“You don’t look forty-five,” he responded, giving her a smile that was genuinely complimentary.
Why his flattery made her feel so alive was a mystery. One she didn’t want to explore. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How old are you?”
“Forty-six. My joints are a little stiff on a cold morning, but if you ever repeat that to anyone, I’ll say you’re full of shit.”
The fact that he could reveal a truth like that and curse at the same time both fascinated and annoyed her. She liked to pride herself on keeping her language clean. There were times when a word slipped out and she rued it, but sometimes nothing better sufficed.
It seemed as if they’d run the gamut of small talk, and Lucy had nothing further to say. She suddenly felt awkward.
“Well…I need to get going.” She stepped away, and yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. They were a compelling hazel that just made her want to melt.
Why, of all the men she’d encountered since her divorce, did this one have to pique her interest? That Jacquie would tear her hair out from the roots if she suspected Lucy was remotely interested.
And besides, a man like Drew was the very last type she’d ever pick for herself. She wanted someone stable and family oriented. A hard worker. Someone who’d be her life partner, who’d rub her feet after a long day and watch a movie with her. In turn, she’d fix him candlelight dinners, put on sexy lingerie and…
Lucy felt her nipples harden and a tingle catch hold of her between her legs. Her plain panties felt tighter, more constricting. She blushed, backed away farther and put a hand out to steady herself, on a display of Idaho wines.
And what did Drew do about that?
He gave her a half grin, walked toward her and took the bottle right out of her hand.
“Good choice. I’ll add it to my wine rack.” Dropping the bottle in his basket, he drawled, “See you around, sugar.”
Lucy couldn’t find the words to reply. She stood there like a lump and watched him retreat, her gaze sliding down to his behind. The man had a firm butt like nobody’s business.
Blinking, Lucy straightened her posture, waited a moment until she was sure he’d gone through the checkout, then dashed to her car and turned the engine over.
Going past the High County Motel’s lounge, she wondered how many stories of Drew Tolman had been traded inside.
Lots and lots…or so she thought.
A man like him would most definitely be the talk of this small town. She didn’t even want to know the half of it.
Four
Dean Martin sang for one night at the High Country Motel’s Celebration Lounge. He’d been vacationing in Timberline without any of the Rat Pack, was feeling no pain, and ended up taking the mike right out of Burt Gunderson’s hands.
Burt had been leaning in to croon a love song to Spin Goodey-Leonard. Sitting straight on the studded leather seat, Spin had been half into her third martini when Dean’s face suddenly came into her view. She’d pushed her rhinestone-rimmed eyeglasses up her nose and focused on him, thought he was dreamy and grabbed his crotch.
It was the last time Spin ever got drunk.
The legend of Dino’s solo that night was retold for many years, and to this day, every once in a while, it surfaced. And always with a more snappy ending. Sometimes Spin and Dino checked into room 69 for some sixty-nine action. Other times, Spin and Dino ran off to Lost Wages and had a secret wedding ceremony—performed by an Elvis impersonator, no less. Once, someone guaranteed that Spin had Dino’s love child. None of it was true, but the story made good entertainment when gossip fell short in Red Duck.
Which, on this particular night, it did not.
Lucy Carpenter’s name floated off the lounge walls, along with the mirrored reflections from the disco ball.
Sheriff Roger Lewis wanted to know more about her, and had just come in, off duty, to sniff out information. Opal Harvey smoked unfiltered cigarettes at the bar, sitting alongside Bud Tremore, who wore a lumberjack’s red flannel shirt.
The sheriff smirked, headed toward the duo and thought to himself, Yahtzee! Just the two people who’d know about Ms. Boy-Zee Carpenter.
Roger had run a little check on her, wanted to see if she had any priors. Nothing. Her record was clean as a whistle. But still, Roger always did a double-detail.
“Bud,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “How’s it going?”
“Good, Roger, and yourself?” Bud Tremore’s middle filled out beyond the cinch of his belt, but he wasn’t portly. Just big. His bald head shone and his shoulders were broad as a barrel. Bud was a decent guy. Straight up. Good citizen.
“Not too bad.” Roger touched the brim of his felt hat. “Opal, how’re you this evening?”
“Sheriff, some some-bitch jimmied the lock to the back of my diner. They didn’t get in, but I’m telling you, they tried.” Her red lipstick was creased on her full lips. “I told Clyde about it, but he said there was nothing he could do. This town—it’s getting out of control.”
Roger ground his back teeth until they ached. Opal could be sweet as apple pie to Drew Tolman, and snippy as cuss to him. Truth be told, Roger once had a thing for Opal, but he’d never let her in on it. She’d been involved with someone else at the time, and when that pooped out, Roger had just met a gal up from Provo and the two of them did a little spooning. But that ended last year.
“Clyde told me, Opal. I’ll come on by your place tomorrow to check it out.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Opal
