33 The Return of Bowie Bravo Read online

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  “Hey. Well. Whatever works. A tall club soda, then?”

  Bowie was past the point when he went into bars and ordered club soda to prove that he could. Mostly, being in bars just depressed him now. “Thanks, but no. I’m on my way to Charlene’s place to get some lunch.”

  “Oh, man, you sure? You don’t want to whet the ol’ whistle for old time’s sake?” Zeb waited for Bowie’s shrug before adding, “’Nother time, then.”

  “You bet.”

  “Heard you were staying at the Rossi place.”

  “In the workshop out back, yeah.” He didn’t need Zeb getting the wrong idea, thinking he was living with Glory or anything like that.

  “Heard you delivered Glory’s little girl.”

  “I did, yeah.”

  “Whoa. Delivering a kid is a messy job that ought to be left to the professionals, if you ask me.”

  “It turned out all right. That’s what matters.” He reminded himself not to get testy with Zeb for being all up in his business. It was just that way in the Flat. Everybody knew everything about everyone.

  But then Zeb’s smile twisted into a leer. “She’s still hotter than a firecracker, that Glory. Went and married that solid citizen mamma’s boy, Matteo Rossi, though. Bet that chapped your ass, huh?”

  Bowie got that feeling. Like ants chewing under his skin. He didn’t do anything about it, though. He only looked steadily at Zeb—and thought about knocking out a few more of his teeth. The fact that he just thought about it was the difference between who he had been and who he was now.

  Apparently, Zeb read Bowie’s expression correctly. He put up both hands. “Hey, seriously, man, no offense meant.”

  “None taken,” Bowie lied. “Gotta go. You take care of yourself now, Zeb.”

  Zeb was already backing away into the middle of the street. “Yeah, you bet. See you around, man.”

  Bowie started walking again, doubtful that Zeb would be offering to buy him any more tall club sodas.

  Which was a-okay with him.

  He crossed Commerce Lane and went on down past the old theater and a couple of shops. On the other side of the street, Old Tony Dellazola, Glory’s great-granddad, sat on a bench in front of the grocery store. He raised his hand in a wave. Bowie waved back. Two gray-haired women came out of the diner as he approached the glass-topped door. A couple of nice, churchgoing ladies. In days gone by, they would have granted him a wary frown at best.

  They smiled at him and nodded.

  He nodded back. “Ladies…” He caught the door and went in.

  He spotted Sera’s stroller first, by a booth near the back wall—and then he saw Glory. She was sitting with Angie, who gave him a wave. Glory spotted him, too. She pinched up her mouth and then looked away fast.

  What? He should have somehow known she would be here and stayed away today?

  To hell with that. If she didn’t want him in the diner at the same time as she was, she’d damn well have to tell him when she was going and that she didn’t want to see him there. From back in the barn, he couldn’t see when she left the house. And it wasn’t his business anyway to keep track of her comings and goings.

  “Bowie, hi.” Brand’s wife greeted him with a big smile.

  He took a stool at the counter, ordered his chili and flipped his coffee cup up so that Charlene could fill it. She turned to stick his order on the wheel.

  And Sera started fussing. It began with a couple of questioning little cries, and within about sixty seconds had escalated to a full-out wail.

  In the corner of his eye, he watched Glory take her out of the stroller. She patted her back and tried to calm her. Nursing would probably quiet her, but Glory didn’t try that. Maybe she felt uncomfortable about nursing in public.

  The pleasant hum of conversation in the place had ceased. There was only Sera, yowling as though she would never stop.

  Sera wailed on as Bowie slid off the stool and went to the booth. When he got there, Glory didn’t even say a word. She gave him a dirty look and passed him the crying baby.

  He cradled her close and whispered, “Shh, now. It’s okay.”

  She made the cutest little sound, a cry that ended with a contented sigh. And then she laid her head down on his shoulder. He patted her tiny little back and kind of wished he could just hold on to her forever. “Okay if I just rock her a minute or two?” he asked Glory.

  She glared up at him. With Sera quiet, the diner was dead silent now. Everyone in the place seemed to be watching to see if spunky Glory Dellazola Rossi was about to give troublesome Bowie Bravo what for.

  But she only gritted her teeth and made herself smile. “Thanks, Bowie. You go right ahead.” Across the table from her, Angie was grinning. Glory sent her sister an evil glance and Angie wiped that grin right off her face.

  Bowie carried Sera back to the counter. After a minute or two, the buzz of different conversations started up again.

  Charlene put his chili in front of him and rested her hand on the top of her round stomach, the way pregnant women do. “Looks like you got a way with babies,” she said.

  He made sure that Sera was resting securely against him and then used his free hand to pick up his spoon. “Just this one. She and I understand each other.”

  “How’s that?” asked the old guy on the stool next to him.

  He answered loud enough that Glory probably heard him if she happened to be listening. “I’m only here to help. Sera here, she gets that.”

  Glory had heard what Bowie said at the diner.

  And for the rest of the day, it did kind of nag at her—okay, more than kind of. It nagged at her a lot.

  Because he really did seem to be there to help. And maybe, as Angie had more or less told her to her face, she needed to lighten up a little with him.

  Yeah, there was the problem that she was still attracted to him when she knew she shouldn’t be. But, come on, what kind of problem was that if he didn’t feel the same way? Because he didn’t. She knew that. If he did, he would have given her some kind of sign by now.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Oh, for crying out loud, what did it matter if he did or didn’t still have any interest in her as a woman? She’d just had a baby. Sex ought to be the last thing on her mind.

  What she ought to be concerned about was helping her son and his father find some kind of peace with each other. And she knew she wasn’t doing that. On the contrary, it was more than possible that her hostility toward Bowie was giving Johnny the excuse he needed not to let Bowie get too close.

  It was even possible that Johnny was taking his cues from her when it came to Bowie. With the kind of signals she was sending, Johnny could very well be thinking that he would not only be disloyal to Matteo’s memory if he got to know his biological father, but disloyal to her, to Glory, as well.

  Maybe she needed to…lead the way a little for him. She needed to put aside her own issues with Bowie, to make it clear to Johnny that she thought Bowie was okay, so that Johnny could give himself permission to do the same.

  That night at dinner, it was just the three of them. Glory made a point to be nicer to Bowie. She even made herself smile at him. Twice.

  The first time she smiled, Bowie was passing her the butter. He blinked and almost dropped the butter dish. She stifled a nervous laugh and caught the dish just in time.

  “Thank you,” she said as pleasantly as she could manage.

  “Uh, you’re welcome,” he answered in a stunned sort of tone.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Johnny watching them. Good.

  The second time she smiled at Bowie was when he got right up and started clearing off the table when the meal was done. And she went beyond jus
t the smile that time. She even said, “Bowie, I do appreciate your helping out the way you do.”

  Bowie slid her a look. “Happy to,” he answered gruffly.

  Johnny said, “Can I go watch the Disney Channel for an hour?”

  “Help Bowie clear the table,” she instructed.

  He was a good kid, always had been. He got up and went to work. The clearing-off was done in record time.

  “Disney?” Johnny tried again.

  “Homework?” she quizzed.

  “Done, Mom. You know that.”

  “One hour,” she finally agreed.

  He shot out of that kitchen faster than a cat with its tail on fire. She heard the TV start up in the other room.

  Bowie was standing at the counter, watching her. She considered giving him a third smile. But Johnny wasn’t there to see it and why go overboard? She got up and went to the sink and started loading the dishwasher. “I heard what you said in the diner today—about only being here to help.”

  He leaned back against the counter a few feet away and folded his arms over that broad chest of his. “I was just thinking that probably you had.”

  She made herself throw in a little more praise. “And you have been helpful. You really have.” After all, it was only the truth.

  “You’re welcome. Not that it makes any difference to him.” Bowie tipped his head in the direction of the family room.

  She loaded in the last plate and pulled the top rack out to put in the glassware. “Give him time.”

  “It’s been a week.”

  “A week is nothing. Think how long you’ve been gone.” As soon as the words were out, she realized they sounded disapproving.

  He braced his hands on the counter behind him, and glanced off toward the far wall. “I do think about it, Glory. All the time.”

  She tried again. “I didn’t mean to be critical. It just…came out that way.”

  He sent her a look from those summer-blue eyes. “Have you noticed that most of what you say to me ‘just comes out that way’?”

  She pushed the top rack in, bent and shut the dishwasher door. And then she grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “All right, I get that. I’ll…make a point not to give you such a bad time from now on.”

  “That would be good. Really good.”

  “And how about if I send Johnny out to you to say good-night—you know, before he goes to bed?”

  His slow smile did something scary to her heartstrings. “I would really appreciate that.” The smile vanished. “Not that he would come.”

  “Hey,” she softly advised, “don’t predict the worst, okay?”

  “You’re right. This is hard enough with a good attitude.”

  She laughed. “That’s the spirit.” Right then, the monitor on the sideboard erupted with fussy little whines.

  They were both silent, waiting. Sometimes Sera would whimper a little and go back to sleep.

  But she didn’t. The fussing got louder until it became out-and-out wailing.

  Bowie offered, “Want me to get her?” He looked hopeful.

  Glory wasn’t sure how she felt about the way he was with Sera. Until now, she’d just been resentful—of his presence in her house, of the way her newborn daughter had taken to him instantly and unconditionally. Because of what had happened in the past, she’d felt justified in her resentment. He’d been ready and willing to comfort her daughter from the very moment Sera was born. And yet Glory could count on one hand the number of times he’d held his own baby son in his arms. Also, it didn’t seem right that Matteo’s child seemed to like troublemaking Bowie Bravo more than she liked her own mother.

  Lighten up, Glory, she told herself. Again. “Sure, go get her. That would be great.”

  He turned and left the kitchen faster than Johnny had when she told him he could spend an hour with the Disney Channel.

  Progress.

  Bowie thought the word and smiled.

  It was later that night and he was out in the workshop, whittling away at his nice bit of basswood with a cozy fire going in the old parlor-style stove.

  He really was making progress. With Glory, at least. She’d been great during dinner. And with a little luck, her new attitude might even rub off on Johnny.

  Bowie set down his knife and sent a glance at the windup alarm clock on the rough pine shelf above the cot. It was after seven-thirty. She usually had Johnny in bed by eight or so, didn’t she? Did that mean he wasn’t coming after all?

  And if he wasn’t coming, was it because Glory hadn’t kept her word about sending him to say good-night? Or because when she asked him to, he’d refused?

  Bowie picked up the knife again and started working away at the wood. He shook his head as he whittled, feeling all nervous and edgy. Hoping the kid would come, afraid that he wouldn’t. Seriously, he needed to get hold of himself.

  What will happen, will happen, Wily would say. A man can help things along by taking action. But wishin’ and hopin’ never did make a single dream come true.

  Bowie looked at the clock again. Seven-thirty-eight. His stomach was tied in knots and his heart was a ball of lead in his chest.

  And then he heard the hesitant tap on the workshop door.

  His lead ball of a heart leaped to bouncing life. And he longed to jump to his feet and throw open the door.

  But instead, he forced himself to keep his eyes on his whittling. “It’s open,” he called in an easy voice that completely belied the churning excitement within him.

  He did look up then, wood and knife all but forgotten in his hands as the door slowly opened. Johnny was on the other side, wearing his winter jacket, a wool hat and flannel airplane pajamas tucked into his rubber boots. His dark eyes were steady and serious. An icy gust of wind blew in around him.

  Bowie gave him a couple of seconds to say something. When he didn’t, Bowie went for it. “Come on in. Shut the door. It’s freezing out there.”

  Johnny did as he was told, stepping inside and turning to push the door carefully closed until the latch clicked. After that, he simply stood there, with his back against the door, wearing an expression that said he’d rather be just about anywhere else.

  Bowie said, “You can hang your coat on that peg there.” He pointed with his roughed-out piece of basswood.

  “It’s okay.” The boy didn’t move. His hair was still wet from his bath, slicked down close to his head. Bowie would have bet good money that he smelled of soap and toothpaste, but he doubted the kid would get close enough for him to know for sure.

  Bowie lowered his head and went to work again, putting his concentration on the small job between his hands, telling himself that he wasn’t going to push. Not now. If he looked up and Johnny was gone, well, so be it. There would be other bedtimes.

  This wasn’t his only chance. Even if it felt like it.

  One step. Two. In his peripheral vision, Bowie could see Johnny’s rubber boots. Come on. It’s okay.…

  There. No doubt. The smell of toothpaste.

  “What are you making?” Johnny asked.

  “A train set.” Bowie kept shaving away at the wood.

  Johnny was maybe three feet from Bowie’s chair. “You mean a whole train set, with cars and an engine, a caboose and everything, all out of wood?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “That’s a funny-looking knife. What kind of knife is that?” Johnny reached out a hand.

  Bowie sent him a warning glance. “Don’t touch it. It’s very sharp. It’s called a bench knife.” He held the knife up—but out of the way. “Nice rounded wooden handle, a short, stable blade, tapered so that the tip can get into tight spaces, but wide at the base, so it’s strong enough for heavy cuts.…”

&nb
sp; Johnny’s eyes kind of glazed over. Bowie almost grinned. Okay, the wonders of his bench knife were a little over the head of a six-year-old.

  But a train set sure wasn’t. “How many cars?” Johnny asked.

  “Well, I think at least ten. More, if I feel ambitious.”

  “More than ten.” Eyes wide as saucers. “Will you paint it and everything?”

  “I sure will.”

  “That would be good.”

  “I’ll remember you said that.”

  “Who will it be for—I mean, when it’s finished?”

  Bowie set his knife on the table by his chair and reached for the mug of coffee he’d mixed up a while ago using the water he kept going on the stove and a jar of instant he’d picked up at the grocery store yesterday. He sipped, trying to think how to tell Johnny it was for him without making some big deal of it.

  But he never got a chance to say the words he was so carefully choosing. In the split second he had glanced away, Johnny had reached for the knife.

  He must have got it by the blade.

  Out of nowhere, blood was spurting.

  And Johnny dropped the knife to the floor and let loose with a long, loud, terrified scream.

  Chapter Six

  In the kitchen, Glory heard Johnny scream. She flew out the back door and raced for the barn, shoving back the door to the workshop so hard that it banged against a workbench, rattling a bunch of tools hanging on a pegboard above.

  She saw Johnny by the stove, holding his right wrist with his left hand. Blood poured from right palm. He turned and looked at her. “Mom,” he said. He seemed calm now. There had been only that one terrible shriek. “I cut myself.…”

  Glory wanted to run to him, but something held her back. Maybe that he seemed so calm. If she got all over him, he would only get upset again.

  Plus, Bowie was there, beside him, with a white T-shirt in his hands. As she watched, Bowie ripped a strip off the shirt and wrapped it quickly—and tightly—around the wound.

  “Make a fist of your hand and hold it up,” Bowie said, “over your head.…”