THE BEST MAN IN TEXAS Page 6

  "Delia's doing just fine, keeping busy with family things," was all Georgia said—to her card group, her friends at church and to Lily May when she got her hair done, as she did every Saturday.

  "Women do strange things when their husbands leave 'em. That's the truth," Lily May agreed. "Next thing you know Delia will be piercing her body parts, and not just her tongue, either, if you know what I mean."

  Georgia didn't even want to think about it. After she was washed, curled, dried and sprayed, she headed right over to Lincoln Street

  . She turned her back on the For Sale sign on Delia's front lawn and headed up Annie's driveway instead. There was no sense living in the past, as much as she preferred the days when her daughter was normal.

  "We have to do something," she announced, when Annie opened the kitchen door. "I can't stand another day of this."

  "I know, I know," Annie said. "Come on in. You want iced tea or a gin and tonic?"

  "I'd better stick with tea, thanks." She sat in her friend's kitchen and rested her arms on the table. "'What can I do?"

  "I don't think you can do anything, Georgia. Delia's a grown woman with a mind of her own." Annie put the drink in front of her. "Your hair looks nice. You just get it done?"

  "Yes. Lily May had quite a bit to say this morning."

  "You shouldn't pay any attention to her. She's always sniffing around for gossip. You want a sandwich? I was just going to make lunch."

  "I'm not sure I can eat."

  "Sure you can. And then we'll buy Delia a nice housewarming present and we'll go over and see that place for ourselves. Maybe it's not as bad as you think it is, now that she's been cleaning."

  "It's bad, Annie. Real bad. You know how Horatio was. I'm surprised he didn't die of food poisoning. You wouldn't believe how bad that place smelled. I heard Delia's been to Wal-Mart three times for air fresheners."

  "Well, that's good."

  "Good?"

  "Sure. It means she's making the place nice. Maybe it won't be as bad as you think."

  "Oh, it will be, Annie. Trust me."

  It turned out that Georgia was right, because as they drove into the trailer park development, she heard Annie gasp at the sight of Horatio's trailer.

  "I told you so," Georgia said. "The rest of this place isn't bad, but this?" She gestured toward the rusted chrome-colored trailer. "This is beyond imagination."

  And the people walking between bulging garbage bags to get to the trailer's door were an odd crew, too. A tall dark-haired man pushed a stroller and an older woman with gray-streaked blond hair held the hand of a little boy and carried a plate covered with tinfoil. Clearly Delia's neighbors were about to make a call.

  "Looks like she has company," Annie said, when Georgia pulled the car onto the side of the road. There was no room in the drive, not with Horatio's old Buick and Delia's car. There wasn't going to be any room inside the trailer, either, not if the little family knocking at the door were invited in.

  "I was hoping she'd have come to her senses by now." She turned off the engine and reached beside her for the plant Annie had insisted on bringing as a housewarming gift.

  "It's so nice that her neighbors are—oh, my."

  "What?" She'd forgotten to unbuckle her seat belt, damn it. She fussed with it until the latch opened, and then managed to get the strap away from her shoulder.

  "Those are the Browns," Annie whispered. "Look." Georgia looked, all right, the plant forgotten on the seat of the car. She had to squint a bit, but sure enough, she recognized a Brown when she saw one. Tall, lean, with dark hair and what some would call a handsome face, that was J.C. Brown, all right. And the woman was probably his mother, though that was just a guess on her part.

  "I didn't know J.C. had kids." Annie stepped out of the car and smoothed her blouse over her slacks.

  "I'll bet you fifty dollars that those aren't his. They have some nerve, parading that husband-stealing woman's children in front of my daughter."

  "Oh, Georgia, Betty would never do anything like that."

  "She's doing it, isn't she?" She started across the grass toward the trailer door when she saw J.C. knock on it. "You'd think they'd have the decency to leave her alone."

  "Maybe they want to apologize," Annie whispered, hurrying to catch up. "They're carrying food."

  "It'll take more than food to make Delia better," Georgia muttered. For the first time in her life she wished she carried a rifle. She could have pointed it at that herd of Browns and ordered them off her property Betty Brown turned toward her and gave her a hesitant smile.

  She should look nervous, Georgia thought. Because she'd protect her daughter from these people right down to her last breath. She opened her mouth to say so, but just then Delia opened the trailer door.

  "Well, this is a surprise," she said.

  No kidding. Georgia had to press her lips together to keep from screaming.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  «^»

  Any thoughts about being a hermit went right out of Delia's head the minute she opened the door and saw the people awkwardly gathering at the bottom of the steps.

  Joe, taking a chubby baby out of its stroller, was the only one not staring at her with embarrassment or shock. Even Annie looked a little nervous, though she held out a flowering purple plant and said, "Congratulations on your new home!"

  Georgia looked at Annie as if she'd lost her mind, then turned back to Delia, who pushed open the door. "Good morning, dear. We came to take you to lunch."

  "This is a nice surprise," she said, trying to sound as if the Balls and the Browns gathered together every Saturday morning. "Thanks, Annie, that's really nice of you," she said, taking the plant. "Come on in. Everybody, come in."

  "Maybe this is a bad time," Joe said, after he managed to tuck the squirming baby against his chest. She wore a pink sunsuit, a matching wide-brimmed cotton hat and her little fists pounded her uncle's white T-shirt. Delia sighed and resisted the urge to ask to hold her.

  "No, it's a good time," Delia lied, wishing she wasn't dressed in bleach-stained shorts and a navy tank top. The plump woman next to Joe, holding Hank's hand, must be his mother, though they shared no resemblance. Joe's mother was short, plump and pale and she looked determined to say hello. Hank carried a foil-wrapped plate obviously meant as another gift of food. "It's fine. Really."

  "Delia," Joe said, looking up at her with amusement. "I don't think you've met my mother, Betty Brown—"

  "Hi, there, dear. We'll come back another day to visit," Joe's mother said. "We just wanted to bring you a little something to eat, that's all, Mrs. Drummond." She took the plate from Hank and handed it up to Delia. "It's nothing fancy, only fried chicken and potato salad. I'm sure you haven't had much time to cook, not with all the cleaning you've been doing."

  "That's true, thank you. Please, call me Delia. Do you know my mother, Georgia Ball and her friend Annie Belmont?" Hank scurried up the steps and hurried past Delia to claim his spot on the couch.

  It was Annie who sweetly said, "Oh, Betty and I go way back. But I'll bet it's been years since we've actually done more than smile and wave when we see each other in town. How are you, Betty? Do you still volunteer at the library?"

  "Not for years," Joe's mother said. "It got to be too much for me."

  "I have iced tea made," Delia offered, ignoring her mother's look of horror as she surveyed the pile of garbage bags in the yard. "Mom, are you coming in?"

  "Is there room?" Georgia wasn't joking, but she was the first one up the steps. She clearly remembered what the inside of the trailer had looked like.

  "Of course," Delia said, setting the plate and the plant on the counter as her gusts field into the living area. "I've been cleaning. Didn't you see all the garbage bags out there?"

  "Well, yes," Georgia replied. "Are you sure you're ready to have company?"

  "I bought paper cups and new ice cube trays yesterday." She could easily give everyone a cold drink and pass around
the remaining brownies, though she'd eaten the last of the chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.

  "I was real sorry to hear about Horatio," Joe's mother said to Georgia, who was busy sniffing the air like a hound dog looking for something to track. "He was a good neighbor. Quiet."

  "My uncle kept to himself," Georgia said. "I guess that's how he liked it. It smells better in here today, Delia. Not so oniony."

  "I've really been busy cleaning," Delia said.

  "Horatio wasn't much for soap and water." Mrs. Brown nodded. "I bet he'd be glad to know that someone in his family is living here now and taking good care of his place."

  "My daughter," Georgia said, "is not living here. My daughter is going to come to her senses soon enough and move back to town."

  Delia managed to thrust a drink into her mother's hand in hopes that it would distract her. Annie and Joe were discussing the baby, while Hank was sucking his thumb and watching the television, which wasn't turned on.

  "Mrs. Brown?" She gave her a cup of iced tea. "Thank you for the brownies last night. I won't tell you how many I ate."

  "Good for you," she declared. "You just can't go wrong with chocolate. Joe said he got your central air going?"

  "Yes," Delia said, avoiding her mother's curious look. "He even installed an air conditioner in my bedroom."

  "Your bedroom." Georgia's eyebrows rose. "How nice."

  "Yes. I slept like a log." She filled two more cups with ice cubes and tea and moved sideways past her mother so she could bring Annie and Joe their drinks. Mrs. Brown seemed sweet. Whereas Georgia, peering into cupboards and opening drawers, seemed to be looking for something to criticize.

  "Thanks." Joe took the drink. "Sorry we came at a bad time, but my mother can't stop worrying about you."

  Annie sighed. "Delia's mother is the same way."

  "Everyone can stop worrying," Delia said. "I'm enjoying myself. Hank, do you want a drink of water? I don't have anything else but tea, but when I go shopping today I'll get some lemonade."

  "And choc'late milk?"

  "Sure. I'll get that just for you, so whenever you come over you can have some."

  "Okay." Hank gave her a quick smile and then snuggled against his uncle's side.

  It was unfair that Joe looked so good holding that little girl. He shouldn't have, of course. He should have looked ill at ease and awkward as he sat on the couch with Hank's head on his shoulder and the baby in the crook of his arm while he listened to Annie brag about her grandchildren.

  He could be married. Or divorced. He could have children somewhere whom he had walked and burped and fed and changed. And loved. And wherever he lived now, there had to be a woman. Or two. Or more. She didn't know anything about him, not really. His brother had been wild and had died doing some crazy stunt with a car, and his sister was wild in her own way, with two little kids and someone else's husband.

  Those Browns, her mother had said years ago, are nothing but trouble. Well, to look at J.C. Brown now, anyone would think he was Father of the Year.

  And as sexy as hell.

  * * *

  Joe couldn't get back to Delia for almost two hours, not with his mother's knee aching and Hank acting cranky and the baby upset because she was cutting a tooth. Julie was going to pay for this, he decided. When she came back to town his sister was going to take her own kids to a place of her own. He'd loan her money for an apartment and give her a long lecture about responsibility. She'd have to get herself together and start acting like a mother should act.

  He wondered if such a thing was possible, considering Julie's track record. Mom had saved her from being out on the street more than once, had nursed Hank through chicken pox and Julie through her last pregnancy. There hadn't been any men standing in line to take credit for either one of the kids, and Joe didn't think her most recent conquest, Martin Drummond, was the type to be looking to take on two kids that weren't his own.

  He hoped he was wrong, because those little kids deserved a better time of it than what they were getting.

  Joe backed his truck across the dirt road to Delia's trailer and promised himself that he wouldn't knock on the door. He'd toss all those garbage bags into the back of the truck and haul them down to the Dumpster behind the Laundromat. That would be his good deed for the day. He would have liked to ask her out to dinner, but he didn't think there was any way she'd say yes. He wouldn't ask her out anyway, not even if he had the time, no sir. No longer a lovesick teenager, he was just helping out a neighbor.

  Of course it was his bad luck that Delia opened the door right after he arrived. She was dressed for going out, in narrow black Capri pants that showed off her legs and a fitted white top with a wide neckline that plunged to a V between her ample breasts.

  "Joe? What are you doing?"

  "What's it look like?" He was aggravated that she was going out. Probably going somewhere to use that "wild and crazy sex in the pool" suggestion, only this time it would be an invitation to see her trailer.

  "Like you're stealing my garbage."

  He didn't laugh. Her breasts were round and full and high and he wanted nothing more than to drop the bag he held in each hand and head toward Delia, but he managed to turn away and concentrate on dropping the garbage into the truck bed. She wore pink lipstick and black sandals, and she probably had a date with some fine upstanding guy from town.

  "Joe?"

  "Yeah?" He didn't turn around.

  "You're helping me too much."

  "Yeah," he said, hearing her walk down the steps. "But you look like you could use it."

  "I could have taken care of my own garbage. I'm not helpless."

  He turned to look at her again. "You're going somewhere?"

  "A barbecue."

  He leaned against the side of the truck and allowed himself another sweeping examination of her outfit. "Must be a fancy barbecue. You look like you plan to drink four or five daiquiris and invite some guy home."

  "That's not—" Delia hesitated. "There's nothing wrong with the way I'm dressed. And besides, I can take care of myself."

  "Oh, really." She was about as innocent as a bunny in a snake pit.

  "Sure."

  "Do you think you could prance into the Cottonwood dressed like that and not have men coming on to you?"

  "I'm going to a party at a friend's house, not a bar."

  "Doesn't matter where you're going," he informed her. "You look like you want to get laid."

  "I don't know what kind of barbecues you go to, but the ones I go to aren't orgies. And these are perfectly nice clothes."

  "Don't go getting all huffy, Delia. When's the last time you had a date—and Drummond doesn't count."

  Her chin lifted. "Fourteen years. Approximately."

  "Times have changed, sweetheart. You sure you know what you're up against?"

  "Thanks, Pa, but I've read the newspaper once in a while and I know about safe sex and date rape and carrying mace."

  "You're carrying mace?"

  "No. It's a potluck supper. I'm stopping at the grocery store for a fruit platter."

  "Very funny." His gaze swept her face and lower, to the enticing display of cleavage and satiny skin, before returning to her mouth. "You're looking for trouble, aren't you."

  She smiled then. "I told you a few days ago that I need to get a life of my own. My husband told me I was boring, my mother wants me to move back into my childhood bedroom and all I want—" She stopped talking the second he ran his index finger along her jaw and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her earlobe was soft and he let the pad of his thumb graze it, tickling the cluster of little gold bells that comprised one of her earrings.

  "All you want is what?"

  "Freedom."

  "Freedom," he echoed, moving his hand lower, to cup the slender column of her neck. She stood perfectly still, those hazel eyes of hers staring up at him. Oh, he knew he should back away while he still could, but he didn't. Instead Joe bent his head and brushed his lips agains
t hers in the lightest possible motion. "Freedom to do what? This?"

  She didn't answer.

  This time his hands framed her face. He meant to scare her, to make her think about what she was doing, but the plan backfired the instant he felt her lips soften under his. She was warm and sweet and to his surprise she didn't resist when he urged her lips apart. She tasted of lemons and sugar, and he wanted nothing more than to keep kissing her, to claim her mouth and feel the enticing heat of her tongue against his.

  He turned her so her back was against his truck. Her hands moved to his waist and he gently leaned his body into hers. Her breasts were soft against him, her breathing ragged, her heart beating against his chest.

  Joe knew he had to stop this before he swept her onto the ground or hauled her into the trailer or took her standing up against the truck. He forced himself to pull away from her, to lift his head and look down into a pair of stunned hazel eyes and lips that needed to be kissed for ten or twelve hours.

  "I told you," he managed to choke out, though his voice was hoarse.

  "Told me what?" Her hands dropped from his side.

  "Told you that you couldn't take care of yourself. You're going to get in trouble, Delia, so be careful." He felt like the biggest fake in Texas.

  Delia looked up at him, a smile on her lips. "Getting into trouble—" she hesitated, her eyes twinkling "—feels good."

  "That's not what I—"

  "Thank you," she said, giving him a friendly pat on the arm. "But I really can take care of myself."

  Thank you? Joe stepped back and let her move away. She walked up to the steps and disappeared into the trailer. She didn't look back and she didn't say another word to him, so Joe returned to picking up the rest of the garbage bags and figured he'd just made another big mistake.

  * * *

  "I Was Lonely For a While" looked like one of Gin's most promising songs, though Delia wasn't sure she remembered how to read music. There were notations above some of the words. That was enough of an incentive for Delia to pull one of the freshly dusted guitars from the wall and try to remember where to put her fingers on the strings to make the chords sound right. She hadn't played the guitar since she was seventeen, after having taken lessons from Uncle Gin for four years. They'd spent more time playing gin rummy than playing the guitar, she remembered.