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Blue correctly translated that to mean she loved it, and, despite its excessive glitz, Blue was happy with how perfectly she’d captured Nita’s view of herself: the sex kitten’s sparkle in her eyes, the alluring smile on her frosted pink lips, and the perfect shade of platinum in her beehive. More than once, she found Nita in the foyer studying it, an expression of yearning in her aging eyes.
Blue had money in her wallet now. She could leave Garrison anytime.
Nita appeared behind her, and they took off for Sunday dinner at the farm. Dean and Riley grilled burgers and Blue made barbecued beans accompanied by a watermelon salad flavored with fresh mint and lime juice. When Dean started eating his hamburger, he began baiting her about not doing the murals, accusing her of ingratitude, artistic cowardice, and high treason, all of it easy to ignore. Until April spoke up.
“I know how much you love this house, Blue. I’m surprised you don’t want to leave your mark on it.”
Gooseflesh broke out on Blue’s arms, and by the time the rest of them were reaching for second helpings, she knew she had to paint the murals—not to leave her mark on the house as April had said, but to leave her mark on Dean. The murals would last for years. Whenever he walked into this room, he’d be forced to remember her. He might forget what color her eyes were, maybe he’d forget her name, but as long as the murals were on the walls, he’d never be able to forget her. She pushed the food around on her plate, her appetite gone. “All right. I’ll do them.”
A sliver of watermelon dropped off April’s fork. “Really? You won’t change your mind?”
“No, but remember that I warned you. My landscapes are—”
“Mushy pieces of crap.” Dean grinned. “We know. Good for you, Bluebell.”
Nita looked up from her barbecued beans. To Blue’s shock, she didn’t protest. “As long as you make my breakfast in the morning and you’re back in time to make my dinner, I don’t care what you do.”
“Blue is going to be staying in the caravan now,” Dean said smoothly. “It’ll be more convenient for her.”
“More convenient for you, doncha mean?” Nita retorted. “Blue’s dumb, but she’s not stupid.”
Blue could have argued the point. She was dumb and stupid. The longer she stayed, the tougher it would be to leave. She knew that from hard experience. Still, she had her eyes wide open. She’d miss Dean desperately when she left, but she had a lifetime’s practice saying good-bye to people she cared about, and it wouldn’t take her long to get over him.
“There’s not a single reason for you to keep living in that mausoleum,” Dean said the next night during dinner at the Barn Grill, “not when you’re going to be working every day at the farm. I know how much you love staying in the caravan. I’ll even put a Porta Potti
out there for you.”
She wanted to. She wanted to listen to the tap of summer rain on the caravan roof as she drifted off to sleep, to sink her bare feet into the wet grass when she stepped outside in the morning, to spend an entire night curled up with Dean. She wanted everything that would come back to torture her when she left.
She set down her beer mug without taking a sip. “No way am I giving up the sight of Romeo climbing over my balcony railing at night to get to the goodies.”
“I’m going to break my neck getting to the goodies.”
Not likely. Unbeknownst to Romeo, she’d had Chauncey Crole, who doubled as the town handyman, reinforce the railing.
Syl popped up at the table to check on Blue’s total lack of progress getting Nita to agree to the town improvement project. Once again, Blue tried to make her understand how hopeless it was. “If I say it’s morning, she says it’s night. Every time I try to talk to her about it, I make things worse.”
Syl snitched one of Blue’s French fries and wiggled her booty as Trace Adkins launched into “Honkytonk Badonkadonk.” “You need a positive attitude. Tell her, Dean. Tell her nobody accomplishes anything without a positive attitude.”
Dean gave Blue a long, steady look. “That’s true, Syl. A positive attitude’s the key to success.”
Blue thought about the murals. Painting them would be like shedding a layer of skin—not in a good way, like after a peeling sunburn, but in a bad way, while the skin was still alive.
“You can’t give up,” Syl said. “Not when the whole town’s depending on you. You’re our last hope.”
As Syl walked away, Dean transferred an uneaten piece of broiled perch from his plate to Blue’s. “The good news is that people are so busy bugging you they’ve stopped paying much attention to me,” he said. “I finally get to eat my meals in peace.”
Not long after, Karen Ann cornered Blue in the restroom. The Barn Grill was no longer serving her alcohol, but that had only marginally improved her personality. “Mr. Hot Shit is screwin’ everybody in town behind your back, Blue. I hope you know that.”
“Sure I do. Just like I hope you know I’m screwing Ronnie behind yours.”
“Asshole.”
“Will you try to focus, Karen Ann.” Blue yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. “Your sister stole your Trans Am, not me. I’m the one who kicked your ass, remember?”
“Only because I was drunk.” She propped a hand on her scrawny hip. “Now are you going to get that old bitch to open up this town or not? Me and Ronnie want to put in a bait shop.”
“I can’t do anything. She hates me!”
