Virgin River
“He was absolutely manageable. He even let me put in a couple of stitches. Of course, he didn’t compliment my work, but he didn’t tell me it was bad, either.” She leaned closer to Hope and said, “I think he’s taking credit for me. You might want to stand up for yourself.”
“You’re staying now?”
“I’m staying a few days, at least. Until we get a couple of things that need attention ironed out.”
“I heard. Newborn, they say.”
Jack put a drink down in front of Hope. “Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.
“Have any ideas on the mother?” Mel asked Hope.
“No. But everyone is looking at everyone else strangely. If she’s around here, she’ll turn up. You done pushing food around that plate yet? Because I’m ready for a smoke.”
“You shouldn’t, you know.”
Hope McCrea looked at Mel in impatience, grimacing. She pushed her too-big glasses up on her nose. “What the hell do I care now? I’ve already lived longer than I expected to.”
“That’s nonsense. You have many good years left.”
“Oh, God. I hope not!”
Jack laughed and in spite of herself, so did Mel.
Hope, acting like a woman with a million things to do, had her drink and cigarette, put money on the bar, hopped off the stool and said, “I’ll be in touch. I can help out with the little one, if you need me.”
“You can’t smoke around the baby,” Mel informed her.
“I didn’t say I could help out for hours and hours,” she answered. “Keep that in mind.” And off she went, stopping at a couple of tables to pass the time on her way out.
“How late do you stay open?” Mel asked Jack.
“Why? You thinking about a nightcap?”
“Not tonight. I’m bushed. For future reference.”
“I usually close around nine—but if someone asks me to stay open, I will.”
“This is the most accommodating restaurant I’ve ever frequented,” she laughed. She looked at her watch. “I better spell Doc. I don’t know how patient he is with an infant. I’ll see you at breakfast, unless Doc’s out on a house call.”
“We’ll be here,” he offered.
Mel said goodbye and on her way to her coat, stopped at a couple of the tables to say good night to people she had just met. “Think she’ll stay on awhile?” Preacher quietly asked Jack.
Jack was frowning. “I think what she does to a pair of jeans ought to be against the law.” He looked at Preacher. “You okay here? I’m thinking of having a beer in Clear River.”
It was code. There was a woman in Clear River. “I’m okay here,” Preacher said.
As Jack drove the half hour to Clear River, he wasn’t thinking about Charmaine, which gave him a twinge of guilt. Tonight he was thinking about another woman. A very beautiful young blond woman who could just about bring a man to his knees with what she looked like in boots and jeans.
Jack had gone to a tavern in Clear River for a beer a couple of years ago and struck up a conversation with the waitress there—Charmaine. She was the divorced mother of a couple of grown kids. A good woman; hardworking. Fun-loving and flirtatious. After several visits and as many beers, she took him home with her and he fell into her as if she were a feather bed. Then he told her what he always made sure women understood about him—that he was not the kind of man who could ever be tied down to a woman, and if she began to have those designs, he’d be gone.
“What makes you think all women want to be run by some man?” she had asked. “I just got rid of one. Not about to get myself hooked up to another one.” Then she smiled and said, “Just the same, everyone gets a little lonely sometimes.”
They started an affair that had sustained Jack for a couple of years now. Jack didn’t see her that often— every week, maybe couple of weeks. Sometimes a month would go by. He wasn’t sure what she did when he wasn’t around—maybe there were other men— though he’d never seen any evidence of that. He never caught her making time in the bar with anyone else; never saw any men’s things around her house. He kept a box of condoms in her bedside drawer that didn’t disappear on him, and he’d let it slip that he liked being the only man she entertained.
As for Jack—he had a personal ethic about one woman at a time. Sometimes that woman could last a year, sometimes a night—but he didn’t have a collection he roved between. Although he wasn’t exactly breaking that rule tonight, he wasn’t quite sticking to it, either.
He never spent the night in Clear River and Charmaine was not invited to Virgin River. She had only called him and asked him to come to her twice—and it seemed a small thing to ask. After all, he wasn’t the only one who needed to be with someone once in a while.
He liked that when he walked in the tavern and she saw him, it showed all over her that she was happy he’d come. He suspected she had stronger feelings for him than she let show. He owed her—she’d been a real sport about it—but he knew he’d have to leave the relationship before it got any more entangled. So sometimes, to demonstrate he had a few gentlemanly skills, he’d drop in for just a beer. Sometimes he’d bring her something, like a scarf or earrings.
He sat down at the bar and she brought him a beer. She fluffed her hair; she was a big blonde. Bleached blonde. At about five foot eight, she’d kept her figure, mostly. He didn’t know her exact age, but he suspected late forties, early fifties. She always wore very tight-fitting clothes and tops that accentuated her full breasts. At first sight you’d think—cheap. Not so much tawdry or low-class as simple. Unrefined. But once you got to know Charmaine and how kind and deep down earnest she was, those thoughts fled. Jack imagined that in younger years she was quite the looker with her ample chest and full lips. She hadn’t really lost those good looks, but she had a little extra weight around the hips and there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“Hiya, bub,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“It’s only been a couple of weeks, I think.”
“More like four.”
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
“Busy. Working. Went over to Eureka to see my daughter last week. She’s having herself a lousy marriage—but what should we expect? I raised her in one.”
“She getting divorced?” he asked politely, though in truth he didn’t care that much. He didn’t know her kids.
“No. But she should. Let me get this table. I’ll be back.”
She left him to make sure the other customers were served. There were only a few and once Jack showed up the owner, Butch, knew that Charmaine would want to leave a little early. He saw her take a tray of glasses back behind the bar and talk quietly with her boss, who nodded. Then Charmaine was back.
“I just wanted to have a beer and say hello,” Jack said. “Then I have to get back. I have a big project going on.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“I’m fixing up a cabin for one of the women in town. I put on a new porch today and tomorrow I’m going to paint it and build back steps.”
“That so? Pretty woman?”
“I guess you could say she’s pretty. For seventy-six years old.”
She laughed loudly. Charmaine had a big laugh. It was a good laugh that came from deep inside her. “Well, then, I guess I won’t bother being jealous. But do you think you can spare the time to walk me home?”
“I can,” he said, draining his beer. “But I’m not coming in tonight.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll get my coat.”
When they were outside, she looped her arm through his and began to talk about her last couple of weeks, as she always did. He liked the sound of her voice, deep and a little raspy, what they called a whiskey voice though she wasn’t much of a drinker. She could go on and on about next to nothing but in a pleasant way, not an irritating way. She would talk about the bar, the people in the town, her kids, what she’d bought lately, what she’d read. News items fascinated her—she would spend the mornings before work watching CNN, and she liked to tell him her opinion of breaking stories. She always had some project going on in her little house— wallpaper or paint or new appliances. The house was paid for; an inheritance of some kind. So the money she made, she spent on herself and her kids.
When they got to the door he said, “I’ll shove off, Charmaine. But I’ll see you before long.”
“Okay, Jack,” she said. She tilted her head up for a kiss and he obliged. “That wasn’t much of a kiss,” she said.
“I don’t want to come in tonight,” he said.
“You must be awful tired,” she said. “Think you have enough energy to give me a kiss that I’ll remember for an hour or two?”
He tried again. This time he covered her mouth with his, allowed his tongue to do a little exploring, held her close against him. And she grabbed his butt. Damn! he thought. She ground against him a little bit, sucked on his tongue. Then she hooked her hand into the front of his jeans and pulled him forward, letting her fingers drift lower against his belly.
“Okay,” he said weakly, a little vulnerable, stirred up. “I’ll come in for a few minutes.”
“That’s my boy,” she said, smiling at him. She pushed open the door and he followed her inside. “Just think of it as a little sleeping pill.”
He dropped his jacket on the chair. Charmaine wasn’t even out of hers when he grabbed her around the waist, pulled her against him and devoured her with a kiss that was sudden, hot and needy. He pushed her jacket off her shoulders and walked her backwards toward the bedroom and dropped with her onto the bed. He pulled at her top and freed her breasts, filling his mouth with one and then the other. Then off came her pants, and down came his. He ran his hands over her lush body, down over her shoulders, hips, thighs. He reached over to the bedside table, retrieved one of the condoms kept there for him, and ripped the package open. He put it on and was inside her so quickly, it startled even him. He thrust and plunged and drove and she said, “Oh! Oh! Oh, my God!”
He was ready to explode, but held himself back while her legs came around his waist and she bucked. Something happened to him—he went a little out of his mind. Didn’t know where he was or with whom. When she finally tightened around him, he let himself go with a loud groan. She panted beneath him, the sound that told him she was completely satisfied.
“My God,” she said when she finally caught her breath. “What’s got you so hot?”
“Huh?”
“Jack, you don’t even have your boots off!”
He was shocked for a moment, then rolled off of her. Jesus, he thought. You can’t treat a woman like that. He might not have been thinking, but at least he wasn’t thinking about anyone else, he consoled himself. He had no brain power involved in that at all—it was all visceral. His body, reaching out.
“I’m sorry, Charmaine. You okay?”
“I’m way more than okay. But please, take your boots off and hold me.”
It was on his mind to say he had to go, he wanted to go, but he couldn’t do that to her after this. He sat up and got rid of the boots and pants and shirt, everything hitting the floor. After a quick visit to the bathroom he was back, scooped her up in his arms and held her. Her heavy, soft body was cushiony against his.
He stroked her, kissed her and eventually made love to her again, as opposed to what he’d done before. This time sanely, but no less satisfactorily. At one in the morning he was searching around the floor for his pants.
“I thought you might be staying the night this time,” she said from the bed.
He pulled on his pants and sat on the bed to put on his boots. He twisted around and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t,” he said. “But you’ll be fine now.” He smiled at her. “Think of it as a little sleeping pill.”
As he drove back to Virgin River he thought, it’s over now. I have to end it. I can’t do that anymore, not with a clear conscience. Not when something else has my attention.
Four
Jack drove out to the cabin, the truck bed loaded with supplies. It was his third day in a row. When he pulled up, Cheryl came out of the house, onto the new porch. “Hey, Cheryl,” he called. “How’s it going? Almost done in there?”
She had a rag in her hands. “I need the rest of the day. It was a real pigsty. Will you be here tomorrow, too?”
He would. But he said, “Nah. I’m about done. I want to paint the porch this morning—can you get out the back door? I haven’t built steps yet.”
“I can jump down. Whatcha got?” She came down the porch steps.
“Just stuff for the cabin,” he said, unloading a big Adirondack chair for the porch, its twin in the truck bed.
“Wow. You really went all out,” she said.
“It has to be done.”
“She must be some nurse.”
“She says she’s not staying, but the place has to be fixed up anyway. I told Hope I’d make sure it was taken care of.”
“Not everyone would go to so much trouble. You’re really a good guy, Jack,” she said. She peeked into the truck. He had a new double-size mattress inside a large plastic bag lying flat in the bed. On top of that, a large rolled-up rug for the living room, bags from Target full of linens and towels that were new as opposed to the graying, used ones borrowed from Hope’s linen closet, potted geraniums for the front porch, lumber for the back step, paint, a box full of new kitchen things. “This is a lot more than repair stuff,” she said. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her clip around her ear. When he chanced a glance at her, he saw those sad eyes filled with longing. He looked away quickly.
“Why go halfway?” he said. “It ought to be nice. When she leaves, maybe Hope can rent it out to summer people.”
“Yeah,” she said.
Jack continued unloading while Cheryl just stood around. He tried to ignore her; he didn’t even make small talk.
Cheryl was a tall, big-boned woman of just thirty, but she didn’t look so good—she’d been drinking pretty hard since she was a teenager. Her complexion was ruddy, her hair thin and listless, her eyes red-rimmed and droopy. She had a lot of extra weight around the middle from the booze. Every now and then she’d sober up for a couple of weeks or months, but invariably she’d fall back into the bottle. She still lived with her parents, who were at their wits’ end with her drinking. But what to do? She’d get her hands on booze regardless. Jack never served her, but every time he happened upon her, like now, there was usually a telltale odor and half-mast eyes. She was holding it together pretty good today. She must not have had much.
There had been a bad incident a couple of years ago that Cheryl and Jack had had to get beyond. She had a little too much one night and went to his living quarters behind the bar, banging on his door in the middle of the night. When he opened the door, she flung herself on him, groping him and declaring her tragic love for him. Sadly for her, she remembered every bit of it. He caught her sober a few days later and said, “Never. It is never going to happen. Get over it and don’t do that again.” And it made her cry.
He moved on as best he could and was grateful that she did her drinking at home, not in his bar and grill. She liked straight vodka, probably right out of the bottle and, if she could get her hands on it, Everclear— that really mean, potent stuff. It was illegal in most states, but liquor store owners usually had a little under the counter.
“I wish I could be a nurse,” Cheryl said.
“Have you ever thought about going back to school?” he asked as he worked. He was careful not to give her the impression he was too interested. He hauled the rug out of the back of the truck, hefted it over his shoulder and carried it to the house.
To his back she said, “I couldn’t afford it.”
“You could if you got a job. You need a bigger town. Throw your net a little wider. Stop relying on odd jobs.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, following him. “But I like it here.”
“Do you? You don’t seem that happy.”
“Oh, I’m happy sometimes.”
“That’s good,” he said. He threw the rolled rug down in the living room. He’d spread it out later. “If you have the time, could you wash up those new linens I bought and put them away? Fix up the bed when I get the new mattress on it?”
“Sure. Let me help you with the mattress.”
“Thanks,” he said, and together they hauled it into the house. He leaned it against the wall and grabbed the old one off the bed. “I’ll go by the dump on the way home.”
“I heard there was a baby at Doc’s. Like a baby that was just left there.”
Jack froze. Oh, man, he thought. Cheryl? Could it be Cheryl’s? Without meaning to, he looked her up and down. She was big, but not obese. Yet fat around the middle and her shirt loose and baggy. But she’d been out here cleaning that very day—she couldn’t do that, could she? Maybe it wasn’t the Smirnoff flu. Wouldn’t she be bleeding and leaking milk? Weak and tired?
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You hear of anyone who could have done that?”
“No. Is it an Indian baby? Because there’s reservations around here—women on hard times. You know.”
“White,” he answered.
“You know, when I’m done here, I could help out with the baby.”
“Uh, I think that’s covered, Cheryl. But thanks. I’ll tell Doc.” He carried the old mattress out and leaned it against the truck bed. God, that was an awful-looking thing. Mel was completely right—that cabin was horrific. What had Hope been thinking? She’d been thinking it would be cleaned up—but had she expected the new nurse to sleep on that thing? Sometimes Hope could be oblivious to details like these. She was pretty much just a crusty old broad.
He reached into the truck and hauled out the bags of linens. “Here you go,” he said to Cheryl. “Now get inside—I have to start painting. I want to get back to the bar by dinner.”
“Okay,” she said, accepting the bags. “Let me know if Doc needs me. Okay?”
“Sure, Cheryl.” Never, he thought. Too risky.
Jack was back at the bar by midafternoon with time enough to do an inventory of bar stock before people started turning out for dinner. The bar was empty, as it often was at this time of day. Preacher was in the back getting started on his evening meal and Ricky wasn’t due for another hour at least.
A man came into the bar alone. He wasn’t dressed as a fisherman; he wore jeans, a tan T-shirt under a denim vest, his hair was on the long side and he had a ball cap on his head. He was a big guy with a stubble of beard about a week old. He sat several stools down from where Jack stood with his clipboard and inventory paperwork, a good indication he didn’t want to talk.
Jack walked down to him. “Hi. Passing through?” he asked, slapping a napkin down in front of him.
“Hmm,” the man answered. “How about a beer and a shot. Heineken and Beam.”
“You got it,” Jack said, setting him up.
The man threw back the shot right away, then lifted the beer, all without making any eye contact with Jack. Fine, we won’t talk, Jack thought. I have things to do anyway. So Jack went back to counting bottles.
About ten minutes had passed when he heard, “Hey, buddy. Once more, huh?”
“You bet,” Jack said, serving him another round. Again silence prevailed. The man took a little longer on his beer, time enough for Jack to get a good bit of his inventory done. While he was crouched behind the bar, a shadow fell over him and he looked up to see the man standing right on the other side of the bar, ready to settle up.
Jack stood just as the man was reaching into his pocket. He noticed a bit of tattoo sneaking out from the sleeve of his shirt—the recognizable feet of a bulldog—the Devil Dog. Jack was close to remarking on it—the man wore an unmistakable United States Marine Corps tattoo. But then the man pulled a thick wad of bills out, peeled off a hundred and said, “Can you change this?”
Jack didn’t even have to touch the bill; the skunklike odor of green cannabis wafted toward him. The man had just done some cutting—pruning or harvesting and, from the stinky cash, had made a sale. Jack could change the bill, but he didn’t want to advertise how much cash he kept on hand and he didn’t want that money on the premises. There were plenty of growers out there—some with prescriptions for legal use, conscious of the medical benefits. There were those who thought of marijuana as just any old plant, like corn. Agriculture. A way to make money. And some who dealt drugs because the drugs would offer a big profit. This part of the country was often referred to as the Emerald Triangle for the three counties most known for the cannabis trade. Lots of nice, new, half-ton trucks being driven by people on a busboy’s salary.
Some of the towns around these parts catered to them, selling supplies illegal growers needed—irrigation tubing, grow lights, camouflage tarps, plastic sheeting, shears in various sizes for harvesting and pruning. Scales, generators, ATVs for getting off-road and back into secretive hideaways buried in the forest. There were merchants around who displayed signs in their windows that said, CAMP Not Served Here. CAMP being the Campaign Against Marijuana Planting that was a joint operation between the County Sheriff’s Department and the state of California. Clear River was a town that didn’t like CAMP and didn’t mind taking the growers’ money, of which there was a lot. Charmaine didn’t approve of the illegal growing, but Butch wouldn’t turn down a stinky bill.
Virgin River was not that kind of town.
Growers usually maintained low profiles and didn’t cause problems, not wanting to be raided. But sometimes there were territorial conflicts between them or booby-trapped grows, either one of which could hurt an innocent citizen. There were drug-related crimes ranging from burglary or robbery to murder. Not so long ago they found the body of a grower’s partner buried in the woods near Garberville; he’d been missing for over two years and the grower himself had always been a suspect.
You couldn’t find anything in Virgin River that would encourage an illegal crop, one means of keeping them away. If there were any growers in town, they were real, real secret. Virgin River tended to push this sort away. But this wasn’t the first one to pass by.
“Tell you what,” Jack said to the man, making long and serious eye contact. “On the house this time.”
“Thanks,” he said, folding his bill back onto the wad and stuffing it in his pocket. He turned to go.
“And buddy?” Jack called as the man reached the door to leave. He turned and Jack said, “Sheriff’s deputy and California Highway Patrol eat and drink on the house in my place.”
The man’s shoulders rose once with a silent huff of laughter. He was on notice. He touched the brim of his hat and left.
Jack walked around the bar and looked out the window to see the man get into a black late model Range Rover, supercharged, big wheels jacked up real high, windows tinted, lights on the roof. That model would go for nearly a hundred grand. This guy was no hobbyist. He memorized the license plate.
Preacher was rolling out pie dough when Jack went into the kitchen. “I just served a guy who tried to pay for his drinks with a wad of stinky Bens as big as my fist,” Jack told him.
“Crap.”
“He’s driving a new Range Rover, loaded, jacked up and lit up. Big guy.”
“You think he’s growing around town here?”
“Have no idea,” Jack said. “We better pay attention. Next time the deputy’s in town, I’ll mention it. But it’s not against the law to have stinky money or drive a big truck.”
“If he’s rich, it’s probably not a small operation,” Preacher said.
“He’s got a bulldog tattoo on his upper right arm.”
Preacher frowned. “You kind of hate to see a brother go that way.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Maybe he’s not in business around here. He could have been just scoping out the town to see if this is a good place to set up. I think I sent the message that it’s not. I told him law enforcement eats and drinks on the house.”
Preacher smiled. “We should start doing that, then,” he said.