Morning Glory by Lavyrle Spencer Read Free Book Online Page B

touched them as he hung on the ladder.
    Stay, Will Parker. Please stay.
    In the hayloft, Will sank his head into a pillow made of real feathers and stretched out on a soft handmade quilt. His belly was full, his teeth were clean, his skin smelled of soap. And somewhere out there was a mule, and beehives and chickens and a house with possibilities. A place where a man could make a go of it with a little hard work. Hell, hard work came easy.
    Just give me a chance, Eleanor Dinsmore, and I’ll show you.
    He remembered her standing barefoot in the yard with her two boys, her stomach round as a watermelon, eyeing him warily. He remembered the detached look on her face when she’d questioned him and the momentary flash of shock whenhe told her about Huntsville. She was probably mulling it over right now, having second thoughts about keeping a jailbird around. And by morning she’d have decided he was too much of a risk. But in the morning he’d show her. First thing, before she had a chance to put him off the place he’d show her he intended to earn his keep.

CHAPTER
3
    Lula Peak lived in the tiny bungalow on Pecan Street where she’d grown up. While her mother was alive the furnishings had been adequate, if old. Now, however, the kitchen sported a spanking new Frigidaire electric refrigerator, a bathroom with hot and cold running water and in the living room a new Philco radio.
    At eight o’clock that night the Philco and Lula were both tuned to Atlanta, both blasting out “Oh, Johnny, Oh.” Dressed in a slinky red-orange wrapper, Lula tilted toward the bathroom mirror, scavenging with the tips of a tweezer for any wayward hair with the audacity to be growing beyond the periphery of her pencil-thin eyebrows.
    Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, how you can love ...
    She stopped her fruitless search and ran her palms up her silkcovered arms as she’d seen Betty Grable do in the movies.
    Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, heaven’s above ...
    She made a moue at her reflection in the mirror, then shimmied and dipped her knees, letting her palms brush the sides of her breasts. The satin rubbed seductively over her nipples and they popped up like balloons taking air. Lula loved getting hot, either by herself or with someone else—didn’t matter which. But to really cool down, she needed a man. Lulaalways needed a man, and Whitney didn’t have enough of them. When Lula itched, she needed scratching. And Lula itched all the time.
    She plucked up a bottle of Evening in Paris cologne and spun twice while dabbing it on, watching her face flash across the bathroom mirror. After a third spin she balanced one high-heeled foot on the toilet seat, then touched some of the cologne to the thick thatch of blond hair revealed by the gaping gown. She dropped the foot to the floor, then ran her hand down her belly while giving the mirror a sultry kiss, leaving the imprint of vermilion lipstick on the cold glass.
    “Lula, what the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Harley Overmire bellowed from her living room. “Music’s so goddamn loud any bum coulda walked in here and you wouldnt’a even known it.”
    “Harley-honey, is that you?” The music suddenly dimmed and Lula came flying out of the bathroom, pouting. “Harley, turn that back up! That’s my favorite song!” She darted to the Philco—a flash of white limbs and flaming silk—and cranked it up.
    Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, oh...
    Harley immediately turned it down. “Lula-honey, I didn’t come over here to get my eardrums broke.”
    “Oh, yeah? Then what did you come for, Harleykins?”
    Lula turned the radio to a thunderous volume.
    Oh, Johnny ...
    She swung toward him, her expression sultry as she pressed the sides of her ample breasts, accentuating the deep cleavage as she stalked him and slipped one white leg through the break in the garish satin wrapper. Her painted lips pouted voluptuously as she sidled close and rubbed herself against him, straddling one of his thighs.
    Harley’s eyes became