I'll Be Watching You Page 4

  She rode the rest of the way down the drive, waved, and disappeared inside. Now he let the curse out. He was going to have another talk with his sister, damn her loose mouth.

  He remained leaning against the front grill of the truck for another minute, thinking about the warning he’d promised to heed. Had Tullie ever seen a picture of Kim? Not likely. Any pictures of her had been cut out and thrown away. The description was too close to discount. Even if Kim was back for a short time, her presence was bound to cause turmoil just when life was settling into a pleasant routine.

  Winn had always been the baby of his family, even after he’d married and had two kids of his own. Though tragedies had flattened Winn’s spirit, his stroke had made him finally take responsibility for himself and his family. It wasn’t easy to get used to, but Zell was too happy not having to baby him to mind much. Except for Elva’s unexpected death, for the first time in years, he was enjoying a selfish, easy life.

  Kim’s reappearance was going to change that. He had a feeling about it.

  CHAPTER 4

  Kim left a message for Simon that she’d gotten there safe, leaving out the part about being scared halfway to the afterlife. He sure hadn’t wasted any time setting up plans for the night.

  She’d started to change the sheets on Elva’s bed, but realized she couldn’t sleep there. She took a shower, put some sheets on the old but fabulously comfortable couch, and dropped in exhaustion. Then she lay there thinking for the next few hours. She’d forgotten how many sounds filled the swamp night air: something scurrying across the roof, the low twang of the bullfrogs, the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill, and…footsteps?

  She crept through the darkened house and looked out the windows. Every shadow was shaped like a human or monster. She waited to see if they moved, but nothing stirred in the airless night. All right, it was probably her imagination then.

  Elva didn’t own a radio, and the television’s rabbit ears only pulled in three snowy stations, so Kim turned on Zell’s iPod. Her thoughts ran from Elva and the bar to her dad, whose pictures were scattered around the house in various stages of his life. “He was always into something,” Elva would say when she reminisced. Unfortunately, that was the truth.

  Kim’s thoughts moved to her encounter with Zell, and finally into the music itself. He had a mix of music from the eighties to present, though most were older. That Don’t Satisfy Me by Brother Cane; a romantic ballad, Angel by Aerosmith; Barton Hollow by the Civil Wars; Love Stinks by the J. Geils Band; Heaven Knows by the Pretty Reckless. Some she knew only because the title scrolled across the small screen, like the rap-rock In the End by Linkin Park and a few rock-and-roll songs by Halestorm.

  She realized she was trying to find Zell in those songs. Was he involved with someone? Married? Somehow, she didn’t see him married; he was too hard to get to know.

  Unfortunately, listening to his music made her dream about him when she finally did drop off, which put him in her thoughts when she woke in the morning. She was sure she was only thinking about him because he was so damned irritating. Or maybe because he disliked her; it always bothered her when someone disliked her, though she’d never admit it.

  She scrounged up some tea bags and brewed a pot of raspberry tea. She planned to go to the bar in the morning when no one would be there. She needed some quiet time to take it in and think. Her appointment with Wharton was at one; he’d probably try to buy the place from her again. Maybe she should counter-offer and sell it. Sure, she wanted her own bar, but if she didn’t live here to enjoy it, what was the point?

  She took her cup and walked around the house. This place would be harder to sell. Nestled in the swamp, a good ten minutes outside of Cypress, and not a neighbor to be seen for miles…who would want to make this their home?

  Elva, for one. She’d loved this place. Kim remembered her picking up odds and ends, sometimes even things other people had put out in the trash. The coffee table was missing a leg; Elva had made do with a leg from another table. None of the chairs at the kitchen table resembled one another. Her dishes were a collection of interesting plates and cups and saucers, mostly unmatched. A wood étagère was filled with knickknacks like cranberry glass, old perfume bottles, and bowls of shells. Mediocre paintings depicting Florida scenes adorned some of the walls, all done by someone named P. Witherspoon. On top of the old television were a group of framed pictures. One was the shell frame she’d made for her father, and inside was the picture of her and her dad.

  Elva met her husband Pete in Naples. Soon after they’d married, Pete took a job at a seafood packing plant in Cypress. He didn’t bother to ask Elva how she’d feel about living in the swamp far from any city, and Elva, being a good Christian woman, never thought to object.

  Elva had hated Cypress at first, but she’d grown to love it. She and Pete had built their home and made their life together with their son. Pete then announced he’d taken a job in Tallahassee, probably not coincidentally around the time their grown son announced he’d gotten Kitty Parsons pregnant. Well, Elva was still a good Christian woman, but she’d had enough of being told where she was going to live—and she wasn’t leaving Cypress. She did, however, help him pack.

  Kim took in the house, trying to ignore the animals looking at her with their glassy eyes. She had always felt at home here as she had in her childhood home. Maybe even more so since there wasn’t any turmoil. Her dad was always into some kind of trouble and her mom was always yelling at him about it. She’d warned him that his hijinks were going to make her a widow someday, and she was right. But oh, her daddy lived with passion while her mom spent her days wishing she had more money and more dignity and felt she deserved more than she’d gotten.

  Kim finished her tea, grabbed her small purse, and stepped out onto the front porch. That meant dousing herself with spray. Because Cypress was surrounded by parkland, mosquito control didn’t send their planes down this way. The only relief was the trucks that drove around the town puffing out smoke. Those didn’t do a lot of good way out here.

  A cacophony of bird sounds greeted her. Just past the driveway two great blue herons prowled the shallow waters for a late breakfast. She loved the birds down here, especially the wading birds. Herons and egrets and the wood storks—or iron heads as they were called locally—that were making a slow but strong comeback. A pileated woodpecker drifted from one tree to the next as it kept a wary eye on her. Kim felt a swell in her chest as she took everything in. She’d missed this.

  “Grandma, what am I supposed to do with this place? And all those orchids?”

  Kim lifted her head at a familiar sound. She knew what her grandma must have felt at hearing that crunch of shell beneath tire—trepidation. Unannounced visitors weren’t usually good news, that’s what she’d always said.

  She wasn’t sure what she felt when Zell’s fancy truck pulled into view. Trepidation, sure, until she realized he was probably bringing a copy of the loan agreement. So, what was the buzz that felt as though she’d walked into an electric cattle fence? Listening to his music and dreaming about him half the night hadn’t helped either. That reminded her of the iPod, and she went inside to get it.

  When she reappeared outside, he was unhitching the rear gate of his truck. He wore another colorful, tropical shirt and jeans faded in all the right places.

  “Thought I’d scared you back into the house,” he said as way of greeting. Not that she expected a cheery good morning out of him.

  She walked to the truck and handed him the iPod. “You forgot this last night.”

  “Thanks.” He checked something on it, then gave her an inquisitive look. “You listened to my music?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s at the bottom of my list now.”

  Damn, the man was observant. She shrugged. “I fell asleep to it. It was better than wondering what every little sound was. Not that I was afraid or anything, just not used to the sounds out here.”

  He stared at her fo
r a moment, making her feel self-conscious. Making her wonder what she’d admitted to. No way could he extrapolate that she’d been thinking about him while listening to his music.

  “Did you enjoy the selection?” he asked at last.

  “It was…interesting. You have eclectic taste, that’s for sure.” She ruffled her fingers through her hair, still getting the impression there was a subtext going through their conversation. “I liked most of it.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged, barely a smile. Before she could wonder if he was, in fact, smiling, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s a copy of the agreement. Elva already made some payments on it. I wrote the balance on the back. We can settle up when you sell the bar or the orchids, whichever comes first.” He pulled out a large box filled with blankets and pillows. “Can you get the door?”

  She opened the door to the porch and then to the house, waiting for some kind of explanation. After he’d set it down in the living room and headed out again, she asked, “What is this?”

  “That goes with this.” He opened the passenger door to his truck and let out one of the ugliest pigs she’d ever seen. It was black and hairy with a saggy chin and a belly that nearly scraped the ground. Its ears were erect, and its snout was long. She surmised it was happy because its little tail was twitching. Then again, it could be hungry. She took a step back as it approached. Zell said, “This is Oscar. He’s a potbellied pig. And he’s yours.”

  Without further explanation, he lifted a large bag from the truck bed and hoisted it over his shoulder, then grabbed up a mesh bag. He walked into the house after leaving the door open for Oscar the pig and letting him enter first. She was left to follow. Why was it that every time she saw Zell, she felt discombobulated? She was chagrined to admit how much he threw her off.

  He’d set the brown bag against the wall and was filling one large bowl with water. Then he poured brown pellets from the bag into another bowl, and from the mesh bag dumped out a bunch of toys. Oscar snurfled (that was the word that popped into her head, anyway) everything and then roamed the living room as though he were checking it out to make sure she hadn’t taken anything.

  Zell was already out front again, removing a wooden box filled with smooth stones and setting it on the ground. “Owen made this. It’s a rooting box. Better that he roots out here than in the house. Throw in some popcorn or Cheerios once in a while.”

  She grabbed at his arm and then pulled back. Touching Zell after a long, lonely night thinking about him wasn’t the best idea. “You can’t leave this…this pig here.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in what was no doubt a smile. “Sure, I can. This is Oscar’s home.” He walked on out to his truck, forcing her to follow once again.

  “It is?”

  He leaned against the door of the truck. “Oscar was Elva’s pig. For a time, she took to breeding them, but she grew out of it and got rid of the other pigs. She kept Oscar. They had a special friendship, she and Oscar. When she died, I took him because there wasn’t anybody else to do it. Now that you came back, I’m giving him to you. Consider him part of your inheritance.”

  “You can keep him. I mean, I’d like you to keep him.” She forced a smile even though she wanted to call him a few ugly names for enjoying her discomfort so much.

  He shook his head. “Oscar’s okay, but I’m not a pig person. Besides, a gator’ll likely eat him out at my place. He’s easy to take care of.”

  Oh, no, not this again. “Easy,” she said, the word etched in doubt.

  “Feed him twice a day, including lots of leafy vegetables, make sure he has plenty of water, let him outside a few times to attend to his business, give him a brushing once in a while, and don’t feed him from the table. He likes carrots, and pickles are great for getting him to do what you want, but don’t feed him much human food. It’ll make him fat.”

  “Fat? He must weigh a hundred pounds!”

  “A hundred and twenty-five I’d figure. Pigs are smart so don’t start him on any bad habits. Just like people, they pick ’em up fast and don’t shed ’em too easily.” He gave the truck cab a couple of taps with his palm and opened the door.

  That’s it. He was going to leave her. “Zell.” He paused. Instead of trying to get more information about the pig, she found herself asking, “You knew my grandma pretty well, didn’t you?”

  The smirk left his face and was replaced by a melancholy shadow. “She was good people, your grandma.” He got into the truck and pulled away.

  Mosquitoes buzzed around her. Swamp suckers, Zell had called them. She waved them from her face and watched his truck disappear around the bend. She turned and looked at the house. The exterior wood was stained dark brown, as though Elva wanted it to blend in with the dirt yard and surrounding hammock. Fishing nets were strung from the gutters, and Kim wondered if it was for decoration or just a place to hang them. With Elva, you never knew.

  A pain worse than a thousand blood-sucking mosquitoes crushed her chest. She’d run away from all this, from what she loved—she swatted at a mosquito hovering near her nose—and the things she hated. More than anything, she’d loved her grandma, but she’d left her behind, too. She turned around and found Oscar looking at her. This was crazy. First the orchids and now a pig! And Zell tangled up with all of it. Well, she probably wouldn’t see him again. That was fine with her.

  She took in the house, the hothouse, and surrounding wilderness. A haunting song from Zell’s music list played through her mind. “One Simple Thing” by the Stabilizers. They swore that one simple thing was all they needed to make it complete. There was one thing she needed to feel complete: a home. Someplace she could hang her tacky beer signs and leave her keys wherever she damn well pleased.

  Oscar snorted.

  “What am I going to do with you?” Now that she’d thought about it, she’d seen a picture of Elva and a pig in the house. “All right, fine. We’ll figure something out. I hope.” Maybe one of the locals would take him. And not eat him. Did people eat potbellied pigs? She wouldn’t put it past some of the folks she’d known around there. Great, something else to worry about. “How’d you get outside, anyway?” Her gaze went to a large dog door inside the screen door. “Oh.” She’d left the front door open. She tried to get the pig into the house, but he wouldn’t go in. Some smart pig. “All right, spend some time out here then. There’s plenty of water.”

  She walked to her car and opened the door, ready to jump in as quickly as possible. Which wasn’t possible, because Oscar was now standing in her way. For a large animal, he sure moved fast. “Oscar, move. Mosquitoes are getting in.”

  Instead, Oscar clambered into her car. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but he managed. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m going to the bar. A bar’s no place for a pig.”

  Apparently, it was, and apparently, he was used to riding to work with Elva. He sat in the passenger seat and waited for her to stop letting in the mosquitoes and get in. Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to get a hundred pound plus pig to go somewhere it didn’t want to go. Resigned, she got in and slammed the door shut.

  The city had put in a vibrantly painted sign right before the bridge that read, “Welcome to Cypress.” The sign depicted the Ten Thousand Islands at sunset with a white egret in the foreground. She wondered if Amy Macgregor Burton had painted it. She’d had quite a talent for painting, among other things that foddered plenty of gossip back in high school. Her mother was Winnerow’s sister, Sue, who’d stabbed her abusive husband twenty-two times for killing her boa constrictor. Sue was spending her time in prison nowadays. Her son, Dougal, was so disgusted he’d taken the Macgregor name and refused to acknowledge either of his parents.

  Oscar made a snorting noise that drew her from her thoughts. He looked odd sitting on the passenger seat. She crossed the bridge and took a deep breath as Cypress came into view. It was more built up than when she’d last been there. A sign for a quaint inn pointed down Sheepshead Lane.
Signs of increased tourism were reflected in the new welcome center and billboards announcing the area’s attractions. Macgregor’s Airboat, Swamp Buggy, and Helicopter Rides had added eco-tours according to their billboard. Zell’s aunt and uncle weren’t the only ones offering such tours now.

  She passed her turnoff and continued through town. A new gas station made the total two, and the convenience store had changed names. She breathed a sigh of relief that things hadn’t changed too much. No apartment buildings or large-scale businesses, just the same quaint, simple town.

  She intended to make the loop on Cypress Road, which traced the west edge of town along the Lost River, but she ended up cutting through the center of the residential area and stopping in front of her childhood home. Someone had put a small boat out front along with some crab traps, she figured for decoration since flowers bloomed through the wooden slats. The homes scattered in this open area were small wooden refuges built decades ago up on short stilts to protect from flooding. Some of the homes were undergoing renovation, particularly the ones overlooking the river.

  She circled back to Cypress Road, past the industrial part of town where the local seafood was processed and the docks where the charter fishermen kept their boats. The small building that used to be the post office was now…well, what was it exactly? Kim paused and read the hand-painted sign: “Beer, Worms, and Weddings.” Beneath that in smaller letters read, “Weddings performed by Rev. Ham Macey. Beer and worms are self-serve.”

  “Well, okay then,” she said, blowing out a breath. “Good to know.”

  As she crossed the main road again, she passed the marina that had doubled in size since her last visit. Then there was Southern Comfort, like an old friend waiting for her arrival.