Free One Summer by Karen Robards Page A

had been filled to bursting with problems, all directly attributable to him. Just as this one would be, as sure as God made little green apples.
    “What is it, Ben?”
    “You know that bunch of kids we’ve had our eyes on? I finally caught one of ’em shoplifting. Only Harris won’t let me call the police.”
    “What? Why not?”
    “I guess because, as a criminal himself, he has sympathy for other criminals. How the heck should I know? All he’ll say is that if I call the police, he’ll kick my—well, I won’t repeat it.”
    “Oh, lord.”
    “I tell you, Rachel, I don’t think I can take this guy much longer. He’s a real pain in the butt.”
    “Put him on the phone. I’ll talk to him. No, on second thought, I’ll come down to the store. Just try to keep the shoplifter there till I arrive, will you?”
    “I’ll try. But, Rachel—”
    “Talk to me about it when I get there, Ben.”
    Rachel hung up the phone. Unfortunately, her mother, who stood at the stove making her daddy’s favorite hot-water cornbread in a bid to tempt his failing appetite, had heard every word of her side of the conversation. That was obvious from the moment she turned around and saw unmistakable signs of tension in Elisabeth’s expression.
    “You never will listen to me, will you, Rachel? I told you from the get-go that you were making a big mistake offering that boy a job. How you came to be so headstrong I can’t imagine. Why, I can scarcely hold my head up in town, what with what my friends are saying about you befriending that boy. As for having to try to come up with some explanation for Verna Edwards when she called me in tears—”
    “I know it’s hard on you, Mother, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for Mrs. Edwards, too. But I don’t believe Johnny killed Marybeth. He—”
    “Johnny?” Elisabeth stiffened alarmingly. Her posture reminded Rachel of a hunting dog that has suddenly scented rabbit. “Rachel, there’s nothing to this talk about you and that boy, is there? I hope I know my own daughter better than to think you’d fool around with trash like that, particularly as he is a convict , Rachel, and years younger than you to boot, and—”
    “I hope you do, too, Mother,” Rachel said gently, and fled.
    It was late Saturday afternoon, Rob was supposed to pick her up at her house in an hour. Thank goodness she had already done her hair and makeup, Rachel reflected as she ran up the stairs. She had only to pull on her dress—a short, figure-hugging garnet red knit with a scooped neckline and tiny puffed sleeves—struggle into sheer black pantyhose, step into her black pumps, and clip on a pair of black button earrings, and she was ready.
    Quickly pulling a brush through her hair to the tune of “Jailhouse Rock” drifting down from the third floor, Rachel checked her appearance one last time in the mirror.Exiting her bedroom, she ran into Tilda, piles of clean, folded sheets in her arms.
    “Woo! Don’t you look nice?” Tilda nodded with admiration as she surveyed Rachel from head to toe. “You goin’ out with that handsome pharmacist?”
    “Yes.”
    “Thought so. You’re wearin’ your red lipstick. Us women know about red lipstick, don’t we?”
    “It matches my dress, Tilda,” Rachel said primly, but at Tilda’s droll look she had to grin. With a wave she left the other woman, running with as light a step as she could manage down the stairs. She was out of luck. Elisabeth awaited her at the front door.
    “Don’t you be too late, Rachel. You know how I worry about you girls. Especially now that that boy is back in town.”
    Rachel stifled an urge to remind her mother that she was thirty-four years old and a perfectly competent adult capable of deciding when to come home.
    “I won’t be late, Mother.”
    Had she ever been late? Rachel reflected wryly as she drove through the stone gates and headed toward town. All her life, she’d been the very model of the dutiful daughter, much good had it