Irish Chain (6 page)

“The kids did a great job,” I replied. “I really should check the punch.” I moved back, abruptly disengaging his hand and put the refreshment table between us, thankful that after tonight I wouldn’t have to work closely with him again. Thelma Rook, who once owned the largest feed store in San Celina, and her roommate, Martha Pickering, tottered up. Martha, a former waitress, inspected with a jaundiced eye the selection of cinnamon-sprinkled butter cookies, bright strawberry tarts and chocolate-dipped macaroons.

“My dear Benni,” Thelma said. “This is so much fun. I feel sixteen again.” She touched long, large-knuckled fingers to the hand-beaded bodice of her silver and gray dress. I smiled at the woman who used to slip me sugar cubes from her husband’s stash to take home to my Appaloosa mare, Bacon Bits. Sometimes the treats made it home, sometimes they didn’t. Martha nodded her basketball bouffant of snowy curls in agreement and bit into a miniature chocolate eclair.

“I’m terribly glad you ladies are enjoying yourselves,” Edwin said, coming around the table and standing close enough for me to gag from the smell of his Brut cologne. “We do try to provide here at Oak Terrace a rounded social environment specifically geared toward the discriminating senior. Isn’t that right, Benni?” He smiled with long beige teeth and punctuated his sentence by reaching over and giving my shoulder a squeeze, leaving his hand in place.

“I suppose so,” I said, jerking my shoulder and giving him a deep frown. He gave me his best patent-leather smile and dropped his hand.

“We know you do, Mr. Ed . . . um ... Edwin,” Thelma said, giving me a wink. “And we certainly appreciate it.” Behind her, Martha gave an extravagant snort and picked up a strawberry tart.

The disc jockey put on an old sixties song—“Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” Edwin turned to me, an eager, somewhat hungry look on his face. “Benni, I think they’re playing our—” But before he could finish, Thelma interrupted.

“Well, look at what’s coming your way, Benni,” she said. “If only I were a few years younger.”

I followed the direction of her eyes across the room and felt my heart give a little jump. Clay O’Hara walked toward us wearing a squinty cowboy grin under his sandy handlebar mustache and a dark Stetson on his head. His Wranglers, faded just enough to show confidence, were snug enough to show the outline of his pocketknife.

“Benni Ramsey.” He parked his thick-chested figure in front of me, one hip slightly cocked. “The last time I saw you, you were on your knees in cow shit holding a red-hot branding iron.”

“You always had a way with words, Clay O’Hara,” I said. “And it’s been Benni Harper for almost fifteen years.”

“That’s right,” he said, pushing his hat back slightly and running his mahogany eyes the length of me. Subtlety was never his strong suit. “You went and married that kid, didn’t you? Jack Harper and I didn’t take to one another much, but I was real sorry when Brady sent us the news clipping back in Colorado.”

“Thank you,” I said. “So, I suppose that’s why you’re here, to visit your uncle?”

“Among other things.” He pulled at his mustache with one rope-scarred finger and smiled.

Next to me, Thelma cleared her throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “This is Thelma Rook. She’s a resident here at Oak Terrace. And her friend, Martha Pickering.”

“Ma’am,” he said, touching two fingers to the roper brim of his fudge-colored cowboy hat, nodding first to Thelma, then Martha.

“And I’m assuming you and Edwin have met,” I said.

“Of course we have,” Edwin said, sticking a long-fingered hand out to Clay. Clay contemplated it for a moment before giving it a quick shake. “We had the pleasure a few days ago when Mr. O’Hara and his uncle were going over his uncle’s will. He is seriously considering leaving a tidy little endowment to the retirement home.” Edwin’s narrow face grew complacent, thoughts of regular trustee checks probably dancing in his horsy head. “Not,” he added hastily, “that we expect or even desire Mr. O’Hara’s departure for a long, long time.”

“Edwin,” Thelma said. “You make it sound like we’re waiting for a train here.”

The song ended and the disc jockey’s buttery voice came over the microphone. “Here’s a waltz for you country fans. Grab your favorite cowgirl and give the little lady your best.”

Edwin opened his mouth and I was on the verge of bolting, when Clay held out his hand.

“I believe you owe me this one,” Clay said.

“I believe you’re right,” I answered.

We circled the floor in a country waltz as Anne Murray wondered if she could have this dance for the rest of her life. I didn’t speak as we danced, trying not to think about how Jack used to sing along to this song whenever it came on the radio. By this time the floor was filled almost entirely with young people dancing with each other, performing for the weary senior citizens, who sat and smiled at them with the pleased expressions of new grandparents. We still had the crowning of the king and queen, helping the guests back to their rooms and cleanup. With a bit of hustling, I’d be home and under warm flannel sheets by midnight. I scanned the room looking for Gabe and wondering who I could ask to crown the king and queen if he didn’t show up, when I realized Clay was speaking to me.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I was saying you dance pretty good for someone who isn’t even paying attention. And here I’ve waited seventeen years for this dance.”

“Oh, Clay, I’m sorry. My mind’s just scrambled with thoughts about what I need to do to get this dance wrapped up.” I looked up into his brown eyes and marveled at how kind the aging process is to men. Do they really look better with a few pounds and some wrinkles, or is it just a cultural thing we’re raised to believe? Whatever the case, Clay O’Hara had been a good-looking boy and he’d grown into a downright attractive man.

“Maybe thinking about Jack a little?” he asked softly, giving my hand a squeeze. The familiar rancher’s calluses on his hand caused me to inhale sharply, and for a moment I longed for that hand to touch my cheek.

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll shut up and let you think.”

Working our way through the crowded dance floor, we swung by the refreshment table, where Brady O’Hara stood jabbing an angry finger at an arm-crossed Oralee. My heart dropped in dismay. All we needed now was Miss Violet to make it a knockdown dragout. I looked around, but couldn’t spot her in the crowd.

“Oh, dear,” I said, straining to peer over Clay’s shoulder.

“Looks like they’re at it again,” Clay remarked.

“You know about the argument?”

“Haven’t heard about anything else since I arrived three days ago.”

We watched his uncle and Oralee each give one last retort, then storm off in separate directions. Oralee limped determinedly toward the kitchen, where she was probably going to chew on Mac’s ear for a while, and Mr. O’Hara lurched toward the door leading through the side gardens to the bedroom wing.

“Well, I tried my best to bring about a truce this afternoon and your uncle gave me a knock in the shins with his cane for my efforts.” Heat rose up my neck the minute the words popped out. What did I expect him to do, punish his uncle?

Clay’s laugh was strong and clear, the laugh of someone used to open spaces. “That sounds like Brady. Am I going to have to worry about a personal injury lawsuit on top of all his other legal problems?”

“No,” I said, laughing with him. “I can’t believe I even mentioned it to you.”

“He’s an ornery old cougar, that’s for sure. I humbly apologize on behalf of the entire O’Hara clan and promise to buy you a steak dinner in the best restaurant in town in compensation.”

“That’s okay. My pride was injured more than anything else.”

“Old Brady’s good at that.” His voice seemed to take on a bite. Then he grinned again. “You know, when Dad sent me out here to get Brady’s affairs settled, I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t sharing a dance with a pretty lady in a hoop skirt. Especially one I remember so fondly.”

“Expect nothing and be ready for everything. That’s what my daddy always says.”

“Smart man, your daddy.”

When the song was over, we walked back over to where Thelma and Martha sat on metal folding chairs cradling cups of cranberry-colored punch.

Clay nodded at the two women. “Guess I’d better go see if Brady’s all right before heading back to my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?” Thelma asked, giving me a scheming smile.

“Down near the mission at the San Celina Inn.”

“That’s a lovely old hotel,” she said. “I spent my fiftieth anniversary in a room there. It had a canopied four-poster bed and a beautiful Wedding Ring quilt. If I remember right, a bottle of wine came with the room.”

“How romantic,” Martha said.

“Is your wife enjoying our lovely Central Coast, Mr. O’Hara?” Thelma asked.

“Call me Clay, ma’am. And I’m not married at this particular time of my life.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

She raised her sparse white eyebrows at me and nudged Martha with her elbow. “That’s a real shame, nice-looking boy like you,
all alone.
”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.” One side of his long mustache twitched.

I tried to catch her eye and tell her silently to cut it out. The ladies in my quilting class, some of them without families of their own or grandchildren too far away or too busy to be more than a once-a-year birthday card, had taken an exaggerated and opinionated interest in my life, particularly the romantic part. They said it beat the heck out of
General Hospital
which, they claimed, was far too predictable for women of their advanced experiences. They adored Gabe, but were obviously not above encouraging another rooster to jump into the stew pot.

“Well, it was certainly good seeing you again, Clay,” I said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again around town.”

“Maybe,” he said, his face thoughtful. “I’ll be around for a couple of weeks or so, anyway.”

After he left, I turned to Thelma and Martha. “And what was that all about, ladies?”

They looked at each other and gave high, tittering laughs.

“You two are worse than teenagers,” I said.

We sat through three more songs and watched the few energetic dancers left improvise new dance steps. The grandfather clock next to the fireplace chimed ten o’clock—much later than most of these senior citizens were accustomed to. I’d come to the conclusion that Gabe was never going to make it, and decided since it looked better for the newspaper photographs to have an official type crown the king and queen, I would ask Edwin to do the honors. Predictably, just because I needed him, he was nowhere to be found. As a last resort, I thought of Mac, hiding out in the kitchen.

“Cute apron,” I said, walking into the chrome and white commercial-sized kitchen. He stood in front of a large glass-front refrigerator wearing a red-and-white-striped baker’s apron. It stated in bold black letters “I don’t repeat gossip, so listen carefully.”

“Like it?” He picked up a white-wrapped package from a pasteboard box at his feet and placed it on one of the refrigerator shelves. “I wore it to a church barbecue last Saturday. Made some of the less humorous members of the deacons board just a tad nervous.”

I laughed. “I guess you do have some of Oralee in you after all.”

He smiled mischievously. “Well, as she would say, I didn’t lick it off the sidewalk.”

I peered into the empty box at his feet. “What have you got there?”

“Fresh fish. Some old guy dropped it off. Guess they’re having a fish fry tomorrow. Hey, there’s some refreshments left here. Try the chocolate cupcakes. They’ve got butter-pecan filling.”

“Sound great, but I don’t have time. I was just trying to find someone to crown the king and queen, since it appears that Gabe got tied up somewhere. I can’t even find Edwin, so can I count on you in a pinch?”

“Sure, can I keep the apron on?”

“You know, I’m beginning to suspect you’re even more of a rabble-rouser than your grandmother.”

“Conflict is good for a body. Keeps the blood moving.”

“That doesn’t sound very ministerial,” I said. “Besides, I remember when your method of dealing with conflict involved a bottle of Coke shaken up and pointed at someone.”

He winked at me. “Let’s just keep that little secret between you and me.”

“Speaking of conflict, I saw Oralee head in here about half an hour back. She and Mr. O’Hara were at it again. Is she okay?”

“Fine.” His voice grew short.

“Mac, what is it?”

“It’s ...” He hesitated. His broad, normally jovial face became somber. “It’s just this thing between her and Mr. O’Hara is starting to get annoying. I talked her into going back to her room so she could lie down for a while. He upset her so badly I was afraid she’d have another stroke.” He picked up a section of newspaper sitting on the counter and started folding it into smaller and smaller squares. “She’s eighty-two years old, Benni. Another stroke could kill her. I wish that O’Hara character would just—” He stopped, took the compressed square, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed it across the room, hitting a large commercial mixer. The look of raw anger on his face surprised me.

“Mac, it’s just a card game.”

He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Sorry. I guess I’m a bit overprotective.”

“I wouldn’t let Oralee hear you say that. She’d make you shovel stalls for a week if you dared suggest she couldn’t take care of herself.”

“Well,” Mac said, untying his apron. “Where do I go to crown the royal couple?”

“I’ll let you know if I need you. I’m still hoping Gabe will make it. Besides, the king himself seems to be missing. We can’t have the ceremony without him.”

“Who are the king and queen?”

“Martha Pickering is the queen and I won’t mention the king’s name for fear of incurring your wrath.”

“Not Brady O’Hara?”

“The one and only. You know, except for Oralee, he’s actually pretty popular around Oak Terrace.”

“Isn’t it funny how money has a way of doing that?”

“C’mon, Mac, at these people’s ages? How in the world could the size of his bank account possibly make a difference to any of the people who live at Oak Terrace?”