Good Ole Boys

GOOD OLE BOYS

A novel

All rights reserved.

© 2009 by Denise Barker

(Living the Dream Publishing)

Smashwords Edition

June 2012

Cover Artwork by Ron Perovich

The Intrinsic Value

© January 2009

by Denise Barker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including electronic or mechanical, including xerography, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher and author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CHAPTER 1

I don’t want to have to make love to you every night, Neva Tate’s ex had dictated the very first week into their long-ago marriage. Like a blade penetrating a vital organ, his pronouncement had killed her naïve happily-ever-after fantasies and her ability to ask for . . . pretty much anything.

All before her twentieth birthday.

Leaning back in her chair, her hands dropping to her lap, her subconscious made note of the linen napkin there. Her conscious ignored it.

She had not taken it personally when, earlier in the same awful week, he had cut their honeymoon short to return to work. Money was needed. But by refusing to meet her sexual needs—wasn’t that one of the pros of marriage?—he had issued a quick death to their new union.

Her body shivered with the cold emptiness she again felt inside. She reached behind her to see if a sweater or jacket hung on her chair back.

Nope.

Abiding by his short unilateral declaration, how could a husband and wife purport to connect if not with bodies and words? He had felt no compunction to open this subject for discussion. Two-way conversation was not allowed? Her wants and desires did not matter? Only his vote counted?

And the two shall become one—are you kidding me? Her farce of a marriage had been assassinated within its very first week. The last tie--the legalities of it—lingered in a slow agony, like a body on life support. Alive. Yet not alive.

Her eyes turned to the bay window, noting the beautiful green trees and tall red-tipped bushes beyond the glass. If she watched long enough, her yard contained more wildlife than mere birds and squirrels. But she was too distracted at this time to appreciate it. Silverware tinkled against china somewhere nearby.

Even with the insulation of time to clearly separate her Now from her Back-Then, she could not laugh about it. No. She wondered why, after so many years, those thoughts returned to torment her. With the divorce, the healing had begun, then completed. The bad memories had died away pretty quickly. Or so she had thought.

Of course, she realized she should have stood up to him, confronted him, in those initial seven days of marriage. After all, could it have gotten any worse?

Neva shook her head. Her former husband had been an ex-Navy SEAL, a Texan, a young man already set in his ways. Words would not have convinced him of anything. Her words especially. The only other recourse would have been to leave earlier. Much earlier.

She felt the brush of soft fur around her ankles and along her shins. Honey, her blue-eyed Himalayan, she guessed, was hoping for a preview of the table scraps.

Still the resurrected feelings remained and taunted her with this question: Was there another lesson to be learned from her past? Both speaking up and leaving sooner were what she should have done from the beginning. Nothing she could fix today. What about now?

Out of nowhere popped these thoughts. Glen and Mia. Bill and Laura. I want what they have.

Only two good marriages? That’s all there is?

Her right hand rose from her lap, laying claim to her tea glass.

Doesn’t matter. Two nearly perfect working marriages exist—even if one is in another state and the local couple travels a lot. Still, it could happen for the rest of us.

I was cheated in that long-ago marriage. I deserve so much more. I deserve to share my life with a man as worthy of me as I am of him. We all deserve that happiness.

Neva took a swallow of her not-so-iced tea, glancing around the table, but she did not see all that. She was surveying her mind and what it contained.

I deserve to find that one special man who can appreciate me. The no-holds-barred version of me. Who is amused by my quirks and shortcomings. Considers them cute, adorable even. Always thinking the best of me—even when I don’t live up to his grandiose expectations. When I fail to be all he imagines I already am, he still hugs me and tells me how amazing I am.

Someone speaking alerted her mind. She heard the last part. She’s off in another world again.

Imagine what I could accomplish with that kind of an everyday environment? Far above and beyond even what I accomplish now. Wow. Just imagine.

He would tell me that he loves me. He would also show me that he loves me.

Like putting gas in my car.

I really hate stopping to do that. Cars should just always be full, right?

And wouldn’t it be great if he cooked, or just offered to clean up the kitchen afterward?

A familiar male voice intruded on her mental wish list. Probably thinking of another business to start.

We would talk. Really communicate about goals and dreams and wishes. Truthfully as much as possible without hurting the other’s feelings. No secrets allowed. He would be completely trustworthy.

Individually, we would be complete. Whole. Yet together . . . we generate this miraculous synergy, enhancing the other, giving emotional and physical and mental support, and . . .

A pat on her hand brought her out of her musings.

. . . too old for him, but you should date Holt Seville, Dinah acknowledged.

Shock. That was what she felt. Neva noted the remains of Dinah’s dinner plate next to her elbow, then her own untouched food. Neva couldn’t smell the roast beef or the herbed potatoes any longer. Gone cold. We have had this conversation before, Neva reminded her friend.

She also shared her formal cherry wood dining table with an embarrassed Milo and the empty place setting that should have been Pete’s spot.

If Pete had been here, Dinah would not have brought up Holt. At least Neva hoped so, because she was going to keep asking Pete over for Sunday dinner until the two of them met.

But today Pete couldn’t make it. Again. Something about rebuilding an engine for an impatient and irate customer. He was more of a workaholic than Neva. But he would be good for Dinah. She needed to meet a good man for a change.

If he asked you out, you would go, right? Dinah persisted.

No, she replied, hoping to end this torture of a topic.

It felt a little odd to share something this personal in front of Milo. He may be a friend, even living in her house—which lodging was part and parcel of his earnings—but he was also her go-to employee, her Man Friday, who happily agreed to do anything she asked, no matter how non-work-related. Like a rare request to run to the grocery store.

Ooh, a guy that loved to run errands would be great.

I need to make a real list. A mate for life is important. Don’t want to forget anything.

Whenever Neva needed something, Milo jumped right in. For that, she was very grateful. Neva didn’t ask often or abuse her professional relationship with Milo. She vowed never to be that kind of boss. But there were days when she could use some assistance.

Plus, she rarely asked for anything. Help especially. And asking a man for something had been a sore spot her whole adult life.

You wouldn’t date Holt? Dinah repeated, her frown punctuating her surprise.

Still, regardless of the male presence of Milo, Neva launched her rhetoric, trying to drill it firmly and finally into her best friend’s brain. I don’t share, I don’t settle and I sure don’t trust him and all his kind.

Dinah shook her head, then focused on Holt’s face staring back at her from the newspaper photo.

Her friend’s unhealthy obsession with Holt’s society page pictures hit her with a one-two punch. Her automatic eye roll in disgust followed by swallowing back what could have been her previous meal.

Dinah continued, undeterred, oblivious to Milo’s eyes darting anywhere but in Dinah’s direction. Holt doesn’t age. Men are allowed wrinkles and gray hair. It’s not fair.

Neva nodded, hoping Dinah was finished with this subject, sending Milo a look of panic that translated to Talk about something. Anything. Please!

Dinah looked up, with a smile on her face, drawing Neva’s schooled gaze back to her. I know. I’ll prove it. I’ll bring over my album.

"Your album? Neva gulped air, swallowed again. You have an album of this stranger? Of his society stills? From the newspaper?" She could not risk drinking her own lukewarm tea, the fear of throwing up becoming more real.

Thank God I haven’t mentioned Holt’s annoying attempts to reach me at the office. She did feel smug though about dodging both his calls and his surprise visits.

Yes, Dinah answered. Never has the same woman on his arm. I’ve got proof.

Neva groaned. I don’t need further proof that he’s a womanizer. That fact is obvious, she stated pointing to the photos claiming Dinah’s focus. The rough shake of Dinah’s head brought together Neva’s eyebrows. What?

Dinah sighed with added drama—for my benefit, Neva thought--again patting Neva’s now-clenched hands on the tabletop. He’s searching for the right woman.

You can’t honestly believe that.

He’s searching for true love, Dinah reiterated.

Neva’s hot buttons activated when Dinah went all happily-ever-after on her and especially with the Holt Seville Fan Club approach. "If he was screwing these women you have pictures of in your album, each nothing but a one-night stand— Neva paused, long enough to draw a breath and send an apologetic glance Milo’s way --females he never intended to call back—ever--would you still think he was on a true love mission?"

No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t disrespect women.

To red-faced Milo, Neva explained with a pointed index finger, By the way, you are never to treat women like that. Twisting to face her opponent, she added, And you know this how? Neva asked.

Dinah stopped staring at Holt’s photo long enough to direct her gaze at Neva while she spoke. He doesn’t drink, or not much, because only on rare instances does he have one in his hand.

Because there’s an interchangeable woman instead, Neva retorted.

He has no criminal record. No DUI arrests or assaults or . . . anything, Dinah summarized, unaware as Milo stood, plate in his right hand, waving his left hand at Neva, then grabbed his tea glass.

Neva wanted to beg him to stay. Although it had done no good so far to have him as chaperone to censure just such dinner-table conversations.

At least two abusive alcoholic boyfriends littered Dinah’s past. Neva realized, in small part, what Dinah saw in Holt. There are other ways to hurt a woman, Neva murmured, hoping Dinah and Milo didn’t hear her remark, but Milo was already out of the room. No, instead he hunts animals. For play. For money. Not for food. Not for survival. He’s doing his part—and a hundred other people’s--to decrease our natural resources, Neva countered.

It’s the soul of a man you are marrying, not his looks or his money or his career, Dinah argued. Besides, these women mean nothing. They chased after him. He didn’t chase after them, Dinah continued.

Excuse me?

When a man is interested, he can’t stay away from a woman. He pursues her. He’s obvious with his interest. He escalates their connection from seeing her daily to introducing her to his friends and family, to finding ways to entertain her and, in short order, setting down his territory, his boundaries. These women— Dinah pointed to the two snapshots in time, Holt affixed to a redhead, Holt cleaved unto a blonde —he did not go after these women.

Neva gave up, surrendered, head tilted back, palms up on the table.

And find a man who calls you beautiful instead of hot.

A whiny-moaning-laugh combo slipped out Neva’s mouth.

Somehow the two longtime friends’ conversations evolved to more agreeable topics--for both women-- before Dinah departed for the evening.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, Neva could tell Dinah anything without condemnation or judgment, had a loving mother figure when needed, and a good friend all the other times. Except when she continually tried to set up Neva on blind dates.

She had just recently begun this Holt campaign, which was strange timing considering all his phone calls and attempts to see Neva.

On the darker side, Neva wondered how Dinah had suffered through her violent relationships with men and yet continued to maintain her fairy-tale viewpoint.

* * * *

Monday morning came quickly. Neva’s day flew by, filled with more to do than she had time allotted for. Which was the way she preferred it. Yet she left work every day with a smile. It was easy to do as she was her own boss. Setting her hours, choosing which of her projects to work on at the moment, with an assistant willing to take on a diverse assortment of overflow.

However, her mood dipped as she worried for Dinah, stuck in an abusive workplace. Dinah may not have a man in her life at this juncture--a good thing in Neva’s mind until she healed from past hurts both psychological and physical--but Dinah had replaced the mean-spirited man of the house with the ruthless boss on the job.

Over the years of their friendship, Dinah continually rejected any positions Neva had offered, feeling like some undeserving recipient of a handout. While seeing her point, not true. Far from it. Neva needed qualified help and Dinah was more than capable. As the owner of five concerns, Neva garnered perks, one of which included a prospective hiring pool from among her talented friends. Right?

After a dinner meeting with a local craftsman, Neva talked herself out of returning to the office and called it a day. Her mind was alive with activity, on her drive home, as she considered other ways to coax her friend out of a soul-stealing job.

She didn’t dare trick her by having a business contact hire her because Dinah, being a smart woman, would find out and their relationship would suffer.

Neva didn’t cater to tricks. She shot straight—with her friends, her employees, even her bosses way back when.

She wanted to help Dinah, to see her happily working at what she loved. Those thoughts haunted her at home and throughout the rest of her evening.

It made her restless when she should be relaxing.

She found herself in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator, not knowing what she craved.

"Scuza," Milo apologized as he came in.

No problem, Milo, she said, pointing to the still-open refrigerator. Help yourself.

Upon his arrival in the States, he had spent his first sixty days or so standing at a particular gas station to be chosen for whatever manual labor was needed by whomever picked him up during any twenty-four-hour period. With his full immersion into an English-speaking country, he had learned the basics of the language at the end of two months.

Those days when not chosen for work, he did not make money. His first summer in Texas, he had spent sitting on the concrete drive of the service station until the day had stretched out to darkness. Then, having no vehicle, he would walk to the bowling alley, where he mopped the floors and cleaned the snack area before crashing on a cot