by Debbie Burke
Tawny didn’t remember seeing any bottles when she’d cleaned up the kitchen, despite the used goblets on the table. Arielle must have snitched the rest of the wine and finished it off in her room. She was little, barely a hundred pounds. Wouldn’t take much alcohol to knock her out cold.
Tawny squatted beside her and shook her shoulder. “Arielle?”
No response. But, thankfully, she was breathing. Unlike her sister.
Drunken teens Tawny could handle. She grasped the girl under the armpits and lifted her to sit on the edge of the queen-size bed. Arielle immediately flopped backward, limp as overcooked spaghetti, exhaling wine fumes. Tawny pulled her sneakers off and tossed them among the other discards on the floor. She rolled the girl on her side so she wouldn’t aspirate if she threw up, then stroked her forehead, and kissed her cheek.
Beside the empty wine bottle, an artist’s sketch pad lay on the floor, half under the bed. Tawny picked it up and squinted at the pencil drawings, wishing she had her readers. She flipped through pages of different hairstyles, like salon displays. Even without glasses, Tawny recognized Arielle’s talent.
Judah stood in the open doorway and nodded at the empty bottle. “Drunk again?”
Again? Barely fifteen and the girl was already an alcoholic in training. “She’s feeling better now than she will in the morning.”
The boy chuckled.
“It’s been a hard day all around,” Tawny said. “Your dad called. Mimi’s all right.”
Judah lifted a shoulder. “Guess we don’t have to sit shiva.”
Tawny remembered the seven days of mourning at the home of her old friends, the Roths, after their daughter died. “Thank goodness.” Exhaustion weighed heavy. She tried to stifle a yawn but failed. Her shoulders, arms, and hands all ached from the exertion of CPR.
Judah also yawned, mouth wide as a railroad tunnel.
“We should follow Arielle’s example,” she said.
He beamed. “Cool! How ’bout a single-malt nightcap at Dad’s bar?”
Tawny winked. “I didn’t mean getting wasted. I meant going to bed.”
His eyes sparkled. “That works for me too!” Little brat had inherited Tillman’s smartass wit.
She faked a move to clonk him on the head with the empty wine bottle.
He dodged, grinning. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
She set the bottle on a desk and sank down on Arielle’s bed. She wanted to keep both kids close. “I’m so tired, I couldn’t make that long hike back. Thought I’d camp out here, in case Arielle wakes up so I can tell her about Mimi.”
“Want to borrow my toothbrush? My bathroom’s right next door.”
She pursed her lips at the gross notion of hospitality that popped out of a thirteen-year-old boy. “Thanks, but I don’t think my teeth will fall out if I skip one night.” She nodded at the flat screen TV, hanging crooked on the wall. “How about we finish that movie? I won’t be able to sleep until I find out who won.”
He sprinted to the bed and bounced onto the mattress. “It’s an apocalypse. Everybody dies. Ginormous explosion blows the earth into atoms.”
“Damn, Judah, you spoiled the suspense for me.”
****
A distant slamming door woke Tawny, disoriented, sweaty, hemmed in on both sides, unable to move. She blinked in the TV’s bluish light and remembered she’d fallen asleep in Arielle’s room. In the dimness, she made out Arielle on one side of her, Judah on the other, crowded as close as a pile of sleeping puppies.
Then she noticed Tillman’s tall form in the open doorway, backlit by the hall sconces. She pulled free from the kids’ sprawling arms and legs, and sat up. “Hi.”
He nodded toward the other wing. “I’m going to bed.”
She carefully climbed from between the sleeping children and dodged cast-off shoes. In the hall, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Tillman. He hung a heavy arm around her shoulder and they walked back to his suite in silence.
Secure behind his closed doors, he hugged her. “What a night.” His voice rasped with fatigue.
She pulled back and studied his face, lined, dark eyes sunken. “How’s Mimi?”
“In ICU, constantly monitored.” He went to the bar and poured a scotch. “Tomorrow, the neurologist evaluates her for brain damage.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Today, actually.” He gulped the drink. “Did you know Montana has the highest suicide rate in the country? Aren’t you glad we’re first at something?”
Tawny watched him down another drink, then shrug off his jacket, unbutton his shirt, and step out of his jeans. His wide shoulders sagged and rounded. She moved close and ran her fingers through the black hair on his chest. He bent to kiss her, his eyelids heavy. “You need sleep,” she murmured.
He collapsed naked on his back on the huge bed, chin jutting toward the ceiling, pinching his forehead as if he had a throbbing migraine. “Thanks for staying with the kids.”
She slipped off his borrowed sweater and t-shirt and lay down beside him. “You’re welcome.”
He faced her. “When I pushed open Arielle’s door and saw you all sleeping, it looked like a scene from the goddamn Brady Bunch.” Despite his cursing, his tone was soft. “I about busted out crying.” Back up at the ceiling. “Chell wasn’t so moved by the warm fuzzies. She almost knocked her bedroom door off the hinges.”
Tawny remembered the slam that had awakened her. “I didn’t mean to offend her. They just seemed like they could use some reassurance after what happened.”
He rocked his head back and forth on the pillow. “Screw her. You gave them exactly what they needed…and would never have gotten from their own parents. This isn’t a family. It’s five strangers who can’t stand each other, living under the same roof.”
His unflinching words made her sad.
She rose to her knees. “Roll over on your stomach.” He did. Despite her own exhaustion, she straddled his back and massaged his knotty shoulders and neck.
“Feels good,” he mumbled, face mashed in his pillow. Within a minute, he was snoring.
She turned off the bedside table lamp and lay on top of him in the dark. She loved the feel of his lean, sinewy muscles, his smooth bronze skin, the soft curls in his black hair. She wished she could shelter and protect him from what lay ahead for his troubled family.
But even with her breasts pressed into Tillman’s back, her hands running along his arms, she knew the answer to Judah’s question.
If God gave her the choice of this man or Dwight, wasted by cancer, so wracked with pain that she didn’t dare touch him, she would beg for her husband back.
Chapter 4 – Suicide Camp
Before dawn on Saturday morning, Fausto Calderon’s favorite song, “La Bamba,” played on the radio as his 1974 Dodge flatbed truck jounced over the muddy, pot-holed road. He sang along with Ritchie Valens, trilling the R’s during the guitar solo. Faint gray barely lit the eastern sky.
He adjusted the doughnut pillow he sat on but it wasn’t doing its job, cushioning his tender backside, on the rutted track. He’d just delivered a load of hay to a suburban ranchette where a transplanted California family had made it through their first Montana winter. They rose early, like farmers, which made him respect them.
Unlike many Montanans, Fausto didn’t mind California refugees. La señora had given him a cup of coffee while he talked with the couple about the Del Mar and Santa Anita racetracks where he’d ridden as a jockey in his younger years.
But these days, bucking bales of hay made his back and hips clench with pain. He could barely sit a saddle anymore because of the tailbone he’d broken more times than he could remember. Every morning, before he rose from the bed, Consuelo had to rub Ben Gay into his body. The doctor said he needed surgery on his herniated disks but he didn’t have the money.
Consuelo said Señor Tillman would help with the bills but Fausto was too proud to borrow from his employer. Better he wait six more years until he was old enough for Medicare. He was a patient m
an.
Fausto readjusted the doughnut pillow and turned onto Highway 3 toward home. Ahh, much smoother. He still needed to load up two more hay deliveries for this morning. When he finished, he looked forward to spending the afternoon watching South American soccer on TV and drinking cerveza. Despite his pain, life was good.
Even though it was Saturday, Consuelo had to work because of the fiesta at the Rosenbaums’ for young Judah. Fausto would have his house to himself.
No other vehicles were out this early. He tapped the headlights to high beams and turned on Zimmerman Trail.
The steep, winding road down to the valley floor always made him nervous—two narrow lanes, blind curves, and sheer drop-offs. During spring thaw, boulders broke loose without warning and rolled over the road, occasionally crushing unlucky vehicles. He crossed himself to ward off danger.
He’d just rounded a sharp curve when the Dodge’s brakes turned mushy. Better pick up brake fluid today at Napa and replace the bands, too. He pumped the pedal hard but the truck rolled faster down the steep hill.
Mierda!
He turned the wheel toward the rock face, skidding the truck’s passenger side against it. Metal screeched on rock. “Más despacio.” The truck didn’t respond to his plea to slow down.
Ahead, the high beams lit up a huge rock rolling downhill toward the road. Fausto turned hard to avoid impact but the boulder collided like a gigantic pool ball, shoving the front end of the truck across the oncoming lane and over the cliff.
Jesucristo!
****
Across the canyon from the Rosenbaum estate, Frank Grand stood on the third floor balcony of the vacant Spanish-style house. He manipulated the drone upward to a hundred feet for a panoramic scan of the lawyer’s property. At that altitude, people on the ground couldn’t hear the sound of the motor. Even if they spotted the drone, they would mistake it for a bird.
At eight-thirty, a catering van arrived, followed by Consuelo, the maid. Alvin had taken care of her husband earlier. Apparently the wreck hadn’t been discovered yet. Good.
Frank zoomed the drone camera in on the gorgeous Rochelle Rosenbaum coming out the front door, wearing a tight black sweater and tighter leggings. She rushed to intercept the van driver and spoke with emphatic gestures. Not happy. Angry. Arguing. They hadn’t even unloaded the food and she was already pissed.
The caterer looked equally pissed, pointing at tables and chairs set up inside the tents.
Frank wished he’d thought to rig up a parabolic mic on the drone. It would be entertaining to listen to the argument.
A flower shop van pulled around the circular driveway. The florist got out and joined the squabble in progress. Within seconds, the caterer, florist, and hostess engaged in screams and arm-waving.
Yeah, Frank definitely wanted to add the audio option to the drone.
The caterer stomped to his truck and headed out the driveway. The florist followed, burning rubber.
The ambulance last night had clearly changed the plans for today’s bar mitzvah celebration.
It had also moved up the timetable on Frank’s own plans.
****
The espresso machine in Tillman’s mini-kitchen hissed out another shot of French Roast. Tawny sipped her third cup, despite caffeine jitters that made her hands shake.
Tillman had gone upstairs a half hour before.
She longed to go home and forget the troubled Rosenbaum family but she couldn’t desert him.
The door from the interior hall swung open. A short, chubby Hispanic woman with frizzy gray hair entered, carrying a caddy full of cleaning supplies, head down, apparently checking to see if the carpet needed to be vacuumed. When she saw Tawny, she jumped in surprise. Her mouth opened then immediately snapped closed. “Excuse me, señora, I do not know anyone is here.”
Tawny extended her hand. “Are you Consuelo? I’m Tawny. I enjoyed your lemon meringue pie last night.”
The woman’s brows twitched. She grasped Tawny’s hand only long enough to be polite then immediately let go and looked down again. “I come to clean while Señor Tillman is out.” She backed toward the door. “Lo siento. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Please stay. You’re not disturbing me.” Tawny wondered who was more embarrassed—the housekeeper unexpectedly coming face to face with her boss’s lover or Tawny herself. This was exactly the sort of confrontation she’d hoped to avoid when she’d insisted Tillman take her to a hotel. But that plan hadn’t worked out. “Did you use fresh lemon juice and rind in the pie?”
Consuelo nodded, head still down, but a small light shone in her brown eyes. “Sí, señora. Always fresh lemons. No artificial flavor. That taste like lemon furniture polish.”
Tawny chuckled. “Sure does. Nothing beats the real thing.”
Consuelo cocked her head sideways. “When I come this morning, kitchen is very clean.”
“Judah and I washed up after dinner last night.”
“Judah?” Surprise widened her eyes.
“Yeah, he learned how to load a dishwasher. Did a pretty good job for his first time.”
Consuelo shrugged. “The boy loves food but he always leaves a big mess.”
“Have you worked for the Rosenbaums a long time?”
“Long time. Judah bebé. Before the girls go to school.”
Tawny suspected Consuelo had probably uncovered a lot of family secrets over the years. How many empty wine bottles had she cleaned up in Arielle’s room?
The woman ventured a question: “You work for Señor Tillman?”
“Yes. He helped me with a bad problem then gave me a job.”
A shy flicker of connection. “My husband, same. Señor Tillman fix his problems then he hire my husband.”
Several employees at the law office had told Tawny similar stories. Even though Tillman tried to hide his kindness, he had a soft heart. “What does your husband do?”
Consuelo gestured toward the street above. “Take care of the horses. They stay in a barn across the road.”
Tawny remembered seeing corrals and stables on the far side of Highway 3.
Consuelo went on: “He’s a jockey when he’s young. Know horses inside out.”
“Do the Rosenbaums ride?”
Consuelo raised one shoulder. “Not so much now. Señor and Señora always work. Judah don’t like horses since he fell off, broke his leg. Mimi and Arielle still ride sometimes.” She shook her head. “Don’t know how much longer Fausto has a job here. Only two horses left.”
Tawny remembered Judah had mentioned that name last night. “Fausto’s your husband?”
She nodded. “Is OK, though. My husband have arthritis very bad. Fall off many horses, many broken bones.” Consuelo picked up Tawny’s soiled green dress from the back of a chair and admired it. “Muy bonita.”
Ripped tiers of lace hung loose. Tawny said, “I saw a sewing machine in the laundry room. Do you think I could borrow it to fix the tear?”
Consuelo folded the dress. “I clean and I fix for you.”
“You don’t have to.” Tawny appreciated Consuelo’s willingness but didn’t want to cause more upheaval if Rochelle discovered her doing a chore for the other woman.
Approaching footsteps sounded in the hall. Tillman entered the suite, still looking tired and annoyed. He jerked his head at the housekeeper. “Consuelo, come back later.” After a quick glance at Tawny, he added, “Por favor.”
“Sí, señor.” She left, carrying her supplies and Tawny’s dress, and closed the door softly.
He sat at his desk and lit up the sleeping computer. Long fingers scampered over the keys. Tawny approached from behind and rubbed his shoulders, even though her still-swollen hands ached from doing CPR.
A screen appeared with scenes that looked like a summer camp, with cascading videos of young people shooting river rapids in kayaks, climbing a sheer rock wall, and crossing a swaying rope bridge over a gorge. “Bunch of horseshit,” he muttered.
“What is?�
��
He flicked a hand at the screen. “Suicide camp. The shrink convinced Chell this is the place to send Mimi. Stick her in with a bunch of other head cases and they’ll teach each other how to cope with life. Four weeks in the wilderness, challenging their fears, exposing their deep, innermost demons to the light of psychiatric brilliance, yada, yada, yada, all for a mere forty thousand bucks.”
Tawny had heard of wilderness retreats for troubled teens. “There’s a facility like that west of Kalispell.”
He craned his neck to glance up at her. “Yeah, Montana’s a proving ground for these rackets. I asked the administrator for stats about success rates. Wouldn’t tell me, claims it’s confidential medical information.” He scowled. “Of course, he wants to keep it confidential because success rates are abysmal.” He pushed back from the computer and stalked to his bathroom.
Tawny followed, leaning on the door frame. “Are you going to send Mimi there?”
“Do I have a choice? Chell and the shrink are all over me. Plus she talked to her pal in the psych department at MSU. He’s on the board of directors for this spa, a regular cheerleader. Hardly surprising, since he gets a cut for referrals.” Tillman grabbed his shaving gear and stuffed it into a travel kit. “It’s not the goddamn money. Hell, I’d pay a million bucks to help Mimi. But I’ve seen the results. Not worth it. My mother and sister proved that.”
Tawny bit her lip. He’d told her about his mother’s repeated attempts to kill herself while he was growing up, until she’d finally succeeded.
He zipped the travel kit closed. “Ten years ago, my sister purposely drove a motorcycle off Zimmerman Trail, and she’s been in a group home ever since. Now the black dog of depression has followed into the next generation. The hospital shrink said that, once there’s been a successful suicide, the likelihood goes up among other family members.”
Tawny shuddered, praying Mimi could be saved from the bleak fate of his mother and sister. “Treatment might help. You don’t know until you try.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Today’s alleged experts are as ignorant as ancient shamans who believed human sacrifices would appease the angry gods. Same idea, just with dollar signs attached.”
