by D'Ann Lindun
Carefully, Mike folded the yellowing paper and along with the aging photo, returned them to the envelope. Why had Skeeter chosen the desert, rather than go back to a wife who apparently missed him? Stuffing the letter in his pocket, along with the map, Mike then put the clothes back in the bag. Would Carole James possibly still be listed in Las Vegas?
He went to his office and dialed information. A smooth-voiced operator gave him the number, and in a moment the phone began ringing, connecting him to Carole James. What would he say? Did the woman on the other end even care about Skeeter anymore? While he waited, trying to decide how to begin, he took the map out of his pocket and laid it on his desk.
• • •
Mallory James dropped her purse, keys, and heavy satchel on the table by the door just as the phone began to ring. It was probably just another solicitor on the other end and she reached for it reluctantly. She recognized the Arizona area code but not the number. “Hello.”
A cautious male voice on the other end asked, “Carole James?”
“Who is this?” Mallory’s heart pinched at the sound of her mother’s name. She’d been dead a year, but her loss still hurt.
“You don’t know me … my name is Mike Malone. I’m here at The Jumping Cholla Resort … ”
“I’m not interested in a vacation right now.” Mallory tapped her fingers on the bar. God, these salesmen were relentless.
“I’m not selling anything,” the voice on the other end said quickly, before she could hang up.
“What, then?” Mallory knew she sounded rude but she was exhausted. She had a million papers to grade, not to mention a house to clean, groceries to buy, and laundry to do. All before classes on Monday.
“Are you Carole James?” the man asked again.
“No. What’s this about?” She sighed heavily. Maybe if she just heard him out, he’d go away.
“Do you know how to reach her? Are you maybe related to a Gary James?” Mike Malone’s voice had a hesitant quality. Like he didn’t want to be talking to her any more than she wanted to be talking to him.
Mallory’s knees went shaky and she fumbled for a bar stool behind her. Sinking back onto it, she asked, “Is this some kind of prank? Who are you?”
“It’s no joke.”
Mallory’s heart pounded like an out-of-sync drum. “Explain yourself.”
“As I said, my name is Mike Malone. I own The Jumping Cholla guest ranch in Mesa, Arizona. A man named Skee — Gary James lived here. He died in one of my cabins. There’s a letter in his effects from a woman named Carole James in Las Vegas. On the off chance she was listed, I tried information and got this number.”
Her father was dead. This Mike, this stranger, kept talking, but Mallory didn’t hear a word he said. Somehow, she’d clung to the hope he would someday appear. Strolling into the house, dropping his dusty fedora on the table by the door, picking her up and swinging her around. He lingered in her memory, frozen in time. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him any other way but the young, handsome man who’d left for work one day and never came back. Never mind that twenty-two years had passed since he’d left both five-year-old Mallory and her mother with no explanation. To her knowledge, he’d never written or called once in all those years.
“Are you there?”
Mallory coughed to cover the tears in her voice. “Yes. Please continue.”
“Who am I talking to? Look, I really need to speak to Carole James. Maybe I could call back at another time.”
Mallory forced back the sob that rose in her throat. “She’s deceased.”
“Are you someone who might know how to reach Skee — er, Gary’s family?”
“He was my father,” Mallory replied softly. A long silence stretched over the wire. Then Mike said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”
“You didn’t know? He didn’t … mention my mom? Or me?” Mallory twirled a piece of hair between her fingers, a habit she fell back on when nervous or upset.
“We weren’t close,” the man replied kindly. “Your dad was a hermit. No one really knew him, far as I know.”
“I see.” She didn’t really. Hadn’t her dad been attached to anyone? Why had he shut out the whole world to live in exile in the Arizona desert? She’d never have the chance to find out. A hot wave of unexpected grief caught her. She blinked back tears, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted desperately to hang up. “Is there anything else?”
“Uh, actually, well yeah. The body, Skeeter, he was taken to the morgue. About funeral arrangements … ”
“Oh. Of course.” Mallory felt stupid. This man had called to hand over the responsibility of burying a man she barely remembered. “I think I better come down there. You’re in Mesa? That’s a suburb of Phoenix, right? And you own a guest ranch? Do you have accommodations available? Never mind. I imagine you’re very busy right at this time of year. I’ll get a hotel in town.”
“You’re welcome to stay here. We’re not crowded right now.” A touch of something — irony? — filled his voice. “Call me back with your flight information, and I’ll pick you up at Sky Harbor.”
“That’s very generous, but unnecessary. I don’t want to impose, Mr … .I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.” Hot tears burned in her throat. All she wanted was to hang up and cry.
“It’s Malone, but call me Mike. And I want to help.” He sounded so sincere she wanted to trust him.
“That’s very kind,” she murmured.
He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Look, you can check me out on the ’net. Mike Malone, Jumping Cholla guest ranch. Or call Deputy Tim Burkhardt at the Mesa sheriff’s office, he’ll vouch for me.”
“If you’re certain — ”
“It’s the least I can do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
They talked for a few more minutes finalizing plans, then hung up.
For a long time after Mike Malone’s call, Mallory simply sat and stared at the phone. Grief stabbed her, although for the man she barely knew or her own lost dreams, she couldn’t say. She’d never have the chance to tell her dad how much she missed him, how much he meant to her, how she’d wanted to be just like him, or how mad she was at him. But most of all she wouldn’t have the chance to tell him how much she still loved him.
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