No way. It’d been a month since the stalker had last paid her a visit, and she’d begun to suspect she was in the clear, that the police presence at the bakery had been enough to make him find a new hobby, or at least a new target. But maybe he’d simply been waiting for her to become complacent.
How could he have made it through the keypad entry at the front door of the condo to swing by her unit and drop off this delivery? And if he’d made it this far, who was to say he hadn’t also found his way into her home?
She gnawed at her bottom lip as her eyes traveled to the small speck on Jeremy Archer’s door: the motion sensor camera.
Yes! Her spiritually insane neighbor might actually have quality footage of the stalker’s face!
“Fucking men,” she grumbled as she stomped over to her male neighbor’s door to ask for his assistance. It was really the least he could do, after being genitally complicit in so much unacceptible behavior.
But before she knocked, she cast one last spiteful glare across the hall at the beers, and that’s when she noticed it.
Her name on the envelope was written in her mother’s handwriting. She paused, her fist poised in midair, then let her hand drop to her side.
“Oh. Balls.”
She should have known. Dos Equis should have been a dead giveaway. A stalker would leave something like Keystone or Boone’s Farm. Or maybe she was thinking of pedophiles. Didn’t matter.
She pulled the card from its envelope. It was a single slip of card stock with Destinee’s bubbly handwriting giving it a cheery feeling despite the message.
Jess,
Thought you might need this today. Let me know if you’re too hungover to come in to work tomorrow and I’ll cover for you.
Love,
Mom
How did Destinee know about the downer of a homecoming in San Marcos already? Had Kate felt it necessary to give her a heads up as soon as Jessica pulled down the gravel driveway of the NAO house?
But then she saw the P. S.
P. S. For what it’s worth, I sent a large box of cock and balls confetti to his office at White Light. Anonymous, of course. Won’t change anything, but it felt good to do. Maybe you can think of something like that too. Not cock and balls confetti since it’s already been done. Maybe cock and balls gummies? Or it doesn’t have to include cock and balls at all. That’s just the first thing that keeps popping into my head. I’m sure you can come up with a better idea. The drinking should help with that.
As she read through the P. S., the nature of the gift clicked and her stomach sank like a mammoth in a Texas tar pit.
Amid her anxiety about public speaking and the collective trauma she’d taken on just an hour before, Jessica had forgotten what day it was because today was the most forgettable of all crucially important days: it was the midterm elections.
Despite the efforts of sixteen women who’d come forward with the same disturbing story about Jimmy’s past, he must have been elected to the Texas Railroad Commission.
Sure, he hadn’t abused those women physically, but the implications of a grown man luring a bunch of young girls into a doomsday cult shouldn’t need to cross that line to throw his mental health into serious question.
But it hadn’t. The story, the women—none of it mattered to the majority. And she suspected that even if he had taken that small step across the line into abuse, that wouldn’t have mattered either.
She grabbed the six-pack and unlocked her front door. But before she stepped through, she whirled on her heels and pointed at Jeremy’s tiny illegal camera. “Men are the worst!” she shouted, simply needing to go on the record as having said it.
She didn’t expect a response. But a muffled voice from the other side of her neighbor’s door supplied one: “You’re right.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jessica couldn’t wait for pumpkin spice season to wrap up.
There were no official start and end dates for it. She supposed it began as soon as the first cold front hit in September and lasted until everyone was sick of smelling the stuff. She’d been sick of it for weeks now, having catered to the public demand and added a few new items to her menu. She promised herself Thanksgiving weekend would mark the end of it for her, but that was still two weeks away. She probably wouldn’t even be able to enjoy pumpkin pie by then, which was nothing short of a tragedy; it was one of the few things Destinee ever baked herself rather than buying ready-made.
She watched as a girl chatted away on her cell phone over by the condiments shelf and attempted to shake out the last of the pumpkin spice from the large shaker onto the top of her coffee cup.
I’m gonna strangle the next person who comes in here and orders a pumpkin anything.
IS THAT A PROMISE?
Obviously not. I have a business to run.
YOU COULD PULL IT OFF, YOU KNOW. YOU’VE MADE LARGER MISSTEPS AND MANAGED TO KEEP THE LIGHTS ON.
Thanks?
THOU ART WELCOME. AND MIGHT THE LORD REMIND YOU OF YOUR GET-OUT-OF-JAIL-FREE CARD YOU HAVE YET TO USE.
Did you grant me that specifically for today? You’ve been planning on me murdering someone over pumpkin spice?
NO. THAT’S NOT TO SAY LITTLE MISS FREE WILL CAN’T CHOOSE TO MURDER AS SHE PLEASES, THOUGH. AND IF YOU DO, THE LORD SHALL FIND A WAY TO BAIL THINE ASS OUT OF JAIL.
Small blessings.
The door opened and Jessica beamed at the new customer—a woman in her mid-fifties with silky gray and silver hair that flowed loosely past her lightly tanned and makeup-free face, down to her waist. Wearing a loose and richly colorful long-sleeve blouse that looked noncommittally Indian and had only the slightest hint of a tapered waist, elaborately embroidered harem pants, and rope-woven slippers, this woman was far and away Jessica’s favorite kind of Austinite.
Jessica referred to the type as a galru, but only to herself. She’d said it aloud once to test it out but decided to keep the term her little secret after realizing it sounded like a dog vomiting.
Galrus were necessarily women—if a man strolled up in this sort of fashion, Jessica prepared herself for an interaction full of condescension and references to Osho, whoever the hell that was.
These women had transcended to some higher level of not giving a fuck that Jessica hoped to one day attain herself. But in doing so, they remained friendly, gracious, humble, and present. They asked her how her day was going and then stared silently until she actually told them. And then they listened and responded accordingly. And then, the biggest blessing of all, they would say something encouraging, maybe reach across the counter and place a gentle hand on her wrist, and drop cash into the tip jar. And finally, they would glide away to wait patiently for their food or drink, doing nothing—no phone, no book, no headphones—just observing and offering warm hints of a smile to anyone who made eye contact.
She felt her body relax, readying itself to receive whatever good vibes the woman would bring with her into the bakery.
But then the galru stepped to the side, glancing over her shoulder at the woman entering just behind her.
Mrs. Thomas.
Shit. The sight poured a bucket of water on her nervous system, which snapped into action.
Were the two women together?
“Hi, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Just the woman we were looking for!” said the teacher as they approached the counter together. “Jessica, this is Caren Powers. Caren, Jessica McCloud.”
Caren made gentle but persistent eye contact with Jessica as she offered her hand. Wendy Peterman had once drilled her on the art of the handshake, impressing upon her the importance of going in strong and firm. But knowing what type of woman she was dealing with in this present situation, she held back. It would be no good to crush Caren’s hand and send signals that she was a bully and closed off to receiving all the good vibes a galru had to offer.
She went with a gentler grip.
And Caren crushed her hand like a trash compactor.
Jessica tried
to adjust, but it was too late. The bones in her hand were in no position to recover their grip, and by the time she attempted, the shake was over.
“So wonderful to finally meet you, Jessica. Dolores has been telling me about you for years. Truly. I remember her mentioning this ‘bright young girl’ who entered her kindergarten class.”
Jessica was too embarrassed to look at Mrs. Thomas, so instead she nodded and looked down at the countertop.
“Caren is just in town for the day, and I told her she absolutely had to come here and see this remarkable place.”
Now Jessica did look at Mrs. Thomas, but only to read her expression. Those words seemed … off. It was just a bakery. Sure, it had a vivid tree of life mural on one of the walls, and Jessica had secretly been adding more potted plants around over the last few months, hoping no one would notice the gradual transformation until the entire place was so jungly that there was no going back, no matter what Wendy said.
Did Mrs. Thomas really think it was remarkable?
“I tell you,” said Caren, “she brags about you like you’re her own daughter.”
Mrs. Thomas chuckled. “Wishful thinking.” She looked at Jessica. “You know I would have adopted you in a heartbeat if I could have. But now”—she held up her hands and rotated at the waist, looking around at the bakery like she’d never been in it before—“I see you can do things all on your own, and my opportunity to adopt you has passed.” She grinned. “Alas, I’ll just have to keep mooching free coffee from you instead.”
“Two coffees then?” Jessica said, unsure how else to respond, and feeling buried under a mudslide of shame for every negative thought or suspicion she’d had about Mrs. Thomas in the time since the three shitheads had almost ruined her business.
Caren nodded. “Coffee sounds lovely.”
“Anything to eat?”
Caren inspected the long display case at her leisure. When she returned, she said, “Yes, the bran muffins look amazing. Would you recommend them or something else my first time?”
She knew Caren was genuinely wondering. “If you want a muffin, I’d recommend the apple strudel or lemon poppy seed for your first visit. Both are a little more moist than the bran, just by nature.”
Caren nodded. “Lemon poppy seed sounds divine.”
She said it so earnestly, Jessica wasn’t sure if it was meant to be clever wordplay or not.
“And I must try the pumpkin spice empanada,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Actually, I’ll take two.”
As a self-imposed penance for the weak handshake, Jessica comped the food along with the coffee, and Caren thanked Jessica softly, resting a hand on her forearm as she slipped a fiver into the tip jar when Mrs. Thomas wasn’t looking.
Judith returned from her smoke break just as the empanadas and muffin finished in the microwave, and Jessica was able to hand off the register as she carried the order out to the two women.
“Come sit,” said Caren, pulling out a chair next to hers at the table.
Jessica looked around briefly. It was only two in the afternoon, which meant those not working a nine to five were dropping in to fight the afternoon lull, though for the most part they only ordered a coffee and a cookie and didn’t require maintenance beyond that.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I was just telling Caren about the time when you were, what, a junior in high school? And two girls—oh, I can’t even remember their names—they accused you of cheating on your algebra test, and you kept denying it until the matter ended up in my office. You remember that, Jessica?”
Of course she did. Just because the traumatic events of her school career in Mooretown were numerous didn’t mean they did her the service of all blending together. If only she could be so lucky as to forget any of it. “I do.”
What she also remembered were the names of the two girls who’d challenged her. One was Stephanie Lee. The other was Sandra Thomas.
“And I believed that your perfect score plus full points for the extra credit wasn’t definitive evidence of cheating. After all, I had you in my math class and the subject always came naturally to you.” She turned to Caren. “So, I told her bullies exactly that—that she was an exceptionally talented mathematician and cheating wasn’t her style. Then I assigned them in-school suspension for making false accusations and ended up firing the teacher who allowed that sort of a witch hunt to not only continue in his class, but escalate to a matter the principal was forced to handle.”
Jessica’s heart sank. That was the reason behind Mr. Deja’s mid-year disappearance? He’d been fired for allowing Stephanie and Sandra to bully her? No, she must have misheard. That seemed so extreme.
She jumped when Mrs. Thomas laid a hand on her upper arm. “You really did withstand so much bullying growing up. Made me sick. That’s what happens to the brightest lights. Darkness flocks to them. Sad but true reality of the world. The fact that you’ve managed to keep your light from going out and built yourself this flourishing business is just—” She pressed her lips together and for a moment it looked like she was about to cry. Had Jessica ever seen Mrs. Thomas cry?
“Well, I couldn’t have done it,” she said stiffly, “any of it, without your help.”
She couldn’t believe how quickly she’d forgotten the many well-timed interventions on her behalf Mrs. Thomas had made over the years. She’d let it all be washed clear out of her memory when the woman had hired a few bad apples in an attempt to help.
Jessica decided to set aside fifteen minutes later that night to feel properly ashamed.
Mr. Deja, though? She’d liked him well enough. He was one of only a few math teachers over the years who had never been short with her when she was the only one raising her hand to answer a question. There was probably more to his story that the woman was just leaving out. Maybe he groped a couple students or something and this was the last straw. She remembered his thick blond mustache and the way he regularly licked his lips mid-sentence. Yeah, that was probably it—he was probably a molester.
“You two bring me so much hope,” said Caren. “Unfortunately, it’s still such a rarity to see women helping each other out like this, boosting each other up rather than tearing one another down. And Dolores also tells me you employ an all-female staff, as well.”
“Oh, well, not on purpose. If the right man came along, I’d hire him.”
The unsaid things about former male employees hung heavy in the air, but the Caren didn’t seem to notice it.
“I see a lot of potential in you,” she said. “Already you’ve done so much, but you have unlimited potential. And I should know.” Her soft chuckle sounded like a sigh.
“Caren hosts leadership retreats for women. She’s done it for, oh, twenty years now?”
Caren nodded. “Yes. It will be twenty-one in February.”
“Really?” asked Jessica. “What kind of leadership retreats?”
“How to tap into your full store of moon energy in a world overexposed to the sun.”
Jessica continued to wait for a clearer answer but none came. Wait, was she supposed to understand …?
“You know,” Mrs. Thomas said, “I think you might be a perfect candidate for one of her retreats, Jessica. What do you think, Caren?”
The gray woman pulled open her muffin, letting the steam rise up from the crack in a swirling burst. “I believe it would be a perfect fit indeed. I could feel it the moment we shook hands.”
“Don’t you have one coming up?” Mrs. Thomas continued, and Caren nodded.
“Where is it?” Jessica added, trying to gauge the price without asking directly. If it were in a Houston or Dallas suburb, she would know instantly that it was out of her price range.
But the answer didn’t educate her guess.
“Just outside of Carlsbad on a little ranch I own.”
“Carlsbad?” Jessica asked. “Is that in Arizona?”
“New Mexico.”
“Oh. That’s quite a drive.”
Mrs. Thomas cut
in. “It’s really not that bad. Seven, eight hours. And you get to cut through the mountains. Parts of it are really quite beautiful. Lots of time for introspection, as well.” She chuckled. “I do love a good road trip.”
Caren reached in a loose pants pocket and pulled out a business card, setting it on the table in front of Jessica. “If you’re interested, the website is on there. We would love to have you.”
“And when did you say the next one was?”
“Thanksgiving weekend.”
Jessica cringed. “Ooh, I don’t think my mom would be happy about me missing Thanksgiving.”
Caren’s and Mrs. Thomas’s eyes met and Caren gave a tiny nod of recognition. “Maybe not at first, but she’ll understand once she sees the incredible transformation in her daughter. Besides, what better time to learn how to be the best boss to her and your friends than a weekend reserved for giving thanks? A faithful leader is a humble servant.”
“Maybe you’re right. I just …” It would be best not to mention money in front of Caren and when she still owed Mrs. Thomas so much, but it was a solid excuse not to go. The retreat itself sounded interesting, but maybe at another time. Maybe in a year or two when she could easily afford it.
What she knew most people would do was lie, agree to look into it, act excited and then totally flake later on. But she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Not to a galru.
“It’s the money,” Mrs. Thomas said, “isn’t it? Listen, I know better than anyone how tight it is for you, but you’re thinking of this in the wrong way. A retreat like this, a weekend in the care of someone like Caren is not an expense, it’s an investment in your future. It will benefit you for years to come, perhaps the rest of your life. You can’t put a price tag on that.”
But Jessica bet Caren could put a price tag on it. And she bet that price tag was enough to make her teeth itch. A moment later, she confirmed she was right on both accounts.
“It’s fifty-eight hundred dollars,” said Caren, “but that covers lodging, the classes, and food. Quite cheap for this type of thing.”
In the Details Page 27
