“Lester is not deranged,” Pamela clarified. “He just has issues.”
“He lives on ham and eggs and thinks hunting is something you watch other birds do on the National Geographic Channel. Has he ever left the tree outside of your bedroom window?”
“He’s working on it,” Pamela defended, turning away from Carol. “Just last week he got down on the ground and walked over to my back porch,” she proudly reported.
Carol folded her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, chocolate?”
Pamela shrugged. “Rice Krispie treats, but it’s a step. It’s the first time he has left the tree since he got here.” She gently pulled the syringe out of the mouth of the baby squirrel in her hands.
“I know you created this place as a haven for the wildlife, but you have to be realistic. The donations are not flowing in like they used to and the budget is getting tight, real tight. You’re going to have to accept the fact that we need to cut back on the amount of animals we take in. Between the formula, food, and vet bills, we are barely making it,” Carol informed her.
Pamela kept her eyes on the bowl of formula as she refilled her syringe. “I could apply for another of those federal grants for wildlife rehabilitation. They have helped us out in the past.”
Carol shook her head. “You know how much red tape and paperwork are involved with those grants. And after all the recent state and federal budget cuts, the competition for grant money to fund wildlife programs has become fierce. Besides, any grant could take several months to come through and we need an influx of cash now.”
Pamela placed the syringe back in the baby squirrel’s mouth. “I could go to Bob. He always said he would cover us if things got tight.”
Carol took a seat on the porch next to Pamela. “You went to him last year when the air-conditioning had to be replaced in your house.”
“But he would come through if I asked him,” Pamela insisted.
Carol placed a concerned arm about Pamela’s shoulder. “And how would Imelda feel about that? You two almost came to blows last year over the air conditioner.”
Imelda was Carol’s name for Bob’s second wife, Clarissa. A social climbing court reporter, Clarissa Turner had married him three months after Bob and Pamela’s divorce was final. She was a green-eyed beauty who had an affinity for designer clothes, lavish parties, and was known around town for her obsession with shoes. It was a running joke that Bob had bought their expensive mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans just to make room for all of Clarissa’s shoes.
“Clarissa is not as bad as you make her out to be, Carol. She cares about this place,” Pamela asserted. She gently started rubbing the squirrel’s pink stomach as it sucked on the syringe.
Carol laughed and quickly removed her arm from Pamela’s shoulder. “Are you kidding me? The only time the woman shows any interest in this place is when she is trying to get her name in the society pages of the Times-Picayune. And even when she does manage to get us any publicity, she insists that all of the donations be sent to her and not directly to you. Probably so she can buy that Chinese baby she keeps talking about adopting.”
Pamela pulled the syringe away from the baby squirrel and placed it back in the bowl of formula. “You know Bob doesn’t want to adopt a kid. He never wanted kids.”
“Then why did he divorce you?!” Carol said, raising her voice. “I thought you told me Bob wanted the divorce because you couldn’t have children.”
Pamela wrapped the baby squirrel in the towel she had sitting on her lap. “Bob didn’t leave me because I couldn’t have children. He left because I have lupus. He could not stand the thought of having a chronically ill wife.”
“So much for in sickness and in health,” Carol commented as she patted Pamela’s shoulder. “Bob always was a bit of a backstabbing son of a bitch, if you ask me. I guess that’s why he became such a successful attorney.” She stood up and looked down at Pamela. “But you can’t always depend on him to solve your financial problems, Pamie.”
“Don’t call me that, Carol.” She frowned. “You know I hate that name.” She paused for a moment as she rubbed the small squirrel’s round, pink stomach. “Anyway, there is always the settlement fund, if I need money,” she added.
Carol stomped her foot defiantly on the ground. “No, the money from your accident is your nest egg. You depleted half of it when you got this place up and running. As your accountant and your friend, I cannot stand by and let you squander anymore of it. That money is for when you really need it. In case you get sick and…” Carol left the sentence unfinished.
The “what ifs” had been hanging over Pamela’s head like a noose ever since she was first diagnosed with her chronic disease. It was not a possible death sentence that she feared. No individual afflicted with such a disorder feared death; they feared loosing control of their life. Lupus had robbed her of her marriage, her chance at motherhood, her health and, at times, her sanity. But she had secretly vowed that she would never let it take away her one form of happiness: her sanctuary.
“You worry too much, Carol.” Pamela stood from the porch still holding the towel in her hands. “You know I would rather have that money go to helping these animals than paying doctor bills.”
“You can’t go on forever, Pamie. One day you will have to slow down and hand this place over to someone who has the money and the connections to keep it going.”
“Don’t bring that up again, Carol. You and I both know what Bob will do to this place if he ever gets his hands on it. Or even worse, if Clarissa gets her hands on it,” Pamela said, raising her voice slightly. “She would kick all of the animals out and turn it into an exclusive retreat for overweight French poodles.”
“Well, if you can’t keep up with the taxes and the overhead, that, or something equally disturbing, will happen,” Carol affirmed.
“As long as Bob’s name is on the mortgage, I’m stuck with him as a silent partner. Until I’m financially viable, I’ll never be rid of him, you know that.”
“Then let’s find another patron, a richer one.”
Pamela frowned at her. “What do you suggest I do, Carol? Tack on a pair of pasties, head down to Bourbon Street, and sleep with the first man that flashes a blank check in my face?”
Carol laughed. “That would be a start.” She shook her head and focused her pale blue eyes on Pamela. “Honestly, if I had your package I would be out there hunting for the first man I came across with a pulse and a high credit score. You spend every day and night up to your elbows in animals. When was the last time you even had a date?”
“I don’t have time to date!” Pamela shouted.
“No, you don’t want to date.” Carol crossed her arms over her chest. “Last year, that fine looking vet kept making excuses to stop by. He asked you out a dozen times. What was his name?”
“Gary Levy.”
“So why didn’t you go out with him?”
Pamela could feel the tiny squirrel squirming around inside of the towel in her hands. She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Men don’t want me, Carol. I’m too old and once they find out I have–”
“Forty-one is not old!” Carol chimed in. “And have you seen the way half of the deliverymen look at you when they come in here? Trust me, men want you and they won’t give a damn about your disease. Bob is not representative of the entire male population, Pamie. Just because he reacted the way he did to your lupus does not mean that another man will be such a heartless asshole.” She threw her hands up in the air and laughed. “Christ, everyone has got something wrong with them. No one is perfect.”
Pamela nodded and tried to force back the slow grinding tension rising from the pit of her stomach. “But everyone does judge you when you have lupus. Many people don’t know anything about my disease, and I don’t want a man to only consider my limitations before he ever gets to know my possibilities.”
Carol stood in silence before her, as Pamela watched the woman’s pale blue eyes sink in resign
ation.
“All right,” Carol said, waving her hand in the air. “Lecture over. But I want you to at least consider dating someone.” She winked. “Preferably someone rich, but I’m not picky. I would go for someone moderately comfortable if it will get you laid.”
“Carol!” Pamela tried to look shocked, but instead found she was fighting to stifle a girlish giggle. “My sex life, or lack thereof, is none of your business.”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Honey, your sex life is my only business. Because any man that can get into your jeans will not only have to love animals, but will have to find a way to make you think he loves animals. And the only way any man will successfully be able do that is with a fat checkbook.”
“Really, Carol you make me sound like some—”
“Who’s that?” Carol quickly asked as she looked out toward the cages along the edge of the cleared property.
Pamela followed her line of sight until she saw Daniel. He was naked from the waist up, hosing out cages at the other end of the clearing. She stood there frozen for a moment as she watched his water-covered chest glistening in the mid-morning sunlight.
Pamela gasped. “Shit!”
Carol turned to her. “What is it?”
Pamela nodded in Daniel’s direction. “That’s the guy the parole office sent over to clean cages.”
Carol raised her eyebrows as she stared at Daniel. “Him? Man, we need to call them more often.”
“Not funny.” Pamela handed the towel with the baby squirrel inside to Carol. “The guy needs to put his shirt back on. This is not a Chippendales nightclub. This is a family friendly facility, for God’s sake!”
“Oh, please!” Carol laughed. “That is the first fine piece of man meat I have seen since I went into the city and got shit-faced at Pat O’Brien’s last year.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you saw him.” Pamela headed toward the back steps. “He works as a bartender at Pat O’Brien’s.”
“Oh, this morning is just getting better and better,” Carol remarked.
Pamela glanced back to her just as she reached the bottom step. “It won’t be so good when twenty prepubescent Girl Scouts and their mother’s pull up and see a half-naked man on my property.”
Carol smiled at her. “Pamela, right now it’s not the Girl Scouts getting bent out of shape by the half-naked man. It’s you.”
Pamela stormed down the steps and across the green grass toward the back row of cages. She could feel her anger coming to a steady boil as she watched the man flexing his muscles as he scrubbed the outside of the cage. All she could see was his nude upper body glaring at her from across the yard. In her head, she could hear the screams of frightened Girl Scouts as their mother’s insisted they quickly depart the depraved wildlife center.
“What do you think you are doing?” Pamela snapped as she came up to Daniel’s side.
Daniel glanced over at her and then down at the scrub brush in his hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?” His dark eyes flashed with irritation. “And what the hell did you keep in this cage? It stinks!”
“Four fox kits. Their urine is almost as bad as a skunk’s spray.”
Pamela felt her stomach do an uneasy flip as she watched the man’s eyes slice into hers. She walked over to the side of the cage where he had hung his white T-shirt to keep it from getting wet. She angrily pulled the shirt off the wire cage and turned to Daniel.
“Put your shirt back on.” She handed the T-shirt to him. “This is not some bar in the French Quarter where women throw money at you to see your bare chest. I’ve got a busload of Girl Scouts coming today and the last thing I need them to see is your half-naked ass in my facility.”
He grinned. “It’s not my ass that’s naked, Pamela.” He threw the scrub brush on the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m sorry. Since so many women throw money at me to see my half-naked body, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t give a damn if you parade around here buck naked, but when I have guests coming, guests who could be potential benefactors, then I do care.”
Daniel reached out and took the shirt from her hands. Then Pamela saw the three circular scars on the man’s chest and right shoulder. The scars were unmistakable to Pamela: gunshot wounds. Having worked as an EMT on the dangerous streets of New Orleans, she was well acquainted with scars of that type. It was the first thing she had searched for on any victim of violent crime. Most recipients of gunshot, or knife-related injuries, bragged about their past encounters and were proud to discuss each and every scar on their body. She had seen boys no more than fourteen show off their old wounds like medals of honor garnered for service in a war no one was ever meant to win.
She redirected her eyes from his chest to the ground. She hated being right about people, especially when her thoughts tended to emphasize the negative rather than the positive. But she felt assured that her initial instincts about Daniel Phillips had been correct.
Daniel put his T-shirt back on and picked up his scrub brush from the ground. “I’ll try not to further offend your delicate sense of decency.”
Pamela gave him a smug grin and folded her arms across her chest. “Listen, I really don’t give a shit what you think of me—”
He held up his long, slender hand stopping her tirade. “Shit does not suit you. Why don’t you try darn, or even damn, but not shit. You don’t look like the kind of woman who should use such profanities.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean? What kind of woman do you think I am?” she shouted.
He grinned as he pointed the scrub brush at her. “Your looks and manners scream of an upper class kind of background. Your pale skin and delicate features mean you have probably never done a hard day’s work in your life. And this place?” He waved his hand around the facility surrounding them. “Only a bored housewife looking to show off her altruistic side to her posh friends would waste her days chasing flea-infested fuzz balls around a makeshift petting zoo.”
“Well, at least I don’t have three gun shot wounds in my chest. And how did you come by those, Mr. Phillips? Protecting the patrons of your bar from mass slaughter?”
“Why you little…” he let the words die on his lips. “You don’t know anything about me, Ms. Wells. And do not even begin to think that because I have a few scars on my body that I have led a depraved—”
“.9 mm I would think by the look of the entrance wounds,” Pamela stated, cutting him off.
Daniel stopped and stared at her for a moment. He cocked his head to the side. “How in the hell did you know it was a .9 mm?”
Pamela raised her chin and gave him a condescending gaze with her cool gray eyes. “Every bored housewife knows the difference between—”
“Hey!” A voice shouted behind them.
Pamela and Daniel turned to see Carol standing there waving her hands frantically in the air.
Carol walked over to Pamela’s side. “Do you two want to keep it down to a dull roar over here? I got a busload of girls dressed in funky green outfits that are asking where all the screaming is coming from.”
“They’re here? Already?” Pamela bit her lower lip and looked back toward the house.
Carol nodded. “Yes ma’am; to the Girl Scouts, being on time ranks right up there with cajoling people into buying truckloads of tasteless cookies.”
“Carol!” Pamela glared back at her friend. “Keep your voice down.” She turned to Daniel. “I think you and I are finished here, Mr. Phillips. You can pack up and get the hell off of my property.”
“Ignore her,” Carol said, sticking out her hand to Daniel. “She just has PMS; fires everybody when she’s in a crappy mood. I’m Carol Corbin, Pamela’s accountant and second in command around here.”
Daniel took the round woman’s hand. “Daniel Phillips.”
“Carol, stop undermining me!” Pamela exclaimed.
Carol took a step back from Daniel. “Give the guy a break, Pamie. He took off his shirt, so what?”
Carol grinned at Daniel. “Loved your beefcake display, by the way. It added a real zing to my morning.” She patted Pamela on the arm. “Pamie’s too.”
Daniel ran his hand through his thick, brown hair. “Really? I got the distinct impression Ms. Wells was not at all pleased with my beefcake display.”
“Trust me, unless you have fur covering some unseen portion of that body of yours, she won’t be interested,” Carol said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Daniel raised his dark brows. “Lesbian?”
“Worse. Frustrated, if you know what I mean,” Carol confided as she winked at Daniel.
“All right!” Pamela called out as she stepped in between them. “Enough.” She waved her hand at Daniel and sighed. “You can finish out the day, Daniel.” A sudden jolt of pain gripped Pamela’s elbow. She winced as she pulled her arm against her chest.
“You okay?” Carol asked.
Pamela grimaced again and then nodded. “Just a bad day.” She gave Daniel one last reproach with her eyes and turned away. She started back to the house, still cradling her arm against her body.
Daniel watched as the pale, slender woman slowly made her way to the blue and white cottage. “She all right?” he asked as he nodded after Pamela.
“She has bad days. They seem to be coming more often lately,” Carol disclosed as her eyes followed Pamela. “Trying to keep this place going is taking its toll on her.”
“Why doesn’t she give it up?” Daniel asked.
“This place is all she’s got. It’s the only thing that keeps her from completely falling apart. She tries to act brave, but the stress is wearing her down. And God knows her body doesn’t need anymore stress.”
“Is something wrong with her?”
Carol sighed and turned to Daniel. “The medical term for what she has is systemic lupus erythematosus. It’s more commonly known as lupus.”
“Lupus? I’m not sure of what that is,” he said, furrowing his brow.
“Pamela’s immune system has trouble telling the difference between her body and a foreign body, like a virus. It attacks her joints and can destroy major organs, like her kidneys, liver, lungs, and heart.”
Broken Wings Page 2
