Dateline Matrimony. Gina Wilkins

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СКАЧАТЬ gave a cackle. “So I’ve heard.”

      Riley shook his head in exasperation. “Then why did you ask?”

      “I hear you’ve suddenly become a regular at the diner. Some folks that say you’ve been having trouble taking your eyes off the pretty waitress.”

      “Yeah, well, we both know there’s nothing folks in this town like better than fabricating gossip out of thin air.” Riley turned pointedly toward the television and lifted a can of soda to his lips to signal that he considered the subject closed.

      He knew, of course, that Bud wouldn’t cooperate. He was right. “You always did like leggy, big-eyed blondes,” Bud drawled, obviously having a fine time needling his only nephew.

      Riley heaved an exaggerated sigh. “What do you want me to say? I’ll admit she’s nice to look at. And maybe I’ve flirted with her a couple of times. But when I did, she nearly gave me frostbite with those big, cold blue eyes of hers. So, if you’re finished making fun of me, let’s get back to watching the race.”

      There were few people Riley would have allowed such leeway, but he was fond of his uncle. Besides, Bud was still recovering from the tragic death of one of his two closest friends earlier that year. It was good to see him smile again, even if it was at Riley’s expense.

      Bud’s smile turned to a scowl. “She shot you down? What’s wrong with the girl?”

      “Nothing’s wrong with her, as far as I can tell. She’s just not interested. Not everyone is, you know. I’m not quite the lady-killer you seem to think I am.”

      Bud snorted. “I’ve never seen a woman yet who didn’t come around when you gave it your best shot. So, only thing I can figure is, either you’ve decided the pretty waitress ain’t worth the effort—or you’re just taking your time about going after her.”

      “Would you stop calling her the pretty waitress? She has a name. Teresa.”

      Bud’s bushy, steel-gray eyebrows shot upward in response to his nephew’s testy tone. “Not that you’re interested, of course,” he murmured.

      Riley looked pointedly at the big-screen TV. “Watch the race. They’re going green again.”

      Knowing when he’d pushed hard enough, Bud crossed his hands over his beer-swollen belly and leaned back against the couch. His feet, like Riley’s, were crossed on the scarred coffee table in front of them. They sat in the living room of Bud’s double-wide mobile home, salvaged from his second divorce five years ago, after dining on a Sunday lunch of chili dogs and Tater Tots.

      Riley and Bud tried to get together like this often, since they were the only members of their family still living in Edstown. Sixty-five-year-old Bud had never had children, so he’d always taken a rather fatherly interest in his only brother’s only son, especially after Riley’s parents had retired to Florida almost ten years ago while Riley was a senior in college.

      Watching the brightly painted advertising-covered stock cars whizzing past the cameras, Riley changed the subject by asking, “How’s R.L. these days? I haven’t seen him much since he retired from the insurance business.”

      “We’re going fishing Wednesday morning. Meeting here at a quarter till six. You want to go with us?”

      “No, thanks. I’ll pass. I’m planning on sleeping in that morning.”

      “Wuss,” Bud muttered with a chuckle.

      “Hey, it’s chilly out on a lake at dawn in the middle of September. There are some parts of my body I don’t want to risk freezing off, okay? I’m not quite finished with them yet.”

      Bud laughed, then shook his head. “I keep telling you, you don’t get cold if you dress right. And come mid-morning, it still gets downright hot this time of year.”

      “No, really, Bud. Thanks, but it’s just not my thing. You and R.L. go and have a good time, okay?”

      “I’m sure we will. ’Course, we’ll miss Truman.”

      Riley nodded somberly, never knowing quite what to say when his uncle brought up Truman’s name.

      Truman Kellogg, who’d been practically inseparable from Bud O’Neal and R. L. Hightower for nearly fifty years, had died in a house fire almost eight months ago. The remaining two buddies had taken the death hard. Bud hadn’t really been the same since.

      Had his pal’s death forced him to confront his own mortality? Or was it simply that he’d never imagined a time when the three of them wouldn’t all be together? The friendship had lasted through their school years, Bud’s and R.L.’s marriages and divorces, the death of Truman’s wife several years ago, good and bad economic turns—it was only natural, Riley supposed, that Bud and R.L. were having a hard time dealing with their loss.

      “Good grief, will you look at that?” Bud shook his head in dismay as several cars in the race crashed into the wall and each other. “That wreck’ll put a bunch of ’em behind the wall, I bet.”

      “Damn. Martin didn’t have a chance to avoid the mess,” Riley muttered, looking morosely at the formerly sleek race car that was now smashed on both ends from the chain-reaction collisions. The Arkansas-native driver Riley usually rooted for was unharmed, but there was no chance he’d finish the race. “He’s had a hell of a season, hasn’t he? One thing right after another.”

      “I know the feeling,” Bud said morosely. And then, before Riley could comment, he asked, “You sure you don’t want me to talk to that pretty little waitress for you? I bet I could convince her you’re not as bad as you’ve probably come across to her.”

      “Stay out of my love life.”

      Bud snorted, making a visible effort to cheer up. “What love life? Looks to me like you could use all the help you can get. You want another drink?”

      “No. And I’m serious, Bud. Don’t you say a word to Teresa.”

      His uncle grinned as he headed for the kitchen, leaving Riley feeling decidedly wary.

      Riley was on his way to the newspaper office after a routine interview with the mayor Monday afternoon when he spotted Teresa Scott stranded on the side of the road. She was standing beside an aging sedan, looking at a flat tire on the right rear, her pretty face darkened by a frown. He promptly pulled his classic two-seater to the side of the road behind her car.

      “Looks like you’ve got a problem,” he said, climbing out of his car.

      He could tell that she recognized him immediately. He would have described her expression as resigned. He could almost hear her thinking, “Of course he would be the one to show up now.”

      “I can handle it,” she said instead. “It’s only a flat.”

      He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans while he studied the problem. The tire was deflated down to the rim. “Have you ever changed a flat before?”

      “Once,” she replied, probably unaware of the touch of uncertainty in her voice.

      “Pop the trunk,” he said, pulling off his thin leather jacket and tossing it into his car. He didn’t СКАЧАТЬ