Free Heat by Stuart Woods Page B

much TV,” she said. “Not in St. Clair. Oh, they’ve got a satellite dish at Harry’s Place, where the fellows go to watch football, and down at the motel, I guess, but TV is sort of frowned on around here.”
    â€œOh,” Jesse said, nonplussed. Never in his life had he been to a place that didn’t have much TV. He sat down at the kitchen table and raised his drink. “Will you join me?”
    â€œSure,” she said, and poured herself a bourbon and water. She peeked under a pot lid, then sat down and sipped her drink. “You think we’re missing anything by not having TV?”
    â€œWell, I guess you’re missing the news and some movies and a few good programs,” he replied. “But you’re missing a hell of a lot of junk, too, and, on balance, I’d guess Carey might be better off without it.”
    â€œThat’s sort of what I thought,” she said.
    â€œWhen I was a kid we didn’t have a TV for a long time,” Jesse said, then stopped himself. He was about to start talking about Jesse Warden instead of Jesse Barron, and he couldn’t have that.
    â€œStrict father?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œI had one of those, too. If he could see me now, sitting in my kitchen with a strange man who’s just moved into my house, sipping whiskey with him, he’d roll over in his grave.”
    â€œYou’ve always lived in St. Clair?”
    She nodded. “Always.”
    â€œHave you traveled much? Seen any of the country?”
    â€œI’ve been to Boise half a dozen times,” she said, “and once I went to Seattle to visit my mother’s sister. That’s about it.”
    â€œIs your mother still alive?”
    â€œNo, she died before my father did, when I was fifteen.”
    â€œWhat did your father do?”
    â€œHe worked out at Wood Products, like everybody else.”
    â€œThat’s been here a long time, has it?”
    â€œSure has; all of my life and before. Herman Muller’s daddy came here from Germany to farm, and when he died, Herman sold the farm and started that business. It’s grown and grown. Soaked up just about all the farm boys around here.” She talked while gazing out the window into the middle distance.
    Jesse took in her fine profile and the gray in her hair, and he wanted her. “Girls as beautiful as you are don’t usually stay in small towns,” he said.
    â€œWhy, thank you sir,” she said, raising her glass to him. “I haven’t heard anything that nice for a long while.” She sighed. “Once, when I was twenty-one or twenty-two, I was putting some gas in my car and a fellow in a Mercedes pulled into the filling station, got out and gave me his card. He was with Paramount Pictures, he said, and he wanted to put me in the movies.”
    â€œThat doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Jesse said. “What did you say to him?”
    â€œShoot, I didn’t say anything. I just paid for my gas and got out of there!”
    Jesse laughed aloud, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had not laughed in at least two years. A rush of well-being came with the laugh.
    â€œI think I’ve still got his card somewhere,” she said, blushing.
    Jesse laughed again.
    â€œI like the way you talk,” she said.
    â€œYou mean, my hillbilly accent?”
    â€œYes. There’s nothing like it in St. Clair. Everything has a sort of sameness about it around here.”
    â€œSeems like a beautiful part of the country.”
    â€œI guess it is. You tend not to notice when it’s all you’ve seen all your life. What’s it like where you come from?”
    â€œWe’ve got mountains, too, but smaller ones, with lots of pine trees.”
    â€œHow about the town?”
    â€œNot very different from this one, but not so neat. I think most American small towns are alike.”
    She started to say something, but