Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roxanne
The day after Frank Stone’s funeral, I was once again getting ready to head out to take Mrs. Watkins her weekly prescription refills and other odds and ends.
Rodney, the owner and head pharmacist of Hunt Pharmacy, handed me a small bag containing a bottle of pills to give her as I grabbed my purse to head out the door.
“This here’s the refill on her blood pressure meds,” he said. “Tell her I’m running low on the anticoagulants she takes, so we’ll run them over to her in a few days.”
“Will do,” I nodded. I took the bag from him and headed out the back door of the pharmacy, where my car was parked in a minuscule lot next to the alley.
I opened the driver’s side door, which was unlocked, as always.
My car was an old beater anyway, and I couldn’t imagine anyone in Lupine trying to steal it.
My thinking was, why lock it and risk having to replace a window if someone decides to break in?
As I was about to hop into the driver’s seat, I happened to glance over across the alleyway.
There, a couple of hard-looking men I didn’t recognize were standing next to a souped-up Plymouth Duster painted flat black, smoking cigarettes.
One of them locked eyes with me. He gave me a lewd sneer, and said something under his breath.
The other one laughed loudly and looked my way, staring pointedly at my ass.
My stomach flipped over in disgust as I guessed at the nature of the man’s words.
I had never seen the two of them in Lupine before.
I was sure they weren’t from here: despite their hardness, they looked to be around my age.
I almost certainly would have gone to school with them at some point if they lived in town.
Frowning, I climbed into my car, resisting the impulse to lock my doors, and started the engine.
As I pulled into reverse, I stole another look at the two men in my mirror.
They were both looking this way now, but I couldn’t tell if they were staring at me, or at the pharmacy.
The whole thing felt kind of alarming, even though I couldn’t really put my finger on why.
Still, they weren’t doing anything wrong, strictly speaking.
The most you could fault them for was loitering.
I shook my head at myself in annoyance, and told myself to let it go.
Putting the car in drive, I gave it some gas, and headed out to do a quick grocery run for Mrs. Watkins before I went over to drop off her meds.
* * *
I’d been to Mrs. Watkins’s house dozens of times over the past several months.
But now that I knew Jackson Stone lived in the neighborhood, I felt myself getting nervous as I turned onto her street.
Self-consciously, I glanced at myself in the rear-view mirror, but all I could see of myself were my eyes.
Without really wanting to, I found myself looking toward Jackson’s place. His motorcycle wasn’t in the driveway, and the front door was shut, so it looked like he wasn’t home. The wave of disappointment I felt was bigger than I expected, surprising me and making me worry just a little.
I hadn’t been able to keep my mind off Jackson lately, as much as I’d tried.
After our uncomfortable encounter in his kitchen, I had almost decided not to attend his father’s funeral yesterday.
But in the end, I just couldn’t do it. I had liked Frank Stone, and I was sad he was gone.
And even though I could barely stand to face Jackson after he’d kissed me and then rejected me, I still owed it to him to pay my respects to his father.
So in the end, I’d decided to go, and somehow made it through a conversation with Jackson without dying of embarrassment in the process.
I congratulated myself afterwards that I’d managed to salvage my dignity, somehow.
Now, I just needed to put the kiss with Jackson completely behind me, as though it had never happened. Which was a damn sight easier said than done.
Mrs. Watkins was sitting in a rickety-looking chair on her front porch when I pulled up, with Schatzie lying at her feet.
Her wispy, artificially red hair was done up in a thin bun on top of her head.
She was wearing a pair of elastic-band jeans, a white blouse, and house slippers.
As I got out of the car, the dog immediately stood to attention and started barking his head off, in the way that small dogs do.
“Oh, Schatzie, you stop that now!” Mrs. Watkins admonished him to no avail as I walked up to the house.
“I brought your blood pressure pills,” I announced, raising my voice over the yapping dog.
I leaned down to pet Schatzie, who immediately quieted at my touch.
Even so, he continued wiggling frantically with pent-up energy, as though his whole body was about to take off into orbit.
“Rodney told me to tell you we’re out of the Coumadin for a couple of days,” I said to the old woman.
“But he said you had enough to last until we got more in.”
Mrs. Watkins nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I should be fine until early next week.”
“I got you a quart of milk, too, like you asked for. And… the other thing.” I wasn’t sure how modest Mrs. Watkins was, but I didn’t want to embarrass her.
“Oh, yes! The hemorrhoid cream!” she crowed. Oddly, she seemed delighted, not embarrassed in the least. She immediately reached out her hand and motioned for me to give it to her. “I’ve been waiting to see whether this works!”
I watched in astonishment as she opened the box, took out the tube, and started unscrewing the cap. Was she about to… apply it, right then and there?
“Um, Mrs. Watkins…” I stammered, “Do you want me to… help you inside so you can do that?” My voice rose a few notches, in what I hoped was a very persuasive tone.
Mrs. Watkins looked at me wide-eyed for a moment, then threw her head back and snorted with laughter. “Oh!” she cried, amusement apparent in her voice. “Oh, my land! You thought… Well, of course you did!”
She continued to hoot helplessly for a moment, wiping at her eyes. “Oh, goodness, that’s the best laugh I’ve had in quite a while. The hemorrhoid cream isn’t for down there, dear. I read in a magazine that it does wonders for the bags under your eyes. I’ve been dying to try it out.”
Mrs. Watkins squeezed out a line of the white cream and started dabbing it under her eyes with the wizened middle finger of her left hand.
“See?” she said with a wide smile as I stood watching in disbelief as she smoothed it over the skin.
“Now, let’s see if it makes me look ten years younger!
Conrad Hale’s going to be at Bingo tomorrow, and rumor has it he’s only eighty-four.
And he’s back on the market!” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I shook my head and laughed. Honestly, I had to admire her. Mrs. Watkins’s husband had been dead for almost twenty years. But if you believed what she said, she still had an active, though infrequent, sex life. Hell, she probably went on more dates than I did.
“Mr. Hale will never be able to resist your charms, Mrs. Watkins,” I assured her as she continued to dab at her eyes. “Now, do you want me to take your milk inside for you, and put it in the fridge?”
“Please do!” she exclaimed. “And get me a Kleenex to wipe off my hands, would you, dear? Help yourself to some lemonade, while you’re at it.”
“Ooohhh, thank you! I will.” I headed inside, holding the door for the ever-curious Schatzie so he could keep an eye on me.
I set the pills on the kitchen counter, put the milk in the refrigerator, and grabbed a green plastic glass from the cupboard.
Filling it most of the way with lemonade, I threw in a few ice cubes for good measure.
Then I grabbed a tissue from the box on her kitchen table and went to join Mrs. Watkins on the front porch.
“So, how are you feeling today?” I asked her as I sat down on a low bench beside her.
“Oh, the usual aches and pains,” she said, waving me off. “At my age, I can’t complain. But, of course, I still will,” she grinned, and winked at me.
I laughed. Mrs. Watkins always cracked me up for some reason.
“How about you, dear?” she asked, eyeing me. “Anything new on the horizon for you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I shrugged. “Same old, same old. Not much changes in my life, you know, Mrs. Watkins.” As I spoke, off in the distance, a rumbling sound started low and grew louder.
We turned to look down the street to see a motorcycle approaching.
My heart leaped into my throat as I realized it was probably Jackson coming home.
“You know, you’re too young to be in such a rut, dear,” Mrs. Watkins scolded me. Her gaze followed mine to the approaching bike. “You need some excitement in your life.”
I said nothing in response. The two of us watched as Jackson pulled into his drive, cut the engine, and swung a muscled leg over the bike.
Even from across the street, I could see the outline of his taut thighs against his jeans.
A familiar flush of heat coursed through me.
Maybe Jackson could feel eyes on him, because he turned in our direction and froze for a second when he saw the two of us.
After a moment, he gave us a brief nod and raised his hand in a slow wave before heading into his house.
“My, my,” Mrs. Watkins said, interrupting my thoughts. “Now, that right there is just the kind of excitement you need in your life.”
I turned in amazement, a bark of laughter escaping me. “Mrs. Watkins!” I said, shocked.
“What?” she asked, giving me a wide, innocent stare.
“I just… I don’t know…” I stammered, momentarily at a loss for words. “You’re… ogling him!”
Mrs. Watkins chuckled. “You think just because I’m an old lady that I can’t tell a fine specimen of a younger man when I see him?” Her eyes were twinkling. “Just wait until you’re my age, honey. My eyesight might not be what it used to, but I’m not blind.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, reddening. “It’s just that… I don’t know. I just didn’t expect you to find a man who drives a motorcycle and has tattoos attractive.”
“I’m not looking for myself, dear. I’m looking for you.” She nodded once. “Besides, I’ve known Jackson Stone since he was a little boy. He used to mow my lawn, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. I thought back to the day I found out he lived in this neighborhood, all shirtless and sweaty from mowing his own lawn. My face grew uncomfortably warm at the memory.
“He was a good boy. A little wild, even then, but a good boy at heart.” She peered at me now over her glasses. “And who knows? Maybe riding a motorcycle is fun. I’ve never done it myself. Maybe you’d like it?”
“Mrs. Watkins!” I laughed again. “Are you trying to set me up?”
“Not exactly,” she demurred. “But I did happen to see you over there at his house last week, after you dropped off my medications. I noticed you went inside for a few minutes.” She gave me a pointed look, and then sat back in her chair.
“Maybe you’ll want to pay him another visit today, when you’re done here. ”
“Oh, my gosh! I am definitely not going over to Jackson’s house, Mrs. Watkins,” I said emphatically. “But thank you for your concern.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you don’t snap that boy up, someone else will. The handsome ones are hard to come by.”
“I’m sure they will,” I murmured, and tried to ignore the sudden ache in my heart.