The Older Woman. Cheryl Reavis
so ordinary as a steak and a beer with a broken-down army specialist. And, on top of that, she’d caught him waiting on the front porch swing like the last puppy at the pound.
The boyfriend’s back, Doyle suddenly thought as she stepped up on the porch. And the mission had been scrubbed. He sat looking at her, wondering what to say.
Nothing, he decided. She was the one bailing. He’d let her do the talking. She could talk, and he would just look.
Man, she cleaned up good. In all his years in the army, he’d never gotten used to the way some women could pull that off—looking one way all the time until you more or less forgot they were even female—and then doing whatever it was they did to end up looking like this.
Meehan was wearing a dress. He’d never seen her in a dress. It was colorful—really flowery. It made him think of watercolors—and it was kind of floaty and thin.
Thin.
He couldn’t see through it—but he kept expecting to. It wasn’t an all-tarted-up kind of dress or anything like that. It was just…attention getting. Her shoulders were bare, except for little string straps, and soft looking, even in this light. Smooth. Touchable. He could easily imagine how good they would feel if he ran his hands over them, how good they would smell…
Don’t go there! he thought, but it didn’t keep him from wondering.
Like what? Flowers? Roses—or something citrus maybe. But nice.
One of the little string straps dropped off her shoulder.
Very nice…
Take it easy, Doyle!
This was Meehan here—and he was acting like she was a real woman or something.
“Bugs, are you listening to me?” she said.
“Sure. It’s too late to go out.”
“You think so.”
He frowned. “I thought that was what you said.”
“It was a question, Doyle. Is it too late to go out?”
“With me, you mean.”
She tried to look into his eyes. “You took a pain pill, didn’t you?”
“No,” he said, grinning. “But I think we need to start over here. You asked me if it’s too late to go.”
“Right. Is it?”
“No way. I’m starving.”
“Can you wait a half hour or so?”
He didn’t think he could wait five minutes, so he didn’t answer her, for no other reason than the way she looked. That alone was worth the delay.
“I didn’t mean to be this late—but I just woke up. I got hung up with a family thing after I left here, and I still need to make a phone call or two.”
“A family thing,” he repeated, because he’d been expecting her to say she was sorry, but she had to run along now, with the bagel guy.
“Right. I’ve got three sisters—two older, one younger. Unfortunately, they think up things for me to do for entertainment.”
“I hear that,” he said. “I’ve got one of those myself. So what are you fixing?”
“My uncle Patrick.”
“And your job would be…?”
“He’s a widower. He’s not taking care of himself. I get to call him up and yell at him.”
“Poor Uncle Patrick,” he said, trying not to grin.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve been there.”
“I’ve never yelled at you,” she said, clearly believing it.
“Sure you have.”
“I have not.”
“Oh, then that must have been somebody in leg casts who just looked like me.”
A smile was just about to get away from her. “Why did I yell at you?”
“No reason whatsoever. I was totally innocent. I guarantee it.”
“That’ll be the day—so are we on for tonight or not?”
“On,” he said. “Definitely on.” Things were getting better and better here.
“Then I’ll be back,” she said.
He expected her to go home, but she went inside Mrs. Bee’s house instead. She didn’t stay long. If she’d used Mrs. Bee’s phone to yell at Uncle Patrick, she’d made it short and sweet.
“That was fast,” he said as she stepped out onto the porch again.
“I delegated the situation to Mrs. Bee—well, actually she volunteered. She knows Uncle Patrick, and she’s a lot more tactful than I am. So let’s go. She wants us to take Thelma and Louise,” Meehan added as he heaved himself up off the swing.
“The more, the merrier,” he said, because he still couldn’t believe that she had actually shown up. At this point he didn’t care who went along, and he was only mildly concerned about the possibility that he might have to swing feeding two more people.
“What?” he said, because of the look Meehan was giving him.
“Well, I expected you to be a little happier about it.”
“About what?”
“Thelma and Louise. Will you pay attention?”
“I’m happy. I don’t think I know who they are, though—or maybe I do. Church ladies, right?”
“No,” Meehan said, laughing. “Thelma and Louise is a car.” She held up a set of keys and dangled them.
“Okay,” he said, still not getting it.
“A 1966 Thunderbird convertible.”
“You are kidding me. Like the one in the movie, you mean?”
“Except this one is red. Leather seats. Mint condition.”
“You are kidding me,” he said again.
“Nope. The late Mr. Bee gave it to her, brand-new, for her fiftieth birthday. She’s called it Thelma and Louise ever since she saw the movie. He didn’t want her to be depressed about hitting the half-century mark.”
“Did it work?”
“Well, driving it certainly cheers me up. She wants me to blow it out on the interstate.”
“You know how to do that, I guess,” he said, trying not to smile.
“You just hold on to your hat, soldier.”
She led the way down the steps, and she didn’t offer to help him. He liked that about her—that she didn’t act as if she even noticed that he was incapacitated. Unless he was about to fall on his face.
Everything was working pretty well at the moment, though. Some pain. Not too bad. He wished he’d dressed up a little. He’d traded the PT outfit for civilian cargo shorts and a blue golf shirt, but no way was he in any kind of league with that dress.
The car was carefully locked away in a wooden building in the backyard, one Doyle had seen a million times and never wondered about.
He followed Meehan in that direction, then abruptly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking back at him.
“Before we get too far along here, I better tell you the boyfriend came by this morning—in case you want to do something about it.”
“Oh, I know,” she said.
“You