"Yeah," Steve said, "How hard can it be?"
It would only be hard, I figured, if they had an actual customer. Thankfully, it was our mid-morning lull. I escaped to the book room. A few minutes later, the front door jingled. I peeked around the corner. A couple of touristy types stood at the coffee bar.
"What do you recommend?" one of the women asked.
Steve shrugged. "I dunno. Coffee?"
"How about a half-caff?" her companion asked.
"How about the whole calf?" Steve said. He looked toward Anthony and said, "Moo."
Anthony snickered and stuffed a brownie into his mouth. His mouth full, he turned toward the women. "What you need is a black coffee. Hold the cow."
I scurried to the coffee bar and shooed away my brothers. They grabbed a handful of pastries each and plopped down at a nearby table. I made the women's drinks, and they wandered into the book room.
The door jingled again. It was Walter, our postal carrier. He dropped his mail bag on an empty table near my brothers and ambled to the coffee bar.
"The usual?" I asked.
Walter pulled up a stool and sat down. "You got it."
I was handing Walter his cinnamon latte when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see Steve and Anthony rummaging through Walter's mail bag.
I stifled a gasp.
Walter looked up. "What's the matter?" He started to turn around.
I reached for his arm. "I almost forgot," I said, "it's Mailman Appreciation Day."
His eyebrows furrowed. "It is?"
"Yeah," I said. "You get a free brownie." I pointed toward the pastry case. "The special one."
He glanced at the brownies. "They all look the same."
"You might want to take a closer look," I said.
Walter peered into the case. I cleared my throat loud enough for my brothers to hear. Anthony looked up. I gave him a dirty look. Anthony nudged Steve, who tucked a pilfered magazine into his back pocket. Anthony shoved a handful of letters back into Walter's bag, and together, my brothers returned to their own table.
"I'm telling ya," Walter said, inspecting the brownies. "I can't see any difference."
I reached into the case. "Here's the special one," I said. "Extra chocolate." I handed him the brownie. "Here. Happy Mailman Day."
"Thanks. I needed that." His expression darkened. "I'll need an extra boost, thanks to that neighbor of yours."
"Gary?"
"Yeah, the guy's convinced I'm stealing his mail," he said. "Like I got a big ol' pile of it stuffed in a shed somewhere."
"That's awful," I said, reaching into the pastry case. And I meant it. I handed Walter a couple more brownies, along with a coupon for a free latte.
After he and his mail bag were safely outside, I made my way to where my brothers sat. I swatted Steve on the back of the head.
"Heeeey, what'd you do that for?" he asked.
"You know what for." I held out my hand. "Fork it over."
"What?" he asked.
"Gary's magazine."
Steve stood and pulled the magazine from his back pocket. "You're no fun."
I snatched the magazine from his hand and studied its cover. "Soldier of Fortune?"
Steve and Anthony burst out laughing. I felt my own lips twitch at the corners. Anthony reached into his jacket. He pulled out a small stack of letters. A couple were opened.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Gary's other mail," Anthony said.
I gave him a look. "Please tell me you're kidding."
"We're just borrowing it."
"Then put it back."
"I got it for you," he said. "You put it back."
"Gee, thanks," I said.
Anthony slapped the mail into my hand. "Don't mention it."
I sorted through the mess of paper, matching the pages with their envelopes. One particular letter caught my eye. I studied the document more closely. It was an official-looking notice signed by some attorney in Chicago.
Over my shoulder, Anthony said, "Looks like your buddy came into some cash."
I studied the letter, a summary of some estate settlement. "I didn't know he had a rich uncle," I said. And then, embarrassed by my own nosiness, I snapped the letter shut. "This is so wrong," I said.
Steve grinned. "Yeah, but it feels so right."
I reassembled the mail and set it aside, planning to sneak it back on my way out of town. Over the years, I'd had plenty of practice.
After dealing with my brothers' filching felony, it was a nice change to spend the rest of the afternoon touring Conrad's development.
"That was amazing," I told him when we finished.
We'd just ended the tour in the model unit, a three-bedroom palace overlooking the river. It was breathtaking, with soaring ceilings, marble floors and two fireplaces. I wandered to the window. Conrad followed. We stood together, looking out over the frozen landscape.
"What a view," I said. "I bet it's even better in the summer."
"Got that right," he said. "And this one’s a lower unit. They get nicer the higher you go."
"Nicer than this?" I said. "I can't imagine." I turned to face him. "This really is beautiful."
He gave me a wide smile. "I'm glad you approve."
"Like it matters what I think," I said with an eye roll, "me being a disgraced fortune teller and all."
"It matters to me," he said, his voice softening. "I'm really glad you stopped by."
"I am too." And I meant it. I admired what Conrad had accomplished. Unprompted, my thoughts turned to Bishop. What might he have accomplished if he had applied himself more steadily, or had come from a different family? Maybe, I thought with a pang, Bishop never had a chance.
"What's wrong?" Conrad asked.
"Huh?" I shook my head. "Nothing."
Conrad's eyes showed concern.
I gave him a small smile. "Just thinking about the guy we ran into last night." The statement was true, if not entirely forthcoming.
"Jim Bishop?" Conrad said. "I still can't figure out what got into that guy." Conrad took my hand in his. "Tell me, how can I make it up to you?"
Guilt washed over me. Conrad had nothing to be sorry for. I, on the other hand, did. "Don't apologize," I told him. "It was my fault, not yours."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I'm pretty sure he was angry with me, not you."
"Why would he be angry with you?"
"Well, the truth is, we dated a while."
Conrad stared at me. "You dated Jim Bishop?"
"Yes."
"You're kidding."
I shook my head.
"Why didn't you say so last night?" he asked.
"I should have," I admitted. "But I was embarrassed, even more so now because I should've told you right away." I covered my eyes with my hands. "Oh man, this is so awkward."
"Well, that explains it." Conrad gently pulled my hands from my face. "He still has a thing for you, huh?"
"No, it's not like that," I said. And from the look I'd last seen on Bishop's face, I wasn't exactly lying. "But the point is, last night, you took the blame, and I let you. I'm sorry."
"So that's what's been on your mind?" Conrad's face broke into an easy smile. "Here I thought it was me." He gave my hand a little squeeze. "Look," he said, "we all have a past with someone. But you know what's more important?"
"What that?"
"Who we have a future with."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "Now I feel worse."
"Why?"
"Because you're being so nice about it."
Conrad grinned. "I can afford to be nice. You were with me. Not him."
I squinted at him. "Are you always this understanding?"
"It depends on who I’m dealing with."
"I know what you mean," I said, thinking of Bishop. The tour had been amazing, but it hadn't answered the one question I didn't dare ask. How could Bishop afford such an expensive piece of real estate?
Ha
d he robbed a bank? Knowing his family, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe the condo was Lawton's.
I turned to Conrad. "Hey, can ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"How could a normal person – let's say just a local guy – afford one of these condos? The payments must be staggering."
Conrad hesitated. "Are we still talking about Jim Bishop?"
I shrugged. "Him, or anyone."
Conrad looked at me, his face devoid of expression. "You know, I really can't discuss my client's financial arrangements."
I felt my face grow warm. "Of course," I said. "I'm sorry."
Conrad was silent for a moment, and then said, "Look, I can't give specifics. But I can tell you this, we have a few inexpensive units set aside as time shares, mostly for locals looking to live it up, even if only for a couple weeks a year."
"In their hometowns?" I asked. "Why?"
Conrad shrugged. "Got me. Not everyone loves to travel. Maybe they're afraid to fly, or don't like to drive." He gave me a meaningful look. "Or looking to impress someone. Who knows."
I was quiet for a moment, considering the possibilities. Would Bishop buy a time share in his hometown? I'd never do such a thing. But Bishop and I were two very different people. Still, it seemed like an awful waste of money.
Later, walking back to the coffee shop, I felt better about Conrad, but worse about Bishop. Did I still have feelings for Bishop? No doubt about it. Bishop was like espresso and chocolate. He made my heart race and my mouth water, but he was dangerous, especially in large doses.
And then there was Conrad. I wasn't being fair to him either. I had never dated two guys at once. It wasn't my style. When I spent time with Conrad, I thought of Bishop. When I spent time with Bishop, I thought I was insane.
Probably, I decided, I'd be doing both guys a favor if I stayed South for a while.
At midnight, I grabbed my bag and headed out to my car, only to see what I should've been expecting all along – Bishop leaning against the Mustang's hood.
Chapter 68
Damn it. If it weren't for my boarded-up door, I'd have seen him beforehand. On top of everything else, I missed my old routine. Coming and going through the coffee shop was getting old and then some.
Pulling my gaze from his, I eyed the dumpster, still wedged under my apartment landing. I'd called the dumpster company a half-dozen times. But still, there the dumpster sat, lid open.
For the tenth time that week, I stalked toward it gave the lid an upward shove. The lid slammed shut with a thud, the noise echoing through the darkened corridor.
"Feel better?" Bishop said.
I turned toward him. "Hardly."
He glanced at my bag. "Going somewhere?"
"Just for a few days."
He gazed at me with cold, flat eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. "If you were seeing him, you should've said so."
Technically, I didn't even know I was seeing Conrad. But at this point, it seemed silly to dispute it. "I'm sorry," I said. "I know that had to be awkward."
"That's one word for it."
I glanced at my car. "I've got to go."
"First," he said, "tell me something."
"What?"
"The other night, why'd you lie to me?"
With a sigh, I set down my bag. "About Conrad? I didn't lie. We're not dating."
Bishop crossed his arms and gave me a penetrating look.
I stared upward and said, "Alright, maybe it was a date. But I didn't know that when we made plans."
"You didn't know," Bishop repeated, his tone bland.
"I thought it was a business dinner."
"Are you that naïve?" he said. "You don't see the way he looks at you?"
"How's that?"
"He looks at you," Bishop said, "the way you look at mochas."
"He's just being nice."
"Nice my ass. Tell me. Are you gonna see him again?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know," he repeated.
"Like I told you, I barely know him."
"Uh-huh." He looked at me a long moment before adding, "I'm not surprised you hooked up with him, you know."
"What are you talking about?"
"Come on," Bishop said. "The richest guy in town?" He gave something like a laugh. "At least by the looks of it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Put it this way," Bishop said. "I don't think you're partial to poor men."
"I dated you," I said, "and you didn't have a dime."
"Yeah. And you dropped me like a hot brick the minute you thought I'd stay poor."
"That's not the reason. And you know it."
"Yeah?" Bishop said. "Then here's your chance to set things straight."
"I don't need to set things straight," I said. "What are you saying? That I'm some kind of gold-digger?" I shook my head. "Unbelievable."
"Unbelievable is right."
I threw up my hands. "What do you want to hear?"
"You know what I want to hear," he said. "The truth. That night, why'd you leave?"
"Other than the fact you lied to me? And screwed up my college plans? And decided a life of crime was more to your liking?"
"I'm no criminal," he said.
"Yeah. Whatever."
"There's more to it," he said. "I can tell."
"Alright," I said. "Here it is. You had more potential than anyone I knew. And you were throwing it all away. It made me crazy."
He looked unimpressed. "Throwing it away, huh?"
"Sure," I said. "You drop out of college and decide you're gonna live your whole life here in Riverside, doing God knows what. And you're gonna make me stay here too, no matter how I feel about everything."
"What's wrong with Riverside?" he asked.
"Nothing." I heard my voice soften. "It's my home. I love it. And that'll never change." I shook my head. "Leaving it–" I swallowed. "–leaving you. That was the hardest thing I ever did."
"So why did you?" he asked.
"As opposed to waiting for something bad to happen?"
"It wouldn't have," he said.
"Uh-huh," I said. "And besides, a few weeks of winter, and I'm a basket case."
He crossed his arms and stared at me. "Like now?"
"If I'm a basket case," I said, "is that so surprising?" I yanked my bag up from the ground. "My apartment is just above freezing. I've got a bunch of convicts parading past the store. I've got writing deadlines I can't meet. I feel like if I let up, relax one single second, everything will come tumbling down." I lowered my voice. "And it'll be all my fault."
His voice was flat. "Is this where I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?"
When I didn't respond, he added. "You made your own bed, Selena. And you made it eight hundred-miles away."
I stared at him. "Well, that's real special," I said. "Go on. Kick me for moving South. Everyone else does. Why should you be any different?"
"I'm only saying–"
"Hey," I said. "You brought it up, so here it is. As far as geography, yeah, we probably could've worked something out. But you refused. And worse, you didn't even bother to turn it down. Oh no, not you."
At the memory, I felt myself tremble with long-suppressed rage. "Instead of discussing it like a rational human being, you lied to me. You tricked me. You backed me into a corner and kicked me to the curb when you didn't get your way."
"Listen –" he said.
"No, you listen," I said. "Remember what you told me? It's now or never. That's what you said. What the hell was I supposed to do?"
"You should've waited."
"For what?" I said. "Your next scheme to trap me here?"
His voice grew softer. "No. For us to work it out."
"I did wait," I said. "Just not here. That's all."
"How long?"
A whole year, I thought. Wasted. I'd been such a sap, praying he'd show up and tell me it was all a bad dream. "Too long," I said.
; "Not long enough," he said, his voice growing dangerously quiet. "Not by a longshot."
"Believe what you want," I said. "But the next thing I hear, you've disappeared entirely. Gone to God-knows-where."
In a flash, the old pain came rushing back, along with the dull resentment that had been festering for years. I stalked past him and flung open the driver's side door. "Know what that tells me?"
He turned to face me, his face devoid of expression. "What does it tell you?"
"You were willing to leave Riverside." A sob caught in my throat. "Just not for me."
I hated myself for it. But there it was. I flung my bag into the back seat and turned to face him. "So if you're so fucking unhappy about how things turned out, you have no one to blame but yourself!"
I got into my car and slammed the door. When I backed out of the alley, he was still standing there, his eyes haunted, but his jaw set.
I cried all the way to Flint, where I had to stop for gas or risk running out. I pulled off the highway, dried my eyes on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and swung by the same gas station that I'd visited a couple of weeks earlier. The same churlish clerk sat behind the counter, smoking a cigarette. I handed him my credit card.
"So what's up?" he said. "You don't look so feisty as you did last time."
"I don't feel as feisty," I said.
"Need a coffee?"
"Is it fresh?"
"Fresh a few hours ago." He stood and lumbered toward the coffee area. "But the fancy stuff's up and running." He grabbed a disposable cup and ambled to the cappuccino machine. He hit the button. "Vanilla, right?" He filled the cup and handed it over.
I wrapped my hands around the warm drink. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are guys such turds?"
The clerk flicked a long ash from his cigarette. It landed on the grubby tile floor. With a salt-stained work boot, he ground the fallen ash to dust as he considered my question.
"We're not turds," he said. "Just dumbshits when it comes to women." He returned the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. "Big difference, you ask me."
Ten minutes later, I was on my way. Driving along the deserted highway, I considered the clerk's theory. Was Bishop a dumbshit or a turd? Probably both, I decided.
Nine hours after that, I passed through Nashville, heading toward the Alabama state line. Taking in the green rolling hills and light blue sky, I cracked open the windows and breathed in the balmy air. It wasn't exactly beach weather, but it was well above freezing.
Illegal Fortunes Page 27
