From Here to There Read online

  She poured the coffee. "Are you having problems?" she asked, taking in the worried expression on her uncle's face.

  "Subtracting, adding. You name it," he grumbled as he sipped the brew left over from their early breakfast.

  Before she could ask more questions, she heard the tractor engine shut off by the back porch. The door opened, and Hobo ran through followed by Phillip and Curly. The kitchen was filled with the clean fresh smell of the outdoors as the men took off frosty coats and hung them on hooks near the woodstove to dry out.

  "How you boys making out today?" Amos asked as Helene poured two more cups of coffee.

  Curly snorted derisively. "He's making it more work than it oughta be. Usin' pure muscle instead of leverin' and throwin' a bale like I keep tellin' him." He glared at Phillip as the younger man grinned and sipped his coffee.

  "I've never been a quick study," Phillip admitted when he saw the tirade was going to go on until he produced proper level of penance.

  "This is all new to you," Amos said defensively, taking one of the cookies Helene set in front of them. "You'll get the hang of it."

  "If he don't break his back first," Curly muttered.

  "Is he holding up his end of the work?" Amos asked.

  Reluctantly Curly nodded. "Fed all the stock this morning, while I drove tractor."

  "Then what's your problem?" Amos asked.

  Obviously to avoid answering, Curly took a large gulp of the hot coffee, burned his tongue, then nearly strangled on swallowing back the curse. Helene stifled her own smile. She found it amusing and endearing, Curly's belief that a man didn't swear in front of a lady. She wondered how Curly reconciled his sweet, old-fashioned protectionism with the foul mouthed ladies he must have occasionally run into, but then were they ladies? She wasn't sure, with the world the way it was, exactly what made a lady.

  "I'm not really ignoring what you're telling me, Curly," Phillip said. "I'm just having a time finding the rhythm the way you say I should. When I do it my way, the job goes faster. Long term I know I have to get the proper swing--and I will."

  Helene stared at him in amazement. The arrogant and smooth Phillip Drummond, in trying to make peace with Curly, had humbled himself. Not that as the week had gone on, he was looking much like the smooth Phillip Drummond anyway. The plaid shirt he wore was unbuttoned half way down his chest. His hat had been thrown on a hook, leaving his blond hair disheveled. It didn't look as though he'd shaved that morning, giving him a dangerous look, a look only enhanced when his eyes met hers, and she saw the glitter in them, a glitter she would have thought meant raw, masculine desire in anyone but Phillip.

  For a moment, their eyes locked, and her body began to put out a treacherous set of demands of its own. Something was beginning to happen to her every time Phillip came near, and she didn't like it. She felt a throbbing, as though her body was resonating to a beat she couldn't and didn't want to hear.

  She would have given a great deal to know what Phillip was feeling, to know if the look in his eyes was desire for her. Did he just want her because she had turned him down and his competitive nature didn’t like that? Phillip didn’t like losing. That much she did know. Naturally, there was no answer as he turned away and said something to Curly.

  "We can't fix that blamed thing," Curly objected with a grimace of distaste.

  "We can take a look at it."

  "What you two got in mind?" Amos asked with wary interest.

  "Nothing that involves you," Curly said. "You know you got to do the books, and you ain't gonna talk us into doing them for you."

  "Blast," Amos said good naturedly. "Well then, what are you two planning?"

  "Danged if Phil here don't think we can fix the ol' truck down by the barn; so’s we’d have it for a backup and a second one to use here when we gotta do repairs in the field." He grimaced painfully. "Don't know but what if it come to fixing a truck or doin' the books, I might not rather sit at the desk myself. Don't know nothing about engines and at my age, don't want to know nothing."

  "I didn't say we can fix it," Phillip demurred. "I said we should take a look at it. Where's the manual?"

  "You mean like a how-to-fix-it book?" Curly asked with a chary look in his eyes.

  "That's exactly what I mean. I don't know a lot more than you about engines, but I do know how to read a manual."

  "Might be in the glove compartment or in the tool box... or might be we ain’t got one," Curly said, rubbing his neck as he considered the possible locations.

  Amos got a peculiarly pained look on his face. "For the first time, I'm glad I'm doing the books. Give Curly or me a horse and we're okay. Maybe we were born too early to take to working on motors and such."

  Curly again tried to wiggle out of the job to no avail. Helene could hear the old man cursing and griping with each step they took away from the house. She sucked in a breath as reluctantly she realized that the time had come, with no excuses, for her to look at her aunt’s journal. She needed to know if there was something there to help her. Silly to even imagine it. She walked upstairs and sat on her bed, the leather bound book in her hands as she felt nervousness at opening it. Silly what could it say to hurt or help?

  When she opened the first page, she again saw her name but this time read the inscription. “For my beloved niece with the hope that someday you will need to know these things. I kept a journal all my life but burned the rest. This one though, this one I could not destroy because somehow I felt the day would come when the lessons I learned would be needed by you. If not, well burn it also, please. I love you. Aunt Rochelle.”

  She opened the next page and saw the date went back many years, long before she was born. It was actually before Aunt Rochelle would have married Uncle Amos. Her handwriting was lovely and small, tidily filling the pages with information that had been important to the young woman she had been.

  June 4, 1968.

  Wow, here I am and now what? I have a college degree in the arts but Livingston doesn’t need a professional... er uh what was I a professional at with that degree? Maybe I could teach but not soon enough to eat. No, gotta find a job and I will. The only opening in the paper though appears to be a waitress at the Shed diner. Okay, I could do that... I think.

  June 7

  Finished my first day on the job and I know one thing. I need new shoes. My feet are dying, absolutely dying. This is one of the hardest jobs I can imagine. It’s a challenge for me that I didn’t expect. ‘Who can’t do a waitressing job?’ Let them try it is all I can say. It is hard work, on my feet all day and dealing with some picky people. I am meeting a lot of the locals this way though. I divided them into two categories—good tippers or bad tippers. Of course, I can’t blame the bad tippers too much given my talents. I will improve though and next time won’t dribble coffee on anybody!!

  June 17

  Phone call from Bob. He wants me to come back to Concord. My brother simply doesn’t get it that I am not coming back. I don’t want to be like the people there. I WON’T be like them. Nope, I will make my life out here in the west. I will find my El Dorado but I absolutely, totally and for sure know one thing-- it’s not a pot of gold. It’s something even harder to find.

  My feet are still killing me. I am trying new innersoles though and hope that’ll help tomorrow. Erin called also to see how I was faring. She’s been teaching me a lot about how to smile and deliver the food in a way that leads to more tips. Talk to them a bit, she said. Like what will I say, how’s the weather? Oh well, I will learn. I don’t give up.

  August 21

  It’s been awhile since I got here but it’s good reasons. I’m happy and the job is going well now. Erin says I make a first rate waitress and coming from her, I consider that high praise. Bob called again and can’t believe I am still working here. Well he better believe it.

  Roger is picking me up at seven and we’ll go for a movie in Bozeman. I like him pretty well. He’s tall, good looking and very polite. There is another guy t
hough. He’s not particularly good looking, isn’t tall, but is strong. Amos. He hasn’t asked me out though and mostly he just likes to talk when he comes in for lunch. There is something about him that I can’t put my finger on that makes him seem more than he is. I am not physically attracted to him though. Now Roger, well that’s a whole other story… As I write this, I am grinning ear to ear.

  She shut the journal, wondering again why her aunt had wanted her to have it. It felt odd to think of Aunt Rochelle as a young woman interested in men. Well, even more strange to imagine her Interested in ‘other’ men. What was that all about?

  She put it back on her nightstand and went downstairs to finish cooking lunch. An hour later, the mechanics returned with greasy hands and broad smiles--in Curly's case a befuddled expression of complete amazement.

  "You got it going?" Helene asked with some amazement of her own. She hadn't expected that battered, old truck to move again in her lifetime, other than behind a tow truck, but she'd heard the roar of its engine and heard them drive it up and down the road. What the mind couldn't believe, the ears had declared to be true.

  Phillip grinned broadly. "Bad points," he said at her raised eyebrows.

  "You fixed it?" She knew she was repeating itself but her disbelief was too strong to ignore.

  Curly shook his head with what might have been taken to be awe in any man but Curly. "Done it with a book. Who'd of thought it. Read the dang owner's manual just like he said."

  Amos, whose eyes were red-rimmed from hours pouring over records, stood in the kitchen doorway. "You mean it's actually running? I figured by now the gasoline in it wouldn’t even be good."

  "Couldn't believe it myself. Wouldn't of if I hadn't seen it. Never did figure you could fix nothing from a book, but Phil, here, he dug right into it."

  "Dug into it?" Phillip retorted sarcastically. "It took me over half an hour to figure out the diagrams while you practically fell on your butt laughing. Then I lost a part when I was taking it apart. We both had to get down on our knees to find that thing."

  "Little bitty thing," Curly said, nodding with agreement at the telling of the story.

  "You ever fixed a car before?" Amos asked Phillip.

  "No," he said, heading for the sink to work up. "When I was a kid, there weren’t any vehicles, nor money for even gas, let alone insurance. Later I rented or bought new ones. If they had a problem the mechanic took care of it, but you know, fixing it wasn't half as bad as I'd thought it might be."

  "Not bad," Curly quipped. "The boy's a plumb mechanical genius. That old truck's purring like a cat."

  Phillip reached for a towel to dry his face. "It needs a new battery though and I don't think you're going to get much more use out of those points. I'm no expert, but from what I could see, they're pretty worn," he told Amos.

  "Maybe next month," the older man muttered, slumping into a chair.

  "You guys ready to eat?" Helene asked, stirring the chili she had started at first light.

  "Sounds good to me," Curly said, sitting at the table.

  "So how goes the bookkeeping," Phillip asked Amos as he sat at the table.

  He had rolled his shirtsleeves to above his elbows, leaving muscular forearms on display, a view Helene found difficult to turn from. She kept remembering the way he'd looked coming out of the shower. His skin glistening with beads of water, his whole muscular frame on display. It was a memory she was trying to displace from her mind but seeing any part of that anatomy bared seemed to bring it freshly back as she remembered and especially remembered the forbidden body parts.

  Cheeks flushed, she turned back to the stove and began dishing chili into bowls. Her only hope was that Phillip had no idea what her mind was capable of conjuring up.

  Amos shook his head, bringing Helene's mind back to Phillip's question and the one for which they'd received no answer. Something was upsetting her uncle, but he muttered a couple of feeble excuses, and Phillip didn't pursue it as the conversation turned back to the truck.

  As the men dug into their chili, Helene brought freshly baked cornbread from the cupboard. Warm and fragrant, she sliced through it, putting it and butter onto the table for them to serve themselves.

  "This is really good, Helene," Phillip said, leaning back a little on his chair and paying more attention to her than his food.

  "Thank you."

  Not to be left behind, Curly and Amos added their laurels to her chili. "I ain't ate so good since the missus died," Curly concluded with a broad smile of pleasure.

  "Which one you talking about?" Amos asked wryly, surreptitiously slipping a small piece of cornbread to the waiting dog.

  Curly frowned at him. "My first wife, of course. She was a saint, Matilda was. Them three that come after, they was just after me for my..." He glanced at Helene. "Well I can say this much, they wasn't much interested in cooking."

  Phillip laughed, his eyes again meeting Helene's in a manner she might have thought interest in her from another man.

  "You been alone long, Curly?" Phillip asked, taking another bite of the chili.

  "Ten years. I finally got smart. Women only bring a man trouble," Curly grumbled and then looking up at Helene, he said, "Exceptin' women like you, Helene. You're a saint."

  It was Helene's turn to laugh. "Saint huh?" she asked, looking back at Phillip, a challenge in her eyes as she met his clear blue gaze. "You think I'm a saint, Phillip?"

  "I used to. I know better now," he said, then with that teasing lilt to his voice, added, "I'm not sure I'd be in the market for a saint anymore... anyway."

  "Ah, in the market," Helene bantered, "like you'd buy your stocks and bonds, like you'd help an investor or a company in trouble?"

  "More like the way I'd pick out a piece of fruit," he said, giving as good as he got. "You know check it over for color... scent, feel, and finally taste." Helene felt a warm flush spreading over her body and only hoped it didn't show on her face.

  Amos guffawed while Curly went into the finer points of picking out a woman. His final comment ended the conversation. "Mostly, you want one that ain't got cold feet at night. A woman lays them icebergs up against you, and it practically throws a man out of the bed. Can't warm up the rest of the night!"

  #

  As Helene dressed for her double dinner date, she found herself again wondering about the changing Phillip. He was barely recognizable as the man she'd known back East. There was little of that suave sophisticate in the enthusiastic man taking pride in fixing a truck that should have been retired ten or more years before, nor in the man who'd showed a teasing interest in Curly's wives, nor in much of anything she'd seen since Phillip came to Montana.

  He had said he intended to go with her and Wes to Chico. Would he, or was that his idea of humor? She pulled on a pair of slim legged black pants. Searching through her drawer she found a long silver sweater that slid down over her hips. Belted with a Concho belt, the outfit looked sleek and cosmopolitan but with her cowboy boots would also fit in at the Chico restaurant. Everyone from celebrities, to writers, ranchers, and tourists ate there, enjoying the drive out from Livingston or in some cases the flight in from places as far away as California.

  She brushed her hair, flouncing up the natural curl a bit, and once more appreciating how handy it was to have it short as she added silver earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. Outside she could hear a truck drive up. As she gave her make-up a last check in the mirror, she realized she didn't know if she hoped Phillip would join them or not. She wouldn't let herself consider the question too seriously because to think about it would be to think about Phillip, and she wasn't ready to do that yet.

  Walking down the stairs, Helene heard men's voices from the living room. Phillip was seated on the sofa, Wes in an overstuffed chair while her uncle rocked in the old rocker. They all turned to look as she descended the stairs. She had no answer in her own mind why the eyes she met were Phillip's or why the approval she saw in them made her smile.

&nb
sp; "You look beautiful," Wes said, rising to meet her at the foot of the stairs.

  "Thank you." She glanced beyond him and saw Phillip had also risen. He was wearing a suede jacket, a white shirt, and dark pants. She no longer had to question his seriousness in going to dinner with them.

  "Do you want to come with us too, Uncle Amos?" she asked as Wes helped her into her coat.

  "Nope, you fixed me up fine here. You young folks go dance up a storm. There was a day though when I'd of been there and chased off all the young bucks coming around trying to win a dance with you, girl. You look mighty pretty."

  Helene smiled at the compliment, a lump in her throat as she thought again of her aunt, the one she so closely resembled. Was that who Uncle Amos was thinking as his eyes grew soft? Was the journal she was yet to read about their courtship? She had always known them as a couple but that had to have begun somewhere although no clue to it so far. She wished she had read further in it. When did her aunt’s feelings change and why?

  Wes took her arm and looked back at Phillip who was several steps away. "You sure you want to come with us? Probably seem like pretty tame stuff to a big city boy. Make for kind of a boring night."

  Phillip smiled. "I doubt that."

  In Wes’s truck, after he had adjusted it to be possible, Helene sat between the two men, aware that she'd never felt so petite in her life. Not being a particularly small woman she'd never thought much about what it must be like to be dainty, but between two large men both well over six foot tall, left her feeling surprisingly feminine. They had made opening her door a race, Phillip proving to be the winner, but Wes then had pushed him aside and insisted on helping her into a truck she was perfectly capable of climbing into all by herself.

  "How you liking Montana?" Wes asked Phillip as he glanced away from the road.

  Phillip's expression was hidden in the darkness of the cab. "It's had its moments," he said wryly. She wondered if he was thinking of the barbed wire or maybe Curly's caustic put-downs of his manhood. He gave Helene a glance that gave her another possible reason for his dry response.