But then Eli knocked on her window. Just like a puppy beating his tail, he held the door open for her. “We were worried about you, Miss Charlie. Where’ve you been?”
There was no getting out of it then. Grabbing her purse, she followed the kid inside, muttering, “Being interrogated by Mrs. Fontanne.”
“’Bout what?” Eli asked, pulling out her stool.
Her grumbled answer disappeared when she found food waiting for her. Drumming her fingers against the smooth grain of the polished countertop, Charlie scooped up a bite and began to eat what just might have been the world’s best coleslaw.
It was clear she was in no mood for talking, so Eli fell into conversation with Nathaniel. More specifically, Eli talked while Nathaniel ribbed him.
Relating his excitement over the run they’d made the night before, ignoring Matthew’s glare that now might not be the best time for such a tale, the boy rambled on, finishing with, “…just like goddamn Al Capone.”
Her fork went to the counter, Charlie’s voice full of venom. “Al Capone is a first-rate cocksucker.”
Had she looked up from her plate, she would have found Eli’s jaw hanging open, an instant wicked grin on Nathaniel’s face, and the temper rolling off Matthew hot enough to boil a kettle.
The spatula banged against the griddle, drawing Charlie to glance up to see Matthew growl. “If you’re gonna dress up like a lady, at least pretend to talk like one.”
The way he looked at her, the storm in his eyes—she couldn’t bear to look at it. Charlie considered Matthew’s words, and had to agree she should try harder… until she recognized exactly what he’d said. Matthew didn’t see her as a lady at all—just some faker in a dress.
Face growing red, snapping blue eyes grew big and dangerous. “Now you listen here, Matthew Emerson. That bastard shot me in the gut when I was hardly more than a child. If I want to use strong language to describe that piece of shit, I fucking will.” Charlie slammed money on the counter, barking, “Keep the goddamn change.”
* * *
When she’d stormed out, Matthew moved to follow.
Nathaniel grabbed his arm, warning, “Worked up as she is, she’ll probably take a swing at you. Leave her be.” Nathaniel dusted some crumbs off the counter and reached for the remainder of Charlie’s uneaten sandwich. After taking a huge bite, he added, “And there ain’t no point bein’ mad at her. After all, you’re the one who just insulted the girl.”
Matthew looked askance at his brother. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see she’s trying real hard to play the part and learn how to behave? Then your loud mouth pointed out how terrible she is at it. I would be mighty surprised if she ever came back, you jackass.”
This was not his fault; it was Nathaniel and his mouth. “You’re a bad influence on her.”
His brother grabbed his jar and walked away, grumbling, “Pull your head out of your ass. Charlie just wants to be herself for a few hours now and then.”
Eli stepped forward. “What’s she talkin’ about Al Capone?”
Both brothers snapped in unison, “Shut up, Eli.”
He didn’t speak more than two words the rest of the night, relieved when the roadhouse shut down and his kin left for their home.
Lying back in bed, Matthew contemplated the cracks in the plaster ceiling over his bed. All day long, he’d felt the unwelcome impulse that came whenever Charlie was near, but worse. She sure had looked upset when she’d left—not the tears and trembling lips women usually sported when angry—no, she looked just about ready to castrate him.
Sauntering into the grill, filling the room up with the smell of female things and infectious laughter—it had been driving him crazy nigh on nine weeks. She ignored him; he’d recognized that from the beginning, Charlie preferring the coarse language and improper jokes of his older brother. And that bastard ju
st egged her on. On Saturdays, Matthew’s attention would continuously dart to the clock to see if it was noontime yet. He’d set a routine so something hot was ready for her just as she arrived. That way, the distraction was handled and he could get back to work.
Then she had to go and be late. Not only late, but sullen, completely lacking enthusiasm as she picked at her food. He’d spent two hours making that damn chicken salad the night before, had to hide it from his jackass brother and Eli so they wouldn’t eat his mother’s famous recipe before she got to try it.
Then there was the strange obsession he had with watching her mouth as she ate, looking for the scar he knew she had hidden under the red paint on her bottom lip. The way sometimes just a hint of her smile would appear as some random thought passed through her head. Her talk of the county, of all the things she spent her days discovering—it fascinated him. Charlie made his hometown sound like a foreign kingdom. He’d heard her describe three different creeks as if they were all completely unique, was certain from the way her eyes grew languid that she’d stood in them barefoot—maybe even bathed when no one was looking.
Matthew clutched at the quilt and remembered again how soft her hand had been when he foolishly brushed her knuckles and made her uncomfortable all those months ago, the blue dress he’d seen her wear a couple times that showed just a hint of the top of her bosom. She’d been wearing the same dress again that afternoon, its pop of color catching his eye when she unbuttoned her stylish coat and hung it by the door—the same coat Charlie had left behind when she’d stormed out.
Grumbling to himself, Matthew nodded. In a few days if she hadn’t come back to retrieve it, he would take it to town and return it to her. She’d come get it though; it was starting to get cold. With that final thought, Matthew closed his eyes and sleep found him easy.
Chapter 4
Charlie never came for the coat.