Under the Autumn Sky Page 12

  “He don’t need to worry about me. He’s got a full plate on his own.”

  He didn’t miss the edge to the words. Waylon’s performance on the field and in the classroom were satisfactory, but his attitude had steadily devolved into surliness. Seemed to have something to do with David Landry. Abram should drop it. A kid’s relationship with his high school coach wasn’t any of his concern. His concern was to get Waylon Boyd’s signature on that letter of intent come the first of February, but for some reason he dived in anyway. “You having a problem with Coach Landry?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Just something you don’t want to talk about?”

  “I got no problem with him. I do what he tells me.”

  “Listen, Waylon, I know your coach is worried, and I sense your sister is, too. You need to talk to someone if you are having problems. Being recruited is stressful.”

  “You volunteering to be my shrink?”

  “No, but I can lend an ear and help you find someone to talk to if it comes to that.”

  “I don’t need a shrink. I need to have everyone get off my case. That’s what I need.” Waylon’s voice carried anger and fear. Abram had heard the same tone in his younger brother Darby’s voice years ago. When fear makes a home in a teenage boy, it always finds an outlet. Usually, it’s not a pleasant one. Darby ended up in military school, a gift from Martin Dufrene, who would not tolerate watching his youngest son self-destruct. Abram’s father was a hard taskmaster, but he knew what was right for Darby. Hadn’t Darby straightened up, gone on to the Naval Academy and then law school?

  Abram liked to think he balanced his father’s discipline with levelheaded guidance and the end result was a good coach. It bothered him Waylon didn’t have another man to help him through this stressful period. Lou was his sister and guardian, and though he could see how much she loved her brother, he knew the boy would never open up to her. His relationship with David Landry had seemed solid when he’d first met Waylon, but something wasn’t right there, either.

  “Fine. But outside of recruiting you, Waylon, I’ve grown to care for your family. I don’t want to see you struggle on your own with this. You need someone you can depend on to talk things out with you.”

  “Lou does that. Look, I’m good. Seriously.”

  But the words were a mere platitude by a teen not wanting to address the things that were hard in life. He needed a guide, someone who had no stake and could bring some levity to his situation. It wasn’t up to Abram to provide that because he definitely had a stake in what Waylon decided to do regarding his college football career. “Okay, let’s talk a little bit about how we can fit you in our scheme, about what the Panthers can do for you and about what you can do for us.”

  Abram launched into a pretty much one-sided conversation about Waylon’s talents combined with the possibilities ULBR could give him. Abram followed his usual song and dance, tailoring the offer to the boy, after having gauged what was important to him from the prior discussions they’d had.

  Finally, Waylon said, “Wanna talk to Lou now?”

  Abram gave an inner sigh of relief. “Sure.”

  Waylon fumbled the phone for a moment before he heard Lou’s voice. “Hey.”

  “You know I like to talk about you rather than your brother usually, but something’s up with Waylon.”

  She breathed heavily into the phone. “I know. He’s not been himself for a while. I get several weeks of easygoing, but then it’s back to this sullen, weird Waylon. I don’t really know what to do.”

  “I think it involves Landry somehow. Waylon told me he’s been working out with a new guy, and every time I mention his coach, he acts strangely.”

  “I can’t imagine what’s wrong. David has always been a steady influence on Waylon, and I know he’s the closest to a father figure Waylon’s had since Dad died.” He heard the worry in her voice and felt powerless.

  “Maybe you should talk to Landry and see if you can figure this out. Trying to make this decision carries a lot of stress for a young guy. He’s handling calls, letters, pressure from all sorts of directions, and he needs all the support he can get.” He wished he were there to push the blond strands from her eyes, to cup her cheek, murmur in her ear all would be well.

  But he couldn’t, so he stuck to what he’d been over the last few weeks—strictly professional with a side helping of friend, even if attraction lurked around the corner of his mind. His emotions were more tangled than the vines growing along the bank of the Bayou Teche behind Beau Soleil. And like the sucking mud of the bank, he was helpless to fight against it.

  But he was giving it the old college try.

  In a few weeks, he’d be in Bonnet Creek to attend the Owls’ game against Ville Platte. He’d sit in the stands, watching Waylon, trying not to watch Lou. He’d see her…and want to touch her. Kiss her. Claim her as his own.

  Shit.

  “How are things looking for Mississippi State this weekend? Y’all ready for the Bulldogs?” Her question was soft and he heard the click of a door shutting. Maybe she’d gone to her room. He liked to think she wanted to talk to him in private.

  “Always,” he said. He didn’t want to talk about football. Weird. “What about you? What will you play tonight? Last time you said you were practicing Zeppelin.”

  “I don’t know. I might be too tired to drag my guitar out tonight.”

  “What kind of guitar do you have?”

  “You’re interested in my guitar?” He could hear amusement in her voice and it warmed him. Football, Bulldogs and Waylon faded to the background as a sort of contentment settled around him. He wanted to imagine Lou strumming the guitar, her hair around her face, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she sang and played.

  “I play my daddy’s Taylor. It’s an acoustic that was his pride and joy, and I love fullness of the sound. Reminds me of all the times I sat with him and learned chords on my old Epiphone.”

  “What songs did he teach you?”

  “Well, all kinds. My dad liked country music best, but he also liked some of the singer-songwriters of the ’70s, like Carole King, Gordon Lightfoot and James Taylor. I play those a lot because they remind me of him and life when it was simple. What music do you like?”

  And so it went, Lou talking about music, baking cookies for the pep rally bake sale and Lori’s grades for the first nine weeks, him watching the minutes tick down on the time limit he was allowed to talk with a recruit or his parents.

  “I’ve got to go, Lou.”

  “I know.”

  “As always, it’s been good talking with you. Tell Waylon I wish him luck tomorrow night.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  The phone clicked and the line went dead. For some reason he wanted to throw it across the room. What kind of life was this for a thirtysomething man? No life outside work and when he did get a few minutes, he salivated over talking to a woman he couldn’t have. But maybe come March…if she still wanted him…if he still wanted her.

  If…if…if—his life revolved around ifs.

  Hard to live with uncertainty.

  * * *

  LOU STUDIED Joey Fontenot as he flagged down a waitress to complain about how his steak was cooked. A man had a right to have his steak cooked as he wished, but Joey had already sent it back once.

  He turned to her. “I work in a store around meat every day. I know a good cut, and this is not one.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, chasing her chicken around with a cranberry. Her salad was pretty good, but her appetite was nil.

  Ironically, after she’d hung up with Abram on Thursday, Joey had phoned. At first she thought it was Abram calling back, and had even teased him about wanting her to sing him to sleep. Poor Joey had been plenty confused.

  And because her heart had felt bloody rare after her conversation with the sexy ULBR football coach, she agreed to have dinner with Joey on Saturday night. She’d convinced herself it was best to move on, and going out with
Joey had seemed like a step in the right direction.

  But it had been a misfire. She should have never trusted a knee-jerk reaction.

  “So Waylon played good last night. I figure the Owls might make the playoffs.” Joey waved emphatically at the waitress who seemed determined to ignore him.

  Lou didn’t want to talk about her brother, football or playoffs, but it was better than talking about herself. “Yeah, they might make it this year.”

  “He’s good. Getting lots of looks, I hear. Heard ULBR, Bama and Texas are all treating him like a bone.” He swiveled his head, and Lou wondered if he might flag the woman down with his napkin.

  Yep. Like a flagman for NASCAR.

  The waitress made a face and headed their way, parking her hip against the table, lifting a painted-on eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Now the steak is overcooked. I specifically asked for medium. I know what medium is, and this—” he pointed at the steak “—is not it. Get me a new steak.”

  “You said you wanted it cooked more. We cooked it more.” Her chin jutted out and her eyes dared him.

  “I’m sending this back.” Joey crossed his arms and gave her a condescending look for a guy who spent most his time feeling melons and rearranging squashes.

  The waitress whipped his plate up and threw daggers at him with her eyes. Lou smiled and gave one of those “what you gonna do?” looks, glad she already had her salad because whatever Joey got back would likely have a special sauce.

  Her date leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk. He probably deserved special sauce.

  “So, what school is Waylon leaning toward?”

  Suddenly it struck her. This date wasn’t about her—it was about her brother, about being in the know with his recruitment. “Did you ask me out because you wanted to go out with me? Or did you really want to go out with my brother?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is this about Waylon?”

  “No. About you. Look, I’m nervous. I figured it was a safe topic.” He shifted in his chair and looked contrite. “Truly.”

  “Okay.” She and Joey Fontenot were going nowhere past this date, but she didn’t want the rest of the evening to suck. They still had to drive back to Bonnet Creek. Plus, Joey always saved her the best watermelons. “I wasn’t trying to jump to conclusions. I’ve been assaulted by recruiting all week, so I was hoping this would be a nice break from debating the best cleats for turf or what college has the best athletic facilities.”

  The waitress set a new steak in front of Joey and took off without filling the iced tea glasses. He made a face. This steak definitely wasn’t a good cut, but she’d be willing to bet it would be cooked medium. She studied the surface and didn’t see any evident spit. Maybe Joey had gotten lucky.

  “I understand. Well, not really. But I can see how tough it would be to have that sort of attention on you. I talked to Hayden Verdun’s dad yesterday. They’re dealing with the same sort of thing. Maybe you could talk to him or Helen and see how they’re handling it.”

  “That’s a thought,” she murmured, redirecting her attention to hunting for another piece of chicken in her salad. The Verdun kid was decent, but he was not on the same level as Waylon. The Verduns had pushed and promoted their son from the moment he’d started walking, making sure he had the best equipment, the best camps, private coaches and opportunity. They controlled the program at Ville Platte with money and influence, even hiring a recruiting service to promote Hayden and shop him around to college programs.

  Lou doubted they’d be much help.

  “So how long are you planning to do construction? Can’t be easy on a woman.” Joey cut into his steak and grunted with approval. He chewed and looked at her with perfectly nice brown eyes.

  Wonder how he’d take it if she slapped him silly?

  Who was he to suggest she couldn’t be happy in a construction job? Of course, she had no plans to hang around Forcet Construction any longer than she had to, but she did a hell of a good job behind the switches of her Caterpillar. “You know, I’m not sure. I doubt it will stay my chosen profession forever.”

  “How do you feel about working in the grocery business? You could start at checkout, but with assets like yours, I’m betting you could move up quickly.”

  Really? Did he really just say that?

  “Wow, what an opportunity. Do I have to sleep with the produce manager to get the job?” She smiled sweetly, perhaps even dumbly.

  He nearly dropped his fork. “Uh, no. That’s not what I meant.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “Seriously. Look, Lou, I’ve been interested in you for a while now. We’d make a good team, both at the grocery store and in our personal lives. Sorry if I offended you.”

  She broke eye contact with him because as uncomfortable as she felt when he pitched a fit about how his steak was cooked, this was ten times more uncomfortable. “Guess I jumped to conclusions again. I’m a little defensive about being the only woman in town wearing a hard hat and moving earth.”

  He zeroed in on his steak, and silence fell.

  Why had she tried going on a date?

  Oh, yeah. Testing to see if what she felt for Abram was a fluke.

  She’d hung out in produce waiting for Joey to ask her again, and it had taken three months and a buttload of fruit before he’d gotten up the courage. But what a disaster. She’d be more comfortable sitting on thistle than sitting here poking through a salad with Attila the Diner.

  Yep, this little experiment had cured her. No more dates with Joey.

  “Dessert?” the surly waitress asked, clutching the bill and looking as if she’d sell her soul to the devil to get them to leave.

  Joey looked at Lou questioningly.

  “No, thank you.” She placed her napkin beside the salad bowl and tried on a smile.

  “Guess that will do it.” Joey reached for the bill, shoved a couple of notes inside and then slid it to Lou.

  She stared at the folded leather.

  “Do you have enough to cover it?” she asked as the waitress frowned at Joey and busied herself with picking up their dishes.

  Surely, he didn’t expect her to go dutch? It was a first date. Gentlemen always paid on the first date, right? She didn’t know. She hadn’t been out on a date in a long time.

  “I figured a woman like you wouldn’t want me to pay for the whole thing.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  She lifted the bill jacket and grabbed her wallet from the purse hanging on her chair. Great. She wasn’t worth buying dinner. Something about that smarted and the only thought in her mind at that moment was Abram Dufrene would have never treated a lady this way.

  Joey hadn’t pulled her away from Abram.

  He’d shoved her toward him.

  She rose and walked toward the door, not bothering to wait on the cheap produce manager. He followed because she heard the blip unlocking the car doors. She wondered if he’d ask her to chip in for gas, too.

  The ride home was painfully silent. Joey fiddled with the radio, flipping it from country to rap back to country again. The night sky looked suitably velvety and datelike. Too bad. Such a waste.

  They pulled into her driveway and Joey killed the engine.

  “This didn’t go so well, I guess. I’m sorry about that,” he said.

  She shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  He leaned forward.

  No, he wasn’t.

  Yes, he was.

  His lips met hers. She pulled back not because it was totally inappropriate for him to assume she’d let him kiss her, but because there was nothing to stay there for. No fireworks. No sweet desire throbbing. No anything.

  “Do you want to try a do-over sometime?” he asked, draping his hands across the steering wheel. Lou could see a glare on his thinning hair from the light of the moon and hated herself for unfairly comparing Joey to someone else through the filter of moonlight.

  “As in another date?”

 
“Yeah.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think this is meant to be, but thanks for—” she paused because he hadn’t bought her dinner “—driving.”

  She opened the door and climbed out without a backward glance because Joey, though nice and clueless, wasn’t worth risking neck strain. She pushed the door shut and walked to the front door.

  Inside she could hear Waylon and some of his buddies yelling at the television and it made her smile. Something about going for it on 4th down.

  She walked in to four guys yelling at the TV.

  “What’s up?” she shouted toward her brother.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes not leaving the screen. She peered over the shoulder of his friend and fellow Owl teammate Brian Meeks, who was not meek at all. In fact, Lou was certain he ate metal for the fun of it.

  On the screen ULBR was midfield with thirteen seconds left on the clock. They were behind by three points. Players ran on, then off. The chains moved and the refs airplaned their arms.

  If Lou had had a knife, she could have whittled the tension into small bite-sized pieces.

  Waylon’s eyes were beaded in on the action as he leaned in, forearms on his knees.

  She returned her gaze to the television.

  And there was Abram talking to a huge kid, nodding and making motions.

  And that’s all she needed to know that whatever they had between them was absolutely real. After that horrible date, seeing Abram, even if it was from such a huge distance, sewed it up for her.

  She wanted not just any man, but him.

  The players jogged back on the field, the whistle blew and the offense became a blur. The quarterback dropped back and faked a handoff. The defensive end bit, freeing the quarterback to roll out. It felt like slow motion as he drew the ball back and launched it a good sixty yards. The cameras followed the perfect, tight spiral as it zoomed toward the end zone.

  The receiver leaped, hands open as the ball fell right into his breadbasket…and then hit the ground.

  “No!” Waylon yelled as the other guys groaned and collectively fell back in despair.

  “I can’t believe that shit,” Brian said.