My Fair Gentleman

Nate threw up his hands. “Forget the damn cobbler! Jeez, you’re worse than Barb. It’s not like I haven’t tried to lose weight. I have. It’s just that I’ve got this…condition.”

Mary Lou stared. Nate never lost his temper. “What do you mean, condition?”

Looking as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Nate glanced from side to side, then leaned forward. Alarm shot through her.

“I saw a doctor in Dallas,” he confessed grimly. “There’s a problem with my stomach, Mary Lou.”

“Oh, Nate, no.”

“’Fraid so. Something called dunlop disease.”

“Dunlop disease?” She reached for his beefy forearm and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay, Nate. You’ll do what the doctor says and everything will be fine.”

Eyes cast down, he shook his head, his jowls swaying. “Ain’t nothin’ anyone can do. My belly done lopped over my belt, and that’s all there is to it.”

He raised mischievous hazel eyes an instant before he sputtered into laughter. Frank joined in.

Releasing Nate’s arm with a shove, Mary Lou felt her face heat. Gullible to the end, that’s what she was.

Still hooting, Nate pointed a stubby finger. “Got you good that time, honey, didn’t I, Frank?”

Frank met her narrowed gaze and wisely kept quiet.

Stabbing her pencil into her coiled hair, she stacked the men’s empty dishes with clattering force.

Nate sobered. “Aw hell, Mary Lou, I’m sorry for pulling your leg like that. This damn wedding is making me real mean. It’s all Barb nags me about day and night.” He rubbed at a water ring on the counter. “She expects me to be happy, ya know? But the truth is, I’ll miss Cindy somethin’ terrible.”

Mary Lou scooped up the pile of dishes. “Would you like that cobbler now?”

“Guess I’d better not.” He studied her closely and sighed. “Those cat eyes of yours are still hissing mad. I don’t blame you. I can’t expect you to understand what losing a daughter feels like.”

Her fingers slackened. Crockery hit the floor and shattered. Cursing, she lowered her knees to the black and white tiles and stared at the mess. She hadn’t dropped a dish in at least fifteen years.

“You okay?” Nate’s concerned voice drifted over her head.

“I’m fine,” she managed to croak.

“For a minute there, you turned white as a sheet. You see a ghost or somethin’?”

Did a memory qualify? “No. I’m fine,” she repeated, as much for herself as for him.

Grace rushed up, sympathy in her cluck and glee in her eyes. “Would you like me to clean that up, Ms. Denton?”

Mary Lou sent her a wry look. “No, just give Nate and Frank their checks, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Feeling as fractured as the smashed earthenware on the floor, Mary Lou struggled for composure. She’d thought her past safely buried. Yet one innocent comment had unearthed her clawing guilt.

Is she married? Is she a mother? Is she happy?

Not knowing sliced her heart. She bled as much now as thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Time had only changed the questions.

“Here you go, Ms. Denton.”

Blinking, she smoothed back her hair with trembling fingers. Irene had placed a whisk, dustpan and paper bag within reach. Mary Lou slowly began gathering broken shards. Movement flowed unchecked around her—a stream purling around the rock suddenly dropped in its midst. At some point Nate apologized again and left. Grace announced she was going on break.

Mary Lou’s awareness returned by degrees. She dumped the last dish fragments into the paper bag and sank back on her heels. For the tenth time in as many minutes the front door jangled open.

It was him.

She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.

Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.

Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”

“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.

Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.

Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think up an excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.

Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.

“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”

She stopped breathing.

“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”

Thanks a lot, God.

There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.

“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.

A beat of silence. “I just knew.”

Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.

John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.

His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.