t go breaking her heart. She’s a lovely girl, but I don’t need her blubbering all over my new linens."

I clear my throat, horribly overwhelmed at the idea of Tammy brokenhearted. My head is tipped down to listen to the ancient furor, and as I glance up to look her in the eye, I realize that she’s waiting for me to respond.

"Um, I’ll do my best, Mrs. Stallworth."

"Good," she answers. She walks to the foot of the stairs and presses a button in a panel on the wall.

I hear a muffled voice that I recognize as Tammy’s come from the speaker. "Yes?"

"That boy’s here," Mrs. Stallworth barks into the intercom.

"I’ll be right down," Tammy responds.

The old lady turns back to me. "All right. You can wait in there." She gestures to a room behind more glass doors that sits alongside the entryway we’re in. I nod and make my way in to sit.

The place looks like a florist had an accident in it. The chairs and sofa are floral, the carpet is floral, the curtains are floral—but all different florals. It’s enough to make your head spin. I wonder briefly if there isn’t somewhere else we can talk, but before the thought gets completed, Tammy walks in, and the last bit of breath in my body leaves in a whoosh.

She’s got on a pair of cut-offs with a red patterned halter top that looks like it’s made from bandanas and leaves her very toned midsection exposed. On her feet is a pair of high wedge-heeled sandals that make her already long legs look endless. I swallow before my eyes run up the length of her to meet her dark gaze, all long lashes and glossy hair that hangs loose over her shoulders, skimming her perfect breasts.

"Were you expecting someone?" I ask, joking because I can’t believe she dressed like this to lie around the boarding house with little old Mrs. Stallworth.

She scowls at me, seeming perplexed. "No, I was about to go out and look around town though."

"Like hell you were," I snarl before I can stop myself, a flash in my mind of every guy in town seeing Tammy like I’m seeing her now.

She jerks back, surprised at my outburst. "Um…" Her brows lift in question.

I struggle to get myself under control, fisting my hands to stop the shaking that takes over me when I’m under stress. "You, uh… You can’t walk around here dressed like that. I mean, this isn’t Portland or L.A." I wave my hand up and down in front of her, trying not to let my eyes linger on any one part for more than a split second. "The heels and the skin and everything—it’s a bit much for a small conservative town, Tam."

I walk over to an armchair and throw myself down, exhausted already and I haven’t even started making amends yet.

Instead of coming to sit, Tammy leans back against the wall next to the door, crosses her arms, and narrows her eyes at me. I breathe out a sigh of relief. This is my Tammy, the one who takes charge, tells you what to do and when, and takes no prisoners.

"Since when do you care what I’m wearing, Walsh? For the last fourteen years, I’ve chosen my own wardrobe and you’ve never had a word to say about it—unless it was, ‘Take it off.’" She finishes with a knowing little smile.

I clear my throat, images of her dropping those tiny cut-offs to the floor and climbing on my lap skittering through my mind. Yeah, my mama didn’t raise any fools. Tammy’s best outfit by far has always been her own silky skin.

"Sorry. I know it’s none of my business what you wear. I just… Well, things are a lot different here than in Portland, and I don’t want you to get hassled or anything. The local cowboys can be pretty raunchy, you know?"

I see her lips twitch just the tiniest bit before she answers. "Point taken." She finally pushes off the wall and strides over to sit on a chair across the coffee table from me. "So I’m glad to see you but kind of surprised given what you said this afternoon."

I put one ankle up on the opposite knee, trying to create a barrier between us, something to cushion the intensity of emotions ricocheting around the room. "Yeah, I was pretty shocked when you showed up. I needed a bit of time to process. Kind of get my thoughts together."

"Okay…" She pauses, nibbling on her lower lip as she uncrosses and recrosses those incredible legs.

I take a deep breath and plunge on into the conversation—although part of me would rather be plunging into her. "One of my steps is making amends. I need to admit my mistakes and ask people’s forgiveness for the poor choices I made while I was drinking." I look up at her finally, and I see the soft expression on her face.

She’s always let me off the hook, never making me face up to my responsibilities, and I know she’d do it again now if I wanted her to. But I can’t take the easy way out anymore. I have to man up here, and that means making amends to the love of my life.

I give her the speech I’ve been rehearsing since this afternoon. "Tammy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for choosing alcohol over dealing with my problems. I’m sorry for leaving you to clean up all my messes and for letting things get to a point where I scared you with my behavior. It was inexcusable and absolutely not the way a real man treats the woman he loves."

I see her hand reach out as if she’d touch me if she could. I thank God she can’t. "If you have stuff you need to say to me for closure or whatever, the least I can do is listen. I shouldn’t have shut you down like that this afternoon. After everything I put you through, focusing on your mistake was an asshole move. So, I guess, take your best shot. I deserve it, and I’ll be here until you’re done."

I lean back in the chair and listen to my heart beating a tattoo in my chest.

She pulls her legs up underneath her, almost like she’s curling herself into a little ball for protection. She looks at the big plasterwork fireplace next to us and is quiet for minute.

"I want to explain—about my mistake—about Joss," she continues hastily. "I know it’s not an excuse. I know there isn’t one. I just… I want you to know what was going on in my head right then and maybe you’ll understand some of it and things won’t look quite so bad."

I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes just for a second. When I open them, she’s watching me—wariness, fear, and anguish skittering across her face one after the other. I nod, swallowing down the sickness that threatens to explode from my gut every time the image of Tammy and Joss plays through my mind.

She nervously twists her hands and looks down at them while she talks. "It was the night after that first visit we made to see you in rehab. But really, it started the night you nearly bled out from the ulcers in the gas station bathroom. I mean, not the stuff with Joss. That didn’t start then," she’s quick to clarify, "but the stuff for me. The stuff that sent me to
that place
with Joss." She sighs and gives herself a little shake. It’s obviously nearly as hard for her to say this as it is for me to hear it.