David Thompson looked at Joanna. “Was he a good teacher?” he asked. “At home we never heard any good stuff about him, only bad.”
“Your father wasn’t an easy teacher,” Joanna answered. “But sometimes hard ones are the best kind. He was teaching us things that will help us save lives.”
“I wish I’d had a chance to get to know him,” David Thompson said. “Know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “I certainly do.”
On the third of January, Joanna returned to Peoria to complete her interrupted session at the APOA.
When she checked into her dormitory room—the same one she’d been assigned to before—she was relieved to discover that, under the auspices of an interim director, the mirrored walls had all been replaced with plaster-coated wallboard. The door leading into the tunnel along the back of the dorm no longer existed. The opening had been stuccoed shut.
After unpacking, Joanna climbed back in her Blazer and drove to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Carrying a bag full of Christmas goodies, she walked into the bar.
Butch Dixon grinned when he saw her. “The usual?”
“Why not?” she asked, slipping onto a stool. “How are the hamburgers today?”
Butch waggled his hands. “So-so,” he answered. “I’m breaking in a new cook, so things are a little iffy.”
“I’ll try the Roundhouse Special, only no Caboose this time. I’ve had enough sweets for the time being.”
Butch wrote down her order. “How’s your new jail cook working out?” he asked.
“Ruby’s fine so far,” Joanna answered. “She got out of jail on the assault charge one day, and we hired her as full-time cook the next. The inmates were ecstatic.”
“I only hope mine works out that well,” Butch returned.
Joanna pushed the bag across the bar. “Merry Christmas.”
“For me?”
Joanna nodded. “Better late than never,” she said.
One at a time, Butch Dixon hauled things out the bag. “Homemade flour tortillas. Who made these?” he asked.
“Juanita Grijalva,” Joanna answered. “She says she’ll send you some green corn tamales the next time she makes them.”
“Good deal,” Butch said, digging deeper into the bag. There were four kinds of cookies, a loaf of homemade bread, and an apple pie.
“Those are all from Eva Lou,” Joanna explained “I tried to tell her that since you own a restaurant you didn’t need all this food. She said that a restaurant’s the worst place to get anything home made.”
Butch grinned. “She’s right about that.”
From the very bottom of the bag, Butch pulled out the only wrapped and ribboned package. Tearing off the paper, Butch Dixon found himself holding a framed five-by-seven picture of a little blond-haired girl in a Brownie uniform standing behind a Radio Flyer wagon that was stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.
“Hey,” he said. “A picture of Jenny. Thanks.”
“That’s not jenny,” Joanna corrected. “That’s a picture of me.”
“You’re kidding! I love it.”
“Marliss Shackleford doesn’t care for it much,” Joanna murmured.
“Who’s Marliss Shackleford?”
“The lady who received the other copy of this picture, only hers is much bigger. Eleven by fourteen. I gave it to her to use in a display at the Sheriff’s Department. It’s going up in a glass case along with pictures of all the other sheriffs of Cochise County. If you ever get a chance to see it, you’ll recognize me right away. I’m the only one wearing a Brownie uniform.”
“I’ll bet it’s the cutest picture in the bunch,” Butch said.
“Maybe you’re prejudiced,” Joanna observed with a smile. “My mother doesn’t think it’s the least bit cute. She says the other pictures are serious, and mine should be, too.”
“Speaking of your mother,” Butch said. “How did your brother’s visit go? You sounded worried about it when I talked to you on the phone.”
“It was fine. He and his wife came in from Washington, D.C. It’s the first time I’ve ever met my sister-in-law.”
“What are they, newlyweds?” Butch asked.
“Not exactly,” Joanna answered. “It’s a long story.”
Other customers came in and occupied the bartender’s attention. Joanna sat there, looking at her surroundings, realizing with a start that she felt safe and comfortable sitting there under Butch Dixon’s watchful eye. No doubt Serena Grijalva had felt safe there as well. But Larry Dysart would have been dangerous no matter where someone met him.
Butch dropped off Joanna’s Roundhouse Special and then stood there watching as she started to eat it. She caught the quick, questioning glance at her ring finger as she raised the sandwich to her lips.
Her rings were still there. Both of them. Andy had been gone since September, but Joanna wasn’t yet ready to take off the rings and put them away.
“It’s still too soon,” she said.
Butch nodded. “I know,” he answered quietly. “But you can’t blame a guy for checking, can you?”
“No.”
She put down her sandwich and held her hand in the air, examining the rings. The diamond engagement ring—Andy’s last gift to her—sparkled back at her, even in the dim, interior gloom of the Roundhouse Bar and Grill.
“If you and Andy had ever met, I think you would have liked each other,” she said at last.
“Why’s that?” Butch Dixon asked.
“You’re a nice guy,” Joanna said. “So was Andy.”
Shaking his head and frowning, Butch began polishing the top of the bar. “People are always telling me there’s no demand for nice guys.”
“You’d be surprised about that,” Joanna Brady said. “You just might be surprised.”