JESUS IN TEXAS

It was five till one the next day when Russell pulled up in front of the Crafter Inn and one o’clock on the dot when he knocked on Selena Shadow’s door.  International Entertainment, Ltd. might give points for punctuality.  He had even blow-dried his hair instead of combing it wet and letting it do the best it could on its own.  His blue blazer fit pretty well, and, with the cream colored slacks and shirt, he figured he could go anywhere in Legoff - even the Beakhill Country Club - if either he or Wiley belonged, which they, perhaps to their credit, did not.  Still he was ready for whatever, or so he thought.

As soon as Selena opened the door he could tell that their day was going to be very different from the one he had imagined.  She was barefoot and wearing a casual blouse and skirt, quite a departure from the slickly tailored suits he’d seen her in before.  The room was pleasantly scented by a mélange of light wisteria perfume and lobster tails.  That might not sound like a winning combination to some, but in Selena’s motel room that midday, Russell thought it beat any other aroma therapy all to hell and gone.

“Russell,” her musical voice invited, pulling him in on the wave of her perfectly coordinated lyrics and melody, “you’re right on time.  The food was just delivered.”

When he noticed a bottle of champagne in a cooler and two tulip shaped glasses next to a basket of napkin wrapped bread, he decided he must still be asleep and dreaming.  Situations like this didn’t happen in Legoff, Texas, and certainly not to Russell Thigpen.

He supposed he stood there with his mouth open like a klutz for at least a minute before she took his arm, led him to the upholstered love seat that faced the tiny, requisite motel table and took a seat beside him - right beside him.

The plates were covered with metal dome lids that Selena removed quietly to display what he already knew to be there by the smell.  He’d eaten lobster only twice, but he remembered those two times as highlights in his life’s limited culinary experience.

“This is wonderful, Selena,” he managed to say before he felt her leg press against his.   “But I was going to take you out.”

“When you called to tell me Mr. Peevy wasn’t going to be able to join us, I thought we’d take this opportunity to relax.  Anyway, I find that it’s so hard to talk business when there are others around.  Don’t you?”

Alone with Selena and her encouraging leg, he was finding it hard to talk about anything, much less business.

“Besides, Russell, I like to know about the people I work with.  I know so little about you.”  She moved even closer.  If she kept up her advance at its present rate, it wasn’t going to take long for her to know everything about him.  He felt like a tell-all web page.

“Uh,” he said with his usual aplomb.

“So.  Tell me all about yourself.  I don’t see a wedding ring.  How did a nice looking guy like you escape the ladies?”  Her eyes canvassed his clear blue eyes, thick brown hair, pleasing regular features and long, tight build one more time with obvious satisfaction.

“I didn’t exactly.  I’m divorced.” 

“Really?  I can’t imagine any woman letting you get away.” 

“Well.  We didn’t exactly get along.”  The truth was that they didn’t get along at all, but saying that meant accepting that he was somehow to blame - that he had made a terrible error in judgment - that he had been a fool.

“Ah, yes.  Well, she undoubtedly wasn’t the sort of person you should have married in the first place.  That happens,” she said with a lowering voice.  “I’m sure if she’d been your type, you’d still be together.”

You’re wrong, he admitted to himself.  She was precisely my type.  And that was the whole problem.  When a man’s own mother suggests that he seek counseling because his type seems to be tall, thin, blonde and unreliable, she’s probably right.  And you’re also tall, thin and blonde, Selena.  Are you unreliable too?  Just my type?