Bloodline(28)

“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “No need to tell him a thing. I’ll stop back.”





CHAPTER 19

Sunday morning dawns sticky, the air slow and sullen.

“Weatherman says it’s going to be a hot one,” Deck murmurs in my ear, his voice drowsy. I’m surprised he’s holding me, but then the pressure against my lower back tells me why. I turn and kiss him, not open-mouthed because we’ve just woken up, but still inviting.

Morning lovemaking is my preference. My mind isn’t alert yet, so it’s easy. Deck props himself up just above me, out of deference to the baby. If I glanced down, I could see the pouch, a swelling where before there was only flat, but I don’t look. I grip tight to Deck and follow him into that place where there’s no color or sound, just the two of us rocking each other.

He rolls off before I’ve climaxed. Ursula says it’s like that sometimes. I’ve had to take her word for it because Deck’s only the second man I’ve been with. I told him he was the first. Hearing it made him happy.

He slides out of bed and pads straight into our bathroom, so I head to the one downstairs to clean up. When I return, he’s making the bed.

“That was a good way to wake up,” I say shyly, staring at my bare feet.

He strides over and kisses the top of my head. “The best.”

“Do you want to have a cup of Sanka with me? In the nook?”

His face twists. “I wish I could, baby, but I have to work today.”

“It’s Sunday!”

“I know. This first month is vital, Joanie. I’m playing catch-up with the other agents. I need to show the locals I’m worth their money. That means working harder.”

Slow Henry appears and rubs against my leg, purring loudly. His glossy fur is so comforting to the touch, but I don’t want to pet him, not when I’m frustrated. Deck wasn’t home all yesterday. I went to bed without him, didn’t even have a chance to tell him about the Paulie Aandeg story.

Deck notices my expression. “Don’t be mad, Joanie. I’ll be back for dinner. We can watch television just like nights back in Minneapolis. All right?”

“Fine.”

“Joan, you’re still pouting.”

He’s right, so there’s no point in replying.

“You should make some friends,” he says, his voice suddenly hard, the playfulness gone. “I can’t be your only social life here.”

But you are, I want to protest, and you should be because it’s your fault I’m here. But then I think of my complicity in the move, and Regina, and her kindness. “I did meet a woman about our age.” I don’t tell him that she works at the bar or that she’s from Canada in case he takes her for a hippie.

“Wonderful, baby! You should have lunch with her.”

I have nothing on my calendar other than stopping back by the Purple Saucer Motel.

“I think I will.”



I’m timid walking into Little John’s. It’s foolish how I hold the wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches in front of me, all but yelling I’m not here to drink. Thankfully, Regina is working, and even better, she seems pleased to see me.

“Tell me those are bologna,” she says when I seat myself at the bar. The dim room contains more people than I’d expected at noon on a Sunday.

“Close,” I say, nudging one toward her. “Fried braunschweiger. Do you like it?”

“Is that the liver sausage stuff?”

“Pretty similar,” I say. “I put pickles on it, too, but you can peel those off.”

“Far out!” She unwraps the sandwich. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A Tab?” I say, louder than required.

She smiles, holding the triangle of sandwich with one hand and turning a glass right-side up with the other. “Heard it’s warm out there,” she says.

It is. The middle of May, and it’s already a simmering day begging for rain. “What time do you come to work?”

She’s chewing. She hands me my soda, swallows her bite. “We open at ten a.m. for our shot-and-a-beer regulars. I’m here sometime before then.”

I glance around the bar. Eight people, all men, none of them sitting together, all of them with a sweating drink resting in front of them. The radio is a background hum, describing a world apart from Lilydale. “Is this a typical Sunday crowd?”

She shrugs. “I suppose. Hey, you smell really good. What is that?”

“Shalimar,” I say, offering my wrist. She sniffs and smiles, but then, what? A chasm lies between us. We don’t know each other, but we want to. At least, I hope she wants to. “Where were you and your boyfriend headed when you came through here?”

She smiles, her overbite and dimples creating an immediate welcome. Elbows on the bar, she finishes her sandwich, filling me in. They hadn’t had a destination in mind. Possibly California. Maybe New York. There’d been talk of a big folk festival in one or the other. Mostly she wanted to cut loose from her parents, who didn’t approve of her lifestyle or her boyfriend.

“They were right on that last one,” she says with a wink. “How about you? What brings you to Lilydale?”

I surprise myself with the truth. “A low point.”