Lady Luck's a Loser (The Apple Orchard Series Book 1) Page 7

  The four pairs huddled to check and recheck. He tried to keep track, but couldn’t. Finally it was all over but the telling.

  “Marge, why don’t we start with you?”

  She nodded. “One hundred and seventy points.”

  “Eighty.” Virginia stated in a low voice.

  “Uh oh.” Audrey shook her head. “Forty-five.”

  Dorothy fought back tears. “Well, I’ve enjoyed the month, you know. Because of the red and the plastic, I only ended up with fifteen points even though I did get everyone their own left-over container. Thought I’d put everyone’s name on them. Of course, I got a red marker among my other red purchases.”

  “Don’t give up just yet, Dot.” Marge passed her a tissue via Audrey. “Someone could’ve even gone in the hole.”

  Holly shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve only got thirty.” She made a pouty face. “That red shirt I bought W. G. cost me fifty points.”

  Charlotte sighed. “Ninety for me, and I just thank the Lord for antiques!”

  Natalie twirled her ponytail. “Sixty.”

  Preston faced Vicki who shook her head. “You know, I thought I was a goner, but even with your stupid rule about spending all of your money, I still have twenty points.” She turned to face the heavy-set woman she’d gotten off to such a bad start with. “Dorothy, may I be the first to say I’m sorry to see you go? I don’t know who’s going to keep us organized. I’ll miss you. I really mean it.”

  Preston extended his hand. “Can I see you in my office?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Journal entry - March 31st

  How in the world can anyone do that to themselves every day? It’s going take me years to forget about how bad I feel right now.

  That next morning, Sunday the last day of March, Marge rolled out of bed at four minutes after four, threw on her robe and hurried to the kitchen. Preston sat at the head of the table sipping coffee. She grabbed a mug and joined him.

  “You sleep at all?”

  “No.”

  “Well don’t be beating yourself over the head, Buck.”

  He smiled. “You remembered. I was beginning to wonder.”

  “I kept forgetting when we were alone. My memory’s not what it used to be.” She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “Anyway, the contest was fair. We all had the same chance.”

  “I know, but I still don’t like it.”

  She started to say more, but instead quietly sat with him while he brooded. After several minutes of watching him watch the wallpaper, she took a sip. Her coffee had grown cold. She pointed at his. “Need a warm-up?”

  He nodded at the refrigerator. “There’s a pint of Jack Daniels in the far corner behind the extra jar of pickles. Irish coffee seems appropriate.”

  She grabbed his cup, found the stashed whiskey, and poured him a fifty-fifty mixture with a dash of sweet cream before his words quit echoing in the cavernous kitchen. He sipped once then took a gulp of the lukewarm mixture. A wicked little grin crossed his full lips. “I thought it poetic that plastic did Dorothy in.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Hard woman. Plastic’s hard.”

  She nodded. “Why, pray tell—if you don’t mind me asking—did you invite her in the first place?”

  He drained his coffee and slid the cup toward her. “When I was thirteen, I spent an afternoon at my great-grandparents’ farm.”

  She took it and headed for the coffee pot. “Go on. I’m listening.” She poured the cup half full then reached for the liquor.

  “A distant cousin I hadn’t seen in years was there. Her name was Rebecca.”

  Marge set the Irish coffee in front of him, got comfortable, then sipped her own. After the second gulp, he smiled then drained the mug again and slid it back to her. She caught it, but didn’t move.

  “While the grownups visited in the house, we were out in the barn.” He glanced at the refrigerator.

  She retraced her steps then set another fresh cup in front of him. After a long pull of the spiked concoction, he smiled. “Dorothy could have been Becky all grown up.” He waved his hand. “That and I liked the shape of her mouth.” He stood, took her mug and his, then strolled to the counter and proceeded to brew another pot. Shortly, he returned with the whiskey, cream, and a carafe. He filled her cup with black coffee then mixed himself another. After a couple of sips, he leaned back. “I still think about that afternoon with Becky sometimes.”

  Marge’s cheeks burned. She looked away.

  He touched her forearm. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, but didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

  He didn’t say anything for more than a minute, then finally chuckled.

  She faced him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “Why not? You thought I was about to tell you some lurid tale of me losing my virginity.”

  “Well, weren’t you?”

  “No. I think about that day a lot because it was a comedy of errors.” He drained his cup, re-mixed another, then smiled a cocky I-fooled-you. “Becky fancied herself a wild bull rider.”

  “A bull rider?”

  “You heard right. She’d been riding some semi-tame, half-grown calves at her grandfather’s, and figured she was ready for the real deal.”

  “You’re both thirteen, and she wants to ride a bull?” Marge leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “She must’ve been a wild child.”

  “Yep.” His head bobbed, then he took another sip. “Said she was ready, so I herded a mean looking yearling into the squeeze chute and threw a rope around it. Keep in mind this was a thousand-pound animal, not a sweet fluffy calf.” He took another long drink then stared off like he could see it all in his mind’s eye.

  “She got astride that beast, but when I opened the gate, she chickened out and grabbed wood.” He shrugged. “I had to tell my grandmother what happened because the rope was still around the calf.” He grinned like a boy. “My great-grandfather, he must have been eighty, eighty-five, called those cows in and got that rope off. I figured he was going to whip us both. He must have thought about it, but in the end, he only laughed.”

  Preston looked off a second. “Last I saw him alive.” He held his hand above his head and waved it around in a sloppy circle. “The money I inherited from him by way of my grandmother was the seed for what I’ve got today.”

  “And what happened to Rebecca?”

  “Don’t know. Never saw her again, either, not even at the old man’s funeral.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t show. Don’t know why.” He re-mixed his empty cup. “Then once my grandmother passed, I didn’t hear much about that branch of the family.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes and let his chin rest on his chest, then with a start, he jerked up. “We live our lives. Shame we can’t keep in touch with all our family even if they are - what? Fifth cousins? Everyone’s too busy.”

  Marge nodded, not knowing what else to do or say. She too had distant relatives she hadn’t kept in touch with, but didn’t everyone? He stared at the wallpaper again, apparently at least a sheet and a half into the wind. After several minutes of silence, he stated matter-of-factly. “For the longest, I thought I was in love with Becky. No one after her came close, until I met my Nancy.”

  “When was that?”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I was thirty, she was eighteen, and –”

  Jorje burst into the room. “Limo’s here early, Boss.”

  Preston focused on the intruder, and after a few seconds, nodded. “Okay. I’ll get her.” He pushed himself up, then wobbled the first couple of steps down the hall. In a few minutes, he returned carrying Dorothy’s bags. She followed close behind.

  Marge hung back but followed them outside. The driver loaded the woman’s luggage then took his seat behind the wheel. Preston held Dorothy’s hands in his. “I hate it that you have to go.”

  “I know. Me, too.
”

  “Let me know if you change your address. I’d like to send you an invitation to the wedding.”

  She nodded and managed a half smile.

  He looked at her for a moment then leaned in. She rose on her tiptoes. He tilted his head and kissed her full on the lips. She kissed him back. For way longer than Marge was comfortable with, his lips lingered on Dorothy’s.

  Then she finally pushed herself away. “I wish things had been different, W. G.”

  “Me, too.” He looked like he was trying to open his eyes wide and get her in focus using his nose as a site. “But I couldn’t marry you all.”

  “I know.”

  He crossed his lips with a finger. “Keep our secret. Okay?”

  She nodded. “I’ll not breathe a word. Not for all the tea in China.” She got into the limousine. “You can count on me.”

  “Knew I could.” He looked back at Marge. “I knew it.” Turning again, he blew Dorothy a kiss. “See you at the wedding.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She stuck her head out. “Bye, Marge. Good luck with this ol’ bear.”

  “Goodbye, Dot.”

  He watched until the car disappeared, then turned back, took a step, and stumbled. Marge rushed to his side and steadied him. “I think we best get you to bed. What do you say?”

  “Okay.”

  She herded him toward his office, figuring that the door behind his desk led to his bedroom. She figured right. Once past the massive oak desk and around the end of a rock wall, the hidden room revealed a king-sized bed, an oak chest of drawers, two computers - both with over-sized monitors and printers - a Mrs. Pacman game, and two dozen movie posters from the fifties and sixties plastered onto the walls.

  She got him next to the bed and let go. He teetered back and forth once then grabbed her as he fell. She landed next to him. He smiled. “Do you love me?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Just a little.”

  “I’d say a lot.”

  He nodded. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t like it one bit.”

  “Because I kissed her too long.”

  “Because you kissed her at all.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have, but those lips of hers. And I thought she needed to be kissed.”

  Marge pushed herself up. He pulled her back down. “Stay with me.”

  She rolled off the bed and stood. “You’re drunk.”

  “And you’re beautiful.”

  She backed away and grinned. “Oh, stop it.” Her cheeks warmed. “You’d think any woman was beautiful in your condition.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not that drunk.” He held out his hand. “You haven’t answered. Love me yet?”

  She backed to the door. “I don’t know.” She lingered just long enough to see the pain in his eyes then hurried to her room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Journal entry - March 31st

  Shame I can’t change the past, but then she wouldn’t be who she is. Maybe I can help shape her future.

  Preston woke burrowed into his pillow. He wiped his face then attempted to focus on the clock that sat across the room on top of his dresser. After eight or twenty blinks, he figured out it showed two-eighteen. The afternoon sun, filtered by an oak tree’s full branches, danced through the frosted panes of his shower. Daylight? He raised up. The pain behind his eyes knocked him back down. Why did he have on clothes? Oh, yeah.

  “You drank too much.” He moaned then rolled out of bed.

  Between showering and dressing, it hit him. He’d dreamed about a woman, but it hadn’t been Nancy. What had it been? Lust? Love? Or too much whiskey? He tried to recall exactly what happened in his dream, but the remembrance vanished without leaving one specific detail, only the knowledge that he had dreamed. He finished dressing then eased to his desk, retrieved his journal, and turned to her page. Before he could put pen to paper, his outer door opened.

  “Bee man’s here, Boss.”

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t let him unload any hives yet.”

  Jorje shrugged. “No worry there. That old man ain’t doing nothing until he gets paid.”

  In spite of his headache, Preston stood. A wrecking ball pounded between his temples. “Seems to me if I’d been doing business with someone for better than ten years, I could muster some faith.”

  “Why should he? He always gets his money first.”

  Preston nodded. Jorje had a point.

  *  *

  Vicki had been sitting on the back porch when the old man rolled into the circle drive in an ancient, beat-up pickup. She stopped thumbing through an old Life Magazine she’d bought in Canton and walked toward the driver’s side then stopped only a few feet from what appeared to be beehives.

  “What’s in the back of your truck?”

  The old guy squinted one eye shut, spit a stream of tobacco juice out his window, then smiled a toothless grin. “Beehives.” He opened the door, stepped out, and looked around. “Where’s your daddy?”

  She nodded toward the house. “Last I heard, Mr. Preston was taking a nap.”

  “How about hurrying him up some? Time’s a wasting.”

  The door flung open. Preston strode toward the truck with Jorje hot on his heels. “Jake, I’m only counting twelve hives. Where’s the rest?”

  “Ain’t no rest. Twelve’s what you always get.”

  Preston shook his head. “I told you last spring when you picked up your bees to bring me fifteen hives this year.”

  The old man spit. “You did no such thing.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded then stuck out his hand. “Where’s my money?”

  “Take a check?”

  “You know better than that. I don’t truck with nothing but train riding, cash money.”

  Vicki stepped closer to her employer. Unsure where this was heading, she didn’t want to even appear to be on the old geezer’s side.

  Preston stuck his hands in his back pockets and stared at the bee keeper. “Didn’t I tell you last year not to be coming back unless I was getting credit?”

  “Look, if you want to lease my bees, cough up some green backs, joker.”

  Vicki stepped in behind Dub who laughed then pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to the bee man. “Jorje, get our truck. Vicki and I’ll ride with old Jake here.”

  He grabbed her hand, pulled her around the back of the old pick-up, then held the door while she slipped in and scooted toward the middle. Once the truck lurched forward, she lifted Preston’s arm and sidled in tight. Pressing hard into his chest felt good, like maybe being in the best place on earth. Nothing or no one could ever hurt her there.

  She nudged his ribs with her shoulder. “Why you getting bees from this ol’ cuss?”

  Preston pointed. “Here’s good for the first one.” Jake slammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a dusty stop. Her boss jumped out then held his hand toward her. She let him pull her to the edge then waited for him to lift her down.

  “I need the bees to cross pollinate the apple trees. They should be in bloom any day now.”

  “Oh.” She hung back while they unloaded the first hive. Dub stepped away a few feet while old Jake flipped open a wooden panel just under the top lip. Angry sounding bees swarmed out. She beat them both back to the truck then braced for take-off. The old guy must not have learned to use a clutch in all his years because he gave her whiplash—and a reason to hold onto Preston—every time he took off. No complaints.

  She massaged her neck. “So, exactly where are your apple trees?” She leaned across to look out the window.

  He laughed, put his cheek next to hers, then extended his arm and pointed toward the rows of vines growing on wire trellises. “There. I only grow dwarfs, and we train them to the wire.”

  The truck pulled out and hit a hole throwing her into him. She stayed pressed there like a violet in a Bible for a second then eased
back to her seat. “How do you train a tree?”

  “Lots of pruning.” He waved at a head high pile of brush. “That’s from just this week. We’ve still got a lot more to do before the bloom.”

  “How interesting. I thought those were weird looking grapevines.”

  Eleven more times they stopped to unload the hives, and at each stop, Vicki asked more questions. She loved being with him, hearing the sound of his voice, looking into his baby blues. It had to be love. Too soon, the bee man left.

  “So, where do all the apples we always have at the house come from?” Vicki climbed into the middle of the truck Jorje had followed them in.

  Preston chuckled. “Don’t you ever get tired of asking questions?”

  “No. How can I learn anything if I don’t ask questions?”

  “Good point.” He threw his chin south. “Take us to the warehouse.”

  She didn’t know if it was Jorje’s driving or the newer truck, but sure appreciated the smoother ride. “Warehouse? You’ve got a warehouse here?”

  “Sure. We ship apples and apple products all over the world.” He looked smug like she should’ve known all this.

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you? Just like you was pulling old Jake’s leg awhile ago, right?”

  “Well, the old man has a routine, but no, I’m not lying to you.”

  The truck rounded a turn, and a huge two story metal building astounded her. Right out there in the middle of a field. “Man, who would have thought.” She leaned forward. “How big is it?”

  “Counting the chillers and old offices, thirty-two thousand square feet.”

  “Wow. Can I see inside?”

  “Sure.”

  Jorje parked the truck then walked off without a word.

  “Where’s he going?”

  Preston placed his hand on her back and herded her toward the front of the building. “Don’t mind him.”

  “Oh, I don’t. Matter of fact, I think it’s kind of cute the way he looks out for you.”