Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Page 2

  Back in the kitchen, Francine made a clatter, and Sheila and Roger were talking about basketball season and whether or not Roger was going to be a starter. I raised a hand. “Please tell me that you two did not invite.”

  They ignored me.

  “Francine, when you said Johnny Cakes was looking for me, was that Bayou code for Bubba Jackson?”

  “If that fool comes a-knocking, he won’t be leaving in the same shape he arrived.”

  “Then who was looking for me?”

  “Your FBI boyfriend.” Francine began snapping her finger. “What does he call himself?”

  “Storm,” Sheila said.

  “That’s the one. Left a box for you.”

  “Agent Cauldwell is not my boyfriend.”

  “Good to know,” Sheila’s voice trailed off.

  “Why’d you call him Johnny Cakes?”

  “Law enforcement can be so smug. The one you’ve gone and caught has some delectable qualities and he knows it.”

  “Who crashed on the sofa?” I pointed.

  “See for yourself,” Francine said.

  I racked my brain and came up empty. Pinching at its corner piping, I lifted the cushion that covered the slumbering head. A manly arm I didn’t recognize gripped it in place. Beneath the throw laid a worn pair of Levi’s with one blown knee and a black vintage, Junior Johnson, 182 wins, Nascar Hall of Fame t-shirt. I heard the mystery man under the pillow yawn as he rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes.

  My eyes forgot how to blink.

  “Well lookie here. The party girl decided to show up after all.”

  My mouth was only capable of sucking wind.

  He winked. “Been awhile, hasn’t it, Raz? Hear you’ve been stirrin’ up plenty of trouble.”

  “Nash Wilson, what the hell?”

  Climbing off the sofa to stretch, he moaned an “Aww, Raz,” and after shaking the cobwebs out of his skull he wrapped me in a bear hug. Planting a quick smooch on my cheek, he whispered in my ear, “I’ve missed you too, darlin’.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Don’t have a love interest on campus. Maybe for the best with Sheila Sinclair’s torpedoes on the loose for viewing.

  Nash Wilson, Katie Lee’s trouble-prone, jail-sentence-waiting-to-happen ex is in the house—what does he want?!

  CHAPTER 2

  I Ain’t Not Never In My Life

  The North Carolina heat sizzled off the asphalt where Katie Lee parked her four-door Olds, Big Blue. Besides her car having air-conditioning—mine didn’t—hers was a sturdier, more reliable vehicle. The Galaxie’s engine now clunked and pinged when I drove it in anything above seventy-two degrees. It didn’t go unnoticed that this happened since the Ford had been ‘fixed,’ in West Virginia by mountain mechanics—Go figure.

  I’d been back to North Carolina for less than a week and already had acquired a reddish glow from bicep to fingertip—thighs to ankles. Not very alluring. Another thing I was going to have to fix.

  Tuesdays and Thursdays, Katie Lee and I had compatible class schedules so we carpooled and only had to feed one meter on the campus lot. It was the first week of classes and finally, I had some alone time with her to ask the nagging question. “Please explain how Nash knows where we live.”

  Nash Wilson, Katie Lee’s cheating ex-boyfriend was not someone easily forgotten. He stirred a vivid memory of all the criminal trouble he caused my freshman year. The type of person who coaxed an involuntary breath of relief when you knew he’d moved out of the state. She didn’t immediately answer. Beneath tortoise shell cat-eye sunglasses and a spaghetti strap baby-blue cotton sundress, she moved across the parking lot without a hint of perspiration or tan line in sight. Her style befitted her self-assuredness. We were similar build, her hair shoulder length, mine draped below my shoulders. Maybe I’d have to borrow of few of her things and see if I could pull off a look as well as she did.

  “Rachael, I stay friendly with my exes.”

  “Since when?”

  She opened her wallet and I noticed a tattered photo of her and Nash tucked in with her dollars. Katie Lee peered at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Since always.”

  We moved onto a sidewalk, fed the parking meter, and made our way toward Campus Drive. I was headed to the Arts and Humanities building while Katie Lee had enough time to grab a sweet tea before her lecture. “Are you telling me that you don’t hold any grudges or ill will toward Nash for cheating on you, writing his own prescriptions on your daddy’s medical pad, and for getting you, and by default me, tangled with Bubba Jackson, Billy and Jack Ray, and the whole southern art ring forgery debacle?”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “Nash is trouble and you know it.”

  “You’re being overly sensitive. The past is the past. It’s not healthy to hold grudges.”

  “Hold grudges? I prefer to think of my attitude toward your Nash as a defensive shield.”

  Katie Lee stopped near the entrance of the Arts and Humanities building and pushed her hair back with her sunglasses. Over the summer she’d added blonde highlights to her brunette locks, which gave her girl-next-door look some va voom. “Do you think I have bad taste in boyfriends?”

  “No.” YES. “Not all of them. I mean Hugh seems decent-ish.”

  Her lips tightened and I backpedaled, fast.

  “It’s just Nash. He’s got a bad track record.”

  “Ah, Rach,” Katie Lee began. But we were interrupted by a curt voice that came out of a bleached blonde in a formfitting, pencil-straight skirt and matching hunter green blazer.

  “Ms. O’Brien.”

  “P… Professor Schleck.”

  “I trust you had a productive summer.”

  “Oh, um yeah.”

  Reaching a hand out, Katie Lee introduced herself. “I’m Rachael’s roommate. Third year in a row.”

  Schleck held a stack of boxes with photocopies from Kinko’s. Feigning strain under the tree she’d killed, she tilted her head and shrugged, “What stamina.”

  Katie Lee took the liberty of removing the top box, forcing me to follow her lead. I removed the bulk of paper from the professor’s hands. From the bottom of the stack, some catalogues fell to the floor. I quickly reached down and handed the professor her cat accessory catalogue. I would never have pegged her as the pet type and figured it was junk mail. I made a mental note to scold Katie Lee for being ‘useful’ to the most ornery teacher on campus. I was just thankful that I didn’t have any of her classes this semester.

  The professor’s dishwater gray eyes that loitered somewhere between blue and light brown, blinked as we walked indoors. “Summer in England, wasn’t it?”

  “Toured London and the countryside with my grandmother for most of the summer.”

  We followed the professor up the stairs. “I trust you took in The National Gallery, The Tate, and The Guildhall.”

  “Plenty of history came my way,” I said as we turned a corner.

  Jamming my foot in the hallway entrance door, I felt an arctic blast of air-conditioning slap my face.

  “Y’all, I best be headed to class,” Katie Lee said, piling the box of paper she held into my arms.

  “You have a half hour,” I said as I transmitted another message telepathically, “Don’t leave me alone with stick-up-her-ass Schleckster.”

  “Just enough time to skirt across campus and visit the little girls room before lecture. Nice meeting you, Professor,” she said.

  I couldn’t blame her really. I’d rather hang out in a lavatory than spend time with Professor Silvia Schleck.

  “Ms. O’Brien, heavy course schedule this semester?”

  “Halfway through my degree. I’ve completed almost all my core requirements so I can take some of the advanced-level Art History classes this year.”

  Without anywhere to escape, now that my arms were full of the professor’s papers, I dutifully followed her toward her office.

  “You must be pleased that you were awarded the schol
arship.”

  “Totally psyched. Thanks for all the mentoring you provided with the internship and all last year.”

  Under heavily shadowed, dark smoky lids, her eyes watched me while the edges of her frost lipstick, the color of Sheila’s carpet, betrayed no emotion.

  Turning a corner, I mostly listened to the clack of the professor’s spiky heels against linoleum and the chatter of passing students. Unlocking her office door, she hesitated. I didn’t know what she was thinking. It wasn’t like I wanted a sit-down chat. I planned a fast drop-off before high-tailing my ass out of her sight. But when she finally opened the door, I was taken aback. “You’ve redecorated.”

  “It was getting tired in here so I spruced things up a bit.”

  Schleck’s office was smaller than my freshman year dorm room with only one tiny, oddly-shaped window in the back corner. Last year when I’d interned, mostly checking student papers’ facts and dates, she had a mishmash of nice but knockoff antique furniture and rugs. She’d added an authentic eighteenth-century French Provincial walnut desk. Its intricately engraved legs were something, but not as impressive as the Persian rug I stood on: rich in reds, with a medallion design. Spruced things up? This was a complete revamp. Although outside of my expertise, my Grandma Geneva had a few similar ones around her house, and this one oozed quality. I gravitated toward a cluster of framed etchings on the far wall. “Wow, Professor, did you get a promotion?”

  Waving my comment off, she mumbled, “Just a few bits I’ve rescued from storage. Now, it’s going to be a busy semester so shall we have you start say …”

  Something in my throat felt dry and a tickle cough erupted. Schleck poured me a glass of water from an etched crystal decanter that rested on a rosewood sideboard with inlay drawers. I tried not to stare, but the carving details were impressive. “My class schedule is really full,” I began.

  “I have your transcript. With adequate organization it’s manageable. Besides, you need to meet all the requirements of the scholarship: grades, work-study, and volunteering. I can cover your non-classroom requirements and I’m sure there are volunteer opportunities at the Weatherspoon gallery.”

  She set my vision of a fun-filled—boys, booze and bars—easy-paced junior year aflame.

  My head went blank, which matched the stare I was sure had plastered my face.

  There was a knock on the door and without being invited, Tuke, the catch-all on campus—custodian, security, and maintenance man—stepped inside. His uniform, coordinating navy slacks and snap front short-sleeve shirt, hadn’t been updated since the fifties and in case you forgot his name, it was embroidered on a patch just above his left shirt pocket.

  “Well I’ll be! If it ain’t Rachael O’Brien. Been staying out of trouble, I hope?”

  Everyone being so concerned with my staying out of trouble was annoying.

  Schleck held the door while Tuke Walson placed a package on her desk. “Another one from Germany. Professor Schleck, don’t you look like the frog that’s gone and moved to the fly farm. The summer off radiates from …”

  “Where do I need to sign?” she asked, cutting him off.

  “None needed. The parcel came through the campus mail office.”

  Schleck fixed her stern eyes on me. “Our usual Friday then. I have some cataloguing work. You can start then.”

  I smelled defeat and it stunk. Schleck had trapped me and I’d let her. Fine print of the scholarship? Work-study and volunteering? Where was that spelled out? I wondered if she was manipulating me. I’d been so excited to have secured the financial scholarship, and so wrapped up in Dad’s complete surprise and euphoria with the windfall, that I hadn’t bothered to read much past the opening page of the award letter.

  “You okay?” Tuke asked in the hallway.

  “As okay as I can be after an encounter with Schleck.”

  He walked me to the stairs. “Professor Schleck has a way of casting a spell with her beauty, brains, and charm, doesn’t she?”

  A sour taste coated my tongue and I stopped to look at Tuke. His bright blues bobbled under his eyelids. “Are you crushing on the professor?”

  He rocked on his heels. “Can ya tell? Been meaning to ask her out for some time. I couldn’t help but hear that you’ll be working in her office. Do you think you could put a good word in for me?”

  “What?”

  “She’s so dedicated to teaching. Acts like she barely notices me. I sure could use an insider. You know, to mention my finer points.”

  I looked at Tuke, his sunburnt cheeks and neck, the paunch that pressed against the snaps on his grease stained work shirt, and the dorky steel-toe black lace-up boots on his feet.

  “Come on, Rach, do me a favor. I just need an in. My personality will do the rest.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Katie Lee has not learned the boyfriend golden rule. When they do you wrong, dump their ass, and never, ever speak to them again. Must remind her of that one.

  Tuke Walson and prickly Schleck? Shakespeare pegged it. Love Is Blind.

  CHAPTER 3

  Half a Bubble Off Plum

  There was a bung up of parked cars lining the street outside our house and Katie Lee had to circle the block twice to secure a parking space hulking enough to accommodate Big Blue. It took the entire six-mile drive to our house for her car to cool the inside air, and we both sat in the front seat for a beat before we braved the late afternoon stickiness that would assault us on our walk to the house.

  “What the sawmill has you in a mood?” she asked.

  The car door handle clicked and as soon as I stepped out, I melted in the oppressive Carolina air. After a long day of sitting on my butt, I had enough reading and research assignments to busy me until Thanksgiving. Even worse. “I’ve been Schlecked again?”

  Katie Lee tucked her car keys into her purse and slung her backpack on a shoulder. “Rachael, we all have professors we don’t see eye to eye with. What are you complaining about? It’s not like you have her for any classes this semester.”

  We rounded a corner and I heard the cicadas’ hum strengthen. Under a scoff, I vented, “She’s done it again. The professor wrangled my free intern services. She wants me to start this Friday.”

  “Aren’t Northerners supposed to be curt and abrupt? Why didn’t you tell her thank you, but no thank you, Ma’am? That you didn’t have the time or that you had something else lined up.”

  My head pounded. “I tried.”

  “Not very hard.”

  “I told her that my schedule was full and she said that part of my scholarship requirement was mentoring work study. I swear it’s bullshit, but she’s so oppressive. I felt trapped.”

  Arms wrapped around Katie Lee and me. Well mostly Katie Lee, while I was treated to a loose hand on my back that felt clammy. “We’re going to see Aunt BettyLou Carden. Ya’ll have any requests?”

  “Hey, baby,” Katie Lee said to Hugh, mid kiss.

  Stepping forward, I ditched Hugh’s touch. “Has the heat fried your brain? Why would I have any requests for your Aunt BettyLou who-whatever?”

  “Rachael, Hugh doesn’t have an Aunt BettyLou Carden. It’s code.”

  Southerners are tricky. When you catch them not making sense, they suddenly profess it’s CODE. “For What? I take that back. I don’t want to know.”

  “Hot day like this, banana daiquiris will cool us off.”

  “Rachael, Aunt Betty Lou Carden is the ABC store. It’s happy hour.”

  Our salmon-sided, black-shuttered house didn’t exactly blend in with the nothing-special neighborhood. Hugh’s poop-brown Datsun, which amazingly still ran, was parked outside our front door. He’d swiped the spot where Katie Lee should’ve parked. His car looked mint compared to the jacked-up, dinged, and rusting Firebird with a missing front fender that rested on the lawn. The front curb of our house had become a junkyard. Besides the metal pieces on the sidewalk, I recognized the punky, scuffed leather, kick-ass laced-up black boots that stuck out
from underneath the Firebird, and knew that my roommate Jet was attached to them. More disturbing than her hobby of dissembling someone’s car in front of the house, was the man who leaned on the passenger car door. My shoulders stiffened. I looked to Katie Lee, when Hugh confirmed my fear. “Clay came with me. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Come on, Rach. It’s no biggie. He’s a nice guy and that thing that happened between you two, no one even remembers.”

  I remembered.

  “Almost getting your nuts blown off with an M-80 isn’t at all memorable,” Hugh said as he cupped his hand over his dilly pickles in an exaggerated, strained manor.

  Did Katie Lee plan her words to come out so annoying?

  The outdoor air didn’t circulate, and listening to a lengthy lecture on the genre of Still Life, complete with slides, not to mention my Schleck encounter, had turned my day sour. Now, looking at Clay, since I had no choice unless I walked backward, I figured my cup of daily crap filleth up and runneth over. Might as well get this over. After a short meet and greet, my ass was going to plunk down in some quiet corner of the house where I could confront the reality that unless an unfortunate accident befell the Schleckster, I’d be getting a weekly dose of the dreaded professor.

  “Rachael,” Clay said, oozing with politeness, which pissed me off. He snatched the upper hand of “I’m over you” by talking first.

  “Tray,” I bit my cheek. “Clay.”

  Hugh’s beard-stubbled cheeks cracked a wry smile.

  Lying on a wood creeper with wheels, Jet slid out from beneath the car, wearing a black bra and white tank over denim cut-offs. She’d added a couple of new piercings to her left ear since last year. “How do you like my new project? It’s got a few rough patches, but with a tune up and a few new parts, this motor’ll purr beneath my ass.”