She Drives Me Crazy Page 8

  Sex, sex and sex again. That’s what it all came down to. If he’d stayed in that house another minute, the subject would have come up. And sex was one thing he could not talk about with Emma Jean Frasier. At least not without being sorely tempted to find the nearest flat surface and fully explore the meaning of the word with her in every position known to man. Plus a dozen yet to be invented.

  He shook his head in disgust. He obviously needed to get laid. Preferably by someone who didn’t list her proficiency with various coital positions on her résumé.

  Then he snorted. “It’s bullshit. If she’s a porn star, I’ll prance up Market Street in those spike-heeled shoes of hers.”

  No, there had to be another explanation for the stories flying around town. Had to be. And once he got a firm grip on his libido again, he’d find out what it was.

  In the meantime, there was her car to deal with. Grabbing his cell phone, he hit one of the speed dial buttons. “Virg, can you meet me down in the parking lot of the grocery store?” he asked when a familiar voice answered.

  “Sure,” his cousin said. “Can I finish my hot dog first?”

  “Hot dog. Minnie working tonight?”

  “Uh-huh. Third weekend in a row.” Virg tsked in disgust. “That skunk boss of hers tells her if she wants to be head cook on Sundays, when the regular guy’s off, she has to bounce at the door every Friday and Saturday night.”

  Minnie had recently moved up from bouncer to cook’s assistant at the Junctionville Tavern. After she and Virg got married, she’d put her foot down saying it wasn’t seemly for a bride to be physically tossin’ drunks out of bars. Her boss had apparently found a way to finagle her back where he wanted her.

  “If she didn’t have her heart set on getting a job as head cook somewhere, I’d make her quit,” Virgil continued.

  He’d make her quit. Yeah. Right. Virgil Walker would be able to make his two hundred and fifty-pound wife, Minnie, do something on the same day Johnny made snow fall in July. Still, he might be able to sweet-talk her into it. They were disgustingly cooey with each other.

  “Okay, meet me by the red convertible parked right in front of the store in about a half hour,” Johnny said.

  Virg audibly chewed a mouthful of his dinner. Johnny knew without asking that the hot dog was smothered with onions and mayonnaise. A disgusting combination if ever there was one, but that’d been Virgil’s favorite meal since childhood.

  “Red convertible,” Virg finally said. “You mean the porn star’s car?”

  Johnny winced. “She’s not…just meet me there, Virg.”

  He cut the connection before his cousin could answer, then headed back downtown. When he arrived at the store, he pulled into the parking lot next to Emma’s car. Before cutting the engine, he opened the window. Johnny sat back, watching the last of the evening shoppers pushing their carts inside. It’d be closing soon, right around the time the town of Joyful rolled up its sidewalks for the night.

  “Hey, Johnny,” he heard from outside. Glancing up, he saw Claire Deveaux, the harried woman whose little girl’s spill had caused such a fuss earlier. Claire was walking toward the store, a frown on her pretty brow.

  “Hiya, Claire. Didn’t finish your shopping earlier, huh?”

  She grimaced. “I tried to clean Eve up in the bathroom, but she was a mess. I had to leave an entire cart full of groceries behind and take her home. I bet those twits didn’t even have the sense to put the ice cream back in the freezer case.”

  He snorted. “Better hope they did. Otherwise they’ll want you to pay for it. Where’s the baby?”

  “Home with her daddy. Probably telling him for the tenth time about how mama wasn’t paying close enough attention so she spilled her juice on her fave-o-rite top.” She sighed, sounding amused, yet weary. “Daddies and their little girls.”

  He wasn’t much of an expert on either one, not being a daddy, and ever having had one to speak of. At least not one he wanted to acknowledge.

  “So, I hear you scooped up the porn star and carried her out after she fell.” Claire nibbled the corner of her lip. Johnny couldn’t tell whether she was embarrassed, amused or disappointed because she’d missed the spectacle.

  “She’s not a…look, Claire, it was Emma Jean who fell.”

  Claire’s mouth fell open far enough for him to count the fillings in her teeth. “Emma Jean Frasier? Good lord, why didn’t she call me and tell me she was coming?” She peeked into the car as if expecting to find Emma inside. “Where is she?”

  Johnny now remembered that Claire and Emma had been close friends in high school. “I dropped her off at her grandmother’s house. She twisted her ankle, but she’ll be okay.”

  “Emma Jean,” Claire murmured again, and a soft smile crossed her lips. “I haven’t seen her in…oh…ten years.”

  Johnny nodded and murmured, “Prom night.”

  A soft flush rose in Claire’s cheeks, and her eyes widened. She stared at Johnny, obviously remembering. “Oh, my goodness, that’s right.” Then she began to smile. “And just think, you were here to save her this afternoon. Again. You do always seem to be in the right place at the right time to take care of Emma Jean, don’t you, Johnny?”

  Yeah, but, she’d better not get used to it. He was done taking care of Emma Jean. He had enough people to take care of in his life. The last thing he wanted was to be needed by a woman he’d once wanted with every ounce of his body.

  From now on, she was on her own.

  “Well, I’d better run,” Claire said as she glanced toward her watch. “Store closes soon, and I’ve got to get home and feed my family. I don’t guess you or Emma Jean got to finish your shopping either?” She looked down, sheepishly. “I still feel awful about that. If you see Em, tell her I’ll come by soon to apologize and catch up on old times, okay?”

  He wouldn’t be seeing her. No doubt about it. But he merely shrugged, then bid Claire goodbye.

  True to his word, Virgil came strolling up Market Street right on time. Virgil, two years younger than Johnny, was one of the Bransom-Walkers. Meaning, his mother, a rather well-liked member of the Bransom family, had married a no-account Walker thirty-odd years ago. Their offspring were marginally more respectable than the plain old Smith-Walkers, such as Johnny and Nick. Their own mother hadn’t been much higher on the socioeconomic scale than their father, though Johnny was the first to admit she was pretty much a saint in their eyes.

  Virgil didn’t mind the Walker prejudice. He’d never aspired to do much more than tinker with his junkyard-bound hot rod, work as a handyman doing odd jobs and have a happy marriage with his wife, Minnie. Since he came from another side of the Walker family—one that seemed to have escaped the bad-marriage curse that had affected Johnny’s—he might actually have a shot at achieving his dreams.

  Virg didn’t much look like a Walker, except for his dark blue eyes. He stood a good six inches shorter than Johnny and weighed forty pounds more. Still, Johnny had always considered Virgil as much of a brother as Nick.

  “This the porn star’s car?” Virgil asked.

  Getting out of his car, Johnny shot Virg the kind of quelling look that had been known to make even Sheriff Brady watch his mouth. “She’s not a porn star. The car belongs to Emma Frasier. I told her I’d get somebody to bring it over to her grandma’s house because she hurt herself and couldn’t drive.”

  Virgil whistled. “So, Emma Jean Frasier’s the porn star? The woman in the thong underwear who slipped in All-Tempa-Cheer and fell in the store today is Miss Emmajean’s granddaughter?”

  “Thong underwear?” Johnny bit out.

  Virg nodded. “Black and tan. Jungle pattern. Leopard spots.”

  Johnny rolled his eyes even as he gulped at the sudden visual of Emma Jean’s underclothes. “Nobody saw her underwear, Virg. Spots, jungle or anything else.”

  “Tom Terry said…”

  “Tom Terry is a nasty old reprobate who plays pocket hockey looking at the mannequins in the
window of the dress shop. You gonna believe him? Or me, your flesh-and-blood relative, who was standin’ closer to her than anyone when she fell?”

  Virgil looked disappointed.

  “And she’s not a porn star.”

  Virgil’s disappointed expression grew more sad. “You sure?”

  He nodded. “You remember her, Virg. Do you seriously think she could have left Joyful and gone off to make adult movies?”

  Virgil glanced into the distance, smiling like a man reminiscing over a particularly fine meal or a good cigar. “Oh, yeah, she coulda.”

  Virgil was saved Johnny’s fist in his gut by virtue of their blood kinship. “I don’t mean physically,” Johnny snapped. “Do you think the hoity-toity daughter of some rich people who live overseas would star in stag films?”

  “They’re not all stag films,” Virgil argued. “Some are really art. Sleepless With A Paddle shoulda won an Oscar.”

  Johnny didn’t even ask.

  “Virg, will you just drive the damn car over to the Frasier house? I’ll follow you and give you a ride home.”

  Virgil looked like he wanted to argue about it, but shrugged and got into the convertible instead. “She’s got long legs,” he said as he bent down to adjust the driver’s seat forward. “Porn stars always have long legs.”

  “And the village idiot always gets the crap beat out of him for not shutting up when he’s talking too much.”

  Emma Jean was not a porn star. Period.

  His cousin gave him a sly grin. “Touchy, touchy.”

  Johnny didn’t say another word as he tossed Virg the keys, then got into his SUV. He followed the sporty red car over to Emma’s house, tapped the horn briefly to let her know they’d arrived and waited while Virgil sauntered down the driveway.

  “You left the keys in the sun visor?” he asked as Virg opened the passenger side door.

  His cousin nodded. “I can always mosey on up to the front door and hand them over to her. Maybe even step in for a visit.”

  “Get in the car, Virg.” Johnny frowned, recognizing his cousin’s amused expression. Virgil was ragging on him. Which meant Johnny hadn’t been very discreet about his interest in Emma. Something he’d have to remedy immediately.

  Virgil shrugged, then hoisted himself into the SUV. “She still as pretty as she was back in high school?”

  “Prettier,” Johnny admitted.

  Emma Jean as a teenager had been just about the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. She’d been a sunshiny angel, in looks and personality. But now, she was a woman. She was an all-grown, all-seductive, all-knowing female. Her eyes held knowledge now. Knowledge, and challenge. Her body was riper, more inviting. Her face smoother and less vulnerable, yet still perfectly angled with that creamy complexion and dimpled smile.

  Pretty was insipid, like violets and rainbows and sappy crap like that. Pretty didn’t come close to describing the woman Emma had become. Now she was stunning.

  Virg continued. “And you rescued her again, huh? Picked her up and carried her on outta there like the Prince Charming you played on prom night?”

  His cousin had been a junior at Joyful High School and had attended the infamous prom. No way could Johnny feign ignorance. “Can we not talk about this?”

  “Sure,” Virgil said with a chuckle. “Wish I’da seen her, though. I bet I could place her.”

  Almost afraid to ask, Johnny said, “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Virgil said, with a raised brow that warned he was intentionally going to say something provoking. “Minnie did get me that ‘special’ movie subscription for our anniversary. If I see Emma Jean, maybe I’ll recognize her from Banging Private Ryan, or Lord of the Cock Rings.”

  Johnny’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until they went white. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he said, “Virg, another word and you’re never gonna give Minnie those kids she wants. You hear me? You say one more thing about Emma Jean Frasier and I swear to God you’ll be eating your balls for breakfast.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE WAS NOTHING to eat for breakfast. The fruit from the basket Mayor Boyd had left had served as late lunch, dinner and midnight snack last night. This morning, though, rejuvenated after a good night’s sleep in her old bed, Emma was starving.

  She’d had enough money to buy coffee and necessities at the store yesterday, which was why she’d stopped. Her shopping had obviously been interrupted. So today she was desperate. She wasn’t picky—lord knew she wouldn’t be getting her standard double mocha cappuccino from her favorite trendy little coffee shop on Fifth Avenue anytime soon. Right now, though, she’d give her right arm for a cup of Maxwell House. Instant.

  A quick glance through her grandmother’s pantry revealed a few dusty old cans of vegetables, but nothing that could pass for caffeine. She needed something strong to wash down the aspirin she intended to take for her still slightly sore ankle.

  Then she spied the big coffee can on the top shelf of the pantry, nearly hidden behind a spice rack. Saying a quick prayer that it was sealed, she stood up on tiptoe. Emma shifted to keep her weight off her sore foot as she reached for it, balancing herself on her grandmother’s old cane, which she’d found in the hall closet. She hadn’t let herself focus on the smoothness of the cane against her palm. It hurt too much to think about Emmajean’s strong but tired hand wrapped around it.

  “Oh, please, please be unopened,” she whispered. “Or at least not moldy.” If the can had even a few coffee grounds left in the bottom, she was desperate enough to brew it up.

  Her fingers brushed the metal surface of the container, and she cajoled it within reach by poking at it through the shelf grating. When she finally lifted the can and tested its weight, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Something was inside, judging by a slight jingle, but it definitely did not contain coffee. Then she pulled off the plastic lid, and began to do a little laughing and a little crying.

  Grandma Emmajean’s pin money. She’d forgotten all about it. But like pennies from heaven, here it was. The can held lots of bills, mostly ones and fives. Enough cash to get her through until she could find a job.

  Two jobs, really. She’d need one here in town to get her through the next couple of months until the scandal died down. Right now, she and all her former co-workers were persona non grata in the financial world. She had a better chance of becoming Miss Universe than of getting in with another large New York brokerage.

  So she’d stay here in Joyful for a while, finding some easy little job to pay her bills, which wouldn’t be bad since the house was hers, free and clear. She could spend the summer regrouping, sending out résumés back in the real world—her world—and planning a new course for her future. Without ever, hopefully, having to ask her parents—particularly her mother—for a thing.

  They’d be furious when they found out. If they found out. But it was worth the risk. She couldn’t stand the thought of them stepping in to try to “help” her. Translation: trying to retake control of her life, as they’d tried to do last year after her accident.

  She loved them. But a pushier, more smothering couple she’d never met. As their only child, she’d been the one smothered for years. At least until Grandma Emmajean had stepped in to support Emma when she’d taken a stand at the age of seventeen and demanded the freedom to decide where she’d go to school.

  “Thank you, Grandma, for being there for me again,” she whispered with a smile, staring at the cash. “Now, if only Joyful had restaurants that delivered Cheerios, we’d be in good shape.”

  Unfortunately, she suspected there weren’t any cereal deliverymen in Joyful. If she wanted breakfast, she was going to have to drive for it.

  Before she could go back to her room to dress, she heard a knock at the front door. Since it was only 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday, she couldn’t imagine who’d be stopping by. Then she remembered what it had been like living here, where neighbors knew one another’s first names. On many a Saturday, one of
her grandmother’s friends would pop in with a basket of muffins and a cheerful “good morning.” She smiled, touched that someone had heard she was back and had come to welcome her home.

  It wasn’t one of her grandmother’s neighbors or friends.

  “Oh, no,” she said when she opened the door and saw Johnny on the porch.

  “That’s a nice way to greet a person bearing food.”

  Eyeing the paper grocery sack he held in the crook of one arm, she raised a brow.

  “And coffee,” he added.

  Almost cooing in relief, she reached for the smaller bag in his other hand. He glanced at her cane. “I’ve got it.”

  Stepping back to let him in, she inhaled, catching a whiff of the coffee. It was almost good enough to make her forget she was still wearing the raggedy shorts and T-shirt she’d put on for bed. They went well with the mass of tangled hair she hadn’t yet gotten around to brushing.

  “Hmm, I take it you’re not a morning person?” He didn’t even try to hide his amusement.

  Bleary-eyed, she couldn’t even take offense as she slowly led him into the bright and sunny kitchen. “For coffee, I’ll forget that I’m not exactly at my best.” She sat at the butcher block table and watched him remove two large foam cups of coffee, as well as creamer and sugar, from the bag. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  Grabbing a handful of napkins, he reached into the larger bag and pulled out a few more items. Finally he smiled and showed her a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. “I figured you were stopping at the store last night to get supplies before you were…interrupted. So I picked up some things to tide you over.”

  She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised he’d shown up at her door, bringing her exactly what she needed. He had a track record of doing just that: flowers on prom night, coffee and toilet paper today. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she murmured, “This was very nice of you. I’d almost decided to try to drive down to the store.”