by Regina Duke
All of a sudden, it felt like there was no air around the trailer. Chrissie’s eyes grew big and her pupils shrank. Chester looked very confused. He turned and looked at Chrissie. Then he swung back to gape at Zinnia, Rose, and Bart. At last he rounded on Chrissie once more and asked darkly, “Are you pregnant?”
* * *
Bart let go of Rose who seemed to have calmed down. He jingled the car keys in his pocket and wondered how Chester was able to ignore the cold. The man’s bare chest was pink from exposure, and his arms were covered in goosebumps. His question to Chrissie silenced her for a whole four seconds, but she obviously used the time to regroup her thoughts.
“I was about to give you the news,” she snapped, “before my witch of a sister butted in. Now you get inside before you freeze to death.”
Her tone was a study in manipulation. She filled the first sentence with regret and disappointment, then segued into a commanding voice that verged on a mother fussing over her toddler. Bart wondered if that was the way Chester’s mother spoke to him. The man seemed to accept it as normal. He also obeyed, climbing the step into the trailer. Chrissie made a point of latching the screen door behind him.
Rose’s hands were balled into fists and she surprised Bart by charging forward and pounding on the side of the trailer. “Oh no you don’t! You can’t run and hide from me, Chester! And neither can Chrissie. I’m going home for my dad’s shotgun!”
Bart found himself stepping between Rose and the door. He figured she was more than capable of shoving a fist through the flimsy screen. “Easy, Rose. Let’s not make threats we might regret later.”
Chrissie pressed against the screen. “You’re a loser, Rose. Did you think a hunk like Chester was going to wait for you to put out?”
Zinnia’s anger boiled over. “Chrissie, I’m ashamed to call you my sister! You knew Chester was engaged to Rose!”
Chrissie shot back, “Don’t worry, stupid Goodie-Two-Shoes, you didn’t even know I had a cell phone. You wouldn’t know how to use one if you had one. And you don’t have to call me sister, either. You’re not even a Clausen. So there!” With that, she slammed the trailer door.
Zinnia stood open-mouthed in the glaring trailer lights. Chrissie’s pronouncement had stifled Rose as well. She frowned in confusion and asked Zinnia, “What’s she talking about?”
Bart’s mind raced ahead to a few possibilities, but before starting a conversation, he laid an arm around Zinnia’s shoulders and tilted his head toward the SUV. “Let’s go, Rose. We can talk about it in the car.”
Rose made a disgusted noise. “I told you, Chester won’t shoot.”
Zinnia said coldly, “No, but Chrissie might.”
Rose’s features tightened at the truth of that statement. “You’re right, Bart, let’s get the hell out of here.”
As they loaded into the SUV, the trailer’s exterior lights went out. Bart turned the key and the engine sprang to life. He shifted into drive, and as he did so, Rose announced, “Punch it, Bart. Someone just opened the trailer door!”
Bart hit the gas and sprayed dirt and gravel behind them as he headed down the hill. A second later, the sound of a rifle shot made Zinnia squeak in alarm. Bart checked the rear view mirror and saw Chrissie, bare-legged in Chester’s white tank top, holding a long gun and taking aim. The second shot kicked up some dirt about a foot from the driver’s door, and he accelerated even faster. At the foot of the hill, he left the two ruts and pulled out on the paved road, barely slowing enough to make the turn.
Now that there were trees between the SUV and the trailer, and he felt safer, but there was no one else on the road and he saw no reason to slow down. By the time they hit the two-lane, the pounding of his pulse began to fade, and he spared a glance for Zinnia.
His heart ached at the sight of her weeping silently in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield and clutching her seat belt as if it were Chrissie’s neck and she was trying to twist her head off.
Bart glanced at Rose in the rear view mirror. “You okay, Rose?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said bitterly. “Chrissie’s a lousy shot, too. They’re perfect for each other.”
Bart released a lungful of air in a whoosh. “What time do the bars close in Colorado?” he asked.
Rose said, “Two a.m. We already missed last call.”
Bart snorted. “Okay, then, we go back to the hotel and raid the mini-bar in my suite.”
Zinnia said numbly, “I don’t drink.”
Rose said, “At a time like this, it’s medicinal. You can drink NyQuil if you prefer. Me? I need a shot of vodka.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Bart parked near the side entrance he’d used before and went around the car to open Zinnia’s door. Rose was already out, but Zinnia sat staring blankly, looking pasty white. Bart reached across her lap and unfastened her seatbelt, then gently took her by the hand and pulled her slowly out of the car. Once she was on her feet, she took a deep breath and gave him a tiny nod.
“I’m okay.”
“Right,” said Bart. “Translation: we’re not dead. Come on, ladies. I need a drink.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zinnia couldn’t tell if she was numb or in shock. Maybe it was both. Words abandoned her as she followed Bart and Rose into Bart’s suite. She couldn’t even muster enough inner strength to comment on how posh his rooms were. Her own suite had been a staggering introduction to the good things in life. Bart’s was twice as large, more gaudily appointed, and had a bigger footprint than her parents’ house.
She paused inside the door and closed her eyes, swaying slightly to and fro. Her mother’s house. And Bernard’s. Could Chrissie have been telling the truth? Or was she just trying to inflict pain? She’d never hesitated in the past to say or do things that made Zinnia miserable. All her life, Zin had written it off to sibling rivalry. She privately acknowledged that if they hadn’t been sisters, she wouldn’t have spent any time with Chrissie and was sure they would never have been friends. But what if there had been more to her torment all along? What if Chrissie was telling the truth and Zinnia wasn’t a Clausen? Oh, she had the name, just as her mother did, but if Bernard wasn’t her biological father...?
She felt Bart’s arm around her shoulders.
“Let’s sit down,” he said gently. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Zinnia nodded. “Okay.” She let him guide her to a long leather sofa facing a wall of windows as if it were the world’s biggest TV screen. Rose was closing the drapes. It was starting to snow again, and leaving the huge window uncovered made the room feel cold, even though the heat was on and the fans purred relentlessly, dedicated to spreading their warmth to every corner of the huge suite.
Zinnia sat limply on the couch, and a moment later Bart wrapped a blanket around her, crossing the ends over her lap. She could hear the sound of glass clinking together and when she craned her neck to see what was going on, she realized there was a free-standing bar against the wall to her left—evidently rich people had a different concept of a mini-bar—and Rose was busy pouring liquid into short, squat glasses. One look was enough for Zinnia and she relaxed her neck and turned her eyes forward again. On her right, Bart was sitting close, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind her.
Rose approached and handed him a glass of golden liquid. “Is Scotch okay?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
“I couldn’t find any ice.”
“It’s fine.”
Rose offered the other glass to Zinnia. It was half full of orange juice. Zinnia took it. “Thanks, Rose.”
“Be careful,” she said. “I put a splash of vodka in there. Just a tiny bit.” She returned to the bar and fetched her own glass. “Vodka tonic,” she said as she sat down on Zinnia’s left. “Cheers.” She drank half of it down.
Zinnia stared at her orange juice. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed at it. Not too weird. She took a tiny sip. Orange juice. She took another s
ip.
Out of the blue, Rose said, “I hate Chrissie Clausen.”
Bart swished his Scotch around in his glass. “Don’t hold back, Rose. Tell us what you really think.”
“Very funny.” Rose drank the rest of her drink.
Zinnia mumbled, “I don’t blame you.”
“I want another,” said Rose, getting up. “Bart?”
“Still nursing this one.”
Rose returned with the pint of vodka and the bottle of mixer. “Save me a few steps next time,” she said glumly.
Zinnia frowned. “You shouldn’t drink too much, Rose. You know how sick you get in the morning.”
Bart teased, “Is that the same as morning sickness?”
Zinnia laughed. Rose blew a raspberry. “No way,” she said. “I’ve never been happier about my decision to make him wait until the wedding. That jerk.”
Zinnia explained softly, “Rose can handle a lot of alcohol while she’s drinking, but then she’s miserable for two days afterward.”
Bart made an understanding noise. “I see. Good advice, Rose. Don’t make yourself sick. Not over Chester.” He shook his head. “Save your hangovers for things worth celebrating. Don’t waste them on losers.”
“Good point,” said Rose. “Maybe I’ll just drink mixer.”
Zinnia smiled sadly, then leaned forward and set her orange juice on the coffee table. When she leaned back, she asked, “Do you think Chrissie was telling the truth?”
Rose turned sideways to face her. “Yes. I’m sorry, Zin. She was mad that you’d accidentally broke the news to Chester, and she wanted to strike back. It was on the tip of her tongue. The way it just popped out of her mouth, I think she was speaking the truth...at least, as she knows it.”
Zinnia shook her head, resigned to the ugliness of it. When she spoke, the South rose again in her Gone with the Wind voice. “I surely do declare, dear Rosalee, I feel my poor heart aching. How could Mother have kept this from me?”
Rose took a theatrical breath and replied in her own tragedy voice, “I don’t believe you should put any weight behind her claims, considering how she has tormented you all your life. You are the same delightful Zinnia you have always been.”
Zinnia tilted her head to one side and drawled, “My, my, my, when did Katherine Hepburn come to visit?”
Rose said flatly, “I was aiming for my usual Bette Davis.”
Bart made a pouty face and offered in a thick French accent, “Non, non, I beg to disagree, Cherie. Zat was an excellent Hepburn.” Heppaburna.
Zinnia and Rose laughed out loud.
Bart made a haughty face and continued, “Qu’est-ce que c’est? You do not find him adorable, my Pepe Le Pew?”
Zinnia took his hand and drawled, “Lordy, no, darling, you are the cutest little old skunk I ever laid eyes on.”
Bart grinned.
For a few seconds, no one said anything. Then, in her normal voice, Zinnia asked, “If I’m not a Clausen, what am I?”
“Not what,” said Rose softly. “Who. And it doesn’t matter. Women change their last names all the time when they get married, so whether or not you were born a Clausen or keep the name Clausen, none of that matters. You’re Zinnia...the best BFF on the planet.”
“You are also a gifted artist,” said Bart. “Maybe you should drop the Clausen part. I just go by Bart...more or less. Zinnia is a lovely unique name. In a couple of years, you’ll be so famous, Bernard will come to you on his knees, begging you to acknowledge him.”
Rose added, “Tomorrow we’ll go talk to your mother. Okay? We’ll get the truth in the morning.”
Zinnia nodded. “Okay. We should go to bed.”
Bart said, “I’ll walk you to your door. Give me a call when you wake up, and we’ll tackle this mess together, okay?”
“Thanks, Bart,” said Zinnia. She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
* * *
After walking the girls to their room, Bart returned to his suite and poured himself another Scotch and marveled at his situation. He’d come to Eagle’s Toe to get a little fashion support from his brother and to pay an obligatory visit to his sister and her new…newish… baby, with the plan of avoiding his father altogether. Now, here he was, falling in love with Zinnia and up to his neck in her family drama.
He stretched out on the leather couch and sipped his drink. Speaking of the baby, little Jackson was a character already, and not even a year old yet. He’d never given much thought to starting a family and was surprised by the feelings that stirred inside at the thought of having a son. It would be good for Jackson to grow up with a cousin or two. And having Colorado as a home base was more appealing every day. He could whip out a few abstracts for the European market, and then spend his creative time on the magnificent landscapes.
Of course, that was all a daydream. He didn’t have a wife, as Woodsy kept reminding him via text. But there was Zinnia…art prodigy, new discovery, so sweet and happy to spend time with him. He could definitely imagine a future with her. They could pursue their artistic goals together.
He felt sorry for what she was going through. Could Chrissie be telling the truth? If Bernard wasn’t Zinnia’s father, who was? He knew that would eat at her nonstop until she got an answer. Her mother seemed like a lovely woman… a bit short-sighted where her daughter’s talent was concerned, but she probably had little room left over for musing on Zinnia’s talent when she still had a rowdy houseful to take care of. Maybe he could do something to make Lily’s life a bit easier. He patted his pockets and found what he was looking for—the letter that Zinnia had given him from her parents’ landlord. He pulled it out and skimmed it for the landlord’s name. Good, the contact information was all there. Satisfied, he refolded it and stuffed it back in his pocket.
As he shifted position, something dug into his ribs. He frowned and rummaged beneath himself, coming up with an old iPod, earbuds still attached. It must have fallen out of Zinnia’s purse…or pocket. He smiled, overcome with curiosity about the kind of music she listened to. Feeling only a wee bit guilty, as if he were a musical peeping Tom, he tucked the earbuds into his ears and pressed play…
…and didn’t understand a single word. The melody was soft rock, but the words were gibberish to him. And yet, he was sure he’d seen Zinnia quietly singing along, or at least mouthing something to the music. He shrugged and turned off the iPod. She was full of surprises. Maybe he would ask her about the music when he saw her again in a few short hours. He started to drift off to sleep with a smile on his lips, thinking about Zinnia…
…and dreaming about a future with her. The two of them, traveling to art shows, selling their canvasses for big money. Maybe they could buy land near Eagle’s Toe so he could maintain a closer link to his siblings. The dream theater in his mind played one reel after another, in no particular order. They would elope. His father would be furious. They would create their own art institute. They would have a baby, a cute little guy who looked just like—
Bart sat up so fast, he spilled what was left of his drink. Chrissie and Chester, bad seeds perhaps, but a nice looking couple with Chrissie’s dark hair and Chester’s blond. Rose and Chester had contrasted in the same way. Little Jackson, looking so much like both his parents. His dream baby, reminding him of… “Uh-oh, Bart. You’d better verify your suspicions before you say anything to Zinnia.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zinnia’s eyes fluttered open to the cold light of a Colorado winter. She blinked the sleep away and craned her neck to see the clock by the bed.
“Oh my gosh! Eleven o’clock?!” She rolled out of bed and trotted into the living area where Rose was snoozing peacefully, her limbs splayed like a rag doll. “Rose! Rose, wake up! We’re late! It’s eleven.”
Rose jerked awake. “Oh my God! Work! I’d better call the bookstore right away.” She grabbed her phone and started punching numbers with her thumb.
“If Ashley is still in the hospital, who�
�s going to open the Gallery? Or is it open at all?” moaned Zinnia. “I’ve got to get dressed and go down there.” She was a flurry of activity, combing hair, pulling on jeans and a long-sleeved turtleneck, shoving her feet into shoes with one arm in her down jacket. On her way to the door, she glanced over at Rose. “Are you getting up?”
“No point,” said Rose glumly, tossing her phone on the carpet. “They fired me.”
“For being late?”
Rose shrugged. “Don’t care. Besides, it was bound to happen sooner or later. After I kill Chester and Chrissie, there’ll be all the bad publicity with the trial and everything, and the bookstore would certainly let me go then. This is just a pre-murder firing. No worries.”
Zinnia paused at the door. “You are not going to kill anyone, do you hear me? Why ruin your own life because Chester is a jerk?”
Rose made a wry face. “Can I kill Chrissie?”
“No way. She has two and a half kids to look after. If you kill her, you’ll be letting her off easy.”
Rose laughed. “Okay. You go. I’ll get dressed and come down to the Gallery. Might as well keep you company. Oh, did you call Bart and let him know you’re up?”
“You’re the one with the cell phone. You call,” said Zinnia as she zipped out the door.
When she got to the Gallery, the metal gates were closed. A sign was taped to the gate: “Gallery Closed Today.”
“Oh dear,” Zinnia mumbled, “Rose might not be the only unemployed person this morning.” She went next door to Thor Security. It appeared to be open for business. Tentatively, she opened the front door, a chime sounding somewhere inside. Thor’s doberman pinscher strolled up to her, wagging his tail.
“Hi, Rocky. Is your papa here?”
A voice called from the back room, “Be right there!” A moment later, Thor appeared. “Morning, Zinnia. I hope you don’t mind a day off.”
