Morning Glory

form, concentrating on his narrow hips and swaying pelvis as he ambled along the town square and nodded at Norris and Nat McCready, those two decrepit old bachelor brothers who spent their dotage whittling on the benches across the street. Lula hustled to the screen door and posed behind it. Look over here, Parker, it’s better than them two boring old turds.

But he moved on without glancing toward Vickery’s. Lula grabbed a broom and stepped into the sun, making an ill-disguised pretense of sweeping the sidewalk while watching his flat posterior continue around the square. He left the wagon in the shade of the town hall steps and went inside.

So did Lula. Back into Vickery’s to thrust the broom aside and glance impatiently at the clock. Two-thirty. She drummed her long orange nails across the countertop, plunked herself onto the end stool and waited for five minutes. Agitated. Peeved. Nobody was going to come in here for anything more than a glass of iced tea and she knew it. Not until at least five-thirty. Old Man Vickery would be madder than Cooter Brown if he found out she’d slipped away and left the place untended. But she could tell him she’d run over to the library for a magazine and hadn’t been gone a minute.

Deciding, she twisted off the stool and flung off her three-pointed apron. The matching headpiece followed as she whipped out her compact. A dash of fresh blaze orange on her lips, a check of the seams in her silk stockings and she was out the door.

Gladys Beasley looked up as the door opened a second time that afternoon. Her mouth puckered and her chin tripled.

'Afternoon, Mizz Beasley,' Lula chirped, her voice ringing off the twelve-foot ceiling.

'Shh! Read the sign!'

Lula glanced at the sign on the front of Miss Beasley’s desk: Silence is Golden. 'Oh, sorry,' she whispered, covering her mouth and giggling. She glanced around-ceiling, walls, windows-as if she’d never seen the place before, which wasn’t far from the truth. Lula was the kind of woman who read True Confessions, and Gladys didn’t stoop to using the taxpayers’ money for smut like that. Lula stepped farther inside.

Cleats!

'Shh!'

'Oh, sorry. I’ll tiptoe.'

Will Parker glanced up, scanned Lula disinterestedly and resumed his reading.

The library was U-shaped, wrapped around the entry steps. Miss Beasley’s desk, backed by her private workroom, separated the huge room into two distinct parts. To the right was fiction. To the left nonfiction. Lula had never been on the left where Parker sat now. Remembering about finesse, she moved to the right first, drifting along the shelves, glancing up, then down, as if examining the titles for something interesting. She removed a book bound in emerald green-the exact shade of a dress she’d been eyeing over at Cartersville in the Federated Store. Classy color that’d look swell with her new Tropical Flame nail polish-she spread her hands on the book cover and tipped her head approvingly. She’d have to think up something good to entice Harley to buy that little number for her. She stuck the book back in its slot and moved to another. Melville. Hey, she’d heard of this guy! Must’ve done something swell. But the spine was too wide and the printing too small, so she rammed it back on the shelf and looked further.

Lula finessedher way through a full ten minutes of fiction before finally tiptoeing past Miss Beasley to the other side. She twiddled two fingers as she passed, then clamped her hands at the base of her spine, thrusting her breasts into bold relief.

Gladys tightened her buttocks and followed where Lula had been, pushing in a total of eleven books she’d left beetling over the edges of the shelves.

Lula found the left side arranged much as the right, a spacious room with fanlight windows facing the street. Bookshelves filled the space between the windows and the floor, and covered the remaining three walls. The entire center of the room was taken up by sturdy oak tables and chairs. Lula sidled around the perimeter of the room without so much as peeking at Will. She grazed one fingertip along the edge of a shelf, then sucked it with studied provocativeness. She turned a corner, eased on to where a bank of shelves ran perpendicular to the wall and moved between them, putting herself in profile to Will, should he care to turn his head and see. She clasped her hands at the base of her spine, creating her best silhouette, watching askance to see if he’d glance over. After several minutes, when he hadn’t, she grabbed a biography of Beethoven and, while turning its pages, eyed Will discreetly.

God, was he good looking. And that cowboy hat did things to her insides, the way he wore it low, shadowing his eyes in the glare of the afternoon sun. Still waters,she thought, taken by the way he sat with one finger under a page, so unmoving she wished she were a fly so she could land on his nose. What a nose. Long instead of pug like some she knew. Nice mouth, too. Ooo, would she like to get into that.

He leaned forward to write something and she ran her eyes all over him, down his tapered chest and slim hips to the cowboy boots beneath the table, back up to his crotch. He dropped his pencil and sat back, giving her a clearer profile shot of it.

Lula felt the old itch begin.

He sat there reading his book the way all the 'brains' used to read in school while Lula thought about bettering herself. When she could stand it no longer she took Beethoven over and dropped it on the table across from him.

'This seat taken?' she drawled, inverting her wrists, leaning on the tabletop so that her breast buttons strained. His chin rose slowly. As the brim of the cowboy hat lifted, she got a load of deep brown eyes with lashes as long as spaghetti, and a mouth that old Lula had plenty of plans for.

'No, ma’am,' he answered quietly. Without moving more than his head, he returned to his reading.

'Mind if I sit here?'

'Go ahead.' His attention remained on the book.

'Watcha studyin’?'

'Bees.'

'Hey, how about that! I’m studyin’ B’s, too.' She held up her book. 'Beethoven.' In school she’d liked music, so she pronounced it correctly. 'He wrote music, back when guys wore wigs and stuff, you know?'

Again Will refused to glance up. 'Yeah, I know.'

'Well…' The chair screeched as Lula pulled it out. She flounced down, crossed her legs, opened the book and flapped its pages in rhythm with her wagging calf. 'So. Haven’t seen y’ around. Where y’ been keepin’yourself?'

He perused her noncommittally, wondering if he should bother to answer. Mercy, she was one hard-looking woman. She had so much hair piled onto her forehead it looked as if she could use a neck brace. Her mouth was painted the color of a chili pepper and she wore too much rouge, too high on her cheeks, in too precise a pattern. She overlapped her wrists on the table edge and rested her breasts on them. They jutted, giving him a clearer shot of cleavage. It pleased Will to let her know he didn’t want any.

'Up at Mrs. Dinsmore’s place.'

'Crazy Elly’s? My, my. How is she?' When Will declined to answer, she leaned closer and inquired, 'You know why they call her crazy, don’t you? Did she tell you?' Against his will, he became curious, but it would seem like an offense against Mrs. Dinsmore to encourage Lula, so he remained silent. Lula, however, needed no encouragement. 'They locked her in that house when she was a baby and pulled all the shades down and didn’t let her out until the law forced ’em to-to go to school-and then they only turned her loose six hours a day and locked her up again, nights.' She sat back smugly. 'Ah, so you didn’t know.' Lula smiled knowingly. 'Well, ask her about it sometime. Ask her if she didn’t live in that deserted house down by school. You know-the one with the picket fence around it and the bats flyin’ in the attic window?' Lula leaned closer and added conspiratorially, 'If I were you, I wouldn’t hang around up there at her place any longer than I had to. Give you a bad reputation, if you know what I mean. I mean, that woman ain’t wrapped too tight.' Lula sat back as if in a chaise, letting her eyelids droop, toying absently with the cover of Beethoven, lifting it, letting it drop with soft repeated plops. 'I know it’s tough being new around town. I mean, you must be bored as hell if you have to spend your time in a place like