BAR. Tables and chairs sat on porches up and down; an
outside staircase led to the second-story porch. Books were visible through
the first-floor windows. They went inside. Luke walked over to the sports
section of the magazine rack, and Beck to the checkout counter/coffee bar. On
the counter were three "Death Notices," single-page obituaries of locals
who had died the preceding week. Death Notices had been hand-delivered to Main Street businesses back when Beck was a boy.
Behind the counter stood an attractive woman
wearing narrow black-framed glasses, a black tee shirt, snug Lee Rider jeans, and
red cowboy boots with black toecaps; she had long legs, lots of red hair, and silver-and-turquoise
jewelry. She was sticking price tags on a stack of books.
"I need help, please."
Without looking up the woman said,
"Spiritual, mental, or physical?"
"Parental."
She now turned to Beck and gave him a quick
once-over. He nodded at the espresso machine.
"And I need caffeine."
She stuck her hand out. "Judge Hardin, I
presume."
"You know J.B.?"
"Everyone knows J.B."
"Well, I'm just Beck."
"Jodie Lee." She had a strong grip. "What's
your pleasure?" She quickly added, "In regards to caffeine."
"Small nonfat latte."
She turned to the espresso machine. "So you're
the prodigal son." She grimaced and glanced at him. "Sorry. J.B.
and I, we've talked a bit, probably too much. He started the winery right after
we opened, came in and bought every book I had or could order about winemaking
and growing grapes."
"And he doesn't even like wine."
"Hector does."
Beck tried not to stare when she bent over to
get milk out of a small refrigerator. When she came back up, she answered his
unasked question.
"We go out every year for J.B.'s last
harvest party."
"You and your family?"
She pointed at the ceiling. "Janelle Jones.
My partner, the artist upstairs. And our kids."
"When I was here, there wasn't a bookstore
or an art gallery in town."
"One bookstore, six galleries now. Western,
European, American, contemporary, Southwestern ⦠we had an African art
gallery for a while, but that was pushing the envelope."
"Maybe just a little."
"But we've got
writers, artists, movie stars living here now ⦠Tommy Lee Jones lives out north.
Madeleine Stowe, she was in Last of the Mohicans âshe lives on a big
ranch south of town. Lynda Obst, the movie producerâshe did Sleepless in
Seattle âshe lives out west. G. Harvey, the western artist, he lives in
town. Robert James Waller, he wrote Bridges of Madison County â"
"I saw the movie, with Clint
Eastwood."
"He lives here."
"Eastwood?"
"Waller. He comes in and signs his books."
"Dale Evans was born south of here."
"Who's Dale Evans?"
"Roy Rogers' wife."
"Who's Roy Rogers?"
"How old are you?"
"Sorry, we don't know each other well enough." She handed
the coffee to him across the counter. "First one's on the house."
"Thanks. Twenty-four years, the town has
changed."
"Ten years and it's changed. When we first
got here, only food was Dairy Queen or Wiener schnitzel. Now we've got
cuisineâNavajo Grill, Herb Farm, Lester's on Llano, three or four other high-dollar
places. And you can get aromatherapy, lypossage, salt rubs, Aqua-Chi foot
baths, Reiki, Chakra balancing â¦"
"In Fredericksburg, Texas?"
"He is so hot."
Beck turned to the young voice behind him. A pretty
teenage girl with red hair had walked up; she was reading a magazine.
"He's going to be the next judge,"
Jodie said.
The girl looked at Jodie then at Beck; she held
up the magazine.
"I meant Teddy Bodeman. He's the sexiest
man alive."
"Well," Jodie said with a slight smile,
"Judge Hardin's kind of sexy, too, don't you think?"
Beck wasn't sure if Jodie was flirting with him
or being funny. The girl turned to Beck and looked him up and down. She shrugged.
"For an old guy." Then to Beck: "I didn't do it."
"You didn't do what?"
"Whatever you're talking to my mom
about."
"Bed-wetting."
The girl
outside staircase led to the second-story porch. Books were visible through
the first-floor windows. They went inside. Luke walked over to the sports
section of the magazine rack, and Beck to the checkout counter/coffee bar. On
the counter were three "Death Notices," single-page obituaries of locals
who had died the preceding week. Death Notices had been hand-delivered to Main Street businesses back when Beck was a boy.
Behind the counter stood an attractive woman
wearing narrow black-framed glasses, a black tee shirt, snug Lee Rider jeans, and
red cowboy boots with black toecaps; she had long legs, lots of red hair, and silver-and-turquoise
jewelry. She was sticking price tags on a stack of books.
"I need help, please."
Without looking up the woman said,
"Spiritual, mental, or physical?"
"Parental."
She now turned to Beck and gave him a quick
once-over. He nodded at the espresso machine.
"And I need caffeine."
She stuck her hand out. "Judge Hardin, I
presume."
"You know J.B.?"
"Everyone knows J.B."
"Well, I'm just Beck."
"Jodie Lee." She had a strong grip. "What's
your pleasure?" She quickly added, "In regards to caffeine."
"Small nonfat latte."
She turned to the espresso machine. "So you're
the prodigal son." She grimaced and glanced at him. "Sorry. J.B.
and I, we've talked a bit, probably too much. He started the winery right after
we opened, came in and bought every book I had or could order about winemaking
and growing grapes."
"And he doesn't even like wine."
"Hector does."
Beck tried not to stare when she bent over to
get milk out of a small refrigerator. When she came back up, she answered his
unasked question.
"We go out every year for J.B.'s last
harvest party."
"You and your family?"
She pointed at the ceiling. "Janelle Jones.
My partner, the artist upstairs. And our kids."
"When I was here, there wasn't a bookstore
or an art gallery in town."
"One bookstore, six galleries now. Western,
European, American, contemporary, Southwestern ⦠we had an African art
gallery for a while, but that was pushing the envelope."
"Maybe just a little."
"But we've got
writers, artists, movie stars living here now ⦠Tommy Lee Jones lives out north.
Madeleine Stowe, she was in Last of the Mohicans âshe lives on a big
ranch south of town. Lynda Obst, the movie producerâshe did Sleepless in
Seattle âshe lives out west. G. Harvey, the western artist, he lives in
town. Robert James Waller, he wrote Bridges of Madison County â"
"I saw the movie, with Clint
Eastwood."
"He lives here."
"Eastwood?"
"Waller. He comes in and signs his books."
"Dale Evans was born south of here."
"Who's Dale Evans?"
"Roy Rogers' wife."
"Who's Roy Rogers?"
"How old are you?"
"Sorry, we don't know each other well enough." She handed
the coffee to him across the counter. "First one's on the house."
"Thanks. Twenty-four years, the town has
changed."
"Ten years and it's changed. When we first
got here, only food was Dairy Queen or Wiener schnitzel. Now we've got
cuisineâNavajo Grill, Herb Farm, Lester's on Llano, three or four other high-dollar
places. And you can get aromatherapy, lypossage, salt rubs, Aqua-Chi foot
baths, Reiki, Chakra balancing â¦"
"In Fredericksburg, Texas?"
"He is so hot."
Beck turned to the young voice behind him. A pretty
teenage girl with red hair had walked up; she was reading a magazine.
"He's going to be the next judge,"
Jodie said.
The girl looked at Jodie then at Beck; she held
up the magazine.
"I meant Teddy Bodeman. He's the sexiest
man alive."
"Well," Jodie said with a slight smile,
"Judge Hardin's kind of sexy, too, don't you think?"
Beck wasn't sure if Jodie was flirting with him
or being funny. The girl turned to Beck and looked him up and down. She shrugged.
"For an old guy." Then to Beck: "I didn't do it."
"You didn't do what?"
"Whatever you're talking to my mom
about."
"Bed-wetting."
The girl
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