man playing kickball with her heart. “Lillie’s Place, six thirty.”
“Sounds good,” Ruby said. She tucked the money bag into her purse and headed for the door. “See you.”
Lillie’s is less than a block from the shop, but I had an errand to run before dinner so I drove. I parked out front and went in. The crowd was the usual—some tourists, families with kids catching an early dinner, a few quarrelsome university types arguing faculty politics, and a herd of fake cowboys swigging beer at the bar. There aren’t many real ones around here because the Hill Country is too rough for cattle ranching, but there are plenty of guys who dress the part— Wranglers, yoked shirts with pearl buttons, boots, George Strait hats. You can tell they’re phonies because they wear trophy belt buckles the size of Cadillac hubcaps. (A real rodeo cowboy doesn’t wear his hard-won trophy buckles— he hangs them from the rearview mirror in his pickup.) Bob waved at me as I came in, then went to feed more coins into the jukebox, which was wailing some early Flatt and Scruggs. Lillie’s is a down-home place.
McQuaid looked up as I sat down. “What’s the excitement over at your place?”
“It’s Billy Lee Harbuck and his bunch,” I said. “From the Everlasting Faith Bible Church. He thinks Ruby and I are witches.”
McQuaid grinned. “Maybe he’s right.” He sat back with his beer and planted his boots on a chair. Lillie’s Place is like that. You can put your feet wherever you want. The wooden tables and chairs are scarred and splintered, and some of the initials carved in the tabletops go back twenty years or more. Before the place was called Lillie’s, it used to be Bean’s Bar and Grill. The owner decided to fancy it up, so she changed the name, tacked posters of Lillie Langtry to the walls, and hung ferns over the bar. When she went to live with her daughter in Del Rio, Bob bought the place. He says he’s sick of the posters and he can’t remember to water the ferns, and anyway, it’s too dark over the bar for anything to grow. He’s going to take everything down and go back to Bean’s.
“Harbuck’s a pain in the butt,” I said, reaching for one of Bob’s nachos, gooey with Velveeta and ablaze with jalapenos. “A grand total of five people came into the shop today, counting Bubba. And he didn’t spend any money, just my time.”
I glanced at McQuaid and felt my insides go soft. He was very sexy in Levi’s, a white shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled, and polished boots—de rigueur evening wear in Pecan Springs. We’ve been seeing one another for two-plus years, and you’d think the attraction would have worn off by now. But even in a crowd, there’s a powerful energy that makes the space between us crackle. He reached for my hand and I felt charged, as if I were wired to his body circuits and somebody had bumped up the current a notch or two. I may have trouble making an emotional commitment, but I certainly don’t have any problems with my physical response. It’s instinct. A terrific turn-on.
He squeezed my hand and let it go. McQuaid isn’t big on public displays of affection. “You’re looking good tonight, China. New dress?”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but new to me.” I wasn’t surprised that he asked, because he’s used to seeing me in jeans and a tee shirt. But I’d stumbled across this I950s sundress in Clarissa’s Vintage Boutique—blue-and-white checked gingham, with a low-cut square neck and a gathered skirt, with ruffles, yet—and I’d had to have it. “I wore it because I needed a lift, after what happened today. Or what didn’t happen,” I said morosely, thinking about the empty bank deposit bag. The Reverend might not be able to work any real miracles, but he could turn black ink to red without trying very hard.
“Hang in there,” McQuaid said comfortingly. “Harbuck’s a publicity hound. I’m sure he’ll find bigger fish to fry than a local
“Sounds good,” Ruby said. She tucked the money bag into her purse and headed for the door. “See you.”
Lillie’s is less than a block from the shop, but I had an errand to run before dinner so I drove. I parked out front and went in. The crowd was the usual—some tourists, families with kids catching an early dinner, a few quarrelsome university types arguing faculty politics, and a herd of fake cowboys swigging beer at the bar. There aren’t many real ones around here because the Hill Country is too rough for cattle ranching, but there are plenty of guys who dress the part— Wranglers, yoked shirts with pearl buttons, boots, George Strait hats. You can tell they’re phonies because they wear trophy belt buckles the size of Cadillac hubcaps. (A real rodeo cowboy doesn’t wear his hard-won trophy buckles— he hangs them from the rearview mirror in his pickup.) Bob waved at me as I came in, then went to feed more coins into the jukebox, which was wailing some early Flatt and Scruggs. Lillie’s is a down-home place.
McQuaid looked up as I sat down. “What’s the excitement over at your place?”
“It’s Billy Lee Harbuck and his bunch,” I said. “From the Everlasting Faith Bible Church. He thinks Ruby and I are witches.”
McQuaid grinned. “Maybe he’s right.” He sat back with his beer and planted his boots on a chair. Lillie’s Place is like that. You can put your feet wherever you want. The wooden tables and chairs are scarred and splintered, and some of the initials carved in the tabletops go back twenty years or more. Before the place was called Lillie’s, it used to be Bean’s Bar and Grill. The owner decided to fancy it up, so she changed the name, tacked posters of Lillie Langtry to the walls, and hung ferns over the bar. When she went to live with her daughter in Del Rio, Bob bought the place. He says he’s sick of the posters and he can’t remember to water the ferns, and anyway, it’s too dark over the bar for anything to grow. He’s going to take everything down and go back to Bean’s.
“Harbuck’s a pain in the butt,” I said, reaching for one of Bob’s nachos, gooey with Velveeta and ablaze with jalapenos. “A grand total of five people came into the shop today, counting Bubba. And he didn’t spend any money, just my time.”
I glanced at McQuaid and felt my insides go soft. He was very sexy in Levi’s, a white shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled, and polished boots—de rigueur evening wear in Pecan Springs. We’ve been seeing one another for two-plus years, and you’d think the attraction would have worn off by now. But even in a crowd, there’s a powerful energy that makes the space between us crackle. He reached for my hand and I felt charged, as if I were wired to his body circuits and somebody had bumped up the current a notch or two. I may have trouble making an emotional commitment, but I certainly don’t have any problems with my physical response. It’s instinct. A terrific turn-on.
He squeezed my hand and let it go. McQuaid isn’t big on public displays of affection. “You’re looking good tonight, China. New dress?”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but new to me.” I wasn’t surprised that he asked, because he’s used to seeing me in jeans and a tee shirt. But I’d stumbled across this I950s sundress in Clarissa’s Vintage Boutique—blue-and-white checked gingham, with a low-cut square neck and a gathered skirt, with ruffles, yet—and I’d had to have it. “I wore it because I needed a lift, after what happened today. Or what didn’t happen,” I said morosely, thinking about the empty bank deposit bag. The Reverend might not be able to work any real miracles, but he could turn black ink to red without trying very hard.
“Hang in there,” McQuaid said comfortingly. “Harbuck’s a publicity hound. I’m sure he’ll find bigger fish to fry than a local
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