The Long Hot Summer. Wendy Rosnau
what you want to know, cherie. What you really want to know is if she’ll be safe around me? The answer is, yes. I wouldn’t hurt the old lady, or anyone she cares about. Good enough?”
“If you mean it,” she said bluntly, and left.
Johnny listened to her light footsteps descending the stairs. And once the outside door creaked, he moved to the window to watch her cross the clearing.
Part of the reason the heat was eating her up so badly was that she moved too fast, he decided. In Louisiana, things were best done at half speed. She needed to learn that, if she was ever going to appreciate the tropical heat. He should mention it, but right now wouldn’t do much good—she’d be too busy second-guessing his motives to take a suggestion from him.
The afternoon passed quickly. Before Johnny knew it, the sun had melted into the bayou and he’d spent four hours repairing the dilapidated dock that had been ready to float away in the next windstorm. Now as he walked along the trail in the dark, his thoughts turned to the old lady. He couldn’t put off seeing her any longer, though that’s just what he’d been doing. Why, he didn’t know. Maybe because she was going to look at him long and hard with those knowing blue eyes of hers, and she was going to make him start feeling guilty for leaving fifteen years ago without saying goodbye.
The minute he emerged from the wooded trail and glanced across the driveway, he knew he’d put off seeing her too long. The two-story house was completely dark except for one lone light shining in the left wing. Relieved in a crazy way that made him feel like a vulnerable kid again, he crossed the driveway and ambled toward the big house. He could see the improvements Henry had made over the years. Mae’s late husband had been a handy devil. The courtyard had been enlarged, and there was a swing in the backyard he didn’t remember from when he was a kid. Two more sheds had been built west of the big field. The carport had been extended, and now accommodated not only Mae’s ’79 Buick, but a sleek-looking white Skylark.
Henry had died of a heart attack five years ago. Virgil had written the news to Johnny in the Marines. Johnny hadn’t kept in contact with anyone else in town, but Virgil was a persistent old bird and he had tracked Johnny down years earlier. He had written faithfully over the years. Johnny had never been much of a letter writer, but he’d managed one or two a year, which had suited Virgil just fine.
More than once, Johnny had thought about writing to Mae. But he hadn’t known what to say, so he’d just told Virgil to let her know he was alive. The day he’d received the letter of Henry’s death, for one crazy second he’d wanted to come back for the funeral. But then he’d remembered how hard it had been burying his father, and a few years later his mother, and he had chickened out.
In the sheds, Johnny found old lumber and Henry’s carpentry tools. In the older shed, he found Henry’s tan ’59 Dodge pickup. The memories the pickup resurrected were unexpected. Johnny tucked them away after circling the pickup twice, then wandered back to the house and found a sturdy oak in the front yard to settle against.
While lighting a cigarette, he saw someone pace by the French doors in the left wing of the house. Johnny knew immediately who it was—the blue-eyed bird with the shapely legs and long bangs was easy to spot. Smiling, he slid down the tree to the ground and rested his back against the sturdy oak. He ignored the steady hum of mosquitoes overhead and the distant rumble of thunder. An hour passed, and still he watched her pace the room anxious about something, or someone. Was his arrival keeping her up? It made sense; she must have heard some pretty wild stories about him by now.
By the time she turned out the light and went to bed, it was after midnight, and Johnny had smoked a half-pack of cigarettes. He got to his feet and strolled out the yard and down the driveway. Since leaving Angola he couldn’t get enough fresh air, and, although it was late, he decided to walk to his parents’ old farm.
The thunder continued as he reached Bayou Road and headed east. His pace, however, slowed steadily, his surroundings triggering memories from the past.
Johnny tried to shake them off, but in a matter of seconds he was a kid again, running so fast his lungs felt as if they would explode inside his chest, his bare feet pounding the dirt while Farrel chased after him waving a stick. He could hear Clete Gilmore hollering, calling him ugly names and encouraging Farrel to “Get him!”
As he ran, he could see Jack Oden out of the corner of his eye, could see him gaining on him. More than once Johnny had wished that the gangly kid they all called Stretch had been his friend instead of Farrel’s.
Johnny stopped abruptly. He was breathing fast, as if he’d actually been running. He shook his head, forced the image back into the black hole where it belonged. He started down the road again, this time noticing that the potholes had gotten deeper, the ditches still waterlogged and ripe with decay.
A rusted-out mailbox signaled the farmhouse was just up ahead. He stepped over the rubble that had once claimed to be a sturdy gate, and walked steadily on. His heart rate picked up again, making his chest feel miserably tight. He didn’t want to feel anything, he told himself. Least of all, vulnerable and scared. Lonely. Yet of all the feelings tugging at his insides, those inescapable emotions dominated.
He scaled the porch steps and stopped, his hand poised on the doorknob. He turned the knob—surprisingly it wasn’t locked. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever bleak remains still haunted the old house. Then, after fifteen long years, Johnny opened the door and stepped inside.
The floor creaked just the way it used to, the sharp smell of rotten wood swelling his nostrils in protest. He lit a match and glanced around the empty living room. The place had been ransacked, which couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes—poverty keeping them from owning so much as a picture to hang on the wall.
He turned to his right and held the match toward the kitchen, and when he did, something scurried across the bare wood floor. He shifted his gaze to the shredded curtains at the window, then to the crude set of cupboards, the warped doors all standing open.
He walked past the kitchen and into the little room his parents had designated his. It was barely big enough to fit a mattress on the floor, and to his surprise the old ragged remains were still there, molding in the corner.
Despair overwhelmed him, and Johnny’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, hadn’t wanted any part of the past to intrude on the present. But he was a fool to think that it wouldn’t—there was just too much he had run away from.
The depth of poverty that had kept his family in a choke-hold continued to gnaw at Johnny once he returned to the boathouse. He stood at the window overlooking Belle Bayou, a cigarette cornered in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Not liking his melancholy mood, he willed himself to think of something else. The vision that popped into his head had silky blond hair and sexy blue eyes. Johnny took his time, treated himself to the perfect fantasy.
It was all too wicked and perfect to come true, of course. But a man could dream. And so he did.
Chapter 3
The dream was nasty, and he was in it.
Disgusted with herself, Nicole jerked awake and sat up in bed. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was barely six. She’d grown used to functioning on five hours or less these past few months, tormented by the nightmare she’d left behind in L.A. Last night, however, her thoughts had shifted to the man with the river-bottom drawl and see-to-the-soul eyes.
She told herself it was because of Gran and the unusual situation surrounding Johnny Bernard’s return. But was it? The man had taken her completely by surprise yesterday. He had looked dark and dangerous, yes—but not entirely in the way she had envisioned.
Disgusted that she was giving so much thought to the subject, Nicole wrestled with the rose-colored satin sheets and climbed out of bed. The sticky, warm air inside the room settled against her, and she sighed with the knowledge that she would have to find some way to cope with the heat again today. Her gaze fell on the fan near the end of the bed, and she almost reached out and turned it on. No, if she was ever going to adjust she would