Some mistakes can’t be forgiven or forgotten.
His mistake, the moment of hesitation that had cost the lives of three good men, was one of them.
On that terrible day, Rob Lee recognized the form of the man walking next to the road. He lived in one of the neighboring villages, spoke passable English, and had done some translating when they’d come around, trying to make connections with some of the local leaders. The man had invited them into his home, served them tea. Rob Lee gave balloons to his children, two dark-eyed boys and a little girl, who smiled shyly when accepting his gift.
Rob Lee had been trained to trust no one, but for an instant, no more than the space of a breath, his brain resisted the idea that this man could be his enemy. A breath was all it took. The man started walking quickly away, then turned his head toward the sound of the oncoming vehicle. Rob Lee saw the hatred in his eye and knew what he was, and called out to the others, but his warning came too late.
A split second after he cried out, they hit the IED. There was a boom and a brilliant orange flash, a fireball.
Rob Lee was thrown from the vehicle. His face was burned and so was his right arm. Three of his ribs were broken, along with his leg, but he didn’t realize that until he tried to get to his feet to rescue his friends from the inferno and collapsed on the ground, unable to walk and writhing in pain, the sounds of his own screams registering as terrible silence because the explosive concussion had ruptured his eardrums.
Of all the awful memories he carried with him, this was the most indelible: those long, terrible, helpless minutes of screaming as loud as he could, but not being heard, not even by himself.
Now, whether he was awake or asleep, he still felt that way.
CHAPTER 10
December
Holly pressed her foot gently on the brakes, slowing the car so she could read the numbers on the mailboxes.
“Nobody made you come,” she reminded her mother.
Spending more than a few hours with Rachel under any circumstances was stressful, but after two days of enforced togetherness in a car stuffed with her clothes, shoes, cosmetics, bathroom and kitchen stuff, a new used sewing machine she’d bought on eBay, and Calypso, who had yowled piteously for the first three hundred miles, Holly’s definition of stress had taken on a new dimension.
And even more than usual, something just didn’t seem right between Holly and her mother. In spite of Rachel’s insistence that she take this job, Holly wondered if her mother didn’t resent her going off and leaving her alone in LA. Holly tried to bring up the issue once or twice during the trip, but Rachel kept saying everything was fine.
Maybe it was. Maybe she was just projecting her own anxieties onto the situation. The farther they’d gotten from California, the greater those anxieties became. What was she doing? Traveling so far from everyone she knew and everything that was familiar?
When they got to Waco, her spirits had lifted briefly. It seemed like an all-right sort of place, with tree-lined streets and a huge park sitting near a big lake. Not as bustling as LA, of course, but there seemed to be lots going on.
Too Much, however, was definitely not Waco.
When they drove into town, Rachel took off her sunglasses, gazed at the sparse collection of buildings, and said, “Wow. It’s not a whole lot more than a wide spot in the road, is it? Why would anybody film a TV show here?”
Her observation had really irritated Holly, mostly because she’d been thinking the exact same thing. Rachel kept doing it as they drove, giving voice to the same silent doubts and disappointments that were going through Holly’s mind, and at almost the same moment she was thinking them. It was kind of spooky. In another situation Holly might have been impressed, or at least intrigued. Today, it just made her want to scream.
“I know I didn’t have to come,” Rachel said, fanning herself with a piece of paper. “I wanted to. I want to help you get settled.”
“Then be a help and quit complaining.”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was just making an observation. It is hot and the town is small. And isolated.” She frowned, gazing out the car window. “I had no idea. Do they even have a grocery store? What are you going to eat? On the other hand, since I’m sure there’s no gym,” she mumbled, “maybe it’ll be better if you don’t.”
Holly clenched the steering wheel. She hated it when Rachel made comments about her weight.
She never came right out and called Holly fat, not even when she had been. It was always these little asides and jabs, questions of supposed concern like “Are you sure you want to finish the rest of that?” that were really criticisms.
Holly was slim. She had been for years. But Rachel made her feel like none of that had ever happened, that she was still that same fat girl, inept and clumsy, incapable of controlling her impulses, or her life.
This is her problem, not yours. You don’t have to take the bait. And she’s leaving tomorrow. You’ve just got to keep it together for one more day.
“Why can’t I find it? Mom, what’s the address again?”
Rachel slid her sunglasses to the end of her nose and squinted at the piece of paper she’d been using as a fan. “One eighty-five North Mesquite.”
“North?”
Rachel nodded a confirmation. Holly puffed with exasperation.
“And since I’m heading to Galveston anyway,” Rachel said, returning to their previous conversation, “it wasn’t that much of a detour.”
Holly pulled into a driveway, backed out, and headed back in the direction she’d just come from. “Yeah. And why are you doing that?”
“Going to Galveston? I told you before.”
“Tell me again.”
“Because from there,” Rachel said wearily, “I’m going to Mexico.”
“Via cruise ship,” Holly stated.
“I’ve decided that I don’t like flying.”
“Uh-huh. And,” Holly continued, keeping her tone deliberately neutral, “you’re going to Mexico to look for locations for the movie. The one you’re still not sure you’ve got a part in. The movie that’s gone back into development.”
Holly pulled up to a stop sign and gave her mother a sideways glance before crossing through the intersection.
“That’s right,” Rachel said breezily. “I’ll be gone for eight weeks.”
Holly gave her head a small shake. None of this made sense.
Rachel had never said anything about not liking to fly before. Nor had she ever expressed any interest in taking a cruise. She wasn’t the cruise type. Well, except maybe a transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary, with flowers and champagne in her suite and dinner at the captain’s table, surrounded by British accents. Rachel would be all over that.
But . . . Galveston to Mexico? Mariachis and margaritas and people taking video of the midnight buffet? No. And what business did she have searching out places to shoot? She was an actress, not a location scout. Plus, she hadn’t gotten the part yet, nor was there any guarantee the film would ever be made. A lot of scripts that were sent “back into development” never again saw the light of day.
A kid on a bike was peddling toward the corner. Holly stopped the car to let him cross and turned to look at Rachel.
“And that’s your story? Eight weeks in Mexico to scout locations? Not buying it. Seriously, Mom. What are you really up to?”
“Nothing.”
Holly stared at her, eyebrows lifted. Rachel dropped her jaw, making a clucking sound with her tongue.
“It’s true. Jared asked if I would come along and help him scout . . .”
“Jared?” Holly interrupted. “Jared Hoffman? Is he the director?”
“Well . . .” Rachel stopped, pressed her lips together, and lifted her chin to a challenging angle. “Yes. Assuming it makes it into production.”
Holly let out a groan. She understood now but wished she didn’t.
“Mom, Jared Hoffman is married. He’s married! And he has two kids. Carson Hoffman a
nd I were in the same grade, remember? And you’re so desperate for this part that you agreed to go off to Mexico with him?” She made a face, like she’d just tasted something terrible. “Geez, Rachel . . .”
“Mom!” Rachel spat back, her eyes flashing, carefully enunciating her words. “I am your mother, Holly. Not your child or your girlfriend. Your mother.”
“Then why don’t you start acting like one? Or even like a grown-up? I’d settle for that. A responsible, caring human being instead of—”
A pickup truck came up behind them and gave a short tap on the horn. Holly pressed the accelerator. They drove in silence for five blocks before Holly spoke again.
“You could end up hurting a lot of people.”
Rachel’s head turned to the left, the movement so deliberate it seemed almost choreographed. “What I do with my life is none of your concern. So let’s drop it, shall we?”
“Fine,” Holly said.
“Fine,” Rachel echoed. “I think you just passed the house.”
Holly pulled into the gravel driveway.
The yard, surrounded by a waist-high chain-link fence, was brown: brown grass, brown patches of dirt showing up where the grass was sparse, and brown, spindly weeds and vines, lots of them, clinging to and climbing up the chain link like prisoners desperate to make an escape. The only green was on the leaves of the pecan tree planted on the west side of the narrow lot, grown so large that it blocked much of the view of the house. Through the heavy branches, Holly could spot pink siding and white shutters, both peeling. The peaked roof, an oddly angled, half-story affair, appeared to be missing a few shingles.
Holly turned off the ignition. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“What I’m thinking. Don’t say it.”
“How would I know what you’re thinking?” Rachel frowned, then lifted her hands, palms out. “I’m not saying a word.”
“Fine,” Holly said, reaching into the backseat for the cat carrier. “Don’t.”
“Fine,” Rachel said, and got out of the car.
“The porch is nice,” Rachel said as she opened the creaking metal gate and walked up the cracked cement sidewalk.
From the deliberately bright tone of her voice, Holly guessed that they were now supposed to move on and pretend the whole Jared Hoffman thing had never come up. Probably just as well.
Holly stood at the bottom of the porch steps, Calypso’s carrier in one hand, staring at the pink cottage, thinking it looked like an iced petit four, or would have if the paint hadn’t been peeling quite so much.
“It’s tiny. The ad said there were two bedrooms, but . . . how is that possible? It can’t be more than fifteen feet across.”
“It’s a shotgun cottage. My uncle Kenny lived in one of these, in Baton Rouge. The rooms stack up in a line, one behind the other, like looking down the barrel of a gun. They’re designed to fit on narrow lots.” Rachel walked to the corner of the cottage and stuck her head around the side. “See? It goes way, way back.”
“Hmm . . .” Holly mounted the steps to the porch. The bottom step was cracked across the middle and the railing wobbled when she grabbed it. “It’s only for a few months. I don’t need much space.”
She set Calypso’s carrier down, pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, and checked the time. Six minutes after two.
“What time did the landlord say to meet her?” Rachel asked.
“Two o’clock.”
Rachel joined Holly on the porch. “Let’s go in and take a look around until she gets here.”
“I’m sure it’s locked,” Holly said without testing the knob. “Let’s just wait on the porch. I’ll call and try to find out where she is.” She punched the number into her phone and waited. “No answer. And the voice-mail box is full.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous! I am not going to just sit here!”
Rachel marched up to the door, turned the knob, and strode across the threshold. Holly followed more cautiously, craning her neck to the left and right before actually stepping inside. Once inside, she put down the cat carrier and unlatched the door. Calypso came out immediately and started walking around the room, sniffing the walls and floors.
“See? It’s just like I told you,” said Rachel, standing in the center of the room and turning in a circle. “The rooms are arranged one after another, in a single line. This must be the living-dining room.”
Holly tilted her head back. “The tall ceilings are nice. From the outside, I thought it was a story and a half, but I guess not.”
“The extra height lets the hot air rise so the house stays cooler,” Rachel said, then walked across the room and bent down to peer into the sooty black of the brick fireplace. “I think it works.” She sniffed. “Smells like it does.”
“Why would you need a fireplace around here?” Holly asked. “It’s the second week of December and still seventy degrees.”
“Wait till the sun goes down. I bet it gets pretty chilly in here.”
Holly cast her eyes around the room, taking in the scarred wooden floors, the grimy leaded windows, and the brass pendant chandelier festooned with cobwebs, trying to picture herself occupying this space.
Maybe this was a mistake. On the other hand, it was only for a few months. And when the story of Rachel’s affair with Jared Hoffman hit the tabloids—not “if” but “when,” as the press always found out about that stuff—Holly would rather be anyplace on earth but Los Angeles. Hopefully, the whole thing would blow over by the time she got back. And if not? Maybe she’d just move to Texas permanently.
Yeah, right.
Holly chuckled at the thought. Rachel turned to look at her.
“I thought you said it came furnished.”
“I thought so too. That’s what Brocade said when I talked to her.”
“The landlord’s name is Brocade? You’ve got to be kidding.” Rachel snorted. “She must be two hundred years old.”
“She didn’t sound old. She said everybody calls her Cady.”
“I don’t care what they call her; she’s late.” Rachel huffed and started walking toward the hallway that led to the back of the house. Holly hesitated a moment and then followed, the sound of her footsteps, not quite in sync with her mother’s, echoing through the empty room.
There wasn’t a lot more to see.
The long hallway led to a small kitchen with blue-and-white linoleum and white wooden cabinets that looked like they had been painted and repainted many times over, followed by two bedrooms with a small bathroom sandwiched between them. The bedrooms were equal in size, but the one at the back of the house had more windows, better light, and a larger closet. Holly decided that was the room she would sleep in.
“Assuming somebody gets you a bed,” Rachel said.
Holly bit at her lower lip, stung by the inherent criticism in Rachel’s tone and wishing she’d called Cady to confirm the meeting time and details the night before.
“I’ll call again after I use the bathroom. Hey, where’s Calypso?”
“I don’t know. Around here somewhere,” Rachel said, and sighed impatiently. “I’m going to check out the backyard.”
Rachel went out the back door at the end of the hall and Holly headed into the bathroom. Calypso was inside, stretched out on his side on the tile floor, eyes closed. Holly squatted down to stroke his fur.
“So, what do you think? Should we stay? It’s your call.”
The cat opened one eye and started to purr.
“All right, then. We stay.” Holly stood up. “But I sure hope you know what you’re talking about.”
There was no towel or soap in the bathroom, so Holly wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans after rinsing them, then pulled her phone out of her pocket and hit the “redial” button. Hearing a noise in the bedroom, she assumed Rachel had come back inside and went to find her.
“Still no answer,” she called out, nudging the bedroom door open with her foot.
There was
a loud metallic thud and the startled cry of a man’s voice. Holly gasped as pieces from the window air conditioner the man had dropped scattered across the floor and he spun around to face her, shouting.
“Who the hell are you?! What are you doing here?!”
The booming sound of his voice, rapid-fire barrage of questions, and enraged expression startled her and made her pulse race. The man’s hand clutched at his pant leg, as if he might be reaching for something.
For an instant, Holly thought—Gun! Her body tensed up, ready to flee, but then she looked into his eyes and saw fear lurking beneath the surface of his rage. She took a deep breath and opened her arms, fingers spread apart.
“I’m Holly Silva. The new tenant?”
Her declaration didn’t seem to register any recognition in his eyes. She wondered if they had somehow gotten the wrong address.
“Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m renting a house and thought this was it. We were supposed to meet the landlord at two, but she’s late.” Her heartbeat slowed a little as the man relaxed his hands and the jumble of fear and fury faded from his dark brown eyes.
There was a noise at the back door and the sound of running footsteps. Rachel burst into the room, looking from Holly to the air conditioner lying in pieces on the floor to the stranger in the gray T-shirt, battered Stetson, and scuffed black boots.
“Are you okay? I thought there was an explosion!”
Holly shook her head. “I think we’re at the wrong address. I barged in here unannounced, scared him, and—”
“You scared him?” Rachel looked at Holly, all five foot six, hundred and seventeen pounds of her, then at the tall man with the heavy shoulders and work-calloused hands, and let out a short, sharp laugh.
His skin was bronzed and roughened from weather, with the beginnings of creases at the eyes, a complexion that would someday be described as leathery. Even so, Holly detected the blush of embarrassment in response to Rachel’s question. She felt sorry for him. She knew how Rachel’s barbs could sting.
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