The Ninth Step (8 page)

“What was your name again?” Wes asked. He touched his temple. “I’m sorry, I’m bad with names.”

“Cotton O’Dell,” he said.

“The job’s this way.” Wes turned back toward the house. Nikki and the dog fell into step with him.

Job?
Cotton followed, bewilderment increasing. “Uh, I think there’s been some misunderstanding.”

Wes pulled up short at the corner of the house. “Misunderstanding? I’d say that doesn’t begin to cover it, wouldn’t you?”

Cotton came up beside him. “Wow.” He took a few steps farther into the yard, forgetting himself, intrigued by the proportions of the disaster. “What happened?”

“Well, it’s like I told you on the phone, the first guy we hired made a good start. He got the material, lumber, shingles, everything--” Wes swept his hand at the loaded pallets that stood in a row beside what, at one time, must have been a detached garage-- “but he only stuck around long enough to start the demo. He got a couple grand off me and we never saw him again.”

Cotton walked the perimeter of the building, thinking this was it, the source for all the noise he’d wondered about during his covert hours of surveillance; thinking the Latimers had obviously mistaken him for someone professional, a contractor or a carpenter.

Oh, God, if only. . . .

He paused at the separate porch entrance, flattened his palm against the column. The wood still held the warmth of the day. “What’s your plan here?”

“It’s supposed to be my studio,” Nikki said.

“It was the kids’ playroom,” Wes said, “until Nikki’s brother Trevor got old enough to want his own space. We remodeled then, but now Trev’s off to college and girl wonder here wants to--”

“Dad, please. . . .” Nikki’s tone was long suffering.

“Please what?”

“You know, that name, I’m too old for it now.”

Wes chuckled. “Sorry, kiddo.”

She rolled her eyes. Cotton guessed she thought she was too old to be called “kiddo”, too.

Wes was saying that he and Nikki had attempted to tackle the job themselves. “Didn’t take us long to realize we’re in over our heads.”

“Dad says we only know enough to be dangerous.”

“Nikki’s a good helper and I’m a pretty fair carpenter, but what she wants is kind of complicated, a lot of girl stuff, you know.”

“Dad. . . .” Nikki protested again, while Cotton thought, no, he didn’t know.

He didn’t figure Wes knew either. Mothers knew about girls. He said, “It looks like you’ve got some dry rot going on over here. You’re ripping this out, I guess.”

Wes said, “The other guy tore that up. He was Mexican and I had a hell of a time understanding--”

“Did you see this?”

Wes joined Cotton, looking where he pointed. “This whole corner could collapse you don’t get something up under the roof there.” He walked over to a nearby stack of new lumber, lifted a longish two-by-four off the top and wedged it beneath the eave.

“Patsy, my secretary, said you really knew your stuff. I’ve seen her sunroom. You did some nice work there. I told her I’d give you a try so long as you spoke English.”  

Cotton gave the two by four a last shake and said, “That ought to hold it.”

“So, what do you say? Are you interested?”

Before Cotton could answer, a phone rang inside the Latimer’s house and Nikki took off across the lawn shouting she’d get it as if there were some competition for the honor. Humphrey scooted along behind her, wriggling through the back screen door before it closed.

“She’s turning thirteen in a few weeks,” Wes said raising his eyes, skyward--for help, ostensibly, but there was amused affection in his plea-- “which is part of the reason why I wanted to get with a pro on this. Nikki wants to have her birthday party out here, in her new studio, in July, but there’s no way I can get it finished by then. I’m jammed up at work for one thing. My company landed a major new account last week and you know how that goes.”

Wes put his hands on his hips, shot Cotton a look. “I could use your help.”

Cotton looked toward the house, in the direction Nikki had disappeared.
Sometimes confession isn’t good for the soul.
Cotton remembered Billy W. saying that at a meeting back in Seattle.
Sometimes all the truth is good for is tearing the shit out of people’s lives.
Sometimes
, Billy W. had said,
it’s best to leave folks alone.
What if this was one of those times? What if Cotton did this job and at the end just walked away? He wouldn’t take the money. Wes would keep his cash, Nikki’d have her studio and Cotton would have his freedom.

He could do this, or he could confess, reopen the wound, and go to jail. And the Latimers would get what from that?

Nothing.

Nada.

The screen door snapped shut and Nikki rejoined them, Humphrey on her heels. She’d changed clothes and wore clamdiggers and a fresh shirt. “So, when’s he going to start?”

“We haven’t worked it out yet,” Wes told her. “Before you take off, let me remind you that just because it’s summer doesn’t mean no curfew. Doesn’t mean you can run wild. There are still ground rules.”

“Here we go. She crossed her arms. Humphrey wandered over and pushed his nose under her elbow, working it around.

Wes glanced at Cotton. “She thinks she’s too old for adult supervision.”

Nikki thrust out her chin. “Our housekeeper had to quit last week ‘cause her husband’s got cancer and Dad thinks he needs to hire a new one.”

“Until we do, we have Linda to keep an eye on things around here. She’s a neighbor,” Wes explained to Cotton. “I don’t know what we’d do without her. Right, kiddo?” He pulled Nikki against him, planted a kiss on the top of her head.

Cotton looked at them, the father hugging his daughter, the dog with his prying worried nose, and he felt something hot stick in his throat, something like hatred mixed with despair, a cooling clot of futility. The sight of them trying to be a family . . . the motherless girl, the single dad, their fucking bravery in the face of loss and adversity . . . it was like looking at a smile with missing teeth.

What was he doing here?

He couldn’t make amends to these people. He wasn’t sure he could even stand to be around them another moment. Cotton glanced toward the street. He needed a drink. He’d get a bottle when he left here, but even as he said it to himself, he knew he wouldn’t, and later, sitting in a metal folding chair at an AA meeting, he’d realize he’d crossed a line. He’d tell Anita on the phone after the meeting that it seemed as if he’d made some kind of deal with fate.

 But right now, Nikki and her dad were arguing about a babysitting job she had for the summer, the need for extra supervision. “I’m at the Stablers’,” she was saying, “every day until after two o’clock, you’re home by six. I’m old enough to look out for myself anyway,” she insisted.

Wes was patient. “Can I finish my business with Cotton and have this discussion with you later?”

A horn honked. “There’s Becca and her mom.”

“Home by ten-thirty,” Wes said.

“I know. See you.” She started to turn away and then found Cotton’s gaze and her eyes on his were so intent that his heart stalled. Was she remembering him? Was it possible? But all she said was, “It’s nice meeting you. I hope you’ll help us,” and waving, she ran lightly to the street where a red Ford Taurus waited.

Wes looked after her. “All her friends are leaving tomorrow for three weeks at this high dollar dude ranch in Wyoming, but Nikki wanted a studio and I told her we couldn’t afford both.”

The girls got into the back seat of the Taurus. When it pulled away from the curb, Nikki waved and so did Wes. And almost immediately, he waved again at the sheriff driving the patrol car that passed.

It was knee-jerk when Cotton put up his hand to shield his face.

Wes remarked that there’d been a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood. He laughed and said, “It’s good to see my tax dollars at work.”  

Cotton laughed too, ha-ha, like he’d never heard anything so funny. 

Wes picked up where he’d left off talking about Nikki. “It wouldn’t be so hard on her, having her friends go off if her brother was around, but Trev got a summer job coaching baseball at a kid’s camp in Tallahassee, then he’s off to college in Austin, University of Texas. Leaves her at loose ends, you know? Except for the project. I’d put the whole thing under a tarp until I could get to it, if it weren’t for her.”

“So, what kind of deal did you have with the other guy?” Cotton asked.

Chapter 5

A man was sitting in the rocker on her porch when she pulled into her driveway at the end of the day and the pick-up nosed onto the apron wasn’t Charlie’s old Chevy, but a shiny new silver truck. A Dodge, Livie thought. Her foot eased off the accelerator and her heart faltered even as the idea formed that it was Cotton, that he had come in spite of her message. A surge of adrenaline spawned colder currents of dismay and alarm. She idled up the drive, sightless for a moment, lost to the confusion of her emotions. But now the man stood up and in a flash she saw that it wasn’t Cotton at all. No. It was him.

Joe. The guy she’d met the other night.

At Bo Jangles, when she’d made such an ass of herself.

God!

She felt his gaze on her, felt him waiting while she stopped the car. The engine ticked as it cooled. She couldn’t look at him and looked through the windshield instead, thinking witlessly of the mango sherbet she’d bought at the store just now, thinking it would have already begun to soften. . . .

How had he known where to find her?

She must have told him, she answered herself. Maybe, like an idiot, she’d given him her card.

Livie curled her fingers around the steering wheel and lowered her head to her hands. She’d been so looped that night, she couldn’t remember half of what . . . He was a doctor, she thought. In Navasota. Kat would be pleased, or maybe not. He specialized in horses, not humans, if Livie recalled correctly. He’d moved out of Houston, too. They’d talked about that, how neither one liked city life. Something lingered in her mind about a Christmas tree farm. Joe owned one or was buying one . . . it was all so hazy.

He tapped on the window and she jumped, feeling her cheeks flame.

“Are you all right?” he called through the glass.

She cracked the car door. “No,” she said. “I’m dying of embarrassment.”

“Because of the other night? But that was a mistake.”

“I know,” she said miserably.

“No! It was my mistake. My bad.” He patted his chest. “I acted like a jerk, pushed you--when I knew--”

“I was drunk.” She met his gaze. His eyes were dark, the color of chocolate. His longish hair was dark too, but sliced with gray. It didn’t look as if he had it cut regularly, or even professionally. It was kind of loose and windblown and long enough in back to curl over the collar of his blue work shirt. Livie could admire the look, but her mother would be dismayed. She’d have been dismayed at Livie’s behavior the other night as well, not that she’d have any right to be.

“I’m not usually such a party girl,” Livie said. “I don’t ordinarily drink so much, or do sex--”

“On the first date. You told me.”

“I did?” It kept getting worse.

“Afterward.” His glance glimmered briefly, teasing her, as if he were recalling a joke he’d shared with party-girl Livie. He probably wouldn’t like tee-totaler, old-maid Livie. Joe widened the car door, held out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation she took it, because she didn’t want to appear rude. His grip felt warm and strong. His palm was calloused and she had a sudden inane image of him wielding an ax, strongly chopping down Christmas trees. In a Santa hat. Snow swirling. Red socks. Ridiculous. God, the man had seen her naked. She didn’t know his last name, but he knew she had a mole near her left nipple. She took her hand back, pushed a hairpin more tightly into her chignon.

He said, “I’ve felt terrible ever since.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I took advantage--”

“Groceries,” she said, faintly, walking away from him, opening the hatch. “There’s sherbet.”

He took the sack from her and the two other bags as well, while she got her satchel, and together, they brought everything into the house.

“I’ve called several times.” He stowed the sherbet in the freezer and unpacked a jar of mayonnaise, holding it up, raising his brows.

“Pantry,” she said indicating the door adjacent to the refrigerator. She set the pint of blueberries she’d bought at the farmer’s market in the sink. “You didn’t leave a message.”

“I didn’t know what to say.” He closed the pantry door.

She looked down at her hands.

“Pretty flowers.” He indicated the filled vase that stood on the marble-topped island between them. “They’re irises, right? Japanese. . . ?”

Livie said they were. “You know flowers?”

“I remember you said they were your favorites. You said something about them meaning hope, is that right?”

“Hope, yes, or the gift of them might convey a message.”
Like the promise of love.
Was that why Cotton had left them for her? Livie wondered. Did he remember what they symbolized?

Joe held her gaze. “I wonder if we could start over.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She got down a colander from a cabinet, upended the carton of blueberries into it and rinsed them.

“We could pretend the other night never happened.” He was at her elbow, searching her face.

Maybe you could
. “I don’t know your last name,” she said aloud and her cheeks warmed.

“Bolten,” he said. “Joe Bolten and you’re Miss Saunders, Miss Olivia Marie Saunders.” He extended his hand, but withdrew it when she showed him that hers were wet. “Will you go out with me, Miss Saunders?” he asked after a moment. “Will you let me take you to dinner? Give me a chance to redeem myself?”

“I can’t, not tonight, anyway.”

“What about another night?”

“I don’t think so.” She picked up the towel.

“What about one morning then? We could have coffee. Baby steps.”