belonged. Rut she hesitated with indecision in the same halting way that she stuttered in speech. No action was less frightening than action. It seemed every time she acted on impulse or emotion, she had chosen the wrong path. She always had to remind herself to think before she acted, just as she had to think before she spoke. It was her bad luck that her husband was a man deeply involved in his own agenda and who had little time or interest in her problems.
If she had told her family about her thoughts of leaving Davis because he did not deliver her mail, they would have said she was a pampered fool. They would have suggested she stay and grow to love him while learning to overlook his flaws. After five years, Anna sometimes felt as if all her energy had been spent on swimming through the rocky shoals of her marriage. If she did not act, and soon, it would be only a matter of time before she drowned.
Driving past the five buildings that framed the college grounds, Anna took a deep breath and tried to convince herself one more time that everything was all right. She was letting her thoughts run away with her. But she was no longer the schoolgirl Davis brought home to Clifton Creek.
This part of town always welcomed her with its large trees and neatly trimmed grounds. Davis had told her the locals started the college when one of Clifton Creek's first settlers donated his huge home. For years the entire teachers college had operated out of the one building. Dorms, a gym, other classrooms designed in the same aging brick structure, had grown up around the old home.
Anna thought the campus was the only place for miles that anyone might call pretty. She would like to put the area on canvas, a view peeping through the colors of fall to the hundred-year-old home that must have been a mansion in its time.
She slowed. Maybe she would paint it in the violets of sunset, if she could catch the twilight just right. Here, its beauty tiptoed quickly, never overwhelming as it had back home. She would have to work hard to catch the uniqueness of the mansion on canvas.
As Anna passed, a few students hurried from their cars to their early classes, paying little more attention to the traffic than the squirrels did. She noticed a long-legged woman dressed in western clothes crawl out of a Dumpster with a box in each hand.
Anna did not need to hear the woman's words. The look of someone swearing was the same in any language. Anna turned away, not wanting to be a part of another's troubles.
'Damn, damn, and double damn,' Randi Howard mumbled as she tossed the boxes in the back of her Jeep. She'd fought like a warrior inside that Dumpster to claim the boxes and both of them smelled like cheap whiskey and hot sauce.
Any clothes she packed in them would reek of the same, but at least she would be seeing this town in her rearview mirror. She thought briefly of packing all her junk in trash bags, but somehow boxes seemed more dignified. She should have invested in some of those fine packing boxes sold by moving companies. As many times as she had moved over the years, she would have worn the boxes out.
Randi climbed into her Jeep and headed back to the trailer park. The sky clouded up as if it might rain, but she planned to be long gone before she got caught in a storm.
She waved as she passed Frankie's Bar thinking of the good times and the bad times she had had there, and wondered about the times she had forgotten to remember the next morning.
She thought of the old adage that said we only regret the things we didn't do. Randi knew it wasn't true. The possibility of regret usually fired her into action. She recalled how she could not wait to get a tattoo on her ankle so she could talk about how sorry she was for doing such a foolish thing. The remorse had been so complete she had added a butterfly to her butt.
When Randi drove by the Y she noticed Crystal Howard jogging around the track on the roof. In days past Randi might have honked, or yelled, but lately she seldom talked to Crystal. Even though they were married to kin, they didn't travel in the same circles anymore.
There had been a time when Frankie's Bar didn't come to life each night until Randi and Crystal stepped through the door. Most evenings they wouldn't have to buy a single drink.
But that was before Crystal had married Shelby Howard, an old oilman with a huge house just outside of town and the dozen oil wells pumping nothing but money. A few weeks later Randi had married his nephew, Jimmy, settling for the younger, poorer Howard. He'd been a good husband and, for a while, a good lover, but like everything else in Randi's life, she figured it was time to run before he yelled 'Last call.'
The thought of starting over at thirty-three was frightening and she wasn't getting any younger. It was time she left Jimmy to follow her dreams.
That was one thing Randi decided she was proud of-no man had ever left her. She'd never given them the chance. When Jimmy got home tonight, he'd wonder where she was for a while or, more likely, where his supper was. Then he'd check the closet and notice she'd moved on.
She doubted he'd even try to find her and knew he wouldn't take off work to come after her. In a few years, if they crossed paths, they'd remember the good times and laugh. It hadn't been a bad marriage, just one that had ended, as everything does. Seems like most folks thought their relationships were going either forward or backward. Randi felt hers and Jimmy's had just got stuck in neutral. They had some good times. They had some bad times. Now was just the goodbye time.
Randi glanced in her rearview mirror at Crystal. She would have liked to have said goodbye, but that would just complicate things, and Randi had to get busy and untangle her life.
Crystal Howard watched the familiar red Jeep turn into the trailer park gate as she circled the west end of the running track. She lifted her hand to wave, then reconsidered. It was almost eight o'clock. Randi must be running late for work. If Crystal had caught her attention and she had backed up to talk, even for a few minutes, there would be trouble with her boss at the plant.
Slowing to a walk, Crystal began her cool down. Randi would only have told Crystal how lucky she was, no longer having to punch a time clock. Crystal would agree, letting Randi believe that at least one of them was living the dream of marrying rich. Randi didn't need to know about the pain of the cosmetic surgeries, or the two-hour workout each morning, or the overwhelming feeling of living in a world where she didn't belong.
Crystal grabbed her water bottle and sat down on the club's only lawn chair. She told herself that Shelby made her life bearable in this town. Shelby would pick her up and dance around the room with her, yelling that he had the prettiest girl in town. Then, she would forget about the surgeries and the workouts.
He might be thirty years older than she was, but he knew how to make her feel special. He told her once he didn't care about all the other men she had in her life just as long as he was the last.
A breeze cooled the thin layer of sweat on her skin. Crystal shivered. She would be glad when this day was over. There was an uneasiness about it. Shelby would laugh at her if she mentioned her feelings, but she sensed calamity rumbling in with the upcoming storm.
In the early oil boom days of Clifton Creek, Texas, a bell was erected on the courthouse porch. When an accident happened in the oil fields the bell sounded and, within minutes, was echoed by churches and schools. Silently, the children would pack their books and head home…past the clanging… past men rushing to help.
They did not need to be told. They knew. Someone's father, someone's husband, someone's son was dead amid the manmade forest of rigs.
Anna Montano cleared away the breakfast dishes and poured herself the last of the coffee. She collected the letters she had picked up a few hours before and relaxed, finally having time to read. From her perch on a kitchen bar stool she could see all of what Davis called 'the company space' in their home. The great room with its wide entry area at the front door and ten-foot fireplace along the north wall. An open dining room filled with an oversize table and ornate chairs, never used except when Davis paid the bills. And the breakfast nook, almost covered over in plants, where she ate most of her meals, alone.
Carlo's familiar honk rattled the morning calm. In the five years they had been in America, Carlo had become more and more Davis's foreman and less her brother. She had grown used to him walking past her to speak to Davis, or inviting her husband to go somewhere without including her.