Clayton emerges from the room wide-eyed and I almost laugh.
“Yeah, my sister scares me too.”
He sits next to me and looks ahead, says nothing. I instantly know what’s wrong.
“He told you what happened.”
Clayton takes a moment, then leans back in his chair. There’s tension in his body and I wonder how well he knew Elena.
“The cartel caught up with your dad in Galveston, took them both out to the Stewart Mansion,” he begins, pausing and swallowing hard. “Elena gave them grief so they took her down to the dock and held her head under water, trying to force her to give up whatever information she had.”
I cringe because I know what’s coming. Her death involving water explains why I was seeing the young detective.
“They took it too far and she drowned.” Clayton runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Ruiz freaked, especially after Thomaston made him place her body inside that chest. But that likely saved your father. Thomaston told him to finish the job and he left.”
“And Ruiz and my father escaped to Alabama,” I finish for him.
Clayton nods. “Thomaston followed them here.”
“And tried to kill them both.”
Clayton finally looks at me. “Your father explained to you what happened?”
“Actually, a tiara did.”
Before I must describe yet another crazy Valentine-Halsey talent, Portia emerges from Dad’s room.
“Sorry Big Guy,” she says to Clayton, “but this child needs some food.”
I look back at the giant FBI agent, wondering if he needs me, but he’s sitting in those uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs, long legs stretched out over half the hallway, rubbing his eyes. He waves me off with a smile. “I’m heading back to the hotel, too much for one night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Portia hauls me off to the cafeteria, asking a million questions, but I’m with Clayton, want to relay this story later. I’m also preoccupied with food once I spot the cafeteria lineup. I’m afraid to eat after my stomach did those flip-flops but I’m also starving. I order plain grits and a coffee, while Portia fills up a tray with a cheese omelet, potatoes, bacon, and fruit.
“Ride back with Walter,” Portia tells me once we’re seated. “He’s got the Suburban and you can stretch out in the back seat and sleep. I’ll drive your car.”
“That sounds heavenly, but what about Dad? He still doesn’t know what happened.”
“Neither do I.”
She waits for me to fill in the blanks but I’m too tired to explain. Finally, because Portia’s sending me a caustic glare with one eyebrow raised, I give up.
“You won’t believe me.”
“I have so far. Try me.”
I explain about my hunch in Lafayette, that something told me to get in the car and haul myself to Alabama.
“There were also the calls from Tabitha.”
“Cousin Tabitha?” Portia asks with a mouth full of omelet.
“Yeah.”
“The crazy one who named her kids after Southern movies?”
“She’s not that crazy, really.”
Portia smirks. “Her oldest is named Atticus Pickles.”
I ignore her, because she didn’t get the Mimi lecture. “Anyway, she reads energies. As in the energies people leave behind.”
I see wheels turning inside my sister’s head but thankfully she doesn’t inquire further.
“When I got to Grandma Willow’s place, Tabitha explained what she thought happened to Dad at the homestead.”
I tell her how Tabitha deduced the scene of the crime, how she saw Ruiz changing the identities of the two men and threw Thomaston, dressed in Dad’s clothes, into the pond.
“Because I can see people who are in comas as well as ghosts,” I continue, “we decided to try the local hospitals.”
I leave out the tiara.
At this point, Portia stops eating. “Vi, do you know what this means?”
“Yeah, our father is alive.”
She leans in close, checking to make sure no one’s listening. “It means we cremated the other guy.”
There’s a long pause before we both start laughing. It’s not funny, really, but we can’t help ourselves, start snorting like pigs. I feel ashamed at my reaction but the emotion’s like a safety valve that releases steam when the pressure becomes too tough to contain.
Once we get ourselves under control, I ask again about Dad. “Are you sure you want to drive him home and explain everything we’ve been through?”
“Sure,” Portia says. “It’s time we talked anyway.”
It’s a sensitive subject so I don’t look at my sister because she’ll likely retort with some abrasive comment. I keep eating my grits, but I reach over, take her hand and squeeze. Without saying a word, she squeezes back.
“I spoke to TB,” Portia says after a bit. “He didn’t know about Dad. Didn’t you call him?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
I exhale and place down my fork. Half a bowl is about all I’m able to handle. “You really want to know?”
Portia’s shoulders rise and fall. “Yeah.”
“We made wild passionate love after the dance-off in Galveston.” I laugh grimly. “Including some moon magic Mimi taught me.”
“Wait, what?”
“Never mind. Then TB took off first thing the next morning with his uncle and hasn’t called me since. Texts me a bit, says he’ll be there today at Mom’s for Thanksgiving dinner, but that’s about it.”
“That’s weird.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I finally look up. “I think I’m pregnant.”
If the nurses and the security guards got an earful the night before, Portia’s reaction beats all. I look around and the entire cafeteria — even though it’s early morning and there aren’t many people around — are staring after she lets loose her screams.
“Portia, not so loud.”
Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are as big as half dollars. “But it’s only been a week. Are you sure?”
I shrug. “Not really. Maybe. Probably.”
Portia grabs both my hands and stares at me like I’m Santa Claus. “Oh Vi.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re happy about this, right?”
Am I? “Honestly, I’m so tired right now, and finding Dad and all, I haven’t had time to think.”
“And TB doesn’t know?”
“No. And I’d rather you didn’t say anything.”
“Why not?”
I twirl my fork around and around on the table. “I need to figure out what he wants first.”
Portia nods, then pantomimes locking her lips.
We head up to Dad’s room where he’s been dressed in a nice plaid shirt and khaki pants, courtesy of Walter.
“Where are my shoes?” he asks.
“Dad, everything you came in was another’s man’s clothes,” Portia explains. “The hospital threw it away anyway.”
“But my shoes?” He looks at Portia, then me, pleadingly. “Your mom gave me those shoes and I need them.”
I remember seeing Ruiz’s feet in his makeshift grave back on Padre Island, but it’s not the time to relay that information. Still, it gives me an idea. I slip into the hall and call Clayton while Walter and Portia finish up.
We wheel Dad down to the lobby, a parade of nurses and doctors following behind. All the while, Portia keeps staring at me, and when I turn to meet her gaze, she smiles like a goofball. After a while, I can’t help myself. I goofball back.
Dad heads off to my Honda with Portia, looking back at me with some trepidation.
“I’ll be right behind,” I tell him. “We’ll catch up once we get to Mom’s.”
Walter pulls up in the giant Suburban and I hear the doors unlock and the passenger window rolls down.
“You sure you don’t mind me passing out in the back?”
Walter sends me a daddy look. “Get in,
Vi.” He’s a man of few words.
As we caravan back to Tabitha’s to pick up my cat, then head off to New Orleans, the sun begins warming the chilly fall morning. I glance at the car clock and it’s only six-thirty. We’ll be home by noon, if I’m figuring correctly, time for Thanksgiving dinner with all the family in tow.
All the family. Even Sebastian’s coming in from the West Coast.
I make myself comfortable while Stinky curls up on the seat, his back to my belly and the child that may be growing within. I feel the car emerge on to the interstate and accelerate, Walter plugging earphones into a James Patterson book on tape. As the wheels sing out a rhythm beneath me, I slip into slumber.
Lillye’s waiting for me there, waving.
“Are you okay with this?” I ask her, thinking of her brother or sister who may be nine months away.
She smiles warmly and skips away.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake when we pull up to Mom’s and both Stinky and I do a back stretch. I sit up and watch Portia and my father walk up the path, my dad’s arm wrapping Portia tightly and she wiping tears away, although it’s drizzling and hard to tell.
“I hope she gets closure,” Walter says and I find him watching the same scene.
We follow and Walter opens the door for both of us, Stinky waltzing in like he owns the place.
“That cat’s not right,” he says.
I lean in close. “Shh, don’t let him hear you. He hates it when people talk dirt about him.”
Walter doesn’t miss a beat, never had a sense of humor. “Cute.”
When I cross the threshold it’s chaos inside. Everyone’s talking and crying and hugging and the noise is deafening. I look back at Walter who’s crawfishing toward the door.
Walter comes from an emotionless family who rarely hug or crack a smile so the Valentines must have been a shock when he and Portia got married. He used to say if my family made it through a holiday without someone crying, it was a good year. I snake my arm through his elbow and lead him into the living room, then we pause at the periphery of the action and watch.
Mom and Sebastian are asking a million questions to Dad, Portia’s crying while Dad’s arms still hold her tight, Portia’s kids are so excited they’re jumping up and down, and Mom’s new dog Gumbeaux races around everyone’s feet barking and leaping.
Finally, Walter slips his arm from mine and heads toward the kitchen. “I’m going to find something to drink.”
Now that I think about it, ginger ale would soothe my stomach so I follow. The two of us silently rummage through the kitchen looking for refreshment, I finding mine and Walter disappointed.
“Mom probably got rid of the alcohol,” I tell him. “As long as Dad’s around, we’re going to be teetotalers.”
“I was actually hoping for coffee.”
How insensitive of me to forget. “Oh Walter, have y’all been up all night?”
He smiles, which throws me back. “After the turkey, we’re leaving the kids here and going home. You’ll find the two of us sleeping on the couch with the football on.”
“Sounds good.”
“You can keep them all weekend if you want.” Again, a smile. Wow.
I find the coffee pot behind a box of stuffing mix and pour him a cup; he likes it black. We stand there enjoying our drinks while the noise never abates from the living room. I’ve never known what to say to this man, although right now after rescuing me from Alabama he’s an angel.
My heart sinks. Where’s my angel?
And with that thought, two hands encircle my waist and pull me back into the chest of a tall blond Cajun.
“Hey babe.”
I close my eyes and relish the moment, his arms tight about me feeling like home. I could swim in these waters forever.
But then I remember the past week. I pull away, leave my glass on the counter, cross my arms, and face him. “Where the hell have you been?”
He’s not smiling, not his usual cheerful self, which makes my heart sink further. He looks over my shoulder and greets Walter and they shake hands, start talking Saints football.
“Are you kidding me?” I say a little too loudly.
TB sends Walter an apologetic look. “If you’ll excuse us.”
He grabs my elbow and we head to the living room but there’s not a quiet spot to be found. TB looks toward the bedrooms but the kids are running in and out and down the hallway, playing some game with make-believe swords. Stinky’s chasing them all, including the dog.
TB leads me to the front door and closes it behind us, pulls his keys from his pocket and we dash through the rain to his truck. Just as we get inside the cab, the skies unfold. I watch the rain pelt his windshield, anything to escape TB rubbing his hands nervously up and down the steering wheel. Finally, I get up the nerve.
“You don’t have to say it.”
He stops his wheel massage and looks my way. “Say what?”
“You regret what happened in Galveston and you want to be with Cookie.”
“Cookie?”
I look heavenward and grab my bottom lip between my teeth. I love this man but I’ve no patience for his cluelessness today. “The pretty real estate agent,” I bark.
TB closes his eyes and exhales. Loudly. “Vi, you’re the only woman I love.”
“You have a weird way of showing that. Where the hell have you been and why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“How would you know what I think?”
Now he’s rubbing his face, that pained look still present. “I freaked.”
I try to discern this but it’s not registering. “About our love making?” With an attempt at humor, I add, “Was it that bad?”
He sends me a get real look. Unless he’s the best actor on the planet it was the greatest sex ever.
“Then what?”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
No kidding, but that comment makes me laugh. “There’s something I have to tell you, too.” He looks at me expectantly. “No way. You first.”
He starts rubbing the steering wheel again, then says it so quietly I almost don’t hear him. “I only had one condom.”
I want to laugh again, considering it’s the only explanation for my harboring a fugitive, as my mom calls being preggos. I still don’t know if that’s what’s going on but all the signs are pointing in that direction, especially now that I know what happened in Galveston. TB runs a hand through his hair, making the blond strands stand up in places like tilting pine trees after a storm. I reach over and smooth them down.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asks.
I rest my hand on his shoulder and I can feel his erratic breathing. “You didn’t call me for a week because we had unprotected sex?”
He looks at me now, his eyes glossy with tears. “Vi, it was after the dance-off.”
I get it. History repeating itself. We were careless all those years ago, so fervent after winning the LSU dance contest that we failed to use protection. Both of our lives switched gears after that night but one adorable, lovable creature was the result.
“I didn’t think we’d do it twice but you were naked on the balcony and glowing with all that moonlight.” He swallows and I catch a tear falling. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
He shakes his head. “I ruined your life. You wanted to work for a big newspaper after LSU, had that internship with the Washington Post. And you ended up here, hating your job and most likely me.”
I take his face in my hands and turn his gaze to mine. “We didn’t use protection that night. We made that decision. It wasn’t all on you.”
“But….”
“And we decided to have Lillye, so losing that internship was not your fault.”
He’s still shaking his head, averting my eyes.
“I never hated you, TB. Never. And I never blamed you.�
�� I think back on Lillye’s smiling face right before I fell asleep in Walter’s car. “And look what came out of that wonderful night.”
He’s still conflicted, gazing off through the rain-streaked windshield. “I kept thinking that if this happened again, if you had to leave the job you love, you’d never forgive me. I’d do whatever we needed to do, stay here, give up college, work with my uncle so we had health insurance, but you’d end up hating me again.”
“I’d never hate you, TB….”
“And you’d probably have to go back to work with the New Orleans Post….”
Oh, that’ll never happen.
“And we’d have to live in my parents’ house that you never liked.”
This is news. I was so grateful his parents gifted us their rental house in Mid-City New Orleans but I never liked the place. The house’s cheap construction and failing plumbing kept us constantly busy with repairs and its age meant lots of small holes for subtropical bugs to crawl through. And that tiny kitchen with its particle board cabinets. Now that I think about it, I longed to escape to someplace like Tennessee back then.
But I never knew TB suspected I felt that way.
I look at my husband tormented with guilt and I want to assure him that bringing a new child in the world changes nothing. I’m a travel writer, can perform my job anywhere, live anywhere. But I know TB. He’ll feel responsible and insist we stay in New Orleans so he can keep working construction, keep the health insurance, remain in that horrid house.
I take a different path for now. “Would it be so bad if we had another child? Do you want more kids?”
He looks at me, calmer. “Yes, I really do.”
I smile. “Then we have nothing to worry about.”
Whatever spark emerged, disappears instantly. He starts rubbing the steering wheel again. “But what if…?”
I can’t go there, can’t think of what might happen to the child inside me. “It’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t but we can’t think like that.”
He moves his hands to his knees, rubbing them back and forth. I reach over and still them. “Life’s a gamble, sweetheart. And bringing children into this world is one of the biggest gambles you’ll ever take. Having them come out healthy is only one.”
Ghost Trippin' Page 24
