Chapter Seven

Cal was tired and sore. Sitting most of the day had been uncomfortable, but there were new claims being filed, and they were busy all day. He was actually looking forward to going home and wondering what they would have for their supper when he drove out of Lone Bridge.

He passed JoJo’s house with little more than a glance, thinking of how good it was going to feel to get out of these clothes and stretch out. Another couple of miles and he’d be home. But as he topped the rise and saw that the little red car was gone, he frowned. She hadn’t sent him a text. Then he remembered she hadn’t said she would. Bitsy had just agreed with him that she could.

Now he was in a mood and walking into the house without the smell of good things cooking only added to his snit. Then he read the note and cursed out loud.

“To hell with the chickens,”

he muttered, and went to change. Stomping in chicken shit in these clothes wasn’t happening.

The whole time he was putting up the chickens for the night and gathering eggs, he wondered what she was doing in Jackson. He didn’t like not knowing where she was, but he never equated what he’d done to what he expected of her.

When he came back inside and washed up, he opened the refrigerator and realized there were all kinds of good leftovers. All he had to do was pick what he wanted and zap it in the microwave. So, she hadn’t ignored his needs. She’d provided good food. She just wasn’t here to eat it with him.

He made a plate and a drink and took them into the living room to eat so he could watch TV. After a few bites, he decided this wasn’t so bad after all. He wasn’t getting any go-to-hell looks, and the comfort of being home was not lost on him.

He was all the way through his meal and kicked back in his recliner when he saw her red car turn off the highway and come up the drive. He watched from where he reclined to see how many bags she was carrying, but when she got out with only her purse, one small sack, and drink cup, he frowned and sat up.

The door opened.

Bitsy sailed into the room in her little white sundress with the yellow flowers and her flat-heeled sandals slapping the hardwood floors.

“Oh good, you ate. I’m going to get out of these clothes. It’s been miserably hot today. I’m sweaty all over.”

“You didn’t shop for anything. What did you do?” he asked.

She paused and frowned at him. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t even leave the house until after 2:00 p.m. I came home with the book I said I needed. I decided I didn’t need to pretend I was buying myself an anniversary present, since that day has come and gone, but I did treat myself to a chocolate malt to drink on the way home. Now, get over yourself, because I’m not in the mood to be cross-examined,”

she finished, and flipped out of the room.

Cal frowned. She was never going to get over the mess of their anniversary, or the car debacle, and he’d waited too long to apologize, so here they were. She’d been insulted, and he’d let it slide.

He got up and carried his dirty dishes into the kitchen, rinsed them, and put them in the dishwasher. Then he stood listening to her banging doors and slamming drawers. Frowning, he went back to the TV and turned up the volume. Two people could play that game.

He just didn’t expect her to sit on the sidelines because his stunt fell flat. When he got up to get a cold drink, he found her sitting at the table eating a sandwich and chips with her new book open, totally engrossed in the story.

“What’s the name of that book? Another hate story about men?” he asked.

“You’re just trying to pick a fight. If that man hadn’t been a criminal and a bigamist and a liar, he wouldn’t have been hated. The title of this book is Demon Copperhead. The author is Barbara Kingsolver. It’s a Pulitzer-prize winning novel about a hard-up kid,”

she mumbled, and poked another chip in her mouth.

“For your book club,” he added.

She sighed, paused, and looked up. “I hear doubt in your question. You know JoJo. She’s in my book club. Why don’t you verify my truth with our neighbor? And while we’re clarifying things, you and Bradley Beamer started this shit when you lied to me. I have never lied to you. But I am also done talking to you tonight. Go away.”

“Damn it, Bitsy. I . . .”

She just stared at him, and for the life of him, he had no explanation that wouldn’t give away his game. He finally shook his head and shrugged.

“That’s what I thought,”

she said, went back to her book, and shoved another chip in her mouth.

**

There was no longer a question of where they would sleep.

By nightfall, Bitsy had moved all her toiletries into the spare bathroom, as well as her nightgowns and some changes of clothes, leaving Cal with the king-size bed and the ensuite to himself.

On the one hand, he was still in enough of a healing phase to relish the extra space in the bed. But on the other hand, he hadn’t cuddled up to Bitsy in bed since the night before their anniversary. It was like walking with a limp. Both feet and legs were still there, but the crutch she’d been in his life was missing. He was off kilter, without a way to recalibrate.

As for Bitsy, she was just biding time, waiting for Charlie Cowan to tell her the process server was coming to Lone Bridge. In the meantime, tomorrow was her day to work at the church Clothes Closet. There was every likelihood she’d see JoJo again. She’d say prayers tonight before she went to sleep, asking God to help her keep her words sweet. After the process server hit town, the nails would come out, and Bitsy’s weren’t the kind to come unglued.

And the longer she thought about it, the more certain she became that after everything was over, she wasn’t going to want to live here anymore. All these years, and not one person had ever cared enough about her to let her know what was going on. Bradley Beamer had known. And if he’d known, then there were others.

She’d lost faith and trust in the people she’d grown up with. This divorce wasn’t just about cleaning out her house. It wasn’t even about starting over. It was about finding out who she was as a woman, alone.

**

When Bitsy went to bed that night behind a locked door, it was the official beginning of the end, leaving Calvin under the misapprehension that he was sleeping alone because of his injuries, and that the locked door was Bitsy sulking.

The next morning, he woke up to the scent of fresh coffee and bacon frying, and he bailed out of bed, showered, shaved, and was dressed for work when he came into the kitchen. He expected to see his wife in one of her work dresses, but she’d obviously dressed to go out.

“Scrambled or fried,”

she asked, as he stopped at the end of the island.

“Scrambled is fine,”

he said. “Going somewhere?”

“As always for the past eight years, it’s my day to work at the Clothes Closet.”

Then she looked up at him and gave him the once-over. “Where are you going today?”

“Well . . . to work, of course.”

“I meant . . . as an adjustor? I ask, because the only time you wear that jacket, and those shoes is when you’re going to be out of the office.”

He frowned. “How do you know this stuff?”

She began cracking eggs into a bowl and then beating them with a fork without looking up.

“Because, as your wife, it has always been my job to send you out of the house looking all put-together.”

At that point, she did look up. “I know just about everything there is to know about you, Calvin Yarbrough, yet it has become blatantly clear that you know nothing about me. Not my charity work at church. Not the book club I’ve been going to for years. Not the fact that I am usually barefoot in the house until cold weather sets in. You don’t seem to care that you’ve hurt my feelings every year on our anniversary, and continue to do so, because never once in those fifteen years have you brought me flowers or a present on that day. You just sail in expecting your favorite cake. And I put up with it. But no more. You are clearly oblivious to everything about me except when I feed you and fuck you, and you’ve lost privileges there. Be glad I’m still cooking your food. Pour yourself some coffee, your eggs will be done in less than a minute. Clearly, I am invisible in your world, so don’t bother with conversation. I don’t want to hear your voice.”

He was so shocked he didn’t know how to respond, but truth hurt. He just poured his coffee and sat down, watching the stiffness in her shoulders as she scrambled the eggs then divided them on two plates. As always two-thirds for him, and the leftovers for her. She added bacon and carried the plates to the table, went back to get her coffee and the little plate of toast for the table, then sat down and began buttering her toast, and peppering her eggs.

She was just about to take her first bite when her cell phone rang. She glanced at it and then answered, while all Cal got was her side of the conversation.

“Good morning, Pastor Samuels. Yes, I’m coming as soon as I finish breakfast. Yes, I will do that,”

she said. “See you soon.”

“What . . .”

She glanced up. “He wants me to pick up some soap. Laundry soap, and what part of ‘no conversation’ do you not understand?”

He glared back, cleaned his plate in gulps, and stomped out of the house.

“Good riddance,”

she muttered, and spread peach preserves on her toast to finish eating.

**

Calvin was mad, and he was about to call a damn halt to her attitude, whether she liked it or not. She isn’t the boss of our house . It even says in the bible that the husband is the head of the wife. He’s the leader. She’s meant to follow. But he still chose to ignore quite a few other verses and commandments, like the one about not committing adultery. By the time he got to town and walked into the office, he was full of indignation.

“Good morning, Cal. Glad you’re here. There was a three-car pile-up north of town on Highway 49. Two of the three vehicles are insured by our agency. I’ve already gotten the phone calls from the drivers. I don’t think anyone was seriously injured, but that will likely evolve, too. I’ll need you to get out there and take photos ASAP. Hopefully, before the police arrive and start moving vehicles. I don’t know who’s at fault, but everybody’s going to be filing lawsuits. We’ll get accident reports later.”

“Right,”

Cal said, and went to get the camera out of the storeroom, checked the battery, then grabbed a second battery just in case, got his briefcase and notebook, and took off out the back door.

It didn’t dawn on him until he was driving out of town that he was wearing the kind of clothes he normally chose when going out on a job—like he’d known this was going to happen, but then he shrugged it off. There was no such thing as precognition. Unfortunately, for Cal, it would have been a handy skill to have, because then he might have foreseen the coming chaos.

**

As soon as Bitsy got to Lone Bridge, she went straight to their little Neighborhood Walmart and picked up six large jugs of laundry detergent to take to the church, per Pastor Samuel’s request. The laundry area at the Clothes Closet had just received a donation of clothing, and they were out of detergent to wash them, which had to happen before they got worked into the donation side of the store. So as soon as she’d checked out and loaded everything up in her car, she headed to the church and met a couple of other women arriving as she pulled in.

She popped the trunk of her car and then called out to them. “Hey, y’all! Will you help me here?”

JoJo and Retha from the book club had come to work together and quickly came to help. They each got two, Bitsy got the other two and followed them into the church back to the Clothes Closet.

Pastor Samuels met them at the door to the laundry area. “Thank you, ladies! And Bitsy, thank you for running the errand. Go see Fern about being reimbursed.”

“Just consider it an extra tithe,”

Bitsy said, and stored her purse.

“JoJo and I will sort,”

Retha offered. Neither of us can sew worth a flip, so we’ll leave that to Bitsy.”

JoJo sighed. “Okay, but I hate sorting through fleas and head lice.”

The pastor frowned at her. “It’s nothing a little cleanliness won’t cure. We aren’t all blessed the same.”

JoJo flushed. She’d just been chastised, although quite nicely by the pastor, and she followed Retha to the pile of clothes that had been dumped in a corner.

“There are quite a few rips, tears, and missing buttons at the sewing area,”

the pastor added.

“Right up my alley,”

Bitsy said, and left them to it.

Once she got to the sewing room, she thought of Fisher. Had it only been last week when he’d walked in to find a jacket? It seemed like a lifetime ago but revisiting old wounds did not hasten their healing, so she dismissed the mood and got to work.

There was satisfaction in repairing something to be used again, and as she did, Bitsy thought of who might wear each item next, and what needs or disasters had driven them to seek clothes to wear. Such a simple need, but without money to buy them, not an easy one to fill.

As she worked, she thought of what kind of a job she might get when she was divorced and tried to remember what she’d wanted to do, what she’d wanted to be besides Calvin Yarbrough’s wife, when she’d graduated high school.

Her one year of college had been almost over when her parents were killed. She’d come home to an empty house with a broken heart, and Calvin Yarbrough had been on her doorstep with sympathy and open arms. She’d taken it, and him, and had given up everything else.

Looking back, part of her wondered if he’d ever really loved her, or if she’d just been a good catch. She’d come with a beautiful home and a hundred acres of Mississippi fields and woods, and they were good together in bed. Bitsy had been so grief-stricken that his attention had helped her get past being a nineteen-year-old orphan.

She was so deep in thought that she wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing and accidentally pricked her finger as she was sewing on a button.

She gasped and flinched, and then got up to douse it in alcohol and get a Band-Aid. There were tears in her eyes when she walked past the laundry room where Retha and JoJo still worked.

Retha saw the tears and stopped her. “Bitsy honey! What’s wrong?”

Bitsy held up her bloody finger. “War wound,”

she said. “Going to get a Band-Aid so I don’t bleed all over everything else. It’s not a big deal. Comes with the job.”

“Do you need any help?”

JoJo asked.

Bitsy paused, then flashed her a sweet smile. “No, but that’s so sweet of you to care.”

JoJo started to smile when she caught the flash of fire in Bitsy’s eyes and didn’t know how to read that. A little shiver ran up her spine, which she quickly shrugged off.

A couple of minutes later, Bitsy came back by, flashed her bandaged finger at them, and kept walking. Retha didn’t see it, but JoJo did. She gave her a thumbs up as she was putting a new load of clothes into the washer. But it wasn’t until she’d poured in the soap and turned it on that she realized which finger had been bandaged, and now she wasn’t sure if Bitsy had been just showing her the bandage or flipping her off.

**

Cal was just finishing up at the wreck-site when tow trucks began arriving. The highway patrol had traffic blocked off both ways, and Cal had a few words with one of the officers, thanking him for his assistance in getting the needed photos. Then he was headed back down the road to retrieve his truck, patting himself on the back for having the foresight on his arrival to turn around and park on the shoulder of the southbound lane, so he wouldn’t get blocked in by the traffic being stopped.

Before he got back in his truck, he took care to clean the broken glass from the soles of his shoes. As soon as he was seated, he called the office.

To his surprise, Tansy answered. “Sullivan Insurance, this is Tansy.”

“Um, Tansy, this is Cal. Would you let Paul know I have the pictures from the wreck, and I’m headed back to the office?”

“Yes, of course. He’s with a client. I’ll let him know,”

she said, and then whispered in his ear. “Miss you, wild man,”

and disconnected.

He liked being called that. It was all part of their game. And since Bitsy had put him out to pasture at home, he was going to have to count on the girls to step up.

He was still smiling when he started the truck and headed back to town, unaware that Fisher Means was tracking him everywhere he went.

**

Bitsy spent four long hours at the Clothes Closet, either at the sewing machine or in her mending chair, wishing that it rocked and thinking about her career choices.

There was one thing she could immediately cross off, and that was raising chickens ever again. That had been her mama’s joy, and she’d just carried it on out of love. But since her world had crashed down around her, she saw no reason to grow old and die in the same place she’d been born. Things happen. Dreams come to abrupt ends. Such is life.

She was still in her little out-of-the-way corner when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She glanced up and saw Fisher. It was the first time she’d seen him with his hair down, and once again, was startled that she’d never noticed the sharp, but handsome angles of his face. She smiled and waved him over.

“Looking for another jacket?”

she asked.

“No, ma’am. Just checking on a friend.”

“I have a lawyer. The wheels are turning. Process server is supposed to be here within a couple of days.”

His voice lowered to just above a whisper. “Are you afraid?”

She shrugged. “Of the unknown? Maybe a little.”

“Let me know when he’s been served, and you have put him out of the house. I left the tracker on his truck. If he bothers you at home, I will know it.”

“Oh Fish . . . you don’t have to do this,”

she whispered back.

“Yes, I do,”

he said, and walked away.

Bitsy blinked back tears as she sewed up a ripped seam on the underarm of a shirt, then tossed it in the finished pile, and got up. It was well after the noon hour, and her shift was over as she carried the clean, repaired clothing to another table where the garments would be sorted and either hung on hangers or folded up on tables according to size. She didn’t let anyone know she was leaving. She just walked out.

The sky had clouded up. It looked like rain. She needed to get home and put up the chickens, so she drove out of town in haste, arriving just ahead of the storm.

She grabbed her purse and ran, let herself in, and locked the door behind her, then she slung her purse on the kitchen island as she headed out the back door, still running.

The hens had already taken shelter inside the coop, but she counted heads anyway, just to make sure they were all in, then she closed the gate and ran back to the house.

She heard the crack of lightning somewhere nearby, then the roll of thunder overhead as she went in the back door, but she’d made it just in time. She kicked off her sneakers in the laundry room to clean the soles later and went barefoot through the rooms to change into one of her housedresses. Then she washed up and headed to the kitchen to make herself some lunch.

The first drops of rain were already falling as she diced a tomato, a small cucumber, and a little bit of raw onion. She put it all in a bowl with salt and pepper and a splash of Italian dressing, and set it aside to marinate. After that, she got leftover fried chicken out of the refrigerator, put two of her favorite pieces on her plate along with the salad she’d just made, poured herself a glass of iced tea, and sat down at the kitchen table to eat.

Between the rain and the food and Fisher Mean’s promise, her nerves settled, and so did her determination.

**

Fisher was traveling new ground.

Bitsy Yarbrough had shown him a whole new side to the word, “Woman,”

and he was in awe, both of her strength of character, and the cold precision with which she was facing the fall of life as she’d known it.

He had no place in her life, but he wished he did, and was aghast at what Cal had thrown away. The only thing Fisher could do for her was make sure she stayed safe through it and be grateful knowing she trusted him enough to do it.

He’d long ago accepted that some things were meant to be, and others were just pretty wishes without foundation. He’d been a damn good soldier, and he was good at what he did now. His skill set wasn’t for everyone, but it served a purpose for those in need—like a police officer, but without the same rules. He answered to no one. He was his own boss. And he could pick and choose the cases he wanted to work.

And he chose Bitsy’s.