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  Whoever my knight in shining armor is, bless him. Right on cue. She cupped her hands to her eyes and watched as an old red pickup edged towards her car. It stopped. The door creaked and she saw a pair of work boots and jeans appear beneath it.

  Slamming the door, the now recognizable Mr. Owens swaggered over on his old bowed legs. He touched his cowboy hat with a finger which showed a half moon of black under the nail. “Howdy, Miz Christina. It shore has been a month of Sundays.”

  Just what she thought he’d say. “Yes it has.” She smiled as courteously as she could, resisting the urge to run into his arms and blubber like a small child.

  “Didn’t wancha to think I done hung up on ya.”

  “Huh?”

  “Blasted phone went dead.”

  “Oh, oh. Yeah. Mine too”. She reached in her pocket and showed him her cell. He does know what a cell phone is, right?

  He nodded. “Creek’s gone down a bit. Once we could see my truck could make it across alright the Missus told me to come check on ya.” He craned his head. “Woo doggie, that river looks mean.” He reminded her of Jed Clampett on the Beverly Hillbillies, or vice versa.

  “Bless you,” she smiled deeply. “How is your wife anyway? And Bud?” May as well ask out of courtesy. “I heard he’d moved to Houston?”

  “Dorothy’s fine. Ornery as ever.” The loving twinkle in his eyes showed he was kidding. “Bud moved, yes. Went and fell for that first grade teacher over in Center Point and when she got an offer to be the principal of a day care several years back, they took off. Left lickety-split. Now she’s done left him after all them years. Met some idiot at a convention.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You hear from him often, I hope.” The blank look on the old man’s face made her clarify. “Uh, I mean Bud.”

  The man nodded. “Oh yeah. Since she left, he’s been around a lot more. Of course during deer season I know I’ll see him lots.” The codger chuckled and spat onto the ground. “How’s your youngin’? Full grown by now, ain’t he?”

  “Josh? Yeah, he’s close to twenty. Off on his own, mostly.”

  Mr. Owens reared back and laughed. “They do take a while getting out of the nest, don’t they? ‘N just when ya least expect, back they’ll come.”

  An awkward moment passed. She wasn’t sure what he meant. “Uh, you want to come in?” Christina motioned towards the cabin. “It’s dusty, but dry.”

  “No, no. Better get on back. River looks like it’ll stay up pretty high through the night.” He glanced around the property. “You alone?”

  “Yep. All alone.”

  He eyed her cautiously. “You got any vittles here?”

  “No. ‘Fraid not. Not a good Girl Scout.” Christina lowered her head like a penitent in confession.

  “Uh, huh. Thought as much.”

  She looked up and noticed Mr. Owens gave her choice of wardrobe a once over. “Oh, my clothes got drenched. This was all I could find…”

  “Never mind. Listen, why don’t ya come on over for supper. Wife’s fixin’ a brisket. There’ll be plenty.”

  “Wonderful. Tell her thanks. Sorry I can’t bring anything. I’ll have to give you a …rain check?” She cringed at her own pun.

  Mr. Owens spun on his boot heels and waved over his shoulder, whooping with laughter.

  Christina watched him climb back into the truck. As he got in, the seat springs groaned. The rusty old truck door squeaked its complaint. As she sheltered her eyes with the back of her hand, she waved as he took off back down the gravel path and over the cattle guard. He always was one of her favorite people up here. He knew everything about everybody, and was nice to them anyway.

  “Thank you, Lord, for Mr. Owens,” she breathed.

  She tiptoed barefoot back to her car and rummaged through her purse for a brush, and lip gloss. Wiping the dust from the mirror in the bedroom with the backside of the soured Jackson Pollock towel, Christina fluffed her collar length hair and pulled both sides away from her face, then secured them with two bobby pins she pilfered from the Mexican pottery bowl on the highboy. She didn’t think the boy painted in the bowl with the donkey by the cactus would mind.

  She splashed on some cologne and ran the gloss over her lips. Not too bad for going on fifty. With a few hours of sunlight left, Christina laid her blouse and skirt out on the rock retaining wall overlooking the bluff. She sat for a moment. This patio was where she’d seen the doe, where her family had spent many an evening grilling hot dogs in the outside fireplace and sharing stories of their daily adventures. Memories crowded in again, but she shook them away. What was gone, was gone. In the closet underneath the beach towels—there they were—and deflated life vests and inner tubes, she found a pair of flip-flops. They almost fit if she scrunched her toes.

  Out of politeness, she waited for another half hour before she locked up and headed to the Owens. Because of the mud and the fact the creek might still be running a little high, she decided to take her car the half mile up the road to their place. She’d dashed over on foot to get Bud Owens to come play countless times in her childhood. They even had a crush on each other in high school. That seemed eons ago. Well, actually it was. Time did have a way of standing still here. She’d have almost felt Josh’s age again, if it hadn’t been for her aching toes and chronic back pain.

  When she arrived, she pulled her car to the side of the house. She walked up the plank porch that wrapped around the front to the kitchen. As accustomed, she headed for the kitchen screen door. Only strangers and bill collectors used the front door.

  “Come on in, or the skeetters will get ya.” She heard Mrs. Owens’ voice through the screen as the aroma of slow-cooked brisket and onions fluttered into her nostrils. Her stomach growled in response. Feed me, Seymour.

  The rusted springs whined as she opened the door. “Didn’t have a thing to contribute…”

  “Don’tcha worry about a little ol’ thing like that. Paw told me the flood done caughtcha off guard.”

  “Like a 300 pound rusher to a quarterback. Heh, heh.” Mr. Owens called from the living room. He was sitting in his same old chair scratching his border collie.

  “That can’t be Duke?” Christina pointed. She remembered how Bud would cuss when Duke swam out to them and try to climb on their inner tubes. Then he’d always apologize for his potty mouth.

  “Nah, one of his last pups’ pup. Though ol’ Rex here’s hardly a pup, ain’t ya, boy? He’s almost ten now. Duke’s been gone near on twenty-one years now, right Momma?”

  That confirmed it. Time did have the illusion of standing still in these hills. Embarrassed she turned and asked Mrs. Owens what she could do to help.

  “Set the table if ya don’t mind. Ya know where the plates are in there, right? Same place as always. Forks and knives are in the drawer.” Tearing lettuce into a large wooden bowl, she nodded towards the chipped blue paint cupboard with heart cutouts on the doors.

  The younger woman nodded and placed three avocado and gold patterned plates, rims slightly chinked, onto the gingham mats. The chicken paper napkin holder with matching shakers maintained a permanent residence on the Lazy Susan. They had as long as Christina could remember.

  She gave it a spin for old time’s sake. The Tabasco sauce bottle wobbled. Christina grabbed to steady it, then glanced into the kitchen. Mrs. Owens, bent over her task, whistled a familiar country tune. Thanks goodness she didn’t see that. Then as if she felt the younger woman’s eyes on her, she looked up.

  “Oh, you need to put out four. Bud’s here.” Mrs. Owens paused from her chopping. “He was outside a little while ago checking on the hens.”

  “Uh oh,” Christina cursed under her breath.

  Mrs. Owens smiled and returned to her chopping board.

  Christina stared at the gingham and breathed a prayer. Please Lord, tell me this is not a set up. Couldn’t possibly be. We’re both married now. At least he was. I still am.

  She subconsciously rubbed her thumb along t
he gold-banded set on her left ring finger. She went to the cupboard to grab another plate. Just then the screen door slammed.

  “Well look what the pole cat drug in,” a familiar voice boomed behind her.

  Chapter 14 Faux Pas

  Jeff didn’t leave his office the rest of the afternoon. Anyone who walked by and tapped on his door got the “not now” glare. He let all calls go to his voice mail and felt like hanging out a sign on the knob that read “If the building is burning, knock. Otherwise go away.” But he felt that way every day lately. Maybe that should be my new motto. Except that disturbances came with the promotion. Welcome to middle management.

  He didn’t have any concept of the time, only that he had to finish the bid proposal before he left for the day. And, stop his mind from wandering so he could. Jeff flipped through page after page, trying to interpret what the architect wanted. No wonder this landed on his desk. It was a mess. None of the younger guys could have made heads or tails of it.

  The next time he noticed the clock on the bottom right corner of his computer screen, it glowed 6:12 PM. The proposal was finished, his eyes ached, and the florist was now closed.

  * * *

  Arms grabbed Christina from behind and pirouetted her around the room in a bear hug. Setting her back down as lightly as he had picked her up, Bud stood there grinning back at her. He’d maybe added fifteen pounds to his middle since she last saw him, and his high forehead had gotten a little higher, but other than that he looked the same—insanely handsome with sparkling blue eyes and dark tussled hair.

  “Hey there, Bud.” Christina huffed, as she caught her breath. She flicked away her bangs with her left hand, her wedding ring hand. He took a few steps back.

  “Paw told me you were up here over at the cabin. I was sorry to hear about your Mom. She passed within a year or so of your Dad, right?”

  “Yes. Last summer” The response was flat. Enough emotion for one day. She placed the last plate down on the table.

  “They were mighty fine folk. Hear from Carrie and Carl?” He pulled out one of the dining room chairs for her.

  “Yes,” Christina she sat down. Out of nowhere a mason jar of iced tea appeared.

  He decided to sit across from her instead of next to her. That was a good sign.

  “I’ll have a beer, Maw. Go on.” The last remark was directed towards Christina. Their eyes locked.

  “Well,” Christina blinked and continued. “Carl married a socialite from L.A., but they are living in Austin. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Figures. Runs in your Winslow blood.” Bud replied in a matter of fact tone. He referred to her grandfather and great uncle. He casually spun the Lazy Susan like a Hip Hop deejay, never taking his eyes off of her.

  “True. Dad’s too.” She tried not to keep her eyes on him. She traced the small, frayed hole in the vinyl table cloth with her finger, then knitted her brow to regain her train of thought.

  “Anyway. They had a daughter. I think you might have met her. They came here a lot when Melanie was younger. She’s grown and married. Has twins. Expecting again in December.”

  “Did she marry a lawyer?”

  “No, a philosophy teacher at U.T. Well, he is now. They were both students then.”

  “Must make some interesting’ conversation over the dinner table.” He looked and winked as his mother set a beer down along with a bowl of mashed potatoes. The real kind, not instant.

  “Let me help you with that.” He rose, took a swig and bowed slightly to Christina.

  “ ‘Scuse me.” His Texas drawl and manners were showing. City life hadn’t changed him all that much. In a way, she was glad.

  Christina didn’t know whether to follow or not. Mrs. Owens never did like to be crowded in her kitchen. Or, maybe she didn’t want her secret recipes revealed. Being the younger woman in the mix, but not quite a guest, she decided to meet Bud at the door jamb so he could hand her the steaming dishes. He gave her a serving bowl of green beans cradled in two pot holders. Their hands brushed slightly. Neither reacted . . . noticeably.

  After everyone was seated and the blessing said, Bud continued as he passed the rolls. “And Carrie?”

  “Hmm?” Christina halted, fork in her mouth. She covered her chewing with a gingham napkin and swallowed.

  Bud’s eyes twinkled, as they always did when he caught her off guard —one of his favorite pastimes when they were younger. Like the first time he had kissed her . . . Oh, never mind.

  “Carrie, yes.” She looked around the table at each pair of eyes. “She and Robert are living in Richardson.”

  “La, de, da,” came the response from her old nemesis turned beau . . . once.

  “Yeah. She married a banker. Excuse me, a financier.” She emphasized the correction of the gaffe in jest. “They have three grown kids now, two girls and a boy. No grandkids yet.”

  “Like y’all.” Bud paused from swirling gravy into his potatoes. Seeing her quizzical expression, he clarified by pointing with his fork, “Two girls and a boy. You, Carrie and Carl.”

  “Right.” Why does he always have the knack to flabbergast her? Maybe it was those steel blue eyes or that boyish grin that somehow, on his grown-man face, made him even more handsome.

  “And you?” she countered.

  He stopped dishing out green beans, serving spoon dripping. He looked blank. Touché.

  “Bud and Alice had three,” Mrs. Owens replied passing more brisket to her guest. “Jamie, Jonathan and Judy.”

  “Alice thought it was cute to name them all the same letter. I thought it was confusing.” He set the bowl of green beans down.

  “Where are they now?” Christina innocently asked.

  An uncomfortable silence hovered, thickening above the table.

  “Uh, pass the butter please, Maw.” Mr. Owens said.

  To recover from the unintentional faux pas, Christina turned to her hostess. “You always did make the best mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  “Wait until ya taste the Mustang Grape pie.” Her proud husband winked. Just like his son. That ol’ Owens charm oozed over the table and dripped down the sides.

  They ate in silence for a while and then shared their adventures of the flood.

  “The rain was pouring down so hard, I…” Christina stopped when Mr. Owens’ Nextel sounded. A call from the Volunteer Fire Department crackled into the receiver.

  “Bob, you there? Over.”

  Mr. Owens dashed from the table, picked it up and punched the button. “Yeah, Tom. Whatcha got? Over.”

  “Mrs. Perkins is stranded in the low water crossin’ at Miller’s Creek there by y’all. She’s a’ top her car with little Jenny. Got a towline on yer truck? Over.”

  “Shore ‘nough. On my way. Over.”

  Mr. Owens didn’t say another word. He grabbed his jacket off the hook and headed out the back door.

  “I’m going with you, Paw.”

  Bud rose from the table. His slam of the screen followed closely after his father’s.

  The two women sat in silence. Neither knew whether to eat, clear the table or just leave it all there to grow cold and follow the men.

  Chapter 15 Protocol

  “What should we do?” Christina asked.

  “Don’t know.” Mrs. Owens picked up the Nextel.

  “Tom? Tom Wilson? You there?” She forgot the protocol of saying “over”.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Tom obviously wasn’t a stickler. But then few people would cross Dorothy Owens.

  “Bob and Bud are on their way. Ya need anythin’?”

  “A couple a blankets might be nice. And a pot o’ coffee if ya got some made.”

  Five minutes later Mrs. Owens dashed down the path with coffee and Styrofoam cups. Christina tried to keep up. She shuffled along behind in her flip-flops as she hugged two blankets to her chest, sugar packets and a spoon in a Baggie dangled between her fingers. Almost sunset, shadows lengthened over the path in stretched distortions of the tree branches, the world wa
shed in a muted yellow blush. They saw Bob’s red pickup as it sputtered mud and gravel. Its tires whined in an effort to grab traction. Same creek, same sound. Déjà vu.

  Bob Owens was behind the wheel. Bud and Tom were mid-thigh deep in murky water pushing the rear bumper of Mrs. Perkins’ Buick. She stood on the bank several feet away, holding her miniature poodle and the hand of a small wide-eyed girl, no doubt her grandchild. She looked close to five years old. Both shivered in the eighty degrees dusk, obviously not from cold.

  Mrs. Owens began to pour coffee. Christina wrapped a blanket around Mrs. Perkins’ shoulders, then picked up the little girl and rocked her as she mumbled soothing, honey-dripped tones of reassurance in her ear.”Look, sweetie. They are getting your car out. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  “I bet you two’d like some pie. Just baked it today. Come on up to the house.” Mrs. Owens motioned up the road.

  The little girl nodded, two fingers firmly planted in her mouth.

  Mrs. Perkins sighed, “That’d be nice of ya. Don’t see as there’s much I can do here.”

  The four females started strolling back along the path. Christina carried Jenny, wrapped in a blanket, on her hip. The child’s abandoned sandals dangled in her other hand. The whine of the tires sounded behind them, then a whoop from Bud. Progress obviously was being made.

  Mr. Owens whistled. The women turned in unison, then realized by his hand gestures it was meant for Tom and Bud. He leaned out of the cab, elbow bent, eyes cocked into his rearview mirror. The Buick edged forward out of the watery grip. Tom wiped his brow as Bud continued to push. The taught muscles in his biceps glistened with sweat in the amber glow.

  “It just came up so fast. I thought the water was going down.” Mrs. Perkins’ voice shook a little. She cuddled her dog next to her heart, wrapping it in some of the blanket.