Love Is for the Birds

2. Jack

JACK REVVED UP HIS FORD 250 AND PULLED AWAY FROM THE woman. He never even found out her name. If she didn’t show up at five, he would chauffer her himself. He knew better than to let a woman clean up the mess of a hurricane without any help, especially a woman so easy on the eyes.

After his wife, Angela, died, Jack promised his mother he wouldn’t spend his life solo. Five years later, he remained just that, alone and talking to the walls of his barbecue restaurants as if they were pets. Not that there hadn’t been a long line of women delivering King Ranch casseroles and chocolate chip cookies to his house and businesses after Angela died. But no one could take her place. So, he lived alone with nothing to keep him company except the five locations of his barbecue joint: Angie’s Place Pit Barbecue—the Best Barbecue East or West of the Pecos. With so much to be done, coming to the Gulf provided refuge from his past. Jokes and one-liners could only carry him so far. He needed something meaningful to do.

Jack drove by Walt’s Surftown and stepped inside. Walt held a snow shovel full of broken glass.

“Looks like you’ve got your share of troubles here.”

“Could definitely be worse.”

“I’d like to help out after this barbecue.”

“I’ll take it.” Walt dumped the glass in a trash can. “Looking forward to some decent food.”

“And your friend?”

“She’s probably not going to make it,” Walt said. “She’s that way.”

“Which way is that?”

“She’s like a tiger shark. They like to hunt alone.”

Jack shook his head. Just his luck. He needed a shark of a woman like he needed a flat tire. Besides, he came here because of the hurricane. Still . . .

“So, do tiger sharks have boyfriends?”

Walt laughed. “She’s got a boyfriend in Houston, if that tells you anything. Haven’t seen him in months.”

“That doesn’t sound too serious.”

“You here to feed us barbecue or to chase women? Not that I care. But FYI, she can handle herself.”

“You’re right. I’m losing my focus. Gotta get back to the barbecue.”

“You want her to come, you’ll have to drag her there yourself.”

“I’m not above that. Where’s she live?”

Address in hand, Jack left for the Island Pavilion where they were setting up for the barbecue. Halfway there, he slapped a hand on the seat, “I forgot to get her name, again.” He’d make a lousy detective.

Though missing part of a roof on the south end, remarkably, the rest of the pavilion survived the storm. As he climbed out of his airconditioned truck, the Texas heat and humidity assaulted him and zapped his last bit of energy. His day had started at five by loading the pit with one hundred pounds of partly-smoked brisket. A soft bed sounded irresistible right now but forget that. Without a hotel, motel, or condo for rent, he’d be sleeping in the backseat of his truck under a mosquito net. Next trip to Bird Isle, he’d bring his fifth wheel.

Over at the barbecue pit, his best buddy, Jimbo, stoked the fire. A dog barked. Jack turned to the noise. A mud-covered mutt hid under the broken hull of a twelve-foot aluminum rowboat. Jack approached him. The dog growled.

“Okay, okay.” Jack pulled back. “Where’d he come from?”

“He just showed up,” Jimbo said. “I gave him some water. He’s kind of skittish.”

“All this meat and you couldn’t find a bone?”

“He can wait ‘til dinner like the rest of us.” Jimbo stabbed the mesquite logs. Red sparks spit on the rack.

Jimbo’s wife, Polly, set planks of plywood on sawhorses to make a long serving line. She covered the plywood with plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloths.

“How’s the brisket?” He opened the heavy metal cover of the pit and inhaled the scent of mesquite and dried chiles. “Do you need more mesquite?”

“You cooking, or am I?” Jimbo asked.

“You are, don’t screw up the brisket.” Jack planned on feeding about a hundred. Running out of barbecue would be the worst thing that could happen, especially if Little-Miss-No-Name showed up. For some reason, he wanted to make a good impression.

Polly stacked paper plates at one end of the table and ordered Jimbo to get the Igloo cooler of sweet tea from the pickup. He saluted her and then obeyed. With the mission accomplished, he came from behind her, picked her up, and twirled her around.

“I love to be ordered around by you. Why don’t we go for a little walk on the beach?” Jimbo kissed her long and hard.

A pang of desire shot through Jack. His mind bolted straight to Angela lying in bed with her hair splayed over the pillow, her cheeks flushed from their lovemaking. He blinked, trying not to let the memory take hold. “Get a room.”

“There aren’t any.” Jimbo swatted Polly on the behind. “Later, my dear.”

Jack laughed, but seeing the two of them so happy reminded him of how much he lost when Angela died. He drew in a big breath. What would Angela think about Little-Miss-No-Name? Knowing Angela, she’d offer her sage advice. Don’t come on too strong. Compliment something besides her looks. Don’t act desperate. Don’t act too self-assured—so much to remember. Angela always handled everything.

Just take one a day at a time with Little-Miss-No-Name. He wanted her to show up at the barbecue. No harm in making friends with her. He could roll the dice and see what happened. Angela always said, “Carpe Diem.”

He never expected to see such a pretty hurricane survivor in Bird Isle. He graded himself a B plus so far—macho and witty, not too much of a pest. He’d made the woman smile. She laughed at his repartee—a word he’d never before used in a sentence.

The dog whimpered from under the boat. “I guess you’re hungry.”

He pulled a sack of bones out of the ice chest. Holding a bone in both hands, he inched toward the dog. The dog’s whine turned into a low growl, and he or she raised its upper lip to reveal a shiny row of healthy incisors. His teeth were not that big, but big enough. He placed the bone on the ground a few feet from the mutt and backed away.

The dog lunged toward the bone and quickly returned to his spot under the boat. After seeing the dog’s jaws lock over the bone, he congratulated himself for being smart enough to jump away. No need to contract a case of rabies on top of everything else.

“Pickles and onions?” Polly yelled.

He stiffened. “Crap.” He rushed to the bed of his truck for the box that contained three-gallon jars of sliced dill pickles and a bag of onions, but it wasn’t there. “Don’t tell me.” He sank his head into his hands. He hadn’t thought of everything after all. “We can’t serve barbecue without pickles and onions.”

“They won’t notice,” Polly said.

“Liar. They may be grateful anyway, but barbecue without pickles and onions is like turkey without dressing.”

“Like cookies without milk,” Jimbo added.

“Hot dogs without mustard.”

Jack needed to find pickles and onions. Maybe Little-Miss-No-Name would know where to find them, and he could learn her name. Hopefully, her house faired the storm better than her store. She seemed like the kind of girl with a stocked pantry, if she still had a pantry. Would she be insulted if he showed up asking for onions and pickles?

People like to help others. Well, he did. Pops Wainsworth taught him that lesson. Pops always said: “Give people a chance to help. They want to. Even if they haven’t got a dime, they want to help.” He jumped into his truck, as if he believed he’d find pickles and onions on the island. At least he would see Little-Miss-No-Name again.

“Where’re you going?” Jimbo yelled.

“Be right back. Hang on.” He skidded out of the parking lot. He rolled the window down when he noticed the mutt gnawing on the bone and shouted, “Like a dog without a bone.” And like a man without a woman.

The mystery woman worked alone outside her house, skin glowing with sweat, cheeks flaming red as cayenne pepper. She wore her hair in a long ponytail with a sheen like that of a racehorse—the color close to roan, but more brown than red, except when the sun glinted off its strands with flashes of amber and cherry. He pictured the mane loose on bare shoulders and then shook away the image. The barbecue needed pickles and onions. Stick to the mission. Find out her name.

He slammed the truck door. She jerked her head toward him, a quizzical expression on her face. If he read her correctly, he surprised her, not irritated her. She peered at him with eyes dark as a starless night in Big Bend. Something in those eyes made him wonder if they hid a super nova just below their surface. He sucked in a breath and reminded himself, again, of his mission. Pickles and onions and name, oh my.

“Two questions. Do you have any pickles and onions? And, what’s your name?”

“You’re asking me if I have pickles and onions?” She swept a hand toward the wreckage of her house.

“Yes, yes, I am. It’s just that we have this barbecue, and we don’t have any pickles and onions.”

“You are in a pickle.”

“Good one.” He knew he grinned like a bronc rider who just scored in the nineties. “I just thought you might have some, or at least know where I could find them. You can’t eat a brisket sandwich without pickles and onions. It’s like potatoes without gravy.”

“Or pancakes without syrup.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed to her. “Exactly.”

“Believe me or not, I think I might have some pickles.”

He crossed his fingers in both hands. “My lucky day.”

She motioned for him to follow her into the house. Inside, pieces of sheetrock crumbled off the walls, but the highest pantry shelves still housed canned goods.

“Might be something up on the top shelf. No telling how old they are.” The girl flipped the switch on a flashlight and searched the shelves.

He noticed four jars in the corner. “Please, don’t let them be sweet pickles.”

“My grandpa never made sweet pickles.”

A flood of relief passed over him. He reached up and grabbed two of the jars. “Do pickles go bad?”

“Only one way to find out.”

The girl tapped the pickle lid against the counter and handed the jar to Jack. He put his hand over hers and slid a thumb over her soft warm skin.

“You think I can’t open a jar of pickles after doing man’s work all day?”

“I know you can. I needed a good excuse to hold your hand.” For the first time in forever, he found himself flirting.

She handed him an opener. Air escaped with a hiss as he pulled the lid from the jar.

He lifted the crock to his nose and sniffed the vinegary pickles. “They sure smell good. Lots of dill.”

“Try it.”

He pulled a quarter of a cucumber from the jar, bit off the end, and handed the slice to her. When she reached for the spear, their fingers touched. Did she just jerk away from him?

“Perfect.” He must sound so corny. She existed in another league, total NFL material, and he remained back in Peewees.