LITMIR.BIZ

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makes the best pies in the county. Any news about the baby’s mother?”

      “I call the baby Chloe,” she said, expecting a sting of tears that, remarkably, didn’t come. “No. Nothing. I hope the woman who gave birth isn’t sick somewhere.”

      “With the way everyone around here knows everyone’s business, if there were a sick woman out there, word would get out.”

      “Maybe she did come from another town.”

      “You look almost happy,” he said.

      “I almost am,” she returned. “The young woman who brought the berries asked me to deliver her baby. That was nice. The only problem seems to be that she’s going to be having her baby in my bedroom. And she could be doing that pretty soon, too.”

      “Ah,” he said. “Polly. She looks like that baby’s ready to fall out of her.”

      “How did you know? Oh, never mind—everyone knows everything.”

      “There aren’t that many pregnant women around,” he laughed.

      She turned on her stool and looked around. Two old women were eating meat loaf at a table by the fire and the couples she had met, all in their forties or fifties, seemed to be socializing; laughing and gossiping. There were perhaps a dozen patrons. “Business is pretty good tonight, huh?”

      “They don’t come out in the rain so much. Busy putting buckets under the leaks, I suppose. So—still feel like getting the hell out of here?”

      She drank a little of her beer, noting that on an empty stomach the effects were instantaneous. And, actually, delightful. “I’m going to have to leave, if for no other reason than there’s nowhere around here to get highlights put in my hair.”

      “There are beauty shops around here. In Virgin River, Dot Schuman does hair in her garage.”

      “That sounds intriguing.” She lifted her eyes to his face and said, “I’m getting a buzz. Maybe I better do that meat loaf.” She hiccupped and they both laughed.

      By seven, Hope McCrea had wandered in and took the stool next to her. “Heard you had a lot of company today,” she said. She pulled her cigarettes out of her purse and as she was going to shake one out, Mel grabbed her wrist.

      “You have to wait until I’m done with dinner, at least.”

      “Oh, foo—you’re a killjoy.” She put the pack down. “The usual,” she ordered. And to Mel, “So—how was it? Your first real day? Doc scare you off yet?”

      “He was absolutely manageable. He even let me put in a couple of stitches. Of course, he didn’t compliment my work, but he didn’t tell me it was bad, either.” She leaned closer to Hope and said, “I think he’s taking credit for me. You might want to stand up for yourself.”

      “You’re staying now?”

      “I’m staying a few days, at least. Until we get a couple of things that need attention ironed out.”

      “I heard. Newborn, they say.”

      Jack put a drink down in front of Hope. “Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.

      “Have any ideas on the mother?” Mel asked Hope.

      “No. But everyone is looking at everyone else strangely. If she’s around here, she’ll turn up. You done pushing food around that plate yet? Because I’m ready for a smoke.”

      “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

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