the high-backed kitchen chair and continued, “My mama’s a great cook. Maybe one day I’ll practice some of the things I used to watch her do in the kitchen.”
Drew set his cup on the saucer as he wondered about her injury. “Then we have something in common. My mother is…was a great cook, too.” His mother had been lost years ago at the hands of a drunk driver, and he still had a hard time thinking of her in the past tense.
“Next time my sister sends me a box of her homemade Tollhouse cookies, I’ll share them with you,” he offered.
“My favorite! It’s a deal.”
For the first time, she gave him a sincere smile. As it spread across her face, her eyes rose at the corners and crinkled around the edges. His breath caught in his throat when the eyes narrowed and flashed in good humor. His chest tingled in the strangest way.
He made a mental note to stick with the decaf he normally drank instead of indulging in this strong Southern brew.
“I’d better get back outside. As it is, Hank is going to give me a hard time about letting him do all that work by himself.”
“You said he’s your partner?”
“Yeah. I’d known him for a couple of years buying parts over the phone from Metro Muscle. We finally met a few months ago at a car show. I’ve always liked this area, so I talked Hank into selling me part of his restoration business.”
“Good karma.” Jessica’s head bobbed up and down.
“I don’t believe in karma, but I do believe Hank will put a knot on my head if I don’t get back outside and finish unloading. We still have a full day of moving ahead of us.”
“If you need anything…”
“Actually, I was wondering about the churches in this area.”
“Sorry, that’s not my strong suit. But if you’re looking for an ice-cream shop—” she patted her hip “—I’m your resource.”
“I’ll remember that.”
He picked up the two cups and backed away from the counter, not really wanting to break eye contact with this intriguing woman. He shifted his body, but not his face, toward the door. Finally, as he turned to make his exit, a cascade of ivy blocked his view and he smacked his head into a hanging basket.
He ducked just as the plastic bucket made a second sweep in his direction.
Jessica steadied the swinging plant. “Did you hurt anything?”
“Only my pride,” he admitted, rubbing his temple.
He stared into the enchanting face as her expression changed from concern to humor. Suddenly she burst into laughter. Throwing a hand over her mouth, she shook her head in apology.
“I’m sorry. You just looked so silly with that ivy draped over your head.”
She followed him through the living room, unable to draw a breath without breaking into fresh giggles.
As he opened the door and stepped over the threshold, her infectious humor caught up with him. Just before he pulled the door closed behind him, he puckered his lips and blew her a noisy kiss.
Out in the hallway Drew stood still, appalled at the very personal gesture. The impulsive motion was completely out of character for a man who believed God had sent him on a mission to reconnect with a woman from his past.
During a brief college romance with Amelia Crockett, she’d proposed a deal.
When you get tired of playing army and want some real excitement, come find me in Atlanta. I’ll be the perfect political partner for you.
A dozen years and a nearly fatal training mission later, he was prepared to take her up on the offer.
The heavy exterior door swung open. Hank carried an armload of clothing through the vestibule into the hallway. Several garments slid off the stack, falling into a soft heap on the floor.
“I’ve got it,” Drew called, hurrying to close the space between them. He set the cups down carefully and then reached to recover his favorite wool suit, a starched dress shirt and two expensive cashmere sweaters. He brushed at the dark grains on the white shirt, but the motion only turned the small specks into streaks.
His nose twitched at the slight odor. Bending to the pristine broadcloth, he sniffed. Mingled with starch and laundry detergent was the unmistakable smell of…
Manure.
Chapter Three
Jessica was trapped, struggling for breath. She kicked frantically at the sheets that bound her in the semi-conscious state. Her groggy mind cast back to a room filled with skinny fifteen-year-old girls.
She stood out from them like a marshmallow in a bowl of pretzels, with thirty extra pounds on her body and a number forty-seven pinned to her back.
The instructor began leading the young dancers through combinations. Many struggled to keep up, but some caught on quickly. Jessica caught on. She fixed her attention on the movements, intent on copying and remembering them. When the pianist added music, the combinations became fluid, purposeful motions with a destination.
After the first hour a judge called out thirty numbers. These girls would continue the audition; the rest were free to go.
Number forty-seven made the cut.
The pace quickened as the instructor switched from basic ballet to moderately difficult jazz. It was obvious which dancers had the ability to cross over from classic to contemporary.
At the second break, fifteen more mothers packed up their daughters and headed for home. Jessica was grateful to be among the survivors, waiting for round three to begin.
The last part of the audition was modern dance, incorporating difficult leaps. The liability of her weight was evident in Jessica’s landings.
Finally the audition ended and the girls were dismissed. There were only five scholarships available for the summer workshop. Ten losers would be spending the steamy days in small Texas towns, baby-sitting and watching MTV, while the winners worked with seasoned professionals.
Jessica swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and headed for the ladies’ room. As she stood in line outside the door, she overheard the number forty-seven mentioned by a young, high-pitched voice. The discomfort reflected on the face of the girl directly in front of Jessica was no preparation for the blows that followed.
The shrill voice echoed inside the tiled walls. “What a country hog! I heard there were some big ones over in east Texas, but she’s gotta be a blue ribbon winner.”
Laughter followed the comment as another anonymous girl chimed in, “My mom says they have to let a few porky ones audition every year just so nobody can claim discrimination. If you ask me, it was just a waste of two good dance positions on the stage!”
The girls exited, laughing at their crude comments. Turning the corner, they came face-to-face with the butt of their jokes.
A very slender brunette gaped wide-eyed at Jessica. Embarrassed at being caught, the girl burst into nervous laughter and sprinted the distance to the auditorium. Jessica had heard the ugly words before, but they’d never penetrated in quite this way.
Inside the audition hall, the final results had been posted. Number forty-seven was not one of the scholarship winners, but neither were the numbers of the two from the rest room. Bittersweet, but small consolation.
Jessica bit a quivering lip and lifted her chin as a lone tear slipped down her cheek. Mama said God gave her a beautiful body and it was precious in His sight. But there was nothing precious about a girl called “porky.”
Jessica jolted awake in a flushed panic, unable to shake the dream. It was always the same. And why not? It was more than a dream. It was a memory.