by Robyn Carr
Don’t cry. You don’t have to stay exactly like this. This is only temporary. Until you figure out what to do.
All that was left of her former self, the self she’d worked so hard to create, was the jewelry and money in her backpack. She could have sold the two rings and tennis bracelet, but if Nick was determined to find her, they could be traced, so she simply tucked them into the backpack for safekeeping—for emergencies. She still had some money left, two jobs and very modest needs.
It had been weeks since she’d walked out of the hotel suite. A couple of phone calls from phones with blocked lines revealed that Barbara Noble was said to be living in the Nobles’ Caribbean estate. Apparently no one was suspicious of any crime. There had only been that one sighting of an MGM limo—with no evidence it bore Nick or his thugs. Could it be they’d all gone back to Florida and just assumed Jennifer would never dare tell a thing?
Possible, she decided. Only time would tell. And that time she would spend in Louise’s comfy house. A very nice place to hide.
She gave the bathroom a quick, efficient scrubbing, then kicked off her shoes, let her khaki pants drop to the floor and stripped off the baggy shirt. While the tub filled with hot, soapy water, she looked at herself in the mirror. Wouldn’t people be surprised to know that under the baggy pants and men’s shirts was a body like this—high breasts, flat tummy, round butt, long, lean, shapely legs. She preened a bit, one arm over her head, the other stretched behind her back. Then she reversed her pirouette. Something else was growing in—pubic hair. She had endured years of waxing in what was called a Brazilian—total hair removal. Nick had no idea about her natural hair color.
She sank into the tub and sighed audibly. God bless Louise Barstow—this was heaven on earth. Jennifer, who’d flown in private jets to luxury resorts all over the world, who’d been to the finest of spas, who’d worn the most expensive designer labels, was enjoying what felt like the grandest moment of her life in Louise Barstow’s bathtub.
Alice walked into the bathroom, sniffed at the bubbles and wagged her tail.
And living with the perfect roommate, she thought. Then she sank out of sight under the water.
Later that evening she sat at the computer. Louise wouldn’t be in London yet, but she should have a positive message about Alice waiting for her when she got there. Then a strange thing happened. If Louise had been present, Jennifer wasn’t sure she’d even feel like talking. But typing was something else. She had to make an effort to keep it short. There was a long letter inside, wanting to come out.
Dear Louise,
Alice seemed a little depressed when I first got here, but she snapped out of it. I took her to the park. Then her appetite kicked in and she had a little snack. Imagine my surprise when there seemed to be lots of people and dogs who knew her, but then I guess Alice has been around Boulder City for quite a while. You have very friendly neighbors around the park. I had lots of offers of help if I need anything. But I don’t, of course.
Are you well? Was the flight interminable? How are your legs? When you have a moment, let me know how you’re doing.
Just out of curiosity, why do all the houses in the neighborhood look the same? Was there a builder with a limited imagination?
Breakfast just won’t be the same....
Love,
Doris
The next day, Jennifer checked the computer before even lifting the leash off the peg, and to her delight, the computer told her she had mail!
Dear Doris,
You should visit the dam and the museum—you’ll find it interesting. Boulder City started out as a government town, and all the little houses in my neighborhood—part of the historic district—were built for the managers of the dam project. The workers stayed in dormitories, tent cities and hastily constructed shanties. It was a highly regulated place in 1931, a morally conscious town in the middle of the most liberal, hard-drinking state in the union. The government was afraid if dam workers availed themselves of all the liquor and vice in Las Vegas, they’d blow themselves up with the dynamite they’d be handling. That or die of disease. Much of that enforced morality somehow remains, keeping us a dull lot.
The flight was sheer torture, thank you for asking. And the noise and smog and wet and dark in this, my favorite city, is more than I can take. I’m going to have to admit defeat and sell my flat. Tell Alice that when I come home, I’ll be staying.
Thank you for your email, and your conscientious care of my home and friend.
Love,
Louise
She couldn’t resist. She shot an email back.
Dear Louise,
A government town—how fascinating. I will go to the museum. Since I’m here, I’ll learn what I can.
I know your son will be sorry to hear you’re selling your flat. I suppose he’ll be visiting you in Boulder City from now on!
A few minutes later, just as she was lifting Alice’s leash off the peg, she heard the computer announce her mail. She had obviously caught Louise online.
Doris, my dear,
No, Rudy will never leave England. If you think I’m stubborn—!
Love,
Louise
She sat down at the computer to shoot off another note, but then upon recalling Louise’s gnarled fingers, she thought better of it. Besides, it would be something to look forward to later.
five
Every day, after finishing her work at the diner, Jennifer went to Louise’s house, where she began a new routine, quite different from her life before Nevada. First she would take Alice for a twirl around the park. Spring was full on the land, the sun bright and warm, and the trees and bushes were coming alive. Old Alice needed that walk, but she couldn’t take too much. Jennifer, however, found the spring irresistible, and after taking Alice home she went out again.
She discovered there was much more to Boulder City than she first encountered. Beyond the historic district that was filled with the tiny homes built by the government for dam workers, there were larger, newer homes. There were also huge homes, apartment and condominium complexes across the highway that led to Hoover Dam, high on the hills above Lake Mead. There were a few fancy golf courses and country clubs scattered around, a Franciscan center, churches both small and large, and more walking and biking trails than she could exhaust in a year. She found an abandoned railroad track that ran through tunnels above the lake—walkers, joggers and bikers were always in evidence. On a hill above the track was a sightseeing helicopter giving twenty-dollar rides.
Then there was the lake, massive and bright blue, busy with boaters and surrounded by parks and camping areas. She felt almost as peaceful walking along the edge of the lake as she did on the Florida beaches. Paths led into the mountains in every direction, and once she got the lay of the land, she thought she would investigate them further.
After walking for miles and sometimes hours, she would return to the house and log onto the computer. She’d ditch the clompy shoes and baggy pants and sit at the computer in her oversize shirt and panties, total comfort, total privacy, totally at home in Louise’s cozy little house. This house with the dark, warm colors, the woods and wools, florals and plaids, was so completely different from the sterile condo in Fort Lauderdale. From the beach to the desert. She thought she would grieve for the sound of crashing waves, but each morning when she woke she hugged herself. It was so calm here. So quiet. So uncomplicated.
Her life here was so blissfully ordinary. She never would have guessed this kind of simplicity could be so comforting. She felt lucky to wait tables, walk Alice, explore Boulder City and email back and forth with Louise, and it was no longer just because it kept her safe from Nick.
Most of their emails were just daily news—Louise would report on the bookstores she visited, historic sights she never tired of, and the weather. Jennifer wo
uld mention who came into the diner, pass along hellos from Buzz and the gang and tell her where she’d been walking that day. She lived for those emails—it brought her out of herself in a way she couldn’t have predicted.
Dear Doris,
I was thinking about you this morning as a whole group of little schoolgirls passed me on the street and I couldn’t help but wonder, where is your mother? What kind of childhood did you have? You’re so wonderful with Hedda—do you have siblings?
Love,
Louise
Childhood. Being raised by Cherie Chaise was like growing up in a three-ring circus. Manic episodes followed by deep depressions; unstable romantic interests that had them moving all over the country interspersed with running home to Grandma and Grandpa in Ohio. Cherie was whimsical and full of big dreams and the most loving and vulnerable person alive. When that great energy would come upon her, she could take a job and do the work of ten women. Cherie had even been a waitress more than once, and unsurprisingly her tips were huge. But then sometimes it was not a job that soaked up all that manic energy, but perhaps a lover, and she would throw herself into a relationship that Jennifer knew, even when she was very, very young, wouldn’t last very long. Or, a great idea would seize her and she would launch into music and acting lessons to become a star, a shopping spree through an office-supply warehouse to start a business. Once they got on a bus with the intention of riding nonstop across the United States from ocean to ocean.
And then she would crash, unable to lift her head, to eat, to wash. And then she would rise! And again they would fly! And laugh and sing and dance! And crash. Time and again Grandma and Grandpa would come to them, fetch them home and beg Cherie not to take Jennifer away again. Jennifer needed stability, they pleaded.
But Cherie needed Jennifer and Jennifer needed to protect her mother.
It was while growing up that Jennifer learned how to take care of herself, how to entertain herself and how to be safe in the most unsafe conditions. She counted seventeen different schools, even though she counted only one school the eight different times she stayed in Ohio. Of course she was a loner; how could she be otherwise? She couldn’t have friends—Cherie needed her full attention. And she dared not bring friends from school home, there was no telling what might be going on. The shift in moods could be rapid fire. Cherie might be talking to the walls, hallucinating after days of sleeplessness. Or she could be ensconced in darkness.
Something dawned on her. Perhaps, as an adult, she hadn’t eschewed friendship out of necessity because she was always committed to a rich older gentleman. Possibly it had just become a way of life since childhood. A solitary existence.
She had learned to sleep in chaos or stay calm during the black periods. She did not miss the craziness, but she missed her mother so much sometimes. No matter how high or low she happened to be, she was always sweet. Cherie was like a child, so vulnerable and loving.
She had rarely talked about it. She had never told Nick anything personal. He could care less. What he liked about her was her long hair and legs, high perky tits, et cetera.
Now she had someone to tell.
Dear Louise,
Messy. My childhood was a train wreck. My mother, I now realize, was bipolar, but because we were barely scraping by financially she never had a proper diagnosis. She was hospitalized a couple of times and medicated with Thorazine, which had the effect of knocking her out and making her sick—so naturally she feared the doctors. I’m sure it’s a good thing I was the only child. I don’t think we could have managed more than just the two of us. We had some high old times if the right man or job came along—but it couldn’t last long because my mother would sink into a terrible depression and lose her boyfriend or job. Once she got back on her feet, we’d move—a person in a manic state loves nothing so much as a change of scenery and a chance to start over. I went to over twenty schools. That probably accounts for me being such a loner. After my grandparents died, my poor mother lost the only anchor she had and took her own life. I know she was crazy and sometimes miserable, but the fun times were so fun. And she was a dear. A lovely, kind, sweet but wacky woman. She loved me so. It made her feel so guilty that my life was so dysfunctional. But there were times when life seemed almost normal. You’d have liked her.
I didn’t think I wanted ever to talk about that, but thank you for asking.
Love,
Doris
Dear Doris,
You are truly a remarkable young woman. I can’t imagine all you must have learned from that experience. What wisdom and tenacity! I’m sorry for the hard times, but so glad you knew your mother loved you.
Now that you don’t have to be a caretaker to an ill parent, how do you suppose your life will change?
Louise
Change? Jennifer realized that Louise had the impression her mother had died recently, that Jennifer was poised on the brink of a new life.
Well, maybe she was.
We’re friends, Jennifer realized. Girlfriends. This was something she’d never had. Every time she began to get close to a friend while growing up, she would be snatched away again and it would be lost. There were a couple of women she began to get close to in her twenties, but she couldn’t sustain the friendships because she was too private, too solitary. Women have to exchange personal items and secrets in barter for friendship and Jennifer hadn’t been up to the job. But now... With her eighty-year-old mentor, she was learning.
She depended on the emails to sustain her.
After writing to Louise, she would begin her internet search for any news about Barbara Noble, but there had been none. She watched the Palm Beach news, subscribed to vital statistics networks and read online news sources. Every once in a while Nick’s name would pop up, or he’d have his photo in the paper, which could be viewed online. He played in a charity golf tournament in Miami and bought a new yacht. He gave money to political campaigns and cut the ribbon on yet another new office building. His wife was never at his side, yet this didn’t seem to raise any alarms.
But...if he was in Miami being a big shot, he was not in Las Vegas. It was possible he had people looking for her in his stead, but there was no one she feared recognizing her as much as Nick.
Here’s how her life was going to change—she was going to get this business with Nick Noble behind her somehow and create an entirely new life for herself. She made up a new screen name on Louise’s internet account and sent an email to the Las Vegas Metro Police Department: Nick Noble of Palm Beach, killed his wife, Barbara Noble, in a Las Vegas hotel and disposed of the body. She hit Send, then deleted the screen name.
She began to tremble. Could that be traced? She thought not. But the PD might connect Nick’s name with hers and the fact that she was missing. She thought about repeating the process with the Florida authorities, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was too afraid of being found out.
* * *
Jennifer was taking the trash out of the diner’s back door and into the alley when she just about collided with Hedda, who was in a serious lip-lock with her boyfriend. Hedda giggled and separated herself from the boy. “Doris, this is Max,” she said.
Jennifer said hi and Max hung his head shyly, looking up cautiously. She assumed he was sixteen, like Hedda. Boys that age came in all shapes and sizes, and this one was about six feet tall, thin as a noodle with size-twelve feet and spiked hair that had been bleached white. And black eyebrows. She almost said, “I was thinking of doing my hair that way,” and caught herself.
It was also hard to tell with kids these days whether they looked like they were on welfare, or whether they were on welfare. Max wore pants that hung low on his butt, his boxers sticking out, and the hems that dragged over his shoes were frayed. His T-shirt had a couple of holes in it and a ball cap stuck out of one pocket.
“So, what are you two up
to? You’re early for work.”
“I thought we might split a sandwich and do some homework. Then Max goes to work, too, and I’m all yours. I can stay out of your way, or you can go home early.”
“Where do you work, Max?”
His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear. “I wash dogs? Next door at Terry’s?” He said it like a question. “Till about six?”
“Wow,” she said. “What a fun job.”
“They poop in the tub sometimes?”
“So,” she said, temporarily at a loss. How do you respond to something like that? “You have to be flexible in this job.”
He liked that. He grinned largely and slipped his arm around Hedda’s waist. He had straight, white teeth. “Yeah. Gonna be a vet.” No question mark that time.
“Good for you. So, let’s get that lunch,” she said. “You have to keep up your strength. Never know what you’re going to find in the bathwater.”
“Yeah,” he laughed.
She served them up a nice big sandwich along with plenty of chips and pickles. It seemed a good idea to take care of them a little. It was impossible to know if Max was so thin because he was hungry, or because he was sixteen. And she wondered if it would be inappropriate for her to ask Hedda how serious they were. Her mother, Sylvia, was so young, it implied a teen pregnancy. She would hate to see Hedda get caught in the same trap her mother had.
Of course, Jennifer knew how to take care of that little problem.
But no, she cautioned herself. Can’t get too personal with someone else’s kid. It was just that Hedda was growing on her. It was like looking in an old mirror. And she had long ago developed her habit of trying to keep the vulnerable safe.
There were just a few people left from the lunch crowd when Max went to his job and Hedda found her apron and covered up her multicolored hair. Buzz had disappeared with a couple of bags of takeout for his personal meals-on-wheels program, and now he was back. Even though she was sure he wouldn’t mind about the free lunch for Hedda and Max, she felt compelled to tell him.
