LaVyrle Spencer - The hellion

But the contact had scarcely begun before Tommy Lee abruptly pushed Rachel away, spun around, and stalked to his car. He yanked the door open and threw himself into the driver's seat, then slammed the door with uncontrolled vehemence. The engine was already gunning before Tommy Lee realized he wasn't going anywhere.

Rachel stood where he'd left her- trembling, angry, aroused. Suddenly the engine died and the car door was flung open again. It slammed into the night stillness and he faced her with that same hulking stance he'd presented earlier.

"Well, what're you still doing here?" He took a single ominous step her way. "Git! If you know what's good for you, Rachel, you git!"

She turned and ran for her car, her heart raising a furor in her body. And this time it was Rachel who tore all the way back to town.

The reform of Tommy Lee Gentry began in earnest the very next day. He arose earlier than usual, put on a pair of shorts that were too tight around the waist, and went for a jog down his curving driveway as the sun sent splinters of pure morning through the leaves. But he scarcely noticed. He was absolutely miserable- sweating, side-aching, leg-cramping miserable. He hadn't gone fifty yards before he had to stop, lean against a tree, and pant. Fifty yards! Lord a'mighty, in high school the coach sent us ten times around the track! He made it to the end of the driveway with six stops, then had to walk back to the house, clutching his left side. The waistband of the shorts was nearly slicing through his skin by now. He kicked them off with a foul curse and ran down to the lake buck naked, dived off the end of the dock, and found out why they call it a belly flop.

Cursing again, he determinedly plowed through the water in a formless crawl, the muscles of his arms and legs aching from yesterday's unaccustomed workout.

With the lake right here, you should swim every day, Tommy Lee. Remembering Rachel's words he forced his arms through the water and thought, I'll show you, Rachel!

Dammit, he loved that woman, and he'd get into shape even if it took a full year of this misery to do it! But as he slogged from the water after a torturous four-minute swim, panting so hard his throat hurt, checking his bright red stinging belly, he wasn't too sure he didn't dislike her intensely.

Back in the house he dressed in faded blue jeans and called Liz Scroggins to say he wouldn't be in till later, then faced the horrendous job of housecleaning. Standing at the edge of the living room, he grimaced, cursed again, and attacked the job like a belligerent child whose allowance has been withheld pending an improvement in cooperation and attitude.

All through that wretched morning, while he forced his sore muscles to do tasks they abhorred, while he suffered a hunger such as he hadn't known in years, while he returned time and again to his empty refrigerator searching for nourishment that wasn't there, Gentry ranted. He worked for hours, then took a break to search again for something to give him sustenance, but all he could find was beer, hard liquor, and limes. He drank a glass of despicably bitter lime water, picturing Rachel's skinny little ribs, and puckered up his face, then cursed again while vowing, Damn you, Rachel Hollis, you'll kiss me next time without a fight.

But the housecleaning was scarcely half done. Thinking of all there was yet to do he slammed several cupboard doors hard enough to break the filaments in the light bulbs, then gave up, strode out to the car and drove to Catfish Corner.

"Daisy!" he bellowed, slamming through the deserted bar area toward the living quarters in the rear. "Where the hell are you?"

Daisy's smiling face appeared around the corner. "Uh-oh, what I done now?" she teased.

"Daisy, I need two things, and I need 'em fast. A maid who can cook and something to eat that hasn't got any calories in it!"

Daisy fed him some summer squash that nearly gagged him, then called her sister-in-law, who called her married daughter, who called her first cousin by marriage, who said, sure thing, she'd be happy to work for Mr. Gentry, but taking a job for a holy terror like him was kind of risky, so she wanted two hundred a week, the first week in advance, and a room of her own-after all she wasn't made of money and didn't have a car, so how was she supposed to get back and forth to that no-man's-land of his? She'd live in or she wouldn't do it at all. And she wanted Saturdays and Sundays off, and a ride back to town so she could spend them with her family and could attend her own Baptist church, then she'd need a ride back out to the country no earlier than 9:00 P.M. on Sunday night to give her plenty of visiting time.

Daisy stood with one hand on her hip, dangling the receiver over her shoulder, smirking across the kitchen at Tommy Lee while on the other side of the room Sam smiled behind his hand. "What should I tell her?"

"If she can cook better than you, tell her yes, I'll meet her outrageous demands, but if she ever puts summer squash in front of me she's fired on the spot!" He glared at Daisy and added for good measure, "And ask her what the hell ever happened to slavery!"

Daisy moved her shoulders saucily, but her face was all innocence while she spoke to Georgine in an exaggerated Uncle Remus accent. "Mr. Gentry, he say yes, two hunnerd a week is nuttin', and if he too busy entertainin' his ladies to carry you home, you jiss plan on fetchin' yoself in one o' his big fancy cars. He says he know how all us black folk like big fancy Cadillac cars."

Tommy Lee came half out of his chair. "Daisy!" he roared. "A simple yes will do!"

Before the day was out Georgine was installed in Tommy Lee's house. She was given a pretty little guest bedroom and the keys to the Blazer so she could drive into town and stock the cupboard shelves properly. That night when Tommy Lee sat down to supper he demanded to know what the hell she'd spent a hundred and twenty dollars on when all he found on his plate was turnip greens and a piece of broiled, butterless fish that'd leave a medium-size cat howling for seconds!

Georgine replied with a wordless pursing of her lips as she whipped her apron off and headed determinedly for the front door. Tommy Lee was forced to plead with her to stay, though when he bit into the tasteless fish he had no idea why he'd bothered.

Later that evening he wanted a martini so badly he went up to his bedroom, where Georgine couldn't see him, and tried to do push-ups to take his mind off the drink-only to find out he couldn't do push-ups anymore. When in the hell had that happened? He sat in a dejected heap on the floor, staring at his traitorous biceps and hating them. He'd been intending to call Rachel that night and apologize for treating her so roughly and for telling her to shut up, but after the failure of his body to perform, he was too angry with both himself and her to pick up the phone.

He ended the night starved, thirsty, and suffering through twelve of the most painful sit-ups he'd ever performed in his life.

On Tuesday he called Panache, but Verda claimed Rachel wasn't in.

"Humph!" he snorted, and slammed down the receiver with typical dieter's temper.

On Wednesday he managed the downward stroke of a push-up, but after quivering in the suspended state for thirty seconds, still could not push himself back up. He called Panache again, and this time, when he was told she wasn't in, barked, "Well, how the hell can she run a business when she's never there!" Then he hung up again.

On Thursday he made it to the end of the driveway without stopping. But when he got there he threw up. None of his calls to Rachel's house turned up an answer and Tommy Lee raged inwardly. How dare she ignore him when he was suffering like a blue bitch-and all for her!

On Friday his arms ached from the pair of six-pound "executive dumbbells" he'd bought the day before and had overused in an effort to strengthen his traitorous biceps, which would only push him up once. His stomach growled constantly, and every time it did, he pictured a plate of Big Sam's catfish and hush puppies. And tried phoning Rachel again. And got angrier. And finally stalked into Panache to confront her personally only to find her out, and himself forced to buy another pair of earrings as an excuse for having come in.

Meanwhile, Rachel was spending a long tiring week in Dallas at the Trade Mart, meeting with the representatives of the various clothing manufacturers at appointed times, trying to determine what would sell and what wouldn't next fall. "Going to market" was always harrowing. A poor decision was costly, and since her merchandise turnover was limited, it was imperative her choices be prudent. Nor could she buy in quantity. In a small town no woman wanted to confront her newest designer dress walking toward her on another woman.

Discounts were discussed, haggling done, the autumn line of garments viewed.

Dallas was hot and dry and very lonely. At night she returned to her hotel room to think about Tommy Lee and try not to cry. She remembered the evidence of his abject loneliness and her heart broke for him. That house-oh, Lord, that house. It was a monument to what they'd once had, and thinking of it again stirred her in a heart-wrenching way. What kind of devotion drove a man to build a house for a woman who was married to someone else? And what woman could see it, recognize it, and not be moved by it?

She thought of him living in that beautiful place, dreaming his dreams while years rolled on and made him older, more lax about the direction his life was taking… and the tears gathered in her throat. Had he really been waiting for her to be free again? Unbelievably, it seemed to be true.