A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  “You got that right.” Ruthie harrumphs. “Last week they took over my face in a zit attack.”

  “Okay, so yesterday I’m back at the same dress shop.” Where I was again violated by chicken feathers and Enrique’s assault on fashion. “And the designer asked me about Christina’s sister. And he didn’t mean Marisol. He said her blonde sister Mercedes had picked up a dress.”

  Dad leans an elbow on the shiny black desk and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me a stress headache. And stress headaches lead to crow’s feet.”

  Oh, quit being such a girl! “Would you please listen to me?”

  His hand drops with a slap to the desk. “I am. And I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

  “Then can you explain any of this?”

  “Bella, what is there to explain? I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding. We all know about that overactive, suspicious imagination of yours.”

  Beside me Ruthie bites her lip to cover a smile. That traitor.

  “How do you explain her sister?”

  “I’m sure Enrique was mistaken.” Impatience flows with Dad’s every word. “Marisol is her only sister, her only family. When Marisol was only a baby, Christina—”

  “Yes, brought her from Brazil all by herself.” On the back of a donkey. Or swimming the ocean with only a piece of driftwood. Or holding on to the wings of a swarm of migrating butterflies. “And do you really think it’s in your best interest that your own attorney wasn’t involved in your prenup?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Dad stands up. “Actually none of this is. I believe you need to get back home. Now.”

  I jump to my feet and step toward the desk. “Dad, I know something’s wrong here, and you’re too blinded by Latin love to see it.”

  “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

  A clock ticks on his desk as we fall into silence. Staring each other down like two enemies about to draw pistols. Instead of a father. And his daughter.

  “I know this adjustment has been hard on you.” The angles of Dad’s face soften. “But you need to accept it once and for all that your mother is married and has moved on. And I’m going to be married. Your mom and I will never be together.”

  “Is that what you think this is about? Some juvenile wish for my parents to be together? I love my life in Truman.” My words are pointed arrows, and I let them fire. “I can’t imagine going back to how things were. I have two parents there who love me and are involved in my life.”

  “That’s enough, Bella.”

  “Jake calls me from the road. Just to talk to me. My stepdad calls me more than my own father. And Mom makes me breakfast and goes to my school events. We have family game night and go to church together. And you think I want what we used to have?” I shake my head as a tear drips to my cheek. “I could never settle for second-rate parenting again. I have a real family now, and I deserve that. I deserve people who love me on a full-time basis.”

  He swallows and blinks. “You know I love you.”

  “On your terms.” Now my nose is dripping. I’m totally snot-crying. “And you know what, Dad? It’s not good enough anymore.

  I’ve been trying to get your attention for years. And I’m sick of it.

  I happen to be a great daughter. And I’ve changed this year, and you haven’t even noticed. You know why? Because you never even knew me in the first place.” I sniff and pick up my purse. “Let’s go, Ruthie.”

  “Isabella, you stop right there.”

  But I keep walking. I’m done with this conversation. And done with trying to win my father’s love.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Some people have their prayer closets. I have my prayer Volkswagen.*

  I sit in my Bug Monday after school, my head on the steering wheel, and just spill my heart out to God.

  Lord, my life pretty much stinks. Like week-old beans. Like Budge’s shoes. Like the cafeteria on sauerkraut day. I left my dad’s with nothing resolved. I don’t know anything more about Christina and her mystery sister. I thought Marisol would cough up the details, but she played ignorant when I quizzed her two days ago. And Dad and I aren’t even speaking. I just knew he would tell me how sorry he was. Nope. Nor did he act like he even cared a bit about all the info I dug up on his fiancée. He trusts her more than me, and she’s totally shady! I need help, God. I need strength and wisdom and ice cream and sprinkles— Tap! Tap!

  I jump at the rapping on my passenger window.

  Luke frowns down at me from the other side of the car. “Open up.”

  “Go away.”

  “You’ve been a hag all day.”

  “Take your sweet talk somewhere else.” My cheeks burn with the embarrassment of just being caught whining to Jesus about my life. Most girls could’ve at least made it out of the school parking lot.

  Luke leans his arms on the car and presses his forehead to the window. The breeze plays with his dark hair. “Talk to me, Bella.”

  I start the car. “Gotta go.”

  “Open this door or you’ll be driving through Truman with a new hood ornament.”

  This image brings a small smile to my face.

  “You have five seconds to unlock this door, or else I call your mother and tell her about your current pursuit of a murderer.”

  Click!

  “Much better,” Luke says as he slides in.

  The car instantly smells like him, which only serves to muddle my head even more. “I don’t have time for boys,” I mumble.

  “Bella, I’ve been thinking.”

  “You want to put me back on my weekly feature for the newspaper?”

  “Not yet.” He picks up a CD resting between us. “Been listening to some John Mayer?”

  Luke and I have little in common. But one thing we do share is our closet love of all things Mayer. Seriously, I hear that piano and husky voice, and I melt on contact. Luke said it didn’t have quite the same effect on him.

  I snatch the CD back. “I have things to do, so I’ll see you at the carnival.”

  He twists in the seat until his back is pressed to the door. “I want to know what’s going on with you. You had at least three good opportunities to snip back at Ashley today in journalism, and you didn’t take a single one.”

  I run my finger over the bumps and plains of the steering wheel. “Bad weekend with my dad.” I tell him about Mercedes. “And when I confronted my dad with all this fishy stuff about his fiancée, he just blew me off. He is such a jerk.”

  “Jerk’s a bad word? And here all this time I thought it was just your endearment for me.”

  “Do you know what I’d do if I were still living in Manhattan?”

  His voice is as low as Mayer’s. “Tell me.”

  “I’d go to a spa and just spend the whole day getting pampered and forget about all my troubles.”

  “I’ll never understand the appeal of mud baths.”

  “I want my dad to pick me, you know? Just once I want to be his priority. I want to be able to look back on our relationship and know that I was well and truly loved.”

  “I like you.”

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t count.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  “I mean nobody can replace my dad. Not even Jake.”

  “What about God?”

  “He tends to forget to send me birthday cards,” I quip. “It’s just not the same. Yeah, I get he’s the father of all fathers. But I want Kevin Kirkwood to man up and treat me right. I want to be . . . enough.”

  Luke pulls my hand until I’m leaning on him. “You are enough.” He kisses the top of my head and wraps an arm around me. “Your dad has to be a selfish moron to not want to spend time with you.”

  “And to not listen to my voice of reason.”

  Luke’s chest rumbles in a laugh. “That too. Maybe you could try talking to him again. Don’t overload him with all your Christina stuff. Just te
ll him how you feel about the two of you.”

  “Honesty is so hard. Why can’t people just say what they want?”

  “I ask myself that question all the time.”

  I raise my head. Luke’s fingers filter through the hair at my temple.

  His eyes drop to my lips. “I’m not going to kiss you again, so don’t even look at me like that.”

  “But you want to.”

  “But I’m not.”

  I lean in a centimeter.

  “Move back, or you’ll be the first girl I’ve ever elbowed in the ribs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t believe in hitting girls.”

  I smile. “No, why won’t you kiss me?”

  He removes his arm. “Because you’re worked up about your dad.

  You’re hurt and confused. If you kissed me, it wouldn’t be about you and me. It would be about me being . . . an ice cream substitute.”

  “The honor couldn’t get much higher.”

  He pats my knee like he’s my grandpa. “Want to pray?”

  “I’d rather make out.”

  Luke reaches for my hand again and none-too-gently tilts my head ’til it’s bowed. “God, I pray for healing for Bella and for her relationship with her dad. I pray she would see that no matter what happens in her family, you truly are all the father she needs. Give her the strength and the courage to give all her pain to you. Help her see that not all guys are going to hurt her or leave her. Help her to trust the men you have put in her life. God, I pray that—”

  “Lord, I ask that Luke realize I am a fabulous writer and let me have my column back. If this is dating retaliation, help him to get over it. I know the pain of not being able to have me right now is like a dagger to his black heart. And I—” Luke squeezes my hand ’til I shut up.

  “Jesus, give Bella and me the wisdom to figure out our . . .

  friendship.”

  “And—” I get the hand squeeze again, so I let him continue.

  “Give us the wisdom to deal with the carnival issue the best way.

  Help us to act with integrity and do what’s right. And protect us.”

  Okay, let’s wrap it up. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  His thumb strokes across my hand. “Amen.”

  “I’ve been thinking about something.” I watch my hand in his and wonder if he knows he’s still holding on. “This integrity business . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want me to go to the police about Alfredo, don’t you?” I ask.

  “I’d sleep a lot better knowing we weren’t doing anything illegal. Not to mention the thought of a guy charged with murder showing up in your car doesn’t exactly give me nice, peaceful dreams.”

  Like a good facial, it finally sinks in. Luke cares about me. He genuinely cares about me. Not because my dad goes to parties with Hollywood elite. Not because my mom ruled Manhattan society. And not because I have a closet full of Prada, Gucci, and Zac Posen. He’s been telling me this all along, and I just couldn’t hear it. But my heart is still such a work in progress. I’ve come miles since moving to Truman, and I don’t mean the frequent flyer kind. But it’s still so scary. To be with someone and just be yourself. It’s like going to Wal-Mart without makeup. Do I dare?

  “Bella?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Let’s go talk to the police.”

  Way to rain on my warm, giddy moment. Men. They’re so unromantic. “Fine. But Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re a cute boy . . . but you’re no Rocky Road.”

  chapter thirty

  You did what?”

  “Shhh!” I hold a shaking finger to my lips. “Keep it down, would you, Cherry?”

  “But why would you tell the police about Alfredo?”

  I want to say, “Sister, do you even know how hard that was?”

  Officer Mark was furious I had waited so long. Actually, furious doesn’t quite touch it. I thought he was going to go all Terminator at the Truman PD.

  “Withholding that information is a crime,” Luke says. “And the police need all the help they can get to solve this case.”

  “But they think they already have their man—Alfredo.” Cherry paces three steps in the big top, then returns. “And what’s the harm that he’s out? He didn’t hurt you. And he didn’t kill Betty. Alfredo says Red and Stewart did.”

  Luke crosses his arms. “What do you mean ‘he says’?”

  Cherry hesitates. “When I got to visit him in jail a few weeks ago. He told me everything he knew. And he said Red and Stewart had set him up.”

  “Has Alfredo approached you?” Why the sudden change in Alfredo’s defense? This girl is not on the up-and-up. “Have you seen him since he escaped?”

  “No!” Her eyes dart all around, then she lowers her tone. “I just know in my heart he’s innocent. You weren’t there. For the last six months Betty raised me. And I saw her fall in love with Alfredo. And he loved her. I’ve realized he couldn’t fake that.”

  “Actually, he could.”

  “Bella,” Luke warns.

  Well, he could. Guys are like master fronters. “Cherry, when Alfredo and I had our little meeting, he seemed very interested in the map.”

  “Of course he would be. Betty told him it existed. Just not where it was.”

  “Are you sure you don’t know where the map leads?” Luke asks.

  “No. If I did, I’d be searching myself. Did Alfredo tell you why he wants to see it?”

  Luke looks at me and nods.

  “Yes.” How to soften this? “He, um, said that you were in danger. That Betty was protecting you from something, and the map was somehow the answer to making sure you were safe.”

  Cherry’s mascara-coated eyes widen. “You’ve known this for almost a week, and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I wouldn’t feel left out,” Luke mutters.

  “Okay, so I’m not good at sharing information. I’m a bit of an evidence hog. And, Luke, if you don’t quit rolling your eyes . . .” I focus my attention back on Cherry. “I don’t think Alfredo is telling us everything he knows. I’m . . . I’m turning him over to the police tonight.”

  “Why?” Her voice is childlike. Desperate. “How?”

  “Alfredo told me when I was ready to discuss the map, I needed to leave a carnival poster on my dash, and he’d contact me with directions to meet. So I’m going to put a flyer in my car tonight and wait for him to find me.”

  “I hate that part.”

  I turn on Luke. “Officer Mark said it was the only way.”

  “You know the drill.” Intense eyes stare at me from behind his glasses. “Don’t go anywhere alone, let me know where you are at all times, don’t—”

  “Luke, you drive me nuts.”

  He lifts a brow. “I think I proved that in the car when we almost—”

  “Okay!” I cut him off. “Anyway, I’m not asking your permission, Cherry. I’m just updating you. This is your life we’re talking about here, and I thought you should know. You need to be on guard too.

  If you see any sign of Alfredo or anything suspicious, you have to tell us. Or the police. Officer Mark is going to have a uniformed cop here every night and day.”

  Cherry bites her lip and looks in the distance at the carnival crew getting ready for the big show. “I was wrong to believe the police report and think Alfredo killed Betty. I don’t care if his prints were the only ones on that sword, you’re about to put an innocent man back in prison when he clearly escaped to solve Betty’s murder . . . and keep me alive.” She walks away on her muscular aerialist’s legs.

  “That went well.” What have I done? Did I make the wrong decision? “Why is she suddenly so sure Alfredo didn’t do it? What’s changed?”

  “You know you had to talk to the police,” Luke says. “Let God handle the rest.”

  One hour and two snow cones later, I stand in the back and watch a white-gloved Ruthie juggle softballs as she turns cir
cles on her unicycle. The crowd claps to the beat of Michael Jackson’s “Bad.”

  Only Ruthie.

  I’m pulled away from the sight as Frank, the horse trainer, approaches. “You’re Bella, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Note for you.”

  I open the folded notebook paper and scan the message. Ice explodes in my veins.

  I know who you are. And I know what you’re doing here.

  Mind your own business, and I might let you live.

  In the meantime . . .

  I’ll be sharpening my blade.

  “Wait!” I run after Frank. “Who gave this to you?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Some townie kid.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A customer. Some kid. Said a guy handed it to him and paid him with a buck.”

  “What did the guy look like? Was he skinny? Tall? Did he look like Alfredo? Maybe like Red?”

  “I don’t know! Who cares?”

  “Can you find the kid again?”

  “I’m up in five minutes. And I couldn’t care less who sent you the love note.”

  “This is not a love note. It’s—” A threat on my life. Visions of Betty race through my head. “Please. It’s important.”

  “I wasn’t even paying attention. I was messing with one of the horses out back. Couldn’t pick the kid out of a two-man lineup.”

  I watch Frank disappear as my pulse escalates beneath clammy skin.

  “Everything okay here?”

  With a yelp I do a one-eighty and find the new magician standing right behind me. “Hey—” What’s his name? “Um, Artie.”

  “Relax. It’s just me.” His face is void of all emotion, just like his monotone voice. “Everything okay here?”

  “Did you send me a note?” What if it’s him? I’ve had a weird feeling about this man from the get-go.

  “Note?”

  Does this guy ever speak in sentences consisting of more than three words? “Yes, a note. Did you send a note by way of a kid?”

  “Get a scary message?”

  “How did you know it was scary?”

  Artie’s eyes meander to the paper in my hand. “All your screamin’ has me thinkin’ in that direction.” He spits on the ground.