"Eat all the burgers and potato salad you want," Chet said, "but you might want to lay off the Rocky Mountain oysters."
"I like oysters. I've never had freshwater, but I'm up for trying anything."
He thumbed his nose. "You might not be up for these." He was hiding a smile, and that was my first clue.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Rocky Mountain oysters aren't oysters. They're bull calf testes."
I just stared at him.
Grinning, he said, "Still up for sampling?"
I lowered myself out of the Scout slowly. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"Ranchers have to castrate all but a few select bulls with superior genes. Most bulls are inferior, and you don't want them breeding. If you leave them intact, they turn mean. They'll break down gates, barn doors, loading chutes, and any other pen you put them in to get to a cow in heat. I'm not joking. I've seen them destroy trucks, water tanks--"
"That doesn't mean you have to eat their . . . their you-know-what!"
"Waste not, want not," he said dryly. "Here--I picked you up a little gift." Reaching over the backseat, he produced a straw cowgirl hat with a thin chocolate-colored ribbon. "Come here."
When I leaned forward, he set the hat gently in place. His eyes met mine, and I felt a little whirl of dizziness.
"Do I look like a local?" I asked, modeling for him.
"Get you atop a horse, and nobody would suspect otherwise."
"I went to horse camp once, just outside Philadelphia. My grandparents paid--" I stopped abruptly, horrified by my mistake. I couldn't believe I'd almost rattled off the truth--that my mother's parents had paid for horseback riding camp the summer before I turned sixteen. I'd almost told him about Philadelphia. About Estella.
Quickly amending my story, I said, "My grandparents paid for me to spend two weeks learning to ride horses. They died shortly after. My mom followed them, and that's when I went into foster care."
"Wish you hadn't had to go through that," he said solemnly. "Do you mind if I ask what happened to your dad?"
"Oh, he's dead too."
"You've had a lot of deaths in your family. Must be hard."
"Yeah, well, you get over it. Let's go get burgers and potato salad, okay?"
The look in his eyes told me he wasn't fooled, but to my great relief, he let me have my way. He wouldn't push for answers. At least not yet.
After lunch, Chet and I strolled behind the ranch house to a cement pad with two basketball hoops at either end. There was a ball on the ground, and Chet picked it up, spinning it skillfully on his finger.
"Up for shooting hoops?" he asked.
I walked to the top of the key, spray-painted in black, and held my hand out for a pass. He lobbed the ball gently in my direction, like I might shatter on contact. I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. Squaring up, I sank a clean shot. Nothing but net.
He stared at me, his expression dazzled. "You've played before."
"Oh, you mean this?" Showboating, I accepted his rebound pass, dribbled under the basket, powered up on my left foot, and nailed a tricky hook shot.
His stupefied grin stretched wider. "No offense to your softball skills, but you're better at basketball. Way better."
"Played back home," I said, taking another pass and sinking a jump shot.
"Varsity?"
"Yep."
"How many scholarships you pick up?"
I almost fumbled while dribbling. Recovering quickly, I held my voice steady and fastened my sights on the basket, as though I were intently gauging from where to take my next shot. "None."
"Don't believe it. You're too good to get passed by."
"I didn't play last year--senior year," I lied.
"Injury?"
"Just busy. Other stuff."
"Other stuff, meaning what?" he asked ludicrously. "I can tell you love the sport. It shows in your face, your body language. And you're good, really good. What could have been more important?"
"I don't want to talk about it." I felt suddenly defensive. And nervous. I wasn't afraid Chet would discover the truth--I'd see to it he wouldn't. It was just--
I was tired of lying to him. The more we talked about this, the more pressure I would feel to make up more excuses and stories. I was sick and tired of making Chet believe I was Stella Gordon. A fake. A fraud. An ever-shifting lie. "Let's just shoot, okay?" I said more tersely than I meant.
"I got a scholarship," Chet said, rebounding my shot and putting it back up. "Creighton."
It was my turn to gaze with wonder. "They've got an impressive program. I talked with a scout from there my sophomore year. You must be really good."
"Was good. Haven't kept it up. I was banking on that scholarship to pay my way through college. I was going to major in biology, maybe work for the Red Cross, get a little life experience, then go back for my graduate degree."
"You didn't take the scholarship because of Dusty," I realized out loud. "Your life plans got derailed because of him."
"Yeah."
"Do you regret it?"
"Nah. But sometimes I think about the guy they gave the scholarship to after I turned it down." He flashed a smile, but it didn't quite ring true. "Hope he's putting it to good use."
"What's your plan now?"
"See to it that Dusty walks across the high school stage with a diploma in hand a year from now. Then I'll take classes at the community college. After that, I'll try to transfer to Lincoln. I'll get my degree, just might take a little longer."
"What position did you play?"
"Forward."
I'd guessed as much. He was tall enough to play forward, but not big enough for center. By my estimation, he weighed right around 200.
"You?" he asked.
"Point. I always wanted to play under the basket but was too short. Ready?" I lofted the ball up by the rim, and with stellar reflexes, he jumped and tipped it in. It was a pretty impressive alley-oop.
I said, "Nice vertical."
"Not too bad yourself. You've got great form."
Beating him to the rebound, I sent him a wink. "So that's how a girl catches Chet Falconer's eye? Great shooting form?"
"I can think of a few other attributes that make it higher on the list." He held his hand up for the ball and I passed it.
"Such as?"
"I've got a weakness for hazel eyes."
"That so."
"Dark brown hair. Smart-alecky. Knows how to put me in my place."
I made the sound and gesture of a cracking whip.
He laughed. "Up for a little one-on-one?"
I took the ball to the top of the key. I dribbled in for a right-side layup, then spun and attempted a showy left-handed hook. Before I could execute the move, he scooped me by the waist, lifting me off the ground and swinging me around. I lost the ball in the process, and it rolled out of bounds.
"Foul!" I cried, but I was giggling hysterically, because he was using his free hand to tickle me. "I--get--two--shots!" I gasped.
He set me down and backed me against the pole. I was short of breath from running--and from finding myself so close to him. I watched him intently, my heart beating faster.
He slid his hand behind my neck and drew my face up, his mouth hot as it brushed mine. Closing my eyes, I let myself feel. My head was spinning wildly and my legs felt wonderfully unsteady.
Chet drew back, short of breath himself. "You're hard to resist."
"How hard are you trying?"
"Not very." And he kissed me again.
At that moment, I could think of nothing but how right it felt to be with Chet. I was happy, deliriously happy, filled to the brim.
27
ON OUR WAY BACK TO TOWN, CHET STOPPED AT A dairy bar. The sign above the shack said it was established in 1951, and the faded purple paint was a testament to the truthfulness of the claim. A carousel with white ponies twirled idly on the side lawn. The carousel reminded me of the Parx Liberty Carousel at Franklin Square in P
hilly.
When I was little, my parents would take me there on hot summer evenings, and let me ride and ride until they ran out of quarters. It's true, what they say. You never know what you've got till it's gone. Before going into WITSEC, had I known I'd never return to Philly, I would have taken one more ride. Not for old times' sake, but to savor the memory, to really hold it tight, so when I looked back, I could clearly see the three of us happy and smiling, genuinely caring about one another.
I found a booth inside the dairy bar and slid in with my back to the window, scanning the menu above the registers. Chet had gone outside to grab cash from the ATM. I was debating between mint chocolate chip and birthday cake, when his voice startled me like a knife to the back.
"Mind if I sit?" Without waiting for me to tell him I did in fact mind a great deal, Trigger dropped into the seat opposite mine. He set his baseball cap on the table and combed his fingers through his red hair. "What's on the menu today? Black eye? Split lip?"
"Get the hell away from me."
He drew his fist toward me suddenly, then stopped short, chuckling when I shrank back in fear. "Touchy, touchy."
"That's it. I'm calling the cops."
"You can't have me arrested for talking," he drawled, sprawling comfortably in the booth, as if making it clear he wasn't going anywhere.
"You're threatening me."
"Who, me? In this nice, friendly voice? I don't think so."
"I'll get a restraining order."
"Who's gonna grant you one? Haven't you heard? I'm taking anger management classes. I'm reformed." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. I gripped the bottom of my seat hard enough to feel the blood leave my hands.
"I'm asking you to leave," I said firmly.
"What if I don't? What are you gonna do then?"
"I'll kick your ass. This time I'm ready."
"Now, that was a threat. See, I've been chatting with my lawyer, and it turns out assault is one of those fuzzy, blurry matters of the law. You don't have to lay a hand on me to be charged with assault. If you threaten me with words and I feel reasonable apprehension, that's enough." He leaned even closer into my space, his eyes black with hate. "So tell me again, Stella, what you're going to do to me if I don't move off this public seat."
I was so angry, I was shaking. It took all my control to speak calmly. "You think you own this town--"
"I do."
"No, you don't. You beat me up--your rules--and I had you arrested--the rules of the real world. You got off with community service and anger management, but next time, they won't go light. They can't. I don't care if your daddy goes fishing with the president of the United States, if you lay a hand on me again, you'll serve time."
"It's funny you say that. See, on my way over here, I was thinking to myself, 'Damn if I don't own this town. Damn if I don't make the rules. Damn if I'm not this close to putting Stella in her place.'" His gloating smile was more than an intimidation tactic. He had something. He knew something. And I couldn't fathom what, but it made me extremely uneasy.
"What are you talking about?"
"Something isn't right about you," he said, shaking his finger at me. "You're bristly, secretive. You act like you've got something to hide. What are you hiding, Stella? Whatever it is, better hope you hid it real good, 'cause I'm digging. Haven't found what I'm looking for, but I will."
I grew cold. The chill settled on me as thick as winter snow. I had to tell Carmina right away. Drawing up all the bravado I could, I said confidently, "You're fishing in an empty lake."
"Don't think I am."
"You're in my seat."
Trigger and I looked up at the same time. Chet stood at the head of our booth, his stance relaxed but his eyes as hard as I'd ever seen them.
Trigger flipped his palms up. "Didn't realize it was taken."
"It is." Chet spoke casually, but his words were lit with fire, hot and dangerous. "You mind?"
"Naw, me and Stella are all finished here."
As Trigger slid out and rose to his feet, Chet grabbed a fistful of his shirt, stopping him. "You're finished, period. Are we clear?"
Pulling on that lazy smile, Trigger said, "Sure, bud. Whatever you say."
"Remember it. Because if I find out you approached Stella, we'll have to have this talk again. And I don't like repeating myself."
Smoothing his shirt, Trigger backed away, holding his smile, which had soured. "Y'all have a nice one."
When he left, Chet took the empty seat and reached for my hand. "You okay?"
I nodded.
"You looked pissed. And maybe a little shaken."
I was, I thought, both those things.
"What was that about?" he asked.
"Just Trigger being Trigger."
"I got the feeling it was more."
I thought about telling him the truth, but I didn't trust Chet. If I told him that Trigger was responsible for beating me up, and that just now he'd come back to rub it in and intimidate me further, Chet would go after him. I didn't doubt Chet would win that fight, and as satisfying as it would be, I worried what might follow. Chet was nineteen. If Trigger pressed charges, the matter would be handled in criminal court. I wasn't going to risk tainting Chet's name with a record, or sending him behind bars, for a little ego-stroking.
"Trigger gave Inny a hard time at work last week, and I stood up to him," I said. "He's just trying to intimidate me. It'll blow over, and he'll forget about it. You'll see."
28
AFTER CHET DROPPED ME OFF, I WENT TO FIND Carmina. She sat in a rocker on the back porch, staring into the distance, the line of her mouth pensive. An untouched glass of basil lemonade was perched on her knee.
"What is it?" I asked right away. "Is it your heart?"
"No, no, not that. Just thinking. Wishing the summer didn't have to pass so quickly. Every year it goes by faster and faster." She patted the empty rocker beside hers. "How was your date with Chet?"
I gave her arm a ribbing poke. "That sounds so old-fashioned. It was fun. I saw my first real live ranch with cows and everything. Caught some trouble on the way home, though."
"Oh?"
"Trigger."
She stopped rocking, planting her red cowboy boots firmly on the porch. "Go on."
"He knows I'm keeping secrets. He threatened to dig around."
"That boy has nowhere to dig," she said decidedly. "The U.S. attorney's office notified the sheriff upon your arrival in town, standard procedure for WITSEC, but he's under strict authority not to disclose anything. I know the sheriff, he's a good man. Honest and fair. He wouldn't break the law or put you in danger. I'll touch base with him just the same, but I can see this for what it is. Trigger's trying to ruffle your feathers. What'd you tell him?"
"I told him I'd kick his ass if he threatened me again."
She sighed, vexed, but I thought I saw a gleam of pride in her eyes. "That's no way for a lady to behave."
"You're right. Empty threats are very unladylike. I should've just kicked his butt on the spot."
This time she reached out and squeezed my hand. "Wouldn't we all like to."
"Carmina? Can I ask you a question? It's personal, so I understand if you don't want to answer."
"Mmm?"
"My bedroom. Who did it belong to? Before I came, I mean."
For a half second, the soft squeak of the rocking chair halted. Then it started up again, though not quite as slow or steady as before.
"My grandson. Nathaniel." She took an absent sip of lemonade. "His favorite color was blue. Bet you couldn't guess."
"You must miss him."
"Oh, I do. He was a firecracker. Told the funniest jokes. Whipsmart, too. He'd debate anything with me. Even if he didn't believe his argument, he'd defend it with everything he had, just for the sake of the debate. Was a daredevil, too. Wasn't anything he wouldn't try, so long as he was fifty percent sure it wouldn't kill him. Once, I came home to find him and Chet--" She broke off abruptly.
>
"What were they doing?" I prompted softly.
Her voice heavier and strewn with sorrow, she said, "They were on the roof. Two stories up. They were taking turns doing flips off it. They'd pulled one of those big trampolines close to the house and were using it to land on." Wiping away tears, she chuckled. "About made me wet my pants. And that while dressed in full police blue."
"I bet you were a good grandmother."
Her smile fell away. "He's dead, Stella. A year ago."
"I know."
"Chet?"
"No. One of the women from church. I wanted to hear the truth from you. Do you mind if I ask about Nathaniel's parents?"
"My daughter, you mean."
"Where is she?"
Her face cramped with anguish. "I've made mistakes, Stella. I wasn't a good mother. My daughter abandoned Nathaniel the day he was born. I did right by him, but I failed her. She was sixteen years young when she had Nathaniel. She was addicted to horrible things. Drugs, alcohol, boys. I was always at work. My career was important to me--the most important thing. She fell in with the wrong crowd. I punished her. I grounded her. Rules--I enforced every one in the book. I was a cop, and a damn fine one. I wanted to make her fall in line. But I never did the one thing she needed. I never listened. I never showed up for her. I was never around. Don't you see? I expected her to grow up just fine without my love. It's no surprise she left. It's no surprise she never came back."
I digested her confession slowly. I tried to reconcile this negligent version of Carmina with the strong, clearheaded woman I'd learned to care about so deeply. It was difficult to think Carmina had anything in common with my mom. Absent, unloving, selfish--those were not words I could imagine using to describe Carmina. It hurt to see any similarity between her and my mom.
But the fact that she was being honest made it hard to hold her mistakes against her. How many times would I have forgiven my mom if she'd only told me the truth? Carmina was not the same woman she was describing to me. Stern and duty driven, yes. But not harsh, callous, and negligent. Unlike my mom, she'd changed. Her past and her future were not the same.
"What became of your daughter?" I asked.
"Angie? The last time I saw her, she was giving birth to a baby boy. The next morning the hospital called to say she'd vanished, and what did I want done with the baby? You can't know how many times I've wished she would come back. I need to apologize and make amends. More than that, I need her in my life. But I was never there when she needed me," she brooded into her lemonade.
Dangerous Lies Page 21
