Good old Mom. Abby Rhodes.

  “Not as bad as it could be,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. He sat back, sipping beer. His plate vas clean except for two lonely-looking potato chips and a dusting of crumbs. “I got three friends named Misty, Sunny, and Wendy Rainey.”

  “No way.” She laughed. He grinned.

  “Yep. One, maybe it’s just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Three times, you got to figure their parents knew what they were doing.”

  She chuckled and nodded. He continued to look at her, just look, with a light in his eyes that made her blush and look away.

  “It’s coming down pretty hard,” Abby said. John Lee glanced toward the window and nodded. “I guess we should start back pretty soon. Before the roads get too bad.”

  He broke a potato chip in half, dusted his fingers, and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  Another long silence, this one uncomfortable. She got up and carried her plate into the kitchen, concentrated on rinsing it off.

  He came in behind her, stepped up, and took the plate away. As she turned, he put the plate in the sink, shut off the water, and put both hands on her shoulders. He bent his forehead to touch hers.

  “I don’t know how to do this, so I’m probably going to screw it up. Abby, you said you never saw anything as beautiful as what I do out there; but you’re wrong, I saw it myself when you were on that stage, playing. Something so beautiful it made me shake. And I don’t want you to go away not knowing that.”

  She didn’t move, couldn’t move. His fingers squeezed, gently, and slid down her arms. Off her arms, to fold around her waist.

  “Tell me now,” he whispered. “God, Abby, if you don’t feel it, tell me now.”

  Her hands drifted up to touch the beard-rough skin of his cheek, to bury themselves in the warm curls of his hair. She leaned into him and loved the way his body burned hers through their clothes, the way his lips trembled when she kissed them. A long, warm, sliding kiss.

  “Stay,” he whispered, mouth pressed against her ear. His tongue touched her earlobe and drew a moan out of her. “Please, Abby, stay with me.”

  She kissed the line of his jaw, down his neck, feeling muscles tense and blood beat just under the skin. His breath escaped into her ear.

  “Absolutely.”

  She leaned into his kiss again, into the warm circle of his arms. He touched her neck and traced a hot line down her collarbone, farther down, until his fingers caught in the fabric of her shirt. She reached up and undid the button stopping him.

  His fingers continued to explore, tracing the satin top of her bra, unfastening the other buttons. By the time he’d opened them all she’d loosened his shirt, bared his chest, traced the smooth lines of muscle there. She put her own skin against him and he held her there.

  “You have another room to this place?” she asked, brushing the hair back from his face.

  He made a purring sound deep in his throat. “Got a living room with a couch.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Nice big bathroom.”

  “Hmm.” She tried to distract him from the home tour by nibbling on his neck.

  “Closets.” He refused to be distracted, and anyway what he was doing to her wasn’t keeping her mind on conversation, either. “Got three or four closets.”

  “Anything else?” she asked. He started walking backward, drawing her with him toward an open doorway at the far end of the kitchen.

  “Well, I’ve got this bedroom in the back …”

  “Mmm?”

  They passed under the doorway, bumped into the end of a sofa. Living room.

  “But I don’t think I’m going to make it there,” he said.

  Mezzopiano: December 5, 1994

  The burglar alarm went off.

  Abby flailed wildly and froze as John Lee caught her wrists and held them tight. He was looking away from her toward the bedroom doorway, the darkness in it.

  “Stay here,” he whispered, and slid out of bed. On the way to the door he found a pair of fleece pants on the floor and pulled them on, gathered a shotgun from the closet.

  “John—’’ she hissed.

  He shook his head. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  The dark swallowed him. She threw the covers back and tried to remember where she’d left her clothes. On the floor by the couch—in the hallway—damn. She opened John Lee’s closet and threw on the first thing she could grab from a hanger, a long-sleeved shirt barely long enough to hang to her thighs. She found something else in the closet, too, a baseball bat. Not as good as John’s shotgun, but it would do. She shouldered it and crept cautiously toward the doorway.

  The deafening scream of the alarm cut off, leaving echoes like angry ghosts. Lights clicked on somewhere near or in the workroom, washing reflections from the wood onto her bare feet. She paused in the living room to wrestle on her discarded blue jeans, lost her balance and took an unplanned seat on the rumpled sofa.

  “Terry.” John Lee’s voice echoed from the workroom. It was a completely different voice than she’d become used to in the past hours—flat, cold, unwelcoming. “Guess you got a reason to be in here.”

  “You might call the cops,” said Terry. He had a deep, drawling voice and an ugly edge to it. He had an ugly laugh, too. “Sheriff Hayes’d be real damn sympathetic, specially when I tell him how I saw prowlers creeping around in your workroom. Didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “Get to the point, Terry.”

  Something shattered in the workroom. Abby felt sick at the thought of all that breakable beauty, gritted her teeth, and edged toward the door. Through the kitchen she saw part of John Lee’s naked back, muscles tensed, shotgun pointed at the floor. Facing him stood a big linebacker type, muscular, wearing a khaki police uniform. In spite of the hour, he looked well-pressed. His grin looked as sharp as the crease on his trousers.

  “Oops,” he said. At his feet lay shards of glass. “Damn shame, you having all this breakable stuff in here. Prowlers surely could cause you a problem.”

  Terry stirred the remains of the glass with the toe of a polished shoe.

  “I’m just deliverin’ a message,” he continued. “From Sheriff Hayes. He says the old man walked out of the gates of Huntsville two days ago, eight A.M. sharp. Warden there says the old bastard’s got a notion to come home to Fall Creek. Guess you wouldn’t be too damn happy about that.”

  As Abby watched, John Lee raised the shotgun. The muscles in his back were so tense they jumped.

  “Go on, do it,” Terry invited softly. “Show me you got the guts.”

  “Get the hell out of my house. Now, Terry.”

  “Got a guest, John Lee? Some little artsy-fartsy faggot in your bedroom?” Terry sneered, and kicked at the worktable nearest him. Glass shivered. A blown-glass goblet fell and smashed. “Bring him on out. I want to pay him my respects.”

  Abby put the baseball bat down and stepped through the doorway, walked slowly to John Lee’s side, and stood there while Terry stared at her.

  “Want to introduce me to your friend, John?” she asked. He didn’t take his eyes off Terry. The shotgun stayed on target.

  “Not a friend,” he said. “And he’s just leaving, weren’t you, Terry?”

  She’d expected to see Terry get angry at being wrong, but he looked her up and down, up and down again. A complete, insulting inventory. At the end of it he gave her a sour smile and nodded.

  “Ma’am,” he said dryly. “You ought to be more careful who you pick up at closing time.”

  “Weren’t you leaving?” she snapped. He tipped an imaginary hat to her and sauntered toward the door. John Lee followed. Terry gave her one more toothy grin before swinging the front door shut as he left.

  “You should’ve stayed in the bedroom,” John Lee said, and grabbed a piece of wood. He braced it under the front doorknob where the lock was broken and jammed it tight. His face looked ashen, his eyes too bright. “Could’ve gotten ugly,”

  “It did,” she said, and put her hand on his arm as he turned. “God, John, who the hell is that guy?”

  “Nobody,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  He met her eyes. “For trying. Don’t really matter. Terry’ll make up whatever he damn well pleases. Wouldn’t matter if I had the Rockettes in my bedroom, he’s been saying I was gay since I was twelve years old.”

  “You grew up with that guy on your back?” Abby shivered. “Is everybody in Fall Creek like him?”

  “Nope, but he’s my personal cross to bear. Sheriff Hayes ain’t a bad guy but he’s basically lazy. He’ll let Terry slide because it’s just easier that way. Besides, Terry saved his life a few years back, so Hayes’ll never turn on him now.”

  He opened a closet near the entry hall and took out a broom. She watched as he methodically swept up the remains of the broken glass.

  “So you just let it go? Let him break in here and destroy things?”

  He found a piece of cardboard and used it to scoop up the glass.

  She tried again. “Who’s the old man?”

  A slight hitch as he was bending, like she’d stabbed him in the back. He finished and tossed the shards in the trash.

  “My father.”

  “And he’s been in prison?” she asked. He put the broom away and turned to face her.

  “Yep.” He let out a sigh and reached for her, folded her in his arms. “He killed four people they know of. Buried ‘em out in his own fields.”

  The house, the one looming black in the darkness next to the welcoming glow of Pearl Jordan’s window. She didn’t know why she knew, but she did. And she knew his name, as surely as she felt John Lee’s warm skin against hers.

  “Custer Grady,” she whispered.

  Shock rippled through his body.

  She looked up into a face she didn’t know but remembered, a tough, seamed, leathery face with ice-blue eyes. As she opened her mouth to scream, it faded into John Lee’s sharp-boned face, his dark eyes, his frown. He watched anxiously. “Abby …”

  She shook her head and buried her face against the satin warmth of his chest, listening to the whisper of his heartbeat, the river-rush of his breathing. After a while he relaxed and held her tight.

  “Never mind,” he said, and rested his chin on top of her head. “It’s okay.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Damn early. You want to go back to bed?”

  “Do you want me in your bed?” She raised her head to look at him again and saw the dark preoccupation in his eyes melt away. He gave her a wry, one-sided smile.

  “I ain’t done with you yet, lady.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I was thinking about that sofa in there. Closer than the bed.” He trailed a finger down the side of her face, ringing the collar of the shirt she wore. “I like that shirt.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “I’d like it more off,” he said, and started unbuttoning. His lips found skin underneath. She slid her hands down to his waist and undid the string tie on his fleece pants. “Better be careful, you might get something started.”

  “With any luck,” she murmured. Her fingers teased the pants down. “Hmm, looks like I already did.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, voice gone husky and deep.

  She woke at eight A.M., alone in the warm wrought-iron bed, wrapped in thick quilts. Her skin smelled of John Lee. She buried her face in the pillow and drank it in, flashes of memory and sensation that trailed fire like comets. It had been a long time. A long time. The aftershocks of pleasure left her with a shivery, wickedly liquid sensation inside.

  The shower started in the bathroom. She yawned and stretched and slipped out of bed to look in the open door. John Lee had clear glass walls on the spacious shower stall, and she stood watching him for a while, hungry for the sight of him, the way his back flexed as he bent his head under the hot water, the way that water trailed down his legs. She could still taste him, musky at the back of her throat.

  She stepped forward and knocked lightly on the glass. He turned and tossed water out of his eyes. His hair, wet, hung long on his neck.

  “Want me to go away?” she asked. He opened the shower door and stood there, dripping.

  “I was just thinking about you,” he said, and reached for her hand. “And you going away wasn’t in it.”

  She stepped into the spray of hot water. He backed her against the tile wall, braced himself on outstretched arms, and kissed her, hard.

  “Good morning,” she sighed when he came up for air. “Oh, God, what a good morning.”

  “It’s starting to be one of my favorites,” he said. “Want me to wash your hair?”

  “Mmm.” She twined her arms around his neck. “Later. What time do you have to open your shop?”

  “Oh—now.”

  “Now!”

  “Whenever I get ready to open, I’ll open.” The smile faded out of his face. “Guess I got to take you home, too.”

  The seriousness in his eyes touched her almost as much as the smile had. She reached up to trace the solemn set of his lips.

  “Yes, I guess so. Kids to teach today.”

  The water beat down on them, hot as sunshine, but suddenly she felt a chill of separation. He felt it, too; she saw it in the crooked smile, the gentle light in his eyes.

  “Can I call you later?”

  She traced the smile, kissed it. He tasted of warm water and clean male skin, beautiful, so beautiful.

  “You better,” she murmured, lips still on his. “I’m getting pretty fond of you.” ‘

  “Turn around,” he said. She raised her eyebrows. “Please.”

  She turned and braced herself against the wet tile. He put both hands on her shoulders and rubbed. Her muscles twinged, and she sighed and pressed back against him.

  “Feels good,” she said. “You aren’t going to do anything outrageous to me, are you?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  She pressed her hips back and made contact. He returned the favor.

  “Keep thinking,” she said.

  Back in Midland, later, she found the teacher’s lounge abuzz with the news that Mr. Henderson, the new shop teacher, had been spotted buying beer at the local Quick-E-Mart outside of town.

  “Six-packs of Heineken,” said Mrs. Graham as she inspected the selection of junk food in the vending machine. She chose a candy bar and took a seat between Abby and Mr. Harris, the band director. Her candy-bar-a-day habit was clearly having an effect; her face had taken on a shiny, overstressed look like the skin of a microwaved sausage.

  “Well, he’s toast,” Mr. Harris said. He was busy counting squares on a marching band layout grid. “They would have let him get by with American beer. Imported, forget about it.”

  “Oh, come on, they wouldn’t really fire him for that, would they?” Abby asked. Mrs. Graham regarded her with narrowed eyes behind her thick glasses and broke her Mr. Goodbar into precise bitesized pieces. Mr. Harris sighed and drew X’s through six squares. “You’re kidding, right?’

  “I’d watch out about inviting your friend with the hair back to town, too, if I were you,” he said, and looked up to give her a second’s glance from sky-blue eyes. He had a deceptively innocent quality that she wasn’t quite sure she bought anymore. “People will talk.”

  “About her hair? It’s not my hair.”

  “Guilt by association. Listen, if you’re going to buy beer anywhere in a hundred miles, wear a wig and dark glasses, If you’re going to buy hard stuff, get somebody to bring it in from out of town for you. Hell, half the people in town probably think your friend brought you drugs.”

  “Charlie, do you know anything about Fall Creek?” she asked. There was a long second’s pause while he mapped the conversational curve.

  “Little town to the west, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. On 115.”

  “Alpine Highway? No, don’t know anything. Cora?” He cocked an eyebrow at Mrs. Graham. She looked thoughtful and ate a square of chocolate.

  “Well, I’ve driven through it but I don’t know much about it. They have their own school out there.” Her expression turned prim and sour. “You might ask Mrs. O’Rourke if you just have to know. Lord knows, that old biddy knows everything and everybody from New Mexico up to Big Bend.”

  As the bell rang for the second lunch period, the lounge door opened and Mrs. O’Rourke breezed in—a well-kept woman over fifty, devoted to the beauty shop and the latest in local Dress Barn fashions. Today she was wearing a navy skirt and magenta blazer with an anchor on the pocket. At the sight of her, Mrs. Graham covered up her chocolate bar with a stack of papers.

  “Doralee!” she said with overdone joy. “Why, we were just talking about you. How was your Cancún vacation?”

  “Dreadful, honey, just dreadful. Poor Floyd was indisposed the whole time. I told him, foreign countries are just no good. Why, Cora, dear, you haven’t been sick, too, have you?”

  Mrs. Graham’s smile switched off. “No. Why?”

  “Well, I—Oh, no reason, honey, never mind. Abby, you are just the talk of the town, aren’t you? Having your little friend in for the concert and getting flowers from that mystery man, how exciting.” Mrs. O’Rourke had eyes that looked too green to be real, and probably weren’t. They scanned with the cool precision of a computer.

  Abby kept smiling through a cold stab of fear. “Benina’s very well regarded in music circles. She’s a concert pianist.”

  As she’d feared, Mrs. O’Rourke got right to the point. “I’m sure she’s wonderful, dear, but do tell us all about your new man.”

  “Actually there isn’t much to tell. He’s just a friend.”

  “An out-of-town friend,” Mrs. Graham contributed. “I didn’t recognize him, and I’m sure I would have if he’d been from Midland.”

  “There are a lot of people in Midland,” Harris observed mildly.

  “Well, I certainly know all the good people.”

  “He’s from Fall Creek,” Abby said quickly, hoping to end the discussion. No such luck. Mrs. O’Rourke’s eyes took on a predatory gleam of interest.

  “My, my, Fall Creek. If that doesn’t bring back memories. Fall Creek had quite a reputation, back in the fifties.” Mrs. O’Rourke stirred her tea and stared contemplatively at Abby. “Scandalous.”