Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 24
Roxanna’s fingers edged toward the phone. Hard, strawberry-colored plastic, with its oh-so-easy punch buttons for summoning a person, it sat there, silent.
Her heart had said yes to the first date in ten months. She still had time to unsay it.
A chemical smell of drying varnish drifted down the hall to remind her of commitment. Yet, truly, she could do nothing more in the guest rooms tonight. An evening out would clear her nostrils of the dizzying odor, clear her mind and soul, and sweeten up her disposition.
But a toe on the wrong side of discipline invited a fall. She snatched up the phone.
Put it down. She whirled away from it and marched into the bathroom. As her claw-foot bathtub filled with water, she sprinkled in a capful of Relaxation bubble-bubble-bubbles.
Half of knowing what you want, and getting it, she believed, is deciding what you’re willing to give up. Men were only a small part of what she’d given up to concentrate on her dream, her business, her headstrong, heart-racing grab for a better life. She’d struck a bargain with herself. So what Satan-sent temptation had made her say yes to Booker Krane?
She dropped her clothes in the hamper, slid into the cool water and stretched out. With the air conditioning off and the windows open to clear paint stench from the guest rooms, the air had turned scorching hot. She’d sweated buckets. The bath soothed her.
She poured soap gel on a rough sponge and sluiced it over her skin. The Relaxation salts sent their herbal bouquet to calm her thoughts. Leaning back, she took the pressure off her weary legs, urging them to unwind and be noodley, to float weightless on the water.
Her toenails poked up through the bubbles. The toenails needed work.
Didn’t everything? Her whole life wrapped around work.
She didn’t mind, most of the time. To get ahead, a person had to use resources wisely. Her resources, memorized in alphabetical order and chanted daily into her affirmation bank, included common sense, determination, good health, integrity, intelligence, a kind heart, optimism, stamina, and talent. Nowhere on the list appeared the word money.
“In business,” people had told her, “money talks.” In her case, it usually said “goodbye.” But if she used her resources wisely, money would come. She believed that.
She chose this business because she loved being around people. Folks who came to the inn for brunch or dinner, families, couples, even flirtatious old fools like Gary Spiner, renewed her conviction that she’d chosen right. But she couldn’t count those people as friends, could she? She could not think of a single person in this whole town she would call a friend. Yet she’d left scores of friends in Houston.
“Our eyes are in front,” Aunt Jane would say, “to keep us looking ahead.” Roxanna had dumped all her resources into the inn. No turning back. No point in looking back. But she sure needed a friend to confide in at times.
She had a hunch Booker Krane could be a fine friend, if she gave him a chance. His comfortable, folksy charm attracted her.
Her toenails definitely needed work, especially if she planned to wear sandals. The smallest details were always noticed. Anybody who didn’t believe that should see a drip of ketchup on a guest’s white jacket.
Roxanna inhaled the fragrance of bath salts. Relax, she told herself. Relax, relax…relax.
She would see her dream come true. Nothing would stop her, not poor planning or ill timing or bad luck. Nothing.
Not mean-spirited bill collectors or nasty-minded mortgagers. Nothing.
She had common sense, determination, good health, integrity, intelligence, a kind heart, optimism, stamina, and talent, thank you very much. Friends were a comfort, but they also could be a distraction. It wasn’t too late to call Booker Krane and beg off.
After all, what might she be getting into? When this date was over, would he expect another one? Worse yet, would he expect to end the evening with both of them in the same bed? She wasn’t ready for that.
He’d been awfully sweet when he asked her out, shy about it, even, as if he hadn’t been dating lately, either. But what about that real estate agent he’d sat with last night, Melinda McCray? If a woman ever had her hooks out for a man, it was her.
Melinda and Chuck, now that had been a pair. They deserved each other. Booker Krane was too fine a man to leave to a woman like Melinda. She’d rip out his heart and serve it to him for breakfast.
Roxanna pictured the silent telephone in the next room. She reached behind her for a bottle of nail polish remover and began taking the chipped remnants off her toenails. A nice bright coral would be perfect with her gold sandals. Perfect for a hot August night.
CHAPTER 26
Booker cursed and dropped the razor. Way to go, Krane! Another bloody cut on his already battered face. Neck, actually. Trimming up the beard line.
When was the last time he’d cut himself shaving? Two years ago? Ten? Naturally, it had to happen tonight. He hoped that wasn’t an indication of how the evening would progress.
He wanted his date with Roxanna to be perfect. Most of all, he wanted to get through the date without making a complete ass of himself. So far, it wasn’t looking good.
He never should’ve fallen asleep. At the time, sitting down with a beer to cool off from his archery lesson and watch the tail end of an old movie seemed a good idea. He was tensed up after the day’s events, especially the argument with Bradley. Now, he was thirty minutes behind.
A splash of aftershave set him gritting his teeth at the sting. When the cut continued to bleed, he daubed it with toilet paper, leaving the paper stuck to his neck and hoping he’d remember to take it off later.
At least his clothes were fresh from the cleaners. Since he rarely wore dress clothes these days, his closet offered many choices. He selected charcoal gray slacks, a blue-gray jacket, a blue shirt and a blue and gray rep tie. Safe clothes, nothing flashy. He had enough to think about without his clothes handicapping him.
What did people on dates discuss these days? Luckily, the play would take up most of the evening. Afterward, maybe he and Roxanna would compare thoughts on the performance. That should work. But what about before the play? Booker could hear the vast, empty silence, him trying to invent small talk that would amuse a woman like Roxanna.
What sort of woman was Roxanna, anyway? Refurbishing an old house and running the inn with period style didn’t mean she was old-fashioned. Witness the photographs on her office wall. Nothing old-fashioned about those.
Artistic. If the woman was anything, she was artistic. Booker traded the blue shirt for one the decorator had given him, plum, she’d called it, and the blue-gray rep tie for dark gray with a pink paisley design. Definitely more artsy-fartsy than he was used to.
He pulled on black socks, the shirt, the tie. Brushed his hair. Not bad. He climbed into his pants and buttoned them—
Hellfire and damnation they were tight! He knew he’d been gaining weight, but everyday clothes were more forgiving. He’d have to eat light at dinner.
Uh-oh. He hadn’t given a thought to dinner. The play started at seven, he was due at Roxanna’s at six. The drive to College Station took forty minutes, minimum. No time for dinner before the play. They’d have to stop afterward. At least by then they’d have something to talk about.
Unless the play was lousy. No, he wouldn’t borrow trouble. If he managed to pull off his own part without falling on his face tonight, O. Henry wouldn’t fail him. The play would be fine. Sliding into his jacket and loafers, he assessed his reflection in the mirror. Good enough, except for the toilet paper on his neck.
Plucking it off, he glanced at his watch. Just enough time, if he drove like Emaline.
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