Page 28 of His Old Lady

Chapter 10

Curley

The garage door wentup, and Faye turned her car into the driveway.

Curley pulled in behind her, parking outside. He still thought of the house as belonging to Grandma June, but Faye had rightly gained ownership upon her grandma's death and had taken care of the place on her own for the last six years.

Not once had she called for him to fix the plumping or clean the gutters.

Even in the dark, he could tell she kept the grass mowed, the flowerbeds free of weeds, and even hung an American flag on the porch.

For how young Faye was, she'd taken her responsibilities seriously. He took no credit for the woman she'd turned into over the years. That was all on Grandma June, who'd taught her to take pride in herself and what she owned.

Behind the house, a large greenhouse sat full of colorful flowers. That's where Faye usually could be found when she wasn't working a part-time job. He couldn't understand what she found with her hands deep in the dirt and the exhausting labor of growing plants from seeds, but he'd witnessed her doing what she loved when she wasn't looking.

Growing flowers brought her joy and peace, something she hadn't had much of in her life. There were times in the past when he'd catch her singing while a mist soaked her hair, and the overwhelming scent of roses hung in the air, unaware that he'd stopped by.

She could stare at a bloom, pick off green foliage, and fertilize with dead fish with more patience and dedication than he could understand. That love of growing was the opposite of the quick temper, stubbornness, and impatience she directed at him.

He got off his Harley, needing to talk to Faye with nobody around.

The garage door automatically went down. He jogged over and hooked his hand under the door, stopping its descent. Crouching down, he slipped into the garage.

Faye got out of her car. "Go home, Curley."

"We need to talk."

"No, you need to leave, and I need to go to bed. It's late. I'm tired." She walked to the garage door leading into the house and reached up to push the button. "Go. I'm putting the door down."

He walked over and pushed the button twice for her, then opened the house. "If you're in a hurry, I'll make this quick."

She sighed and walked inside, tossing her purse on the kitchen counter before walking into the living room. He followed, taking everything in.

The interior no longer resembled an old lady's house with knickknacks on every available surface. Those lacy-things on the end tables that he remembered being there when Grandma June was alive were gone. The jungle of plants that used to choke him when he visited was also gone.

"What happened to all the plants?" he asked.

"I put them in the greenhouse. I'm out there more than I'm in here." She sat on the couch, slouching against the cushions. "What do you want?"

He sat in the rocker near the front window. "I've seen you serve drinks at your old job."

"So."

"When did you start flashing your—?"

"Curley." She rubbed her forehead. "Skip the questions for tonight. Just tell me why you're here."

"I don't want my woman working at Kingston Bar or wrapped up in showing her titties to half the men in Missoula." He stood. "You're not going back."

"I'm going—"

A loud knock on the door startled her. He raised his hand, keeping her from getting off the couch. "Who comes over here at three o'clock in the morning?"

Her rounded eyes narrowed. "You," she whispered on a hiss.

He reached for the pistol at his back and moved toward the door. There was no peephole to look out of or windows nearby to see who would be on the other side. How had he not noticed how unprotected she was living here?

Motioning for her to stay back, he unlocked the door, swept it open, and shoved the end of the pistol in the visitor's neck.

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