The Judge

“I’ve died and gone to heaven. I can’t believe that I’ve waited over twenty years to have another one of these. Mrs. Outlaw, this is delicious.” Her tongue made another swipe, then another in a distinct pattern that was suddenly familiar.

The woman laughed. “I’m glad you like it. But most everybody just calls me Miss Nonie from my teaching days. Welcome to Naconiche. Are you going to be staying long? We have several events coming up soon that you might enjoy.”

“I’ll be around several weeks.”

“She does genealogical research,” Frank said.

“That’s wonderful. Have you met Millie at the library yet?”

“Not yet, but everybody tells me she’s the town authority. I plan to go by tomorrow.” She turned to Frank. “Aren’t you having any ice cream?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to pass. I’m due back in court. Mom, put this one on my tab.”

Other customers came in and Miss Nonie left to take their orders. Carrie waved goodbye to her as she and Frank left.

“This ice cream really is fabulous. I’m going to do some window-shopping while I finish it. Thanks for it and for sharing your table.”

“Thanks for buying my lunch,” he said.

“No problem.”

He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else.

She waited, but whatever was on his mind went unsaid. He merely nodded and started across the street. A red pickup truck almost hit him. The truck driver honked and swerved, and Frank jumped back. He didn’t look at her. When the way was clear, he trotted to the other side.

She wanted to call out to him, but he didn’t look back.

Her ice cream started dribbling over her fingers, and she hurriedly began to lick away the mess. When she glanced up again, Frank was hurrying up the steps of the courthouse. She sighed. He even looked good from the rear. Maybe she wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of the handsome Frank James Outlaw while she was in Naconiche.

FRANK FELT like such a dope. He’d nearly been creamed by that pickup. He’d been off-kilter since he’d run into Carrie in the hall outside his office. A couple of times yesterday afternoon, he’d found his mind wandering from the case he was hearing to thoughts of her. And last night he’d done more tossing and turning than sleeping, bedeviled by memories of Susan and feeling guilty as hell about being attracted to another woman.

And he was attracted to her. It bothered him. Bothered him so much that, trying to avoid bumping into Carrie, he’d left his office early and gone to the Grill instead of the tearoom. But it seemed that the powers that be had other ideas. When he’d looked up and seen her at the café, he’d felt a rush of elation rather than disappointment. His best efforts at trying to ignore her didn’t last long. As if they had a mind of their own, his legs had gotten up and trotted in her direction.

He’d almost invited her to go to that musical in Travis Lake that J.J. had suggested. Almost. He was glad he’d kept his mouth shut. It was too soon after Susan’s death to start seeing another woman. Or was it?

Sure it was. Susan had been the great love of his life. Until a couple of days ago, he had thought he’d be content to be a widower for the rest of his life. His kids, his work, that was enough for him he’d believed.

Carrie Campbell had shaken that belief. It made him nervous.

Court that afternoon was absorbing enough to hold his attention, but back in his chambers, Frank began to get that antsy feeling again and left early. When he spotted the florist across the square near his parking space, he walked over and bought a small bouquet of yellow mums tied with a white ribbon. He laid the flowers on the seat and drove to the cemetery west of town.

The wind had kicked up a little, and it rumpled his hair and flapped his tie as he walked to the familiar spot where Susan lay. Fallen leaves from an oak tree nearby made a scratching sound as they skittered across the headstone. He squatted down and brushed away leaves and a bit of grass from a recent mowing.

Hers was a simple flat marker made of a slab of pink granite with an antique brass plaque. Dogwood blossoms decorated the margin of the large plaque, and in the center was her name, Susan E. Outlaw, the dates of her birth and death, and the simple but profound message: Beloved Wife and Mother. A permanent brass vase was filled with a pretty bouquet of silk flowers that changed with the seasons, but Susan had always liked fresh flowers, so he brought them now and then.

“Hi, Suz,” he whispered, laying the mums just below the marker. “I brought you some flowers. They’re yellow. Your favorite color.”

Now he knew that Susan wasn’t there, but it was the closest he could come to physically being near her, so he often came to the cemetery to talk to her. Looking at a photograph of her or looking up at the sky or sitting in the kitchen or even in church didn’t do it for him. He’d tried it. This was the last place he’d seen the body of his wife, and this was the place where he returned.

“God, Suz, I miss you so much. It’s so lonely sometimes without you.”

A gust of wind sent more leaves sliding across the marker.

“Did I tell you that the twins are doing really well learning to ride their bikes? Of course they’ll have training wheels for quite a while yet, so there’s no need to worry about them getting bunged up.”

He told Susan everything that had been going on his life—except that he didn’t mention Carrie Campbell. He couldn’t quite bring himself to mention her.

Afterward he felt better. He returned to his car and headed home. This was the night he’d promised the twins they could watch the Charlie Brown special on TV.

CARRIE PUT the low-cal dinner in the small freezer compartment and the salad in the fridge. Although she’d done it hundreds of times, somehow the prospect of eating out alone that night seemed dreary, so she’d stopped by the grocery store to pick up something.

She stretched her back and rolled her head around, trying to ease the stiffness in her muscles. Exercise. That’s what she needed. She’d missed jogging the past couple of days, and she felt it.

After changing hurriedly into grungies and her running shoes, she did a few warm-up exercises, then stuck her key into her pocket and went outside.

She greeted Mary Beth Parker, who was coming out of the office unit.

“Hi,” Mary Beth said. “Going for a run?”

“Thought I would. What’s a good route?”

“Go down this street about a quarter mile, then take a dirt road to the left. There’s not much traffic there. I teach aerobics on Thursday nights in unit two. You’re welcome to work out with us tomorrow if you like.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

“I was just going for a short run myself,” Mary Beth said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. I’d like the company.”

“I broke my foot last spring, and I still have to take it pretty easy while I’m getting back into shape. I’m not at marathon level yet.”

Carrie grinned. “You don’t have to worry about holding me back. A couple of miles will do it for me. Three maybe if I walk and jog.”

“That’s about my speed for now.” They started down the road at a fast walk.

The route they took was a two-lane blacktop with pastures on one side and tall trees, mostly pines mixed with a few hardwoods, on the other. A few head of black cattle grazed in the pasture while a breeze rustled the treetops and swayed the underbrush.

“Tell me,” Carrie said. “How did you come to be a chef and an innkeeper? Was it a family business?”

Mary Beth laughed. “It’s a long story, and I’m no chef. I’m a cook—through necessity. And I’m not sure that running a small motel elevates me to the grand term of innkeeper. It was a family business—in a way. A distant cousin owned it, but when I inherited the Twilight Inn and the restaurant last spring, the place was a mess. Worse than a mess. The motel units had been standing vacant for years and were dilapidated beyond belief. The tearoom had been a Mexican restaurant more recently and wasn’t as bad, but the roof leaked and it had mice.”

“You’ve certainly done wonders with it, and chef or not, the food at the tearoom is great.”

“Thanks. It was a lot of work, and I couldn’t have done it without the help of some very good friends. I was desperate when I came back to Naconiche, and inheriting this place seemed like a godsend—until I saw the condition of it. This is where we turn.”

They took the dirt road and began to jog at a slow pace. “Desperate? Sounds like an intriguing story.”

As they trotted along the red dirt, Mary Beth related the tale of her return to Naconiche. She’d grown up in the town, then moved away with her parents about the time she started college. She’d met her former husband in school, married him, moved to Mississippi and lived the good life—for a while.