The Ballad of Dixon Bell. Lynnette Kent
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mind. She could almost see his grin as he helped her grill the steaks she had in the refrigerator, hear the rumble of his voice as it would sound in her house, picture his long legs stretched out in front of him as they sat here in the growing darkness with candles on the table and glasses of wine in their hands. The rightness of the idea took her breath. She was on her feet and standing by the phone in the kitchen before she realized she had moved.
That was when the terror hit. How could she do this? She had never in all her life called a man and asked for a date. Growing up, she’d learned that nice girls simply didn’t call boys. That rule had fallen by the wayside, of course—nice girls did anything they pleased these days.
But she wasn’t free to date. She was still a married woman. How would Dixon interpret an invitation to dinner? What did she really know about him? He might expect…more…if he came to her house and it was just the two of them alone. A dinner party, even supper with the kids, would be one thing. A tête-à-tête meal, with candles and wine, surely implied something else altogether.
Her sister would tell her to stop thinking and call him. Kate had no doubt at all on that score. Mary Rose was high on the euphoria of first love regained and newlywed bliss. She stood at the beginning of her marriage, certain of the inevitability of happily-ever-after.
Her sister hadn’t failed, as Kate had. Hadn’t managed to somehow alienate a husband of ten years so that he sought other women’s company. She didn’t face the daily shame of running into people who knew what had happened—friends and acquaintances, L.T.’s business associates—and trying to ignore the embarrassment of being rejected. Mary Rose didn’t understand the ultimate implications of separation and divorce in a small town like New Skye.
Kate let her hand slip off the phone. Calling Dixon would be a mistake. Even if she intended only friendship, he might misinterpret the gesture. One of the neighbors might see him arrive, or leave, and draw the wrong conclusion about what they were doing together on a Saturday night.
Worst of all, Kate knew that she might, herself, mistake the nature of her relationship with Dixon. Something about him appealed to her as no man had since her high-school crushes. She found him sexy and strong and oh, so desirable.
And completely out of her reach. Even if she were free, what chance was there that she would satisfy a man like Dixon? She hadn’t kept L.T. more than marginally happy during their whole marriage. Standing in her darkened kitchen, Kate could not ignore the fact that she was simply nowhere near enough woman for Dixon Bell.
She ate a turkey sandwich and a pear for dinner, then watched a series of news programs on television until L.T. brought the kids home at midnight. When they all went upstairs, she tuned the radio in her room to a country-music station and got into bed, hoping sleep would help her escape.
“And now,” the announcer said, “we’ve reached the top of the countdown with a tune that’s been at number one on the country charts for three weeks and shows no sign of giving up its slot. This song has even started showing up on pop lists, amazing, considering its classic country sound. Here you are, folks, our number one song for the week, performed by the man who does country ballads better than anybody in the business. Evan Carter, with ‘My Dream.’”
Kate rolled to her side as soft guitar chords and the sweet wail of a fiddle flowed into the room. The singer’s deep voice picked up the waltz.
Deep in the night, dark as your hair,
I open my eyes to find you’re not there.
The dream feels so real,
I hold you so tight,
But you’re a lifetime of lonesome away.
Me lovin’ you—it’s only a dream
And dreams are for fools, so they say.
Me lovin’ you—that’s all I would ask
You’re the dream I won’t let slip away.
What would it be like, Kate wondered, to have a man feel that way about you, think of you with such tenderness?
Before the song had ended, the gentle lyrics broke her control. Hot tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Burying her head in her pillow, she cried herself to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
KELSEY SHOWED OFF at least five hundred dollars’ worth of clothes to her mother and her aunt Sunday afternoon, a fashion show that took almost an hour to complete. Trace had new clothes, too, plus new computer games and a stack of CDs to add to his collection.
“Bribery,” Mary Rose Bowdrey Mitchell pronounced. “L.T. is using his money to get the kids on his side.”
“So I’ll change the furniture back?” Kate squeezed her tired eyes shut and took a sip of iced tea. “Pretty drastic measures, even for L.T.”
“‘Dog in the manger’ is just L.T.’s style. He doesn’t want to be here, but he doesn’t want anything to change. I bet he’d go ballistic if you cut your hair.”
“I won’t push him that far.” The idea had her combing her heavy curls up off her neck, though, to feel the cool air-conditioning blow across her nape.
Mary Rose, a financial advisor, was used to looking at life’s little details. She cocked her head and considered her older sister critically. “I think you’d be thrilled with a shorter cut. Sometimes your hair looks too heavy for your neck to support.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Not that it isn’t lovely. You never look less than your absolute best.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Kate recounted last week’s thunderstorm. “And who should I meet on the sidewalk, when I’m looking like a drowned rat, but Dixon Bell.”
Mary Rose frowned. “Who?”
“Dixon Bell. He was in my graduating class. Daisy Crawford’s grandson.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“You will when you meet him again. He’s…” She didn’t have words. “Unforgettable.”
“Oh, really?” Mary Rose sat up a little straighter. “That’s interesting.”
“Don’t start.” Kate went to the counter for the tea pitcher to refill their glasses. “Dixon is just an old friend. He’s been gone ever since graduation—I don’t even know if he’s here visiting his grandmother or planning to stay in town for a while.”
“I can tell you that.” Pete Mitchell came into the kitchen, put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “He ate breakfast with us yesterday morning after the game. He’s planning to renovate the family mansion and take up permanent residence.” Pete and some of his friends—Adam DeVries among them—had been playing basketball together on Saturday mornings since high school. The traditional game was almost always followed by a traditional breakfast at the Carolina Diner.
And now Dixon had returned to take part in the male-bonding ritual. Kate let her curiosity get the best of her. “That’s a big project, restoring Magnolia Cottage. Did Dixon say…”
“Where the money would come from?” Pete grinned. “He worked in the oil business, and I gather he’s made good money there with investments. Plus, he said he does some kind of freelance work he earns royalties on.”
“He writes books? Articles?”
“We never got to specifics. Maybe some kind of consulting. But I definitely got the impression he’s played it smart the last few years and doesn’t have to worry about finding a job here in New Skye. Dixon was always a bright guy, so I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d made himself a fortune.”
Kate was, but didn’t say so. Maybe she hadn’t paid enough attention to Dixon Bell when she’d had the chance.
“There you are.” Mary Rose put