Chapter 3

There was a young man of St. Kitts,

Who was very much troubled with fits;

The eclipse of the moon

Threw him into a swoon;

When he tumbled and broke into bits.

"Where are we headed?" Pete asked, yanking yet another tissue from the box. His head was back against the seat, the wind tunneling through his hair, the sun gleaming against his face, his sunglasses hiding the worst ravages of his allergy.

Brooke shot him a look and turned back to her driving. "I don't know. What looks like a fun road to follow south?"

He turned his head toward her. "You sure planned this out to the letter, didn't you?"

Brooke laughed and turned the radio up so she could hear Genesis a little better.

"Impulsive behavior's good for the soul sometimes," she admitted, the sudden, unexpected freedom swelling in her chest. She hadn't said anything to anyone, even Mamie, but work had been wearing on her. A good job, solid career ladder, but with no option for variety, no chance ever to do the work she'd been educated to do. The kind of real life that needed escaping every once in a while.

"Impulsive behavior is what gets nations into wars and young women into diaper service," Pete intoned, his voice not sounding appreciably better.

Brooke laughed at him again. "Are those your words of wisdom for the day?"

"Depends," Pete retorted, "on where we end it."

"Live dangerously, Coop."

"I thought I did that in the Gulf."

"You had the biggest army in history keeping an eye on you. This little jaunt's solo. What do you want to do first?"

The houses were thinning now into pastureland and a few industrial parks. The sky opened up beyond the trees, and the wind sang in Brooke's ears. Off to the right she could see Parson's Stables where she used to take lessons, and beyond that the twin silos of Allie's parents' place. Familiar, unchanging, as predictable as sunrise. Falling behind her with the memories of the hard past few weeks, the sense of desertion, the sudden, sharp loneliness when Mamie had left her behind.

"I want to go," he mused slowly, "to a little town where nobody knows who I am, and I can order a beer and a hamburger at the tavern and watch a ball game."

Brooke contained her sense of satisfaction. "I don't think that's in the will."

"Executor's fees."

She nodded. "I know just the place."

He shot her a quick look. "They won't recognize me?"

She grinned. "Not looking like you do now."

His grimace was telling. His sneeze was even more so. "Damn cats."

They drove that way for a long while, sating themselves on the silence, the isolation, the unique freedom of the American road. The land folded into hills as they sped by Little Rock and then flattened into farmland, emerald green in the sunlight, trees burgeoning with new leaf and the sky an aching blue. Where they were going didn't matter so much right now, the going did. The getting away from not only the funeral, the fighting, but everything that had led up to it.

"Did David get hold of you?" Brooke asked.

"We talked for an hour and a half."

"It killed him not to be here."

"Well, I told him that it was a legitimate payback. I was in Central America when your dad died."

Brooke nodded, her eyes on the ribbon of road that stretched east and south toward the Mississippi, her attention on the music that throbbed from the old radio that had first played Dion and the Platters. It was a great car. She and Mamie had spent some wonderful afternoons in it, top down, sun in their faces, purloined trees sharing the passenger seat. Mamie couldn't have given Brooke a more lovely gift to remember her by.

"I wish I could have been here for her," Pete said suddenly, as if privy to Brooke's thoughts.

She never looked away from her driving. "You were," she assured him. "Every night. We'd sit in her room and watch the news and she'd complain that you obviously weren't getting enough sleep, and that your prissy station had ruined your sense of fashion."

Pete's laugh was wistful. "I'm on most of the best-dressed lists."

"It was all those suits," Brooke confided. "She liked you much better in your bomber jacket and chinos. And the Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt she sent you."

"Well, that look's okay at the Dahran Hilton. It's not the same at the evening news desk. Besides, I don't wear all of the suit."

Now Brooke did look over to see Pete's smile. "I always knew you were an exhibitionist," she accused with an answering grin.

"Jeans," he defended himself. "It saves on wear and tear. Those suits are expensive."

"Poor baby."

He reached across to take hold of her hand for a minute, and Brooke was suddenly afraid she was going to have to fight tears.

"Thank you, Brooke," he simply said. "You made sure she wasn't alone."

Brooke gave his hand a quick squeeze, doing her best to keep her eyes on the flat, unchallenging road ahead. "Come on, Pete. We made a promise to each other. You know I wouldn't let Mamie down."

Finally he took his hand back and turned his attention ahead. "Yeah, we made a promise all right. Only one of us kept it, though."

Brooke's answering smile was wry. "Only one of us was home."

"You've always been there, though. First your dad, then your mom and now Mamie. Everybody else has been gone from that town for years."

"Everybody else had someplace else to go."

She could feel his gaze on her, bemused, intense, and suddenly she didn't want to deal with it.

"We'll be in town in another half hour or so," she said, turning the station up a little louder, interfering with Pete's concern. "They have the best greasy spoon in four states there."

For a moment Pete didn't answer and Brooke was afraid he meant to continue his previous line of conversation. But she hadn't come on this trip to discuss her prospects or her future or the sacrifices Pete thought she'd made over the years to stay where she was. She was here to cut loose, to share the sun with an old friend and maybe dredge up some silly memories to honor Mamie by. And that's just what she meant to do.

* * *

Badger, Arkansas, consisted of one street, two stop signs and a grand total of ten buildings, three of which had something to do with the buying and consumption of liquor. Pete found himself in the second such building, Bud's Badger Bar, where he and his antihistamines shared a chipped, scarred pine table with Brooke.

She should have looked as out of place here as a crystal vase in a box of bowling balls. She was taller than most of the denizens and certainly had better taste in apparel. Her hair shone like burnished copper in the fluorescent lights that provided Bud's ambience, and the easy, fluid grace of her movements would have settled her comfortably into any fashionable party in Atlanta.

Much to Pete's amazement, though, she was greeted like a long-lost friend, clapped on the back with greasy hands and challenged to any number of games of pool, which she turned down in favor of lunch. For the first time in about three years, Pete went completely unnoticed.

"There's obviously something you've been leaving out of your letters," he accused with a grin, wondering if the bar was really this dim and grimy without the sunglasses he still wore in deference to his red, swollen eyes.

Brooke's laugh was like music. "It's been too long since you've mingled with the common folk, boy. I'm here at Bud's at least once a month."

"The pool's that good here?"

"It's on my way to most of the sites I have to examine. Besides, a lot of drivers for Amex eat here. I can catch up on what the street says."

Pete gave his head a slow shake. "You have a degree in art history. How did you end up repping for a trucking company?"

"Hard work," she allowed with a severely straight face. "And the best set of legs in the shop."

Pete's scowl was quick, a lot more instinctive than he'd remembered. "You'd better not be putting up with any funny stuff there."

He must have surprised her. For a moment she just stared at him, eyes wide, head tilted a little in a position of consideration. Finally she laughed again. "Those old protective instincts die hard, huh?"

Pete scowled, chagrined. Truth be told, it had surprised him, too. Any person walking into this place would know without a word being exchanged that Brooke was a woman who could take care of herself. He imagined that it was no different in that trucking company. She had truly matured into her potential. Except she'd matured in a direction none of them could have predicted.

"Well, somebody has to keep you in line," he protested with a self-effacing grin. "Especially now that Mamie's gone."

That delighted her. "Are you kidding? I spent all my time keeping her in line. She was the most outrageous flirt to hit the streets. The truckers ate her up like candy. You saw them all at the service, didn't you?"

"Hey, girl, what you doin' here on a Saturday?" a new voice demanded.

Pete looked up to see a behemoth in leather and chains looming over the table. Pete had done a piece inside Folsom once. He could have sworn he'd eaten lunch with this guy there.

The tattoos and forest of facial hair were a dead giveaway. This probably wouldn't be the time to bring it up, though.

Brooke was beaming at him as if they were related. "Barney," she greeted him. "Where have you been?"

Barney actually looked abashed. The old biker's cap he'd been wearing was now in his hands as if he were presenting himself to the Queen, and his head was bent. "Oh, I had a little disagreement with the state police a couple of months ago. This time they won."

Brooke just nodded her head. "Uh-huh. What have I told you about mescal?"

All she got was a shrug. Now Pete was really curious. Like any good reporter, he simply sat there and waited for the next chapter.

"Barney used to drive for Amex," Brooke said to him. "Until he had a disagreement with his next-door neighbor and used his rig to redesign her bathroom."

Barney looked up, contrite. "Mescal," he said. "Makes me a touch cranky."

"Barney, this is my friend Pete." Brooke introduced them. "Pete, Barney Little."

The men nodded at each other, Barney's expression even more guarded than Pete's.

"You work with her?" he demanded.

Pete almost laughed out loud, his own prejudices coming out of lips that couldn't even be seen behind all that growth. For a minute he was tempted to tell the man that he was running a white slavery ring and was considering giving Brooke a position. Pete knew, though, that broken ribs would not endear him to Parischell any more than the laryngitis.

"We grew up together," he managed, wondering what else he could say. Wondering just how he felt that old Barney didn't know who Pete Cooper was.

"Pete is Mamie's nephew," Brooke allowed.

Immediately Barney's posture changed. "I heard," he said to Pete. "She was a real little spitfire, that one was. I was real sorry to see her go."

Pete couldn't think of any better answer than a nod.

The burgers came and Barney ambled off—back to the poolroom where Brooke was still expected. Left behind, Pete slid off his glasses and took a long, considering look at her.

"I should have kept a closer eye on the both of you," he said.

Brooke waved away his assertion with the catsup bottle she was pounding. "We were fine. Mamie got to be a hell of a pool player."

 

Pete snorted. "I'll just bet."

"Don't sound so outraged," she advised. "I've never had to change a flat tire or worry about getting stuck on the road. And Mamie was much too old to be corrupted."

"Well," he retorted, "I guess those dates with the bikers back when you were in high school finally paid off."

She'd been just about to bite into her hamburger. Pete's words stopped her short, and she laughed. "Maybe I shouldn't have invited you along after all. You have a much too well-defined knack for digging up indiscretions I'd much rather leave in the past."

Pete lifted an eyebrow. "You mean nobody remembers?"

Brooke shot him a challenging glare. "Just like nobody remembers your foray into locker room navigation. You have to have been the only boy in Rupert Springs High who set out to catch a glimpse of the cheerleaders in the showers and ended up with a full frontal assault from the Mad Bomber herself."

Pete shook his head with a groan. "I still swear that woman was an Eastern bloc track star."

"It would have explained the mustache."

"And the penchant for quaint little tortures. For a phys ed teacher, she was a great drill sergeant."

Brooke laughed. "She always spoke highly of you, too."

Taking Brooke's lead, Pete spent a while concentrating on lunch. The antihistamines had begun to work—not to mention the distance from Mamie's cats. He was beginning to get his sense of taste back, which was fortunate, since not only was he starved, but Brooke had been right. Nobody made hamburgers and fries like this anymore, dripping with grease and seared on a stove that was probably just packed in carcinogens.

In the past six years Pete had eaten at some interesting places, from foreign street vendors whose products had probably been somebody else's pet to the finest five-star restaurants in the world. He couldn't say he'd enjoyed one more.

It was the sense of homecoming. The smells and tastes of his childhood, his teen years when he and David had cruised Rupert Springs's main drag on a Friday evening looking for cute girls and bad food. For a minute he experienced the oddest sensation of dislocation, as if he were sitting in two places at once, here in Bud's Badger Bar, and Burgerland, where the last carhops in America had cruised among cars on roller skates and a date could still cost under fifteen dollars.

Brooke had been there with him, always there in the back seat, where sisters who were being allowed along were exiled, often too loud and too uncertain, always fierce in her loyalty, more comfortable with older boys than peers of her own sex. A middle child out of place, a rebel with a child's heart.

It was funny. He'd been home for over twenty-four hours, walked the streets of Rupert Springs, shaken enough hands to run for office, caught up on gossip and family and settled into the bittersweet familiarity of Mamie's house. And until this moment he hadn't hurt, not really. He hadn't ached for all that he'd left behind.

Suddenly he missed Mamie. He missed David and Brooke and the carhops who used to roller-skate with loaded trays in their hands. He missed the certainty of childhood, the breathtaking ambivalence of possibility and responsibility that had been his teen years, when the world was still out there for the taking.

He'd taken it. He'd gone out and made a place for himself that no one in Rupert Springs—with the exception of Mamie and Brooke, maybe—could have foreseen for him. And yet, suddenly, briefly, he wished for more.

"Hey, Coop?" Brooke asked, her voice soft, her own eyes introspective.

He looked up to see some of the memories in her gaze. Some of the same longings and regrets. "Yeah, honey."

She set down her hamburger and leaned toward him, suddenly intense, inspiration sparking fire in her eyes. "Let's start now."

Pete frowned. "Start?"

She nodded. "The memorial. I mean, what better place? Everybody here knew Mamie. They really liked her and, once we get to New Orleans and Memphis, we won't have that."

Pete finally set down his own half-finished lunch. "What do you suggest?" he asked. "I can't really see old Barney dressed up like Ashley Wilkes."

She was alight now, her mind tumbling to possibilities. Pete found himself grinning at her enthusiasm. It exploded into the dingy room like a sunburst. She sat up, reached out a hand to lay on his arm, her posture intense, her mind made up.

"Where were we going to do the limericks?" she asked.

"Don't ask me," he countered. "You're the one organizing this party."

She shrugged off his retort. "I didn't know. A park, maybe. Mamie always liked to watch the sun come up over the river. I thought that might be nice. But, think about it. What could be a better place than the poolroom at Bud's Badger Bar?"

Maybe someday Pete would consider what an odd question that was. For now, though, he couldn't help but succumb to Brooke's unholy excitement. "Do you know any?"

She laughed, then. "Don't be ridiculous. Who do you think taught Mamie?"

Pete lifted an eyebrow then to match his scowl. "I have been away too long," he accused. "You're completely out of control."

The minute the hamburgers and fries were dispatched, Brooke led the way back into the smoky, claustrophobic poolroom where ten or twelve players battled with a battered old pocket pool table, a couple of cast-off chairs and a cigarette machine for space. Evidently all the decorating money had been spent on the front room. Back here it was bare walls and the hollow echo of linoleum. Brooke walked in the way a socialite commanded a charity ball.

"Finally come back to earn some of that money you lost, little girl?" one of the men asked. Straightening from where he'd been setting up a shot, he brushed the low light fixtures. One of the few people who could really call Brooke a little girl and mean it, Pete imagined.

Brooke's greeting was familiar and easy. "You mean, let you earn money back, Bud. Seems to me I was the one who ran three racks last week."

Bud snorted, the sound not unlike a train letting out steam. "I was bein' nice, seein' as you was in your good dress and high heels and all."

Brooke never gave an inch. "You were distracted. Why did you think I wore that dress?"

The room erupted in pleased laughter. Standing behind Brooke in the doorway, Pete watched with hands in pockets and judgments in abeyance. Even two days ago when he'd thought of Brooke, he'd thought of her crouched in that back seat, teetering on the edge of open revolt. Endearing, frustrating, ingenuous enough to need saving.

She didn't need saving anymore. Not from him or anyone else. He wasn't quite sure how he wanted to come to grips with this new Brooke, this woman who should have carved out her own path in the world, who should have taken command of New York or Los Angeles, not Badger, Arkansas.

"Bud, I need to ask a favor," Brooke was saying. "It's for Mamie."

Every head in the room nodded.

"When they buried her yesterday," she said, "none of Mamie's wishes were honored. Pete and I have set out to rectify that, and you guys can help."

Curious eyes swung toward Pete and back to Brooke. No one ventured a protest.

"What can we do?" was all Bud asked.

Brooke smiled. "Mamie wanted us to read limericks at her funeral. I want to do it here."

Bud took to scratching his head. "Limericks?" he countered, giving the room a quick glance to get other reactions. "Well, sure, for Mamie. But I don't know any clean ones."

Brooke's smile was delighted. "Bud," she said, hands on hips. "Why do you think I'm asking?"

* * *

An inspiration. A stroke of genius. Perched on the edge of the pool table, orchestrating the crescendo of bad taste in the room, Brooke decided that Mamie would have been proud. What had begun as a stop for lunch was turning into a first-rate Irish wake, with all the Badger Bar regulars showing up to share in beer and memories and outrageous rhymes.

It had started simple. A few Ogden Nash, a tribute or two to towns everyone knew, salacious puns that had provoked heartfelt groans from the audience packed into that little poolroom, beer in hand, imaginations stirred and challenges laid out. And then, because it was his right as the heir, Pete had really gotten things going with Mamie's favorite, the man from Nantucket. Pete, the world-famous newsman, whose face was more familiar than the president's, whose name appeared on the same lists as actors, statesmen and magnates, stood slouched in the corner in a rolled-up oxford shirt and chinos, with Bud's arm around his shoulder, laughing until his eyes streamed, matching and calling every bad limerick with a worse one of his own.

After all, Brooke might have taught Mamie, but Pete had first taught Brooke.

"He's real good at this," Bud admitted, topping off Brooke's beer.

She was glad Pete wasn't drinking. She'd been obliged to hold up the Fillihue honor amidst all those toasts, and it was making her just a little giggly.

She shot Pete a look as he launched into the woman from Nance, and grinned. This was what Mamie had wanted for him, this comfort, this ease. She'd bet her last donut that he didn't get a chance to do stuff like this in Atlanta.

"That's the man who taught me everything I know about pool," she admitted, pointing to Pete.

Bud's battered, ex-fighter face betrayed his respect. "No kiddin'. He teach you that little trick with the short skirt, too?"

Brooke laughed. "You think my legs look nice in heels. You should see his."

"He looks familiar. He drive through here or something?"

"No. This is his first time." It never occurred to Brooke to lie to Bud. After all, this was the man who had proposed to Mamie on six different occasions.

"That's the nephew who does the news," she admitted. "Pete Cooper."

Bud's face folded into surprise. "You mean it? That guy all the women go pantin' over like he's just reinvented chocolate candy or somethin'?"

Brooke nodded dryly. "Surprising, isn't it?"

"You're tellin' me. I figured him for somethin' a lot more... artsy-fartsy, ya know? In Eye-talian suits and gold chains."

Brooke shook her head. "Nah. Mamie trained him better than that."

"He get all her collections?"

"All except the salt-and-pepper shakers."

Bud nodded and drained his own beer once again. "I'd give a lot to have some o' them license plates. To decorate the front room, ya know."

Brooke was tempted to giggle again. "You could name it the Mamie Fillihue Memorial Lounge."

Bud grinned with all ten remaining teeth. "She woulda liked that, wouldn't she?"

Brooke nodded. "Except I think the Miss Mamie Fillihue Memorial Poolroom would be much more appropriate, don't you?"

Bud's expression actually took on a hint of anticipation. "Think he'd do it?"

Brooke smiled and gave Bud a reassuring pat on the arm. "I'll work my womanly wiles on him."

She was surprised to see Bud roll his eyes. "Poor sucker don't stand a chance. I'll get the nails tomorrow."

She'd been joking. Brooke Ferguson had no womanly wiles; everybody knew that. All her life she'd waited for somebody to call her sexy or provocative. She'd wished for that natural little sashay her sister Annie had that would draw boys in a line behind her like ducks after a seed truck. But instead, her mother had always said, Brooke had inherited stature. Brooke was a good friend and a better shoulder to lean on, someone you could depend on for a joke and a ride home.

Which was why she knew that Bud was joking. Especially when it came to Pete Cooper.

"There was an old man known as Buck."

* * *

They'd left a lot closer to sundown than Brooke had anticipated. The early summer sky was carmine and peacock, the sickle moon hanging just above the horizon, the trees dark, lifeless shadows in the heat that had gathered in the afternoon. Brooke and Pete tumbled out of the tavern on each other's arms, laughing, with the uproar of the party they'd left still in their ears as their shoes scrunched over the gravel parking lot.

It had been a perfect afternoon. A perfect tribute. They'd even capped it all off after everyone was awash in beer and bonhomie with four verses of "Streets of Laredo." Glasses held high, voices warbling more than a hair off-key, not a dry eye in the house for the little lady who had held court in Bud's like an elfin Queen Victoria.

"'So bang the drum slowly and play the fife lowly...'" Brooke sang out into the dusk, her cheeks still wet from mirth and mourning, her head reeling from hops and brewer's yeast, her bad sense of pitch even worse.

"You're waking up the roosters," Pete complained, tightening his hold as they swayed toward the car.

"I'm brilliant, Coop," she crowed, patting his belly with her free hand. "Absolutely brilliant. I wish Letitia could have been here."

Pete laughed. "Letitia would have had a hemorrhage."

"Exactly."

His laughter was as breathless as hers.

"Wasn't I brilliant?" she demanded. "Don't you think Mamie would have approved?"

To answer, Pete stopped where he was, ten feet from the car, and turned Brooke around to face him.

"Yes," he answered, his eyes glittering and sweet. "She would have loved it. I loved it."

Brooke smiled, a smug smile born of long acquaintance. "Mamie was right," she told him. "You've been fading like a cheap shirt in that job. You needed a little real insanity."

His expression softened, the neon from Bud's flickering from his eyes and the sunset tinting his skin a golden hue. Brooke had never seen such a handsome man, even with swollen eyes and red nose. She'd never known one with more life, more courage. It was good to see that glint of mischief back in his eyes.

"What next?" he demanded.

She tilted her head, her own arms around his neck, fitting into his hold as easily as an old pillow. Too comfortable where she was to move, too happy to be back to question, "Who cares? Isn't that the whole point of this?"

For a minute he didn't answer. He just watched her, familiar emotions skittering over his features, new exhilaration joining old memories. Brooke felt his hands around her, hands she knew better than anyone's, hands she'd held when he'd hurt, when he'd celebrated. It was good to have them back. To have him back in her reach where she could feast on his cool exuberance.

"Yes," he finally admitted, letting go of her waist. "It is." Before Brooke could move away or let go, he lifted his hands to cup her face. To lift it to him. "Thanks for making me come along."

And as naturally as friends do, he kissed her.

Except it wasn't a friend's kiss. Not by a long shot. It began simply, a meeting, an instinctive expression of delight, of gratitude. Within a whisper, though, it changed. Deepened. Softened. Pete's thumbs began to move, to stroke the sensitive skin at Brooke's jaw. His mouth stopped greeting and began inviting. And Brooke, who had first dreamed of a kiss just like this on her eleventh birthday, pulled away.