Curing the Blues with a New Pair of Shoes Page 15

  Debbie Sue answered on the second ring. “Hi, Debbie Sue, this is Avery. You answered so quickly. You must have had the phone in your hand.”

  Debbie Sue laughed. “Actually I did. My husband’s out of town and he usually calls me around this time of an evening. How ya doin’, girl?”

  “Much better. I’m moving around and I even have some food here in front of me.”

  “That’s great. You need something on your tummy. Hope it stays down. I feel so bad about what happened.”

  “Well, don’t. You didn’t make me drink that much.”

  “That’s not entirely true. I should have warned you that what Vic Martin considers ‘not hot’ could melt an iceberg the size of Texas.”

  Avery smiled. Debbie Sue’s friendliness made her feel as if she were talking to an old friend she had gone out partying with, now reliving the previous evening. Only this happened to be the same day.

  “Your current condition has been a popular subject today,” Debbie Sue continued.

  “It has? Oh, no…”

  “Yep. Ed called to ask if I’d heard from you and Sam has already called to check on you.”

  Avery’s fragile stomach lurched. Did Debbie Sue mean Sam Something? Maybe she had a friend named Samantha. There had to be more than one person in Salt Lick named Sam. “Um, Sam who?”

  “Carter. You know, the guy with the blue eyes? I finally remembered his last name’s Carter. He said he felt like a heel leaving without making sure you were okay.”

  “Leaving?” Avery’s voice came out a squeak. Clearing her throat, she continued, “I don’t remember him being anywhere. Why would he feel bad leaving?”

  “You don’t remember him coming into the shop? It wasn’t too long after you chug-a-lugged the pitcher of Bloody Marys.”

  “Oh, damn. This is nuts. What else happened?”

  “Not much. He was so worried about you, I practically had to toss him out on his ear so we could get on the road to Odessa and get you back to your hotel.”

  Avery could feel her cheeks burning. “Oh. That was nice of him.”

  “Yeah, especially after you called him a chickenshit.”

  Oh, hell. That information hit Avery’s ears with a dull thud. “I did?”

  “Hold on. I got another call coming through.”

  Waiting for Debbie Sue to come back on the line, Avery covered her eyes with her palm. Why would she call someone she hardly knew an ugly name? Had he insulted her? Had he insulted the Star-Telegram? She was fiercely loyal to her employer. If he had criticized her employer, she might have resorted to name-calling. After all, he was the competition.

  Things began to come back to her. He had flirted with her as part of a game. She and Debbie Sue had had that silly bet. Sam had tried to make Debbie Sue think he was gay and he had come on like Casanova to her, Avery. The joke would have been a lot of laughs if her Fort Worth friends had done the same thing. But he wasn’t her friend. He was…

  What the hell was he? How did anything he did have the power to upset her? Then, slowly, dawning penetrated her hard head. Sam Something Carter was someone she wanted to know better. He stirred something deep within her that had been dormant since an ill-fated relationship she’d had in college. She had been humiliated by the joke and hurt to learn she had been the brunt of a ruse in which Sam had participated.

  And she had called him the excrement of a fowl. Great.

  She heard clicks on the phone line. Debbie Sue came back. “Avery, can we talk later? My sweetie’s on the other line and I need to talk to him.”

  “No problem. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She disconnected and lay back on the pillows stacked against the head of the bed. It was nice that someone had a sweetie to talk to. As for herself, she would stay in this room, try to recover from the ill effects of her irresponsible drunken spree and try to think of more disgusting names to call the one person she really wanted to impress.

  chapter seventeen

  Walking to his car, Sam felt a snap and bite in the wind that hadn’t been present earlier. A gust found his neck and traveled down to his waistband, causing him to shiver. Maybe that strange woman inside had been right about the weather. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders. When he reached his car, he eagerly crawled behind the wheel.

  Inside the gym, he had spotted several interesting costumed couples whom, under different circumstances, he might like to interview, but his focus had shifted. The only thing he wanted to do now was return to the hotel and check on Avery. Failing to personally make sure she arrived back at the hotel safely had nagged at him all day.

  Debbie Sue sounded confident on the phone that the object of his concern was in her room sleeping it off, but he knew the stupid things people could do under the influence. Besides that, Debbie Sue had that “damn-the-torpedoes” attitude that made him uneasy. Then there was the too-casual mention of a fire in the hotel. What the hell was that about? Bottom line, he would be more relaxed knowing Avery was truly all right. And he had a driving urge to see with his own eyes that the hotel was still standing.

  Arriving in the Best Western’s front parking lot, he saw that the only available spot was directly in front of the entrance, giving him a full view of the lobby. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He sat there staring at the destruction, mouth agape, his fingers still on the key in the ignition.

  The dark green carpet that this morning had run from the front door to the check-in desk was rolled back and pushed against the wall, exposing bare concrete. Water stood in randomly located small puddles. The large ficus tree that stood near the elevator doors, the one that he had thought was a real plant, apparently hadn’t been growing after all. It still stood there all right, or at least a few stalks stood there with a few melted clumps of plastic still hanging on, and the color had changed to charcoal gray.

  A small fire? Was Debbie Sue kidding?

  He left the warmth of his car and jogged to the side entrance. He had his key pass in hand, ready to open the plate-glass door, when it burst open and Brittany barged through, crashing into him. His hands flew out reflexively and grabbed her upper arms, more to steady himself than her. “Whoa! Look out there.”

  “Oh, Mr. Carter,” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m okay,” he answered. Hoping to get past her without more conversation, he added quickly, “See you later,” and tried to step around her.

  She blocked his forward motion. “You’re back awfully early. If you haven’t eaten, the buffet is still being served.”

  “Thanks, but I was just going to—” He stopped himself. “Say, Brittany, maybe you can help me.”

  “Sure, Mr. Carter. What can I do for you?”

  “I came back to check on Avery Deaton. She and I are, well, we’re colleagues. A mutual friend in Salt Lick mentioned the fire and I want to see if she’s okay.”

  “Oh, my. That fire and all the commotion were something else. I know Miz Deaton would appreciate you looking in on her. I talked to her earlier and she didn’t sound too good. Bless her heart, when those two ladies brought her in here…” Brittany’s voice trailed off and she shook her head.

  Sam didn’t want to stand out in the cold and chat, though he considered it a lucky break running into Brittany. Most hotel employees wouldn’t give him another guest’s room number, but he suspected Brittany would tell him anything he asked. He decided to cut to the chase. “What’s, uh, Miss Deaton’s room number?”

  “Why she’s just two doors down from you. Listen, I’m heading home if you don’t need anything.”

  “No, thanks, Brittany. Have a good evening.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried away.

  He stood there a minute before entering the hallway. Hell. She hadn’t exactly given him Avery’s room number, had she? He was in Room 221, so depending on how you defined the word “down,” Brittany could have meant Avery was in Room 223. Or
she could have meant Room 219. Or if you interpreted “two doors” in a different way, it could be Room 224 or it could be Room 218.

  On a sigh, he went inside and mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time. Once on the second floor, he paused a minute, studying the room numbers. On the identical doors that lined the long hallway, he saw no clue that would indicate which door Avery was behind. Drawing a deep breath, he rapped lightly on the door marked Room 224. No answer. He knocked a second time. Still no answer. He was almost relieved.

  He moved on to Room 223 and tapped softly. No answer. He had just raised his hand to knock again when he heard a small feminine voice from the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

  “Avery? Avery Deaton?”

  “Yes?”

  “Avery, its Sam Carter. We met earlier today. I’m a reporter with—”

  The door opened slightly and a face peeked through an opening that spanned no more than six inches. The face wore no makeup, but he recognized her.

  “I remember you, Sam. Is something wrong?”

  “I, uh, I was just…I came to check on you. Call it reporter’s intuition, but something tells me you aren’t a big drinker. I know you must be feeling bad. I thought you might need something.”

  The door opened wider and she stepped back. Her mouth tipped into a weak smile. “Would you like to come in?”

  Sam was glad to see her smile. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, and a smile was a plus. He smiled, too. “Sure. I won’t stay long. I know you need to get your rest.”

  He moved just inside the doorway. Looking fresh from a shower, she was wearing one of those thick white terrycloth robes. Instantly he wondered what was, or wasn’t, under it. His eyes moved down to her bare feet and pink toenails and a whole new urgency shot through his system. Suddenly nervous, he opened his arms and said, “Hey, your room looks just like mine.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and an instep over the top of the opposite foot. She shrugged one shoulder. She didn’t appear to be ill. Her hair was damp and her face had that scrubbed look. Most of the women Sam knew would shriek at being caught with wet hair and no makeup, but Avery seemed unconcerned. Sam liked that and made an immediate judgment about her: she was vain enough to want to make a good impression by wearing makeup, yet confident enough to not depend on it.

  Looking past her shoulder, he eyed several packages of crackers spread on the bed like a game of solitaire.

  She saw the glance and made a sweeping gesture toward the snack food. “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  Sam felt a frown tug at his brow. “Is that all you’re having? Why don’t I go downstairs and bring something from the buffet back up to you.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, but this is all I need.”

  “On a diet, huh?” Sam laughed the kind of laugh one does when he can’t think of what to say next.

  “I talked to Debbie Sue earlier,” Avery said in a rush, “and it appears I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “I called you a name when you came in the salon.” She looked down. “I don’t know why I did that.”

  He searched his memory, then recalled her calling him a chickenshit. He cocked his head, seeking eye contact. “Oh, that’s okay. I hardly noticed it.”

  She looked back up at him, her expression solemn with contrition. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look,” he said in his best reassuring tone, “it’s no big deal. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I might not have even thought of it again. Believe me, I’ve been called worse. At the News, I cover sports sometimes. Minor stuff. But I was a real sports reporter when I worked up north. There’s always a rabid fan eager to set the record straight and put you in your place.”

  Avery smiled. “I suppose there would be.” She gestured toward a table and two chairs. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Sure.” He strode to one of the chairs and sank into it.

  “You only cover sports sometimes now?” she said, sitting down primly on the opposite side of the table.

  The white robe slid about four inches above her tanned knees and he could barely keep his eyes on her face and concentrate on the conversation at hand. “Oh, I’d like to do more. But the News has a staff of heavy hitters in the sports department. I’m hoping for a break, though. I’m here working on a story on Caleb Crawford. I hope it’s going to do it for me.”

  “You mean the kid from Salt Lick who’s playing for the Cowboys.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Sam had meant it when he said he wouldn’t stay long, but he felt good in her company. Being this close to her, he had an even stronger feeling that he had seen her somewhere. “Listen, I hope this doesn’t sound like a tired old pick-up line, but I swear I know you from somewhere. Do you ever cover the sports events in the Metroplex? Are you ever on TV?”

  “Oh, no, neither. Never. The Star-Telegram has a string of sportswriters, same as the Dallas Morning News. But it’s odd you would say that. I feel as if I’ve met or seen you, too. Do you live in Fort Worth, by any chance?”

  “Nope. Dallas.”

  “Hmm. For some reason I want to connect you with a car or some other kind of vehicle. Do you ever come to Fort Worth? Could I have seen you drive through the parking lot of my condo?”

  “Nope. Never get to Fort Worth. Wouldn’t know where anything was, if I did. Do you get over to Dallas?”

  “Sometimes. What kind of car do you drive?”

  “Black Ford Explorer.”

  Her eyes bugged and Sam sat back.

  “Oh, my God.” She slapped her jaw with her fingers. “I’ve got it. You made me miss my exit yesterday at Mockingbird. I was changing lanes to take the exit and you shot past me and cut me off. There’s a Seattle Seahawks sticker on your bumper.”

  He felt his own eyes bug. “Oh, hell. You’re the lady in the red VW. Now I’m the one who owes an apology. I thought I could get past you in time for you to exit behind me, but you sped up and—”

  Avery’s laugh stopped him. After a few seconds, he laughed, too. “Thank God we figured that out,” he said. “Now I can stop thinking about it. I hate trying to remember something just out of reach.”

  As quickly as she had started laughing, she stopped. “Oh. My. God.” She covered her face with both hands.

  “What? Are you getting sick? Are you going to throw up?”

  She lowered her hands and looked across the table at him, shaking her head. “I just might.”

  “Let me get a wet towel.” He sprang from his seat and strode to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth from the towel bar near the sink and soaked it with cold water. Returning to the room, he found her sitting on the side of the bed, her face buried in her hands. Poor kid.

  He walked over and knelt on one knee in front of her. “Hey,” he said softly, gently taking her hands and moving them away from her face one at a time. He handed her the wet cloth.

  “I don’t need that,” she said.

  “I thought you were sick. I—”

  “I’m not sick. Not in the way you mean.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She shook her head and turned her face away.

  He didn’t know what he had done or said to upset her, but now he felt as if she just wanted him out of her sight. He got to his feet. “Listen, why don’t I let you retire—”

  “Tire,” Avery said. “Oh, man.”

  “Should I stay?” Sam asked, even more confused. “I feel like I’m in the way. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  Avery looked up at him, her green eyes made bright by the glister of tears. Oh, hell. He hated it when women cried.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “I need to retire. Thanks for coming by. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She was asking him to leave? He backed toward the door. “Okay. Yeah, tomorrow.”

  Leaving her sitting on the side of the bed, he walked out and closed the door behind him. Something had happened and he didn’
t know what. She hadn’t been unfriendly exactly, but clearly, something had upset her, and mentally, she had gone somewhere else. Things seemed to have been progressing well until he mentioned she should retire.

  Women. Even after growing up with two sisters, he still couldn’t figure them out.

  Oh, well, Sam thought as he opened the door to his own room. He had done his manly duty. Now he had to get a good night’s sleep because he had a quail hunt scheduled early tomorrow morning with W. L. Crawford. The pastures are crawling with good eatin’, was the way W. L. had put it when he extended the invitation. Growing up in South Dakota, Sam had often gone pheasant and grouse hunting with his father and uncles. He didn’t expect hunting quail to be any different—just new terrain and different companions.

  At least he would rest well tonight, knowing Avery was safe.

  Or would he?

  He still had a clear visual of her in that white robe.

  chapter eighteen

  The next morning, Avery awoke wondering how she would ever face Sam again. Should she confess that, thanks to her, when he returned to the Love Field parking lot in Dallas he would find a flattened tire? Or should she just pretend she knew nothing about it? He had been so thoughtful last night. Caring, even. He would have gone downstairs, waded through the mess in the lobby to get to the buffet and brought food back for her. He had tried to give her first aid when he thought she was ill.

  And she had flattened his tire.

  He was the most attractive man she had met in ages and with both of them working for Metroplex newspapers, they must have a hundred things in common. Yet, she couldn’t even list all of the stupid, embarrassing things she had done to and around him.

  A part of her wished she could just go home, but she still had to be here two more days. No doubt he would be here, too, and no doubt they would continue to run into each other.

  Well, she would just distract herself with work. She needed to work on her story anyway. She still had that byline to consider. Her boss might not let her have it if she turned in crap.