My stomach twisted. This woman I knew. Joyce Wyatt’s hair had gone from a dark brown Steel Magnolias football helmet to a blond Steel Magnolias football helmet. Her solution to going gray, I supposed. It wasn’t a bad look on her, but hair dye couldn’t mask the fine wrinkles mapping her still-lovely face. She held her purse tightly in front of her and looked at me with a hesitant expression as if she wasn’t sure how she would be received. I held out my hands. “I should have known those enchiladas were from you. They were delicious.”
Mrs. Wyatt sagged with relief. Holding hands wasn’t enough for her. She pulled me into her arms. “Nora. I’ve missed you so,” she whispered in my ear.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said.
She pulled back. “When you left so suddenly, then didn’t call...?”
She waited for the explanation that never came, and one I would never give. “Mrs. Wyatt, that was all a long time ago.”
She nodded and sniffed as if struggling to hold back her emotions. “I suppose so.” She turned her head and stared into the distance behind me, at my father’s coffin. “I can’t believe it’s been nearly twenty years.” She shook her head, returned her attention to me and said, “You didn’t break only Charlie’s heart, leaving like that.”
“I would have been a terrible daughter-in-law and an even worse wife.”
“Couldn’t have been any worse th—” Good manners took over, and Joyce Wyatt didn’t finish.
I forced a smile and remained silent. Mrs. Wyatt sighed, understanding that was as close to an apology as I was going to give.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you staying in town long?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Mary turn her head slightly in my direction, though she continued to talk to Mr. Wyatt. “I’m not sure. It depends on what needs to be done.”
Mr. Wyatt stepped towards me. “Nora. We hope to see you again before you go. Stop by so we can catch up.”
The Wyatts nodded and moved on to console Emmadean and Dormer. As sweet as the Wyatts were, and as much as I had loved them when Charlie and I dated, I had no intention of going over for a visit. I didn’t want to have to lie to them and try to avoid their questions.
In the brief break between the Wyatts and the next mourner, I looked down the never-ending line. “Christ, is that Jamie Luke?”
Mary leaned over. “It is. And Tiffany Williams and Kim Stopper.” Kim saw us, grinned and waved vigorously from her hip as if trying to hide her excitement at seeing me. The other two waved more demurely, in keeping with a Texas funeral visitation where the deceased lay in repose in the open casket not ten feet away. It had taken longer to wrangle the kids than I thought—those DQ dip cones had probably been a mistake—but there had been a silver lining: I hadn’t had to pay my respects to my father’s body before mourners started lining up to tell us how sad they were to see old Ray Noakes go before his time.
A stout man wearing a polyester Western sports coat and buff-colored cowboy hat, and smelling strongly of Stetson cologne, stepped forward and greeted Mary and me together. When he held out his hand to shake Mary’s, I saw the gun holstered on his right hip, next to his Ranger star.
“Rick Michaels,” he said, shaking our hands in turn, and wheezing as if he’d just climbed ten flights of stairs. “Worked with Ray for fifteen years or so. Started just after you enlisted. Thank you for your service.”
I gritted my teeth and nodded my thanks.
“Pop spoke of you often, Mr. Michaels,” Mary said.
“He was a good man. Solid. Trust him with my life. And my wife.”
Though he and Pop were sworn peace officers—Texas Rangers—they worked the cases involving farm and ranch crimes through the Texas and Southwestern Cattleman’s Association, a surprisingly busy beat since meth heads had taken to stealing and selling cows and farm equipment for drug money.
“Is your life in danger often, chasing cattle rustlers and tractor thieves?” I said.
Michaels lifted his chin, offended, but willing to let it pass because I was grieving. Condescension oozed from him. “We caught the tweakers who killed your dad.”
“Thank the Lord,” Emmadean said.
“Just took them into custody this morning after they tried to sell the tractor they stole the night Ray died. They were so high that night they didn’t even remember Ray was there. Doubt we’ll ever know what happened exactly.”
“At least you caught them,” Dormer said.
“Oh, they’ll be put away for a long time, rest assured. Sorry for your loss. Ray’s gonna be sorely missed.”
The Ranger had barely moved away when Jamie, Tiffany, and Kim were on me, hugging me like I was their long-lost friend. The truth was, there had been a long-running competition between all of us. I’d assumed it had fizzled with time, but if the way Jamie and Tiffany were sizing me up was any indication, the game was still on for them. Nor had the dynamic between the three seem to have changed; Jamie and Tiffany controlled the conversation, while Kim hung on, desperately trying to get a word in edgewise, and be noticed.
“My God, Nora Noakes, you look exactly like you did in high school,” Tiffany said.
Jamie looked me up and down. “It’s good to see being in the military didn’t turn you butch.”
“Depends on your definition of butch. One definition, my personal favorite, is being able to kill a man with your bare hands. In that regard yes, the military turned me butch.”
Mary barked out a laugh. Jamie was stunned into silence (mission accomplished) so Tiffany jumped in.
“You’re just as pretty as the day you were crowned homecoming queen. Same haircut, I see,” Tiffany said.
“I was football sweetheart,” I clarified.
“That’s right,” Tiffany said. “Sophie was homecoming queen. You two won everything, didn’t you?”
“We tried,” I said.
“Have you seen Sophie?” Jamie asked, her eyebrows arching.
Of the three, Jamie had always been the cattiest, the one with the instinctive ability to know someone’s soft spot and poke at it until it was inflamed. I smiled at her, feeling nothing but pity. She was trying to psychologically torture the wrong person.
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” Kim said, grasping my forearm. “I lost my father a few years ago, so I understand how difficult...” She swallowed. “If you want to talk—”
“It’s hardly the same thing,” Tiffany said. “You adored your father. You lived next door to him, for Christsakes. Nora hasn’t been back to Lynchfield in, what? Twenty years?”