The Rescue

Chapter 12

The day after Denise had run into Taylor at Merchants, she spent the morning working with Kyle. The accident seemed to have had neither a negative nor a positive impact on his learning, though now that summer had arrived, he seemed to work best if they were able to finish before noon. After that it was too warm in the house for either of them to concentrate.

Earlier, right after breakfast, she'd called Ray and asked him for a couple of extra shifts for the time being. Fortunately he'd consented. Starting tomorrow night she'd work every evening except Sunday, as opposed to her usual four shifts. As always, she'd head in around seven and work until midnight. Though coming in a little later meant less in tips because she'd miss a good portion of the dinner rush, she couldn't in good conscience leave Kyle in the back room for an extra hour all by himself while he was still awake. By arriving later, she could put him down in the cot and he'd fall asleep within minutes.

She'd found herself thinking about Taylor McAden ever since she'd run into him at the store the day before. Just as he'd promised, the groceries had been placed on the front porch, in the shade provided by the overhang. Because it hadn't taken more than ten or fifteen minutes for her to make it back home, the milk and eggs were still cold and she'd put them in the refrigerator before they spoiled.

While Taylor had carried the bags to his truck, he'd also offered to put their bikes in the back and give them both a ride, too, but to that Denise had said no. It had less to do with Taylor than Kyle--he was already getting on his bike, and she knew he was looking forward to another ride with his mother. She didn't want to ruin that for him, especially since this would probably be a regular routine and the last thing she wanted was for him to expect a truck ride back every time they came to town.

Still, part of her had wanted to accept Taylor's offer. She'd b

een around long enough to know that he'd found her attractive--the way he looked at her made that plain--yet it didn't make her uncomfortable the way the scrutiny of other men sometimes did. There wasn't the usual hungry gleam in his eye while he'd stared at her--the one that implied a roll in the sack would solve everything. Nor had his eyes wandered downward while she spoke--another common problem. It was impossible to take a man seriously when he was staring at her breasts.

No, there was something different about the way he'd looked at her. It was more appreciative somehow, less threatening, and as much as she resisted the idea, she'd found herself not only flattered by it, but pleased as well.

Of course, she knew it could have been part of Taylor's shtick, his way of coming on to women, a pattern honed over time. Some men were good at that. She'd meet them and talk to them, and every nuance of their being seemed to imply that they were different, more trustworthy, than other men. She'd been around long enough to meet plenty of those types as well, and usually she'd hear little alarm bells going off. But Taylor was either the finest actor she'd ever come across or he really was different, because this time the bells were silent.

So which was it?

Of the many things she'd learned from her mother, there was one that always stood out, one that came to mind when evaluating others. "You're going to come across people in your life who say all the right words at all the right times. But in the end, it's always their actions you should judge them by. It's actions, not words, that matter."

Maybe, she thought to herself, that was the reason she'd responded to Taylor. He'd already proven that he could do heroic things, but it wasn't simply his dramatic rescue of Kyle that inspired her . . . interest in him, if that's what it was. Even cads could do the right thing some of the time. No--it was the little things he'd done while they were at the store. The way he'd offered to help without expecting something in return . . . the way he seemed to care about how Kyle and she were doing . . . the way he'd treated Kyle. . . .

Especially that.

Even though she didn't want to admit it, over the last few years she'd come to judge people by the way they treated her son. She remembered compiling lists in her mind of the friends who tried with Kyle and the ones that hadn't. "She sat on the floor and played blocks with him"--she was good. "She barely even noticed he was there"--she was bad. The list of "bad" people was far longer than the "good."

But here was a guy who had for whatever reason formed a bond with her son, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. Nor could she forget Kyle's reaction to him. Hewwo, Tayer....

Even though Taylor didn't understand everything Kyle had said--Kyle's pronunciations took a while to get used to--Taylor kept talking to him as if he did. He winked, he grabbed his helmet in a playful way, he hugged him, he looked Kyle in the eye when he spoke. He'd made sure to say good-bye.

Little things, but they were incredibly important to her.

Actions.

Taylor had treated Kyle like a normal little boy.

Ironically, Denise was still thinking about Taylor even as Judy pulled up the long gravel driveway and parked in the shade of a looming magnolia tree. Denise, who was just finishing up the dishes, spotted Judy and waved before making a quick scan of the kitchen. Not perfect, but clean enough, she decided as she moved to meet Judy at the front door.

After the traditional preliminaries--how each was doing and all that--Denise and Judy seated themselves on the front porch so they could keep an eye on Kyle. He was playing with his trucks near the fence, rolling them along make-believe roads. Right before Judy had arrived, Denise had liberally coated him with sunscreen and bug spray, and the lotions acted like glue when he played in the dirt. His shorts and tank top were streaked a dusty brown, and his face looked as if it hadn't been washed in a week, reminding Denise of the dust bowl children Steinbeck had described in The Grapes of Wrath.

On the small wooden table (picked up at a garage sale for three dollars--another excellent buy for bargain-shopping ace Denise Holton!) sat two glasses of sweet tea. Denise had made it that morning in a typically southern fashion--brewed Luzianne with lots of sugar added while still hot so it could dissolve completely, then chilled in the refrigerator with ice. Judy took a drink from her glass, her eyes never leaving Kyle.

"Your mother used to love getting dirty, too," Judy said.

"My mother?"

Judy glanced at her, amused. "Don't look so surprised. Your mother was quite a tomboy when she was young."

Denise reached for her glass. "Are you sure we're talking about the same lady?" she asked. "My mother wouldn't even collect the morning paper without putting makeup on."

"Oh, that happened right around the time she discovered boys. That was when your mom changed her ways. She turned into the quintessential southern lady, complete with white gloves and perfect table manners, practically overnight. But don't let that fool you. Before that, your mother was a regular Huckleberry Finn."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No--really. Your mother caught frogs, she cussed like a shrimper who'd lost his net, she even got in a few fights with boys to show how tough she was. And she was a good fighter, let me tell you. While a boy was trying to figure out whether it was okay to hit a girl, she'd sock 'em right in the nose. One time, the other kid's parents actually called the sheriff. That poor boy was so ashamed, he didn't go back to school for a week, but he never teased your mother again. She was one tough young lady."

Judy blinked, her mind clearly wandering between the present and the past. Denise stayed silent, waiting for her to go on.

"I remember we used to hike down by the river to collect blackberries. Your mother wouldn't even wear shoes in those prickly things. She had the toughest feet I'd ever seen. She'd go the whole summer without wearing shoes, except when she had to go to church. Her feet would be so dirty by September that her mother couldn't get the stains out unless she used a Brillo pad and Ajax. When school started up again, your mother would limp for the first couple of days. I never figured out whether it was because of the Brillo pad or simply the fact that she wasn't used to wearing shoes."

Denise laughed in disbelief. This was a side of her mother she'd never even heard about. Judy continued.

"I used to live right down the road from here. Do you know the Boyle place? That white house with the green shutters--big red barn out back?"

Denise nodded. She passed by it on the way into town.

"Well, that was where I lived when I was little. Your mom and I were the only two girls who lived out this way, so we ended up doing practically everything together. We were the same age, too, so we studied the same things at school. This was in the forties, and back then everyone sat in the same classroom until the eighth grade, but they still tried to group us together with people the same age. Your mother and I sat next to each other in school the whole way through. She was probably the best friend I ever had."

Staring toward the distant trees, Judy seemed lost in the throes of nostalgia.

"Why didn't she keep in touch after she moved?" Denise began. "I mean . . ."

She paused, wondering how to ask what she really meant, and Judy cast her a sidelong glance.

"You mean why, if we were such good friends, didn't she tell you about it?"

Denise nodded, and Judy collected her thoughts.

"I guess it mainly had to do with her moving away. It took me a long time to understand that distance can ruin even the best of intentions."

"That's sad. . . ."

"Not really. I suppose it depends on how you look at it. For me . . . well, it just adds a richness you wouldn't otherwise get. People come, people go--they'll drift in and out of your life, almost like characters in a favorite book. When you finally close the cover, the characters have told their story and you start up again with another book, complete with new characters and adventures. Then you find yourself focusing on the new ones, not the ones from the past."

It took a moment for Denise to r

espond as she remembered the friends she'd left in Atlanta.

"That's pretty philosophical," she finally said.

"I'm old. What did you expect?"

Denise set her glass of tea on the table and absently wiped the moisture from the sweating glass on her shorts. "So you never talked to her again? After she left?"

"Oh no--we kept in touch for a few years, but back then your mother was in love, and when women fall in love, it's all they can think about. That was why she left Edenton in the first place. A boy--Michael Cunningham. Did she ever tell you about him?"

Denise shook her head, fascinated.

"I'm not surprised. Michael was kind of a bad boy, not exactly the kind of guy you want to remember way longer than you have to. He didn't have the greatest reputation, if you know what I mean, but a lot of girls found him attractive. I guess they thought him exciting and dangerous. Same old story, even today. Well, your mother followed him to Atlanta right after she graduated."

"But she told me she moved to Atlanta to go to college."

"Oh, that may have been somewhere in the back of her mind, but the real reason was Michael. He had some kind of hold on her, that's for sure. He was also the reason she didn't come back here to visit."

"How so?"

"Well, her mom and dad--your grandparents--they just couldn't forgive her for running off that way. They saw Michael for what he was and said that if she didn't come home right away, she wasn't welcome here anymore. They were from the old school, as stubborn as can be, and your mom was just the same. It was like a couple of bulls staring at each other, waiting for the other one to give in. But neither of them ever did, even after Michael went by the wayside for someone else."

"My father?"

Judy shook her head. "No . . . someone else--your father came along after I lost contact with her."

"So you didn't know him at all?"

"No. But I do remember your grandparents heading off to the wedding and being a little hurt that your mother hadn't sent me an invitation. Not that I could have gone, of course. I was married by then, and like a lot of young couples, my husband and I were struggling financially, and with the new baby--well, it just would have been impossible to make it."

"I'm sorry about that."

Judy set her glass of tea on the table. "Nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't you, and in some way, it wasn't even your mom anymore--or at least the one I used to know. Your father came from a very respectable family in Atlanta, and by that point in her life, I think your mom was a little embarrassed about where she'd come from. Not that your father minded, obviously, since he married her. But I remember that your grandparents didn't say much after they returned from the wedding. I think they were a little embarrassed, too, even though they shouldn't have been. They were great people, but I think they knew they didn't fit into their daughter's world anymore, even after your father passed away."