Hidden Hills

by Jannette Spann

  “Well, shucks — whatcha yelling at me for? I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “I wasn’t yelling,” he replied, lowering his voice to a more moderate level. He’d give a lot for a nerve pill the size of a watermelon. Thank goodness it was almost bedtime. “You guys think you can tone it down a bit?”

  “It’s not always me,” Bruce muttered.

  “I know it’s not, son.”

  “Jeremy called that woman,” he said, the confession coming a month late.

  “Well, you gave me the number,” Jeremy reminded him, spreading the blame. “How was I to know it came from the wall in the john? You’re not supposed to be at Al’s Garage anyway.”

  Jake stood his ground, trying to avert another full-blown argument. “It’s okay, guys, just water under the bridge.”

  Jeremy refused to let it die. “How was I supposed to know what she was?”

  “You weren’t.” Jake remembered the voluptuous blond in red spandex at his front door. So much for his mother’s idea of him hiring a cleaning woman. The boys had taken it upon themselves to find one.

  Bruce’s foot landed on the dash in an attempt to retie his sneaker in the dark. He gave up, shoving the strings inside the shoe. “Dad, why did the woman say you owed her money when she didn’t do nothing? She didn’t even wash dishes. Is that why you told her to leave, ‘cause she wouldn’t wash dishes?”

  “No, you termite.” The thirteen-year-old laughed. “It’s ‘cause she’s a hooker!”

  Jake glanced at his middle son, hoping the remark had flown over his head. Innocence was a wonderful thing, and he hated to see his kids lose it.

  Robins Lane was quiet as he slowed to enter his drive, the only racket riding in the truck with him. Floating through his mind was the plan to let the boys unwind for a few minutes while he shredded Jeremy’s girlie magazine, and then it was baths, bed, and peace at last.

  He slid the key into the deadbolt and stepped aside while Jeremy and Andy shoved their way in. He’d yet to figure out why being first in the house was so important. Bruce hung back, deep in thought.

  “Dad,” the boy said, cocking his head to one side. “What’s a hooker?”

  He’d known it was coming. “Well, son,” he replied, not wanting to say too much. “It’s a bad woman who sells her body.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, so just stay away from anyone like her.”

  Bruce frowned. “I thought they just hung up coats.”

  “Who?”

  “You know — hookers. Ain’t it what they call the girls hanging up coats in fancy restaurants? Not here, but I watched them do it in an old movie. And hats, they hung up those too.”

  Jake grinned. He’d been worried about confusing the boy. “Uh — yeah. That’s what I meant.”

  ****

  “This is getting old.” Jake took a deep breath before starting up the flight of granite steps in front of the stately old building. It had taken some juggling, but he’d managed to shift things to make the three o’clock meeting.

  He’d made more trips to the principal’s office since his boys had started school than in all the years he’d gone there himself. Not only had the building remained the same, but so had the lady in charge, and he knew from experience she didn’t like to be kept waiting. He glanced at his watch before opening the door — ten minutes early. That should make her happy.

  Bruce sat alone in the outer office, his chin buried deep in his collar and a worried frown marring his lovable face. Jake eased down beside him, placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder just as he’d done years ago, for the kid’s mom when she’d sat in this spot.

  The bell rang, dismissing school for the day, and children of all ages came pouring into the tiny room, shoving their way to the single phone on the desk. Jake felt he would drown in the noisy pint-sized whirl of humanity.

  He caught a back-sided glimpse of a woman with long auburn hair leaving the room just as his name was called. She was tall, like the cashier at the grocery store, and dodged backpacks with the grace of a dancer. It might have been her, or maybe the woman from the Pizza Plate? After thinking about it a moment, he dismissed the idea. Those little girls weren’t old enough to cause trouble.

  “Mr. Weatherman,” repeated the secretary. “Mrs. Ruff is waiting.”

  Jake held Bruce’s shoulder as they worked their way through the throng of kids. He glanced down at the boy when they reached the closed door. Something wasn’t right. For a kid in trouble, Bruce was suddenly showing a remarkable lack of fear.

  “You’re late, Weatherman!”

  “No way,” he replied, face to face with the woman who’d terrified him as a kid. “I had trouble getting through the delinquent pen.”

  Referring to the outer office by its old name would have gotten a chuckle from most people, but not this woman. The situation called for charm and tact, but Jake was fresh out of both. He forced a smile.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Could be worse,” she said, tossing her glasses on the desk while getting right to the point. “Let’s have a seat and hash out Bruce’s latest problem.”

  The woman sounded tired, but so was he, and there was a load of paperwork waiting in his truck to be dealt with tonight. “Bruce says he’s been accused of hitting another student in the hall.”

  Instead of answering him, she pinned Bruce with a cold stare. “Is that what happened?”

  “I was just getting a drink of water.”

  “But you admit you were in the hall,” she continued.

  “Like I just said, I was…”

  “Did you hit Brandon Hunter in the eye?

  “Why would I hit him? He’s bigger than me.”

  “He’s got a point there,” Jake commented for the record.

  “True,” she conceded, looking at Jake for the first time. “But Brandon has a black eye, and he swears Bruce gave it to him.”

  Jake knew the Hunter kid. The only way Bruce could have reached his eye was if he’d stood in a chair. “Anyone else in the hall when the fight supposedly happened?”

  “Only one girl, and she claims she didn’t see anything.”

  “Maybe she was too far away.” Jake said it as a reminder. The water fountain could be seen from anywhere in the hall. “If she didn’t see anything, maybe it’s because nothing happened.”

  The principal rocked back and forth slowly, fingertips pressed together so tight her hands were shaking. “I see your point.”

  It appeared as if thirty years of dealing with kids was taking its toll on her nervous system. He could have been more sympathetic to her case had he not been where his son was now.

  Long lashes framed the blue eyes gazing up at him as if to say, “It’s not always me,” and he was inclined to agree with the boy. It boiled down to one kid’s word against another, and he was beginning to wonder why he was here.

  “Anything else?”

  She scribbled a few words on a notepad before looking at Bruce again. “There was a frog in the salad bar at lunch on Friday. Would you know anything about it?”

  “I don’t eat salads.”

  She chucked her pen. “I didn’t think so.”

  Jake rose from his chair. They’d wasted enough time. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was over. “Are there any other problems I should know about?”

  “Not firsthand, but his teacher has sent a couple of notes home you’ve not responded to.”

  He nodded. They’d finally reached the heart of the matter. “Son, you want to tell me about those notes?”

  Bruce squirmed. “Wasn’t nothing important.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, then turned to the principal. “I’d like to talk with his teacher if she’s available.”

  “Ordinarily you would have to make an appointment,” she said, clearly satisfied justice was finally being served on the boy. “But in your case, she’s been waiting for you.”

  Jake’s meeting with Bruce’s teacher wa
s more to the point. The boy had missed homework assignments, disrupted the class, and last but not least, had generally poked his nose where it didn’t belong.

  “Son, you’re lucky you weren’t expelled,” he said, after they’d reached the truck.

  “Aw, Dad—”

  “Don’t ‘aw, Dad’ me.” He flipped the radio off as fast as Bruce had turned it on. “You’re grounded.”

  “But—”

  “And who was the girl in the hall?”

  “Her name’s Becky. She’s just a little kid.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. She just started this year.”

  “She pretty?”

  “Aw, Dad. She’s just a baby!”

  “Babies don’t go to school.”

  “You know what I mean. She’s not big.”

  Jake let it slide. The boy was in enough trouble without looking for more.

  Arriving home, the first thing he noticed was the open windows in the house next door and an old hatchback in the drive. The place had come alive.

  “Look, Dad!” Bruce cried, coming out of his sulk and seatbelt at the same time. “The sign’s gone!”

  Jake glanced back, but his view was blocked. He thought of red curls as he pulled around to his back door.

  “I guess Maggie was right about the house.” He tried to imagine what life would be like raising girls instead of boys. Chances were he wouldn’t have spent the last hour in the principal’s office because of a black eye.

  Bruce bounced around. “You mean the girl from Saturday night?”

  The kid’s excitement warmed his lonesome heart, and he felt a renewed pride in the boys. Okay, so maybe they were a handful. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “She said it’s her new home.”

  “Awesome!” Bruce hit the ground running and never looked back.

  Jake wasn’t as enthused, gathering his invoices. He glanced up and saw Maggie waving from an upstairs window with Andy and Jeremy making faces behind her back. Smiling at the threesome, he thought about introducing himself to the girl’s mother, but the weight of the folder in his hand reminded him that he was wasting time. Returning the wave, he went inside alone to get started.

  It had been one of those days when he wished he could punch a time clock instead of worrying about making payroll and competing with the larger stores. He liked staying behind the scenes leaving Sara, his mother-in-law, to deal with customer complaints. Unfortunately, she’d been on a four-day buying trip in Atlanta, so he’d had no choice but to smooth the ruffled feathers himself. High maintenance women were a pain in the neck.

  He’d grown up on the farm in the shadow of his older brothers. Their parents had believed if they wanted to be happy, they should each follow their own dreams. His included degrees in business management, marketing, and Betty Barlow — the girl next door.

  It seemed he and his brothers spent much of their childhood rescuing her from angry cows, swollen creeks, and the occasional bully. When ninth grade rolled around, Betty, the tree climbing tomboy with a passion for trouble, warped into a fashion-conscious girly-girl. A year later she stole his heart and never gave it back.

  The week after he’d left home for the university, she’d opened a little consignment shop in their hometown of Reader, Alabama. By the time he’d finished college, Betty’s Hole in the Wall had gone from consignment to first-quality women’s wear.

  Instead of moving to Birmingham or Atlanta like most of his friends, he’d come home to Reader and married Betty. The next eleven years had been the happiest of his life, with his world revolving around Betty and his boys. Together they grew the business to include children’s apparel and changed the name to Bett’s, because she’d thought it sounded more sophisticated.

  He’d thought seriously about selling out after Betty died, but it had been her dream, so he kept the store and poured himself into making it grow. Now they were in the process of opening a men’s shop in the new Four Corners Mall near the Interstate. It had been a risky gamble with the slow economy, but it kept the lonely nights from driving him insane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charlotte stretched her back, admiring the kitchen floor with the afternoon sun reflecting off the faded hexagonal print of the linoleum. The appliances, though yellowed with age, were as spotless as the white cabinets. Her aching body, along with the dirty mop bucket sitting by the door, provided a living testimony to the floor’s cleanliness. She’d spent most of the day scrubbing this room and it showed. Pity was, no one except her girls would see it, and they were too young to care.

  The back door opened, and a boy with dark hair came crashing through on a collision course with the bucket. Charlotte screamed, but it was too late as the nasty water sloshed across the room, taking the kid with it. She caught his arm before his head smacked the floor.

  “Whoa, cowboy,” she said, steadying him on his feet. He tried to wiggle out of her grasp, but she held tight. “Where I come from, we clean up our messes.”

  “I ain’t cleaning that up!”

  Charlotte gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to pop his smart mouth. She’d dealt with attitudes like his before with some of the foster kids she and Mitch had cared for. “Yes, you will.”

  “You’re not my mama!”

  “You got that right,” she said, counting her blessings. Her fingers tightened on his shirt as he twisted his shoulders, trying to break free. “This is my house and you made the mess, so you’re cleaning it up.”

  His jaw clenched as he eyed her with anger. “I said, I ain’t cleaning it!”

  “Oh, I think you will,” she said, raising the stakes for this obnoxious brat. “Either you mop up the water, or you can’t play with Becky and Maggie. Your brothers will be welcome, but you won’t be allowed to come over.”

  After his shoes stopped sliding, he stared at the dingy water and then at her. She held the mop in her outstretched hand and waited as the indecision on his face gave way to her dogged determination.

  “Now,” she said, not willing to take no for an answer. “Clean. It. Up.”

  “Aw, man,” he groaned, the mop fitting his smaller hands.

  The boy’s expression was almost comical, as if his day had been as bad as hers.

  “I suppose you’re Bruce?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Any more of you guys at home?”

  Bruce frowned, more subdued than before. “Just Dad. I’ll get him, but my hide will be hamburger.”

  “Because of this mess?” she asked. The boy leaned against the handle, his head tilted to the side while he eyed her up and down. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind… he was sizing her up.

  “Are you a hooker?”

  Her breath caught. Had he been older, Charlotte would have popped his jaw without giving it a second thought, but according to his big brother, this kid was only eight.

  “Bruce, do you know what a hooker is?”

  “Dad says it’s a bad woman.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and did some sizing up of her own. There was nothing slow about the blue-eyed, shaggy-haired, snaggle-toothed kid. He was as cute as a button and sharp as a tack. “And you think I’m bad because I’m making you clean up your mess?”

  Bruce stood his ground, tossing the mop handle back and forth from one hand to the other. Then with long lashes blinking his innocence, he looked her in the eye. “You sure are pretty.”

  “Nice try, kid,” she said. “Now finish your job.”

  Bruce sulked, but he didn’t give her any lip, which was a good thing, considering how tired she was. With each stroke of the mop, his brain was probably plotting revenge, but she didn’t care. His “trust me” expression had been too angelic to be real.

  With the spill cleared and the mop in the bucket for the final time, Charlotte bragged on his work and sent him to play with the others. The house was quiet except for the children. Without realizing it, she found herself l
istening to their voices while she dusted the door facings.

  “Man, she’s tough like Mrs. Ruff, only pretty!

  “Who?”

  “Becky’s mom,” replied the eight-year-old. “Look at these hands. I got blisters!”

  “So go home,” said his older brother. “Nobody invited you anyway.”

  “Not until I see Becky. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs, why?”

  “I owe her one. She saved my butt today.”

  Charlotte wanted to hear more from the eight-year-old, but the voices faded when they climbed the stairs. It was getting late, and although she’d promised herself to finish the living room floor before calling it quits, a slight twinge in her lower back gave her second thoughts.

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, when terrified screams coming from overhead sent chills down her spine. She ran, taking the stairs two at a time on legs made of jelly.

  “I’m telling Mama!”

  “Shut up, Red!”

  “You can’t make me!”

  “Oh, yeah. You just watch me!”

  “Mama, Bruce did it!”

  Five kids locked in mortal combat she could handle, but an eight-year-old struggling to hold onto a pair of ankles inside a wall opening the size of a small microwave brought terror to her heart, especially since she recognized the legs as her daughter, Becky’s. She’d thought the old laundry chute would save steps, not realizing it could be a death trap for a child.

  Each step toward the chute came slowly, like she was trapped in a fog. Fear robbed the remaining air from her lungs. The boy’s arms had to be throbbing when she reached around him and grabbed the squirming legs.

  “I didn’t mean it, honest!” he cried, blue eyes wide with fear.

  “Becky!” Charlotte called. “Are you okay?”

  “Mama!”

  “Don’t let go,” she pleaded to the boy. Becky’s fifty-six pounds was dead weight and Charlotte’s wrists burned, ready to snap. “Help me, Lord!”

  “I’m pulling as hard as I can,” Bruce cried. “Honest!”

  It was no use. Becky was getting heavier by the second. Even together they weren’t strong enough to lift her more than a few inches. “Where’s your brother?”