Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(18)

“You shouldn’t, you know.”

Hope McCrea looked at Mel in impatience, grimacing. She pushed her too-big glasses up on her nose. “What the hell do I care now? I’ve already lived longer than I expected to.”

“That’s nonsense. You have many good years left.”

“Oh, God. I hope not!”

Jack laughed and in spite of herself, so did Mel.

Hope, acting like a woman with a million things to do, had her drink and cigarette, put money on the bar, hopped off the stool and said, “I’ll be in touch. I can help out with the little one, if you need me.”

“You can’t smoke around the baby,” Mel informed her.

“I didn’t say I could help out for hours and hours,” she answered. “Keep that in mind.” And off she went, stopping at a couple of tables to pass the time on her way out.

“How late do you stay open?” Mel asked Jack.

“Why? You thinking about a nightcap?”

“Not tonight. I’m bushed. For future reference.”

“I usually close around nine—but if someone asks me to stay open, I will.”

“This is the most accommodating restaurant I’ve ever frequented,” she laughed. She looked at her watch. “I better spell Doc. I don’t know how patient he is with an infant. I’ll see you at breakfast, unless Doc’s out on a house call.”

“We’ll be here,” he offered.

Mel said goodbye and on her way to her coat, stopped at a couple of the tables to say good night to people she had just met. “Think she’ll stay on awhile?” Preacher quietly asked Jack.

Jack was frowning. “I think what she does to a pair of jeans ought to be against the law.” He looked at Preacher. “You okay here? I’m thinking of having a beer in Clear River.”

It was code. There was a woman in Clear River. “I’m okay here,” Preacher said. As Jack drove the half hour to Clear River, he wasn’t thinking about Charmaine, which gave him a twinge of guilt. Tonight he was thinking about another woman. A very beautiful young blond woman who could just about bring a man to his knees with what she looked like in boots and jeans.

Jack had gone to a tavern in Clear River for a beer a couple of years ago and struck up a conversation with the waitress there—Charmaine. She was the divorced mother of a couple of grown kids. A good woman; hardworking. Fun-loving and flirtatious. After several visits and as many beers, she took him home with her and he fell into her as if she were a feather bed. Then he told her what he always made sure women understood about him—that he was not the kind of man who could ever be tied down to a woman, and if she began to have those designs, he’d be gone.

“What makes you think all women want to be run by some man?” she had asked. “I just got rid of one. Not about to get myself hooked up to another one.” Then she smiled and said, “Just the same, everyone gets a little lonely sometimes.”

They started an affair that had sustained Jack for a couple of years now. Jack didn’t see her that often—every week, maybe couple of weeks. Sometimes a month would go by. He wasn’t sure what she did when he wasn’t around—maybe there were other men—though he’d never seen any evidence of that. He never caught her making time in the bar with anyone else; never saw any men’s things around her house. He kept a box of condoms in her bedside drawer that didn’t disappear on him, and he’d let it slip that he liked being the only man she entertained.

As for Jack—he had a personal ethic about one woman at a time. Sometimes that woman could last a year, sometimes a night—but he didn’t have a collection he roved between. Although he wasn’t exactly breaking that rule tonight, he wasn’t quite sticking to it, either.

He never spent the night in Clear River and Charmaine was not invited to Virgin River. She had only called him and asked him to come to her twice—and it seemed a small thing to ask. After all, he wasn’t the only one who needed to be with someone once in a while.

He liked that when he walked in the tavern and she saw him, it showed all over her that she was happy he’d come. He suspected she had stronger feelings for him than she let show. He owed her—she’d been a real sport about it—but he knew he’d have to leave the relationship before it got any more entangled. So sometimes, to demonstrate he had a few gentlemanly skills, he’d drop in for just a beer. Sometimes he’d bring her something, like a scarf or earrings.

He sat down at the bar and she brought him a beer. She fluffed her hair; she was a big blonde. Bleached blonde. At about five foot eight, she’d kept her figure, mostly. He didn’t know her exact age, but he suspected late forties, early fifties. She always wore very tight-fitting clothes and tops that accentuated her full br**sts. At first sight you’d think—cheap. Not so much tawdry or low-class as simple. Unrefined. But once you got to know Charmaine and how kind and deep down earnest she was, those thoughts fled. Jack imagined that in younger years she was quite the looker with her ample chest and full lips. She hadn’t really lost those good looks, but she had a little extra weight around the h*ps and there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“Hiya, bub,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks, I think.”