Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Tarnation, boy, don’t they feed you in New York City?” Fred stared at Quinn as he served himself a second helping of biscuits and gravy.
“Not like this.” Quinn dove in while Emmy Lou beamed.
He’d never been a breakfast eater in New York.
Coffee and toast did the trick. But he wasn’t in New York anymore, and he polished off enough bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy to make him embarrassed, except that everyone else ate almost as much.
None of the people sitting around the table was plump except Emmy Lou, and on her it looked nice.
Nobody was rude enough to mention the ice pack Quinn had positioned against his crotch.
Emmy Lou had noticed the way he was walking and had suggested it.
After a few minutes the ache had gone away and he just felt numb down there, which was probably a good thing considering the direction his thoughts took every time he glanced across the table at Jo.
The topic of conversation turned to Quinn’s impending move to the bunkhouse.
Jo didn’t say much, just got pinker and pinker as the discussion continued.
Her hair was damp from her shower, and she wore no makeup.
Quinn had always loved the stage in a relationship when a woman became comfortable enough to appear in front of him fresh from the shower without doing her hair or putting on makeup.
Of course this didn’t count as a stage, because he wasn’t involved with Jo. Wouldn’t be involved with Jo. Dammit. Maybe he should strap an ice pack permanently to his crotch.
“People will think it’s terrible if we make Brian Hastings sleep in the bunkhouse,” Emmy Lou said. “I think you should stay up at the house, Quinn. The bunkhouse is grungy.”
“No, it ain’t!” Fred said. “Just because I won’t let you clean it every five minutes and put doilies around on whatever don’t move, you—”
“It’s a pit,” Emmy Lou said to Quinn with a smile. “Fred and Benny act like it’s their clubhouse or something. All I did was try to vacuum one day and rearrange a few things, and you’d think I’d burned the place to the ground.”
“You Hoovered the ace of clubs out of my lucky deck of cards, woman!”
Emmy Lou leaned over and patted Quinn’s hand. “Stay up at the house. Don’t you agree he should, Jo?”
“Well, I—”
“Emmy Lou,” Fred said, pointing at her. “Don’t be forgetting that Jo’s a divorcée.”
“So what?” Emmy Lou said.
Fred acted as if he were explaining a simple fact to a three-year-old. “People think a certain way about divorcées. They’ll think there’s hanky-panky going on between him and Jo if he sleeps in the house.”
And they would be right. But it had nothing to do with her being divorced. Jo would tempt him single, divorced, even virginal.
“That might be the way your mind works, Fred,” Emmy Lou said. “But everybody doesn’t automatically think like that.”
“Wanna bet?” Fred pointed at Emmy Lou. “Try hanging out in the Lazy Bones Saloon sometime.”
Emmy Lou glared at him. “I’ve been meaning to try that. But first you’d better teach me how to chew and spit. Honestly, Fred. As if I care about what a bunch of old booz—”
“Watch yourself, woman,” Fred said.
Benny’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna learn to chew and spit, Emmy Lou?”
“Not really, Benny.” Emmy Lou smiled at him. “I think it’s a perfectly disgusting habit, don’t you?”
Benny glanced uncertainly from Fred’s scowl to Emmy Lou’s smile. “I think... I want some more biscuits.”
“Well done, Benny,” Jo said. “It doesn’t pay to get in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel, you know.” Then she looked stricken. “Oops. I didn’t mean to say that. I really didn’t. Must be the stress getting to me. I’m sorry.”
Quinn stopped chewing as silence descended over the table. He looked at Jo, who sat gazing anxiously at Fred and Emmy Lou. Then he glanced at Fred, who had a murderous gleam in his eye, and Emmy Lou, who had turned the color of the tomatoes ripening on the windowsill.
Finally Emmy Lou cleared her throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Josephine.” She stood and started collecting dishes. “I wouldn’t take up with that old goat for all the tea in Japan.”
“It’s China!” Fred muttered. “And that goes double for me.” He pulled his napkin from where he’d tucked it into his shirt and tossed it on the table. “I got chores to do.”
“You don’t have to hide it!” Jo cried. “I didn’t mean to spill the beans and embarrass you both, but I think it’s wonderful if you two have something going!”
“Me, too!” Benny said. “What do they have going, Jo?”
“Not a dad-blasted thing,” Fred said. He started out of the kitchen just as the doorbell rang. “I’ll get that.”
Jo walked to the sink and put her arm around Emmy Lou. “Em, I’m sorry. I didn’t even figure it out until this morning, and then—damn, I just opened my mouth and out it came.”
Emmy Lou squirted a large stream of dishwashing liquid in the sink and turned the faucet on full blast, creating mounds of foam. Then she began washing furiously. “If that man said anything to you I’m going to hang him by his… thumbs.”
“No! It was just the way he made a certain comment, and I asked if you two were sweethearts, and he got all red, like you’re doing now. Em, you and Fred are like parents to me. This feels perfect, the two of you in love.”
In her agitation Emmy Lou slopped water and soapsuds on the floor. “Who said anything about love?”
“It’s perfectly obvious, the way you two fight, that you’re in love.”
Quinn sipped his coffee and watched in fascination.
For so many years he’d lived by himself in Manhattan.
Sure, he had buddies, and twice he’d had a live-in girlfriend for a few months, but aside from occasional trips to Murray’s house, he hadn’t been in a family setting in a long time.
That’s what this morning felt like, and he was loving the hell out of it.
Fred appeared in the kitchen doorway. “It’s that fool Doobie and his scrawny wife, Eloise. I parked them in the living room. I imagine they want to get a look at Brian Hastings.”
Quinn tensed. Last night’s performance with Dick had been a reflex action, and Dick hadn’t been inclined to be skeptical. Quinn remembered that Doobie was president of the local bank. In his experience, bankers were born skeptics. He glanced at Jo.
“It’s up to you,” she said. “You don’t have to see them. In fact, you don’t have to see anybody. You can be as reclusive as you want.”
“Yeah, but this is your banker. I’m supposed to offer him a part in the movie, remember?”
“You don’t have to.” Ever since they’d squirmed together in the mud this morning, she’d had a captivating shyness in her eyes whenever she looked at him.
Quinn smiled at her. Hell, didn’t she know he’d do just about anything for her? Only a guy who was wrapped around a woman’s little finger would voluntarily suggest that he move to the bunkhouse after she’d announced that they shouldn’t become sexually involved.
“I’m sure we can find a part for him somewhere,” he said.
He’d never wished that he could be Brian Hastings, but at the moment he almost wanted to be, just so he’d have the power to shoot a movie here and help her cause.
He set down his mug and pushed back his chair.
“Come and introduce me.” He stood up, and the ice pack dropped to the floor.
Jo blushed as she glanced at the ice pack and at his crotch. “Um, are you better?”
Quinn leaned down and picked up the ice pack. “Good as new.”
“I’m glad. I mean, that’s good. I mean…”
Fred coughed. “Maybe you should drop that particular topic, Jo.”
“Good idea.” Jo swallowed. “Come on, Quinn. Let’s go meet my banker.”
“I’ll come in with some coffee and arsenic in a little bit.” Emmy Lou continued washing dishes without turning.
Fred snorted with laughter. Then he snuck a look at Emmy Lou and glanced quickly away again. “Benny, you and me got stuff to do. Let’s get a move on.”
Emmy Lou kept her back to Fred while she washed and rinsed dishes with a vengeance. “I was hoping you men would clear out of my kitchen and let me get my pot roast in the oven,” she said. “Can’t accomplish a dad-blasted thing when you’re underfoot.”
Jo winked at Quinn.
He winked back and followed her out of the kitchen. “How long do you think it’s been going on?” he said in a low voice.
“Probably years. I was just too wrapped up in my own problems to notice, but when Fred started talking this morning I got this flash, and all sorts of things began to click in my brain.” She walked into the living room, where a skinny man and his wife sat on a worn leather sofa.
“Mr. and Mrs. Doobie! May I introduce you to Brian Hastings?”
Doobie popped up from the sofa and came forward, hand outstretched, but Mrs. Doobie looked as if she might pass out. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but she made no sound.
“Mr. Hastings,” Doobie said in an unfortunately high voice. The few strands of long hair he’d combed over his bald head quivered as he pumped Quinn’s hand vigorously. “This is quite an honor.”
Definitely not a speaking part. “I feel lucky to be here,” he said. “This is the perfect location to film The Brunette Wore Spurs.” Yeah, that was a good title. Amazing what he could come up with on short notice.
Jo stared at him in astonishment. “That’s a working title, right?” She gave him a slight nudge with her foot.
“Guess so. Works for me.”
“It sounds a little like a film that would be in the adult section at the video store.” Jo chuckled and nudged Quinn again. “But, as we all know, film titles get changed all the time.”
“They do?” Quinn had never thought about that. “I mean, yes, they certainly do. Why, Julia told me—you all know Julia Roberts, right?”
Jo looked wary, but Doobie and his wife nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, Julia told me that Pretty Woman was almost called Pretty Prostitute. And the other day I was talking to Bob Redford, and he said that—”