Place Your Betts (The Marilyns) (8 page)

“Gigi?” Betts looked the boy up and down. “She let you call her Gigi?”

Gigi had never liked that name and would have preferred to be called grandmother, which was precisely why Betts had called her Gigi.

“Yes, ma’am.” He wiped his palms on his jeans. “I’m Tom. Tom Swanson.” He extended his hand.

Betts blinked. “Tom, Tom Swanson.”

He was here, standing on her front steps.

Her heart thundered like a metronome marking the years she’d been separated from him. Her eyes swallowed him—drinking in every detail as her hand went to the locket containing his hair. He was handsome in a bookish way. Intelligent blue eyes—from his daddy—unruly red hair—hers—and a straight nose that looked a lot like Mama Cherie’s. Her arms ached to hold him. He’d been born with a red birthmark—the nurse had called it an angel kiss—behind his left ear. Was it still there? She reached up to touch his hair but jerked her hand back. She was nothing to him. Not yet.

Betts looked down at his outstretched hand. She should shake it, but it took a second for her mind to instruct her hand to grasp his. “House would you like in to come….” She shook her head. “I mean, would you like to come in?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I can’t stay long. I just got off work, and my dad said that it would be best to come by before the crowd outside got any bigger.” Tom stepped across the threshold. He looked around and then zeroed in on the coffee table. “Are you writing a song?” His eyes held so much boyish wonder it was hard to believe that he was almost an adult.

Gabe had sent Tom? Gabe was fairer-minded than she would have been in this situation.

“Yes. Sort of. Trying to. The tune hasn’t quite worked itself out.” Betts couldn’t stop looking at him. Her son was here in the flesh, standing before her. He was real. The baby taken from her arms so long ago was right here. Her soul longed to pull him in for tight hug and squeeze him for the next year or two, but since that would probably make him run for the hills, she stepped back.

What exactly was the protocol for reuniting with the love child she’d given away at birth?

“Wow. That’s cool. Sometimes music knocks around inside my head, but I ignore it. Dad’s not into music. Says it’s a waste of time.” Tom picked up her guitar. “You play. That’s cool.”

Anyone else would have lost a finger for touching her prized guitar. Tom could burn it for kindling for all she cared as long as he let her look at him. The ghost weight of a newborn asleep on her shoulder tugged at her heart. Besides the handshake a moment ago, that had been the only touch she’d ever shared with him.

“Would you like to learn? I could teach you.” Betts stacked the sheet music. “Or if you don’t want me, I could pay for lessons. Do you play the piano? That’s a good place to start. I could teach you. Do you like the piano? Piano is good. Real good and um…nice. All those white and black keys.” Words fell out of her mouth. She couldn’t seem to stop them.

“I like it fine, I guess.” He slid his hands in the back pockets of his Levis. “I’d like lessons, but my dad wouldn’t understand—”

“Music is a gift. It shouldn’t be wasted.” There. That made sense.

“I think so too, but my dad’s a hard case. Plus, I don’t have time. Between work and school and the ranch, I don’t think I can do it.” He stepped toward the door. “I’d better be going. Sorry about your grandma. She was real proud of you.”

Tom was leaving? No, he just got here. She wanted to stare at him for the next two months and find out how his mind worked, what his favorite food was, and whether his red hair was as soft as she remembered.

“Um… work. Where do you work?” Betts stepped between his lanky body and the door. Would it be too obvious if she locked it?

“Down at the feed store. After school and some weekends. It’s gas money.” He stood up straight, grinned from ear to ear, pride radiating off him in waves. “I’ve got my own truck.”

“Wow.” Betts hoped she sounded suitably impressed. “Tell me about the music in your head.” Anything to spend a few more minutes in his company.

Tom hunched his shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “It’s nothing, really. I just… I don’t know. Hear things in my head.” His cheeks colored with embarrassment. “Like songs or parts of them.”

“That’s not nothing.” Betts nodded to the guitar. Music was something they shared—a tentative bond between them, the first of many things, she hoped. “Let’s see if we can nail down what’s rattling around up there.” She pointed to his head.

Tom’s face lit up.

“Sure you have time? I don’t want to take you away from something important.” His eyes darted to the guitar. Tom practically vibrated with eager interest.

“Right now, there is nothing more important than hearing your song.”

Tom followed her back to the sofa, and they sat side by side.

“You hum, and I’ll see if I can match the tune.” Betts picked up her guitar and closed her eyes. It was easier for her to concentrate on the notes if she shut out the world.

Tom hummed a few bars, and Betts mimicked the tones. She opened her eyes, rummaged around for a pencil, and marked the notes on a blank sheet of music.

“Do you hear words too?” The tune had the makings of a great song. Add in some drums, a fiddle or two, and a slow, jazzy backbeat… But it wasn’t her song. Betts swallowed her suggestions. Music was personal, and God knew she hated unsolicited advice.

“Yes, ma’am, but not at the same time. Either the tune or the words come, but never both at the same time.”

“Do you have words for this one yet?”

“No, ma’am, not yet. The tune started up this afternoon.” Tom looked down at the sheet music as Betts finished writing the notes. “Does it ever drive you crazy?”

“Absolutely. The only way to get it out of your head is to write it. Trust me, it’s taken me years to figure that out.” Betts sat back. “Is that all of it? This has the makings of a good song.”

“Thanks.” Tom smiled broadly, and three dimples popped out. His father’s smile.

“Would you like to stay for supper? I have a kitchen full of food. People have been bringing it all day. You’d be doing me a favor. I hate to see it go to waste, and I can’t possibly eat it all.”

“I don’t know.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “What have you got?”

“Casseroles, cakes, cobblers, cookies.” Only C words came to mind. Betts tugged on his arm and headed to the kitchen.

“You weren’t kidding. That’s a lot of food.” Tom scanned the room, slowly taking it all in.

Dishes, boxes, and trays covered every surface.

“What would you like?” Betts opened the refrigerator. The inside light was eclipsed by pans of food. She peeled up a corner of aluminum foil. “Looks like chicken casserole, and that’s tuna.” She pulled out a Tupperware container. “This is vegetarian casserole—not sure what that means.”

“That would be Ms. Anderson-Ritter’s famous tofu surprise. Last year she drove to Marfa to see the ghost lights and came back a vegetarian with a hyphenated last name. Ms. Gigi and I had a good, long laugh about her. Gigi always said vegetarian was the—”

“Indian word for bad hunter.” Betts finished. She set the pan down on the table and closed the refrigerator. Tom really had known Gigi. Not that she didn’t believe him, it was just hard to imagine anyone choosing to spend time with the old woman. Maybe he knew the story behind the wall of framed photos?

He lifted the foil on a nine-by-thirteen pan on the table. “Is that Ms. Smith’s heavenly hash cake?” His entire face lit up. So he was a chocoholic like Mama Cherie. Despite all of Mama’s annoying eccentricities, Betts hoped that Tom had gotten a little bit of his grandmother’s spirit.

“I don’t know. Is Ms. Smith a short, round woman who favors sweater sets and looks like a blonde pit bull?”

Tom grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded his head. “You’re right. Never thought about it, but she does look like a pit bull.”

“She brought her daughter…Kailee or Kathy—“

“Kaitlin.” Tom’s voice held so much reverence he might have been talking about the Virgin Mary. “She’s the head cheerleader.”

Maternal alarm bells went off, and the tiny hairs on the back of Betts’s neck stood up. “Kaitlin’s very pretty.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tom studied the floor.

“Do I detect some interest?” She found a paper plate and rummaged around for a fork in the drawer by the sink. Serving him cake for dinner wasn’t the most motherly thing, but it was exactly what her mother would have done and the opposite of Gigi, so Betts carved up an extra-large piece.

“No, ma’am… I mean, yes… No.” Tom’s face turned red, and he plopped down in one of the old wooden kitchen chairs. “You’re a lady. Maybe you could help.”

Was she really having a talk about girls with her son? Betts smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. “Well, um… What’s the deal?”

Tom hunched his shoulders. “She won’t give me the time of day. We used to be friends but…well…it’s complicated.”

Betts knew when to push and when to step back—this was a stepping-back moment. She reminded herself that she was nothing more to him than a new acquaintance. Too much interest would freak him out.

“Okay, here’s the deal. It’s gonna sound stupid, but we sorta went together in the third grade. One day at lunch, I gave her half of my Hostess Ding Dong, and the next thing I knew, we were an item. The next day, I brought her a Ho-Ho, and she kissed me on the lips. Can you believe that?”

Betts smiled and skipped the snarky comment about how the Ho was only after his Ho-Hos. “Sounds like you still like her.”

“Yes, ma’am. That time in the third grade was the best two weeks of my life. Remember it like it was yesterday.” Tom looked embarrassed. “Now she doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“Why?” Betts slapped a huge piece of cake on the plate and set it in front of him.

Her baby boy had a romantic streak and carried a torch from a torrid third-grade romance. Who had he gotten that from?

“She’s going out with Lance Stringfellow. He’s the quarterback. I’m a nobody.” Tom dug into the cake.

“You’re not a nobody. You’re…” She was about to say “my son” but stopped herself and sat down next to him. “You’re a smart, handsome boy. She’d be lucky to have you.”

“You sound like Gigi. That’s what she used to say.”

Betts flinched. Comparing her to Gigi was exactly the wrong thing to do. “What makes Kaitlin so special?”

“Everything. She’s perfect,” Tom said around a mouthful of cake.

He sounded so certain. Life had seemed cut-and-dried at sixteen.

“Define perfect.” Betts stood and filled a glass with tap water. “Sorry, I don’t have any milk. It’s either this or Miller Lite. And you’re too young for beer.”

“Thank you, ma’am, water’s fine.” Tom gulped down half the glass. “Kaitlin’s pretty and smart and nice. At least she used to be. Now she’s with Lance, and she’s too good to talk to me.”

“Lance. Is that a name or a weapon?” Betts smirked. Wasn’t “Lance” a brand of snack foods? Evidently the Ho-Ho had moved from sweet snack cakes to more savory peanut butter crackers. “Just be yourself. If Kaitlin doesn’t see how special you are, she doesn’t deserve you.”

“But Lance has a new truck, and he’s popular and has plenty of money—”

“Does that make him better than you? If you want something badly enough, nothing will stand in your way. I should know. I’ve butted against my share of roadblocks. Lance is a roadblock; find a way around him.” Betts sat back in the chair across from Tom.

He hacked off another piece of cake and shoved it in his mouth. Two more bites and the cake was gone.

“Thanks, Ms. Monroe—”

“Call me Betts.”

“Betts. I never thought of it that way.” Tom picked up his empty plate and glass and walked to the sink. “Thank you for the cake. I best be going now.” He grabbed his hat off the table but didn’t put it on.

Hats off inside, cleaned up after himself, and spoke politely. Gabe had done a fine job with manners, and he’d sent Tom over here. She rolled her eyes and sighed long and hard. So he wasn’t a total loss as a human being.

“What’s wrong? You look mad.” Tom took a step back.

“I hate giving credit to people I don’t like.”

“Huh?” Tom scrunched up his brow like he was reviewing the last few seconds of conversation in his head and couldn’t figure out where he’d lost it.

“Never mind. Why don’t you take the rest of the cake with you?” Betts stood. “After you’re done, it sure would be a big help if you returned the pan to the Smiths for me.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Give you an excuse to drop by Kaitlin’s house.”

“Really?” A huge smile cut across his face.

“I assume you know where she lives.”

Tom pointed in the direction of the front door. “Yes, ma’am. Four houses down on the left.”

“I’ll write a personal thank you note, and you can take that too.” Betts nodded. And Tom would have to come pick up the note. In your face, Lance the Quarterback. Tom’s momma’s a famous country singer even if he never knows it.

Tom nodded. The only word to describe his expression was eager.

“Betts, thanks…for everything. It was good talking to you. Would you mind if I stopped by sometimes? I don’t have anyone else to ask girl questions to.” He studied the floor again and shuffled from foot to foot.

Betts’s heart swelled to the size of the Goodyear blimp. “I’d like that. You’re welcome anytime.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Good night, Tom. I’m glad Gigi was here for you.” The words didn’t stick in her mouth too much. She opened the door for him.

“Well, well, well, your gentlemen callers are getting better-looking.” Charlie stood on the porch. “I’m Charlie Guidry.” She held her hand out to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am, I’m Tom Swanson.”

Having spent years on the campaign trail with her father, Charlie had mastered the art of hiding her feelings behind her smile, but this time it faltered.

Lucky nudged Charlie out of the way. “I’m Lucky. We’re your mo—”

“My best friends.” Betts shot Lucky a
shut up
look before they could announce to the world that Betts was his mother. While she wanted everyone to know, she could see how Tom might not be so happy at the prospect.

Tom glanced at his truck. “Thank you. It’s good to meet you too. I need to get home.”