by T. L. Hart
“Why would you talk like that?” I said, halfway pissed. “I thought you liked Jo. I thought you liked working with her here.”
“Who you been talkin’ to?” Aggie stomped across the floor and skidded to a halt right in my path. “Nobody said anything about Jo around here, did they? Where you getting your information?” She eyed me suspiciously. “Jo never worked here. It was all in the talking stage—just Jo and Cotton. And me.”
“I don’t remember who told me.” I stammered a bit. “Someone had to though. How else would I have known?”
“I don’t know how you know so much shit you can’t know on one day and then you can’t remember shit when you get hit with a hard question.” Aggie glowered at me, but there was a tiny bit of something else in the look as well. “You mess with my head, J.C. Rich society chick from waaay uptown, come down here tight and green and a month later you’re chasing a woman who could be big trouble, acting like you own the place.”
“I know very well I don’t own the place.” Anymore. “Someone needs to do something to get things moving and I have the ability to do it. And the money to hire a consultant to help see that it gets done right.”
“Lotta consultants in Dallas, s’all I’m sayin’ to you.” She flipped off the overheads and left me standing with only the shaft of light from the hallway framing her outline. “And who are you to take it on yourself to do this?”
“Aggie, if you ever want me to tell you who I think I am, just ask. I’m not sure you really want to know.”
Chapter Twenty-One
My old Cotton fashion sense was returning, but I was in a quandary over what was the perfect outfit to wear to meet the love of your past life.
The mirror had been not much help. Jennifer had left me a great body and a pretty face, but it was far from the face and body of Cotton Claymore. Not that I wanted to show up looking like my old self. Giving Jo a heart attack wasn’t in my plan.
The real problem was, I had no plan to speak of. Raising money for the Outreach was a good idea, but in reality I could have written a check for more than we were going to raise in my wildest dreams. If all else went down the tubes I was still likely to do just that. No way I was going to let the Outreach go unfunded.
There was a loyal and underpaid staff who counted on their jobs. And there were too many people who had no other place to go, no other place to turn to. This was a temporary oasis for those who needed a way station on their journeys out of hell.
But, crass as it sounds, I was not above using the place to have a reason to meet with Jo. Busted—cherchez la femme—I’m not so noble as to pass up my best shot.
I’m beginning to doubt I have much of a claim to nobility in any case. My brain, as it recovers, seems to have a distinctly pragmatic, if not always strictly moral way of dealing with situations. Buy my way in. Lie my way in. As long as I get in, I’m afraid I am a pretty results-oriented kind of a girl. Rationalization, I’m finding, is something I excel at. That and dressing for success.
I finally decided on a great khaki suit, tailored as all get-out, proper for a business meeting. Did I know the white shirt under it was just a little sheer and snug across my breasts? Hey—I’m brain-injured, not brain-dead. A woman has to work with what she has to work with.
The traffic was unusually light. I arrived half an hour early and had just enough time to make myself nervous—no, I got to nervous in fifteen minutes. After which I was a wreck. I pulled in to the convenience store across the street and bought a pack of cigarettes and a seventy-nine-cent lighter. I don’t know what made me do it, but at some point, either Jennifer or Cotton had had the habit.
The paper and tobacco crackled faintly as the flame ignited the tip. When the acrid smoke hit my lungs, it was fabulous. I looked around—feeling like a crack whore as I stood just outside the door of the store, not even waiting to get out of the flow of traffic. Everyone in Texas dashed from house to business to car—anything to get out of the heat and into the air conditioning. I didn’t notice the melting asphalt of the parking lot or the burning rays of the sun. Just stood there smoking.
The fierce rush of nicotine was as soothing as a tranquilizer dart to a charging rhino. My knees nearly buckled as I inhaled. It was so good that when I finished smoking, I felt that after-sex, sated feeling that called for a cigarette. So I smoked another one.
Then I went back into the store and bought a pack of extra strong breath mints. I popped one in my mouth and crunched it, rubbing it around my teeth with my tongue. I had no inclination to have a second one of those. I went back into the store and came out with a bottle of water. I rinsed and spit. The clerk was starting to look at me funny, so I got in the car and drove back across the street to face my destiny, self-conscious now that I probably smelled like a very minty ashtray.
* * *
It’s funny how your brain can carry on without you sometimes, have conversations, respond coherently to situations and to people, and you sort of come to in the middle of it all, realizing only then that you were having an out-of-body experience all the while. Let me explain.
I was fine walking in. Keesling Consulting was on the second floor in an end suite. It looked a lot like a successful lawyer’s office, if the lawyer had great taste and a sense of whimsy.
The receptionist desk and waiting area was filled with books and plants and a few oversized, overstuffed chairs. A low glass-topped table rested on the back of a bronze dragon. There was a conference room with the requisite long wooden table and high-backed leather chairs. And there was a full-sized merry-go-round horse, complete with the pole and the brass rings hanging just out of reach.
The horse was hot pink with a wild black mane and tail, lacquered to a shine. I walked to it and ran my hand over his nose. We knew each other, this fiery steed and I. Calliope music played in a distant part of my brain and laughter echoed with it. I wanted to kiss him, but the receptionist was already waiting impatiently, tapping her toe silently on the carpet, but too well trained to rush a potential client.
They were tearing down the rides at the state fair when Jo spotted him. The carnies were loading the merry-go-round on the truck, piece by piece. The horse was leaning up against the operating machinery housing, looking for the world like he had escaped from the herd.
Jo ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, nuzzling and fondling the carved pony.
“I have to have him, Cotton. Get him for me.”
“They hang horse thieves in Texas, ma’am,” I said, thinking she was playing.
“No really. I want him. Make them sell him to you.”
“They aren’t going to sell me that horse, Jo. I’ll call the antique stores and find you one, promise.”
“This one please,” she wheedled. “I love him and he doesn’t want to go back in that truck. Besides, he hates all those grubby little kids.”
“He told you he hates kids?”
“Not exactly. But he has an earful of cotton candy and it didn’t get there by itself.” She removed the offending gunk and tossed it on the littered fairway. “This is no place for a lord of the prairie, Cotton. Make them give him to us.”
It took more finagling than I’m going to admit, but the guys who loaded the trucks and I had a serious talk. They didn’t take American Express, but they did know where the ATM was. Money did change hands. They did deliver. That’s all I’m going to confess to because I don’t know if the statute of limitations on horse theft can be transferred along with a memory.
It was worth it all—then and now. The first time seeing Jo’s delight and knowing I had put it there was my reward. Now, before I walked in her office, I finally remembered. I remembered Jo.
I remembered it all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Presto chango!
That’s how quickly it happened. One minute—okay, six months—I’m wandering around being lost except for the increasingly frequent glimpses of my life as Cotton. Then all at once, everything is clear except how it hap
pened. All of my life is my life again. Every joy, every screw-up. What I like for breakfast. Where I hid Jo’s birthday present.
And why I’m here. My God, Jo’s here. Just follow the girl down the hall and open the door and…And then, she’s not going to know me. I can’t grab her and hug her. I can’t tell her about all this crazy, crazy stuff. She won’t know me from a stranger on the street.
The air bursts from my lungs, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath, as if I had literally gone off into the deep end and sucked in one big gulp of air until I could get back to the surface. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale slowly. Breathing is supposed to be an automatic function. But did you ever notice that as soon as you start thinking about it, it isn’t easy to do without being very aware of it? Exhale. Inhale. Until something takes your mind off of it, you keep thinking about it. Exhale. Inhale.
“Right in here.” The girl motioned me to enter the door at the end of the hall. “She’s waiting for you.”
That did it. Breathing awareness over. The knob turned in my hand. The door swings open and there she is, rising to greet me, smiling politely, extending her hand. I reach out and Zap! Our fingers touched and we both snatched our hands back, stung by the electricity that arced between us. I would have liked to believe it was destiny, chemistry, two souls being made one.
“Static electricity,” she laughed. “Sorry. One day I’m going to have that carpet yanked and install a rubber floor. Come in. Sit.”
I sat down, sinking into the deep cushion of the client chair, and looked at her as if I hadn’t seen her in a lifetime. Which was true, at least for me, in a manner of speaking. The time away, wherever and however it happened, had sure been good to her.
Her hair was longer than I remembered it, a silky black curtain framing her face and curving just past her shoulders. She reached up and tucked one side behind her ear, showcasing a slender hand with short polished nails. She had rings on her fingers—more rings than she had fingers—and what looked to be a dozen thin bangles on her wrist. I smiled and glanced at the other hand—more rings.
Some expensive—emerald and diamond and lapis—some flea-market treasures of cut glass that ended up turning her fingers green. It never mattered to Jo, not if she liked it. She was like a magpie—drawn to bright glittery loot that filled several jewelry boxes to overflowing. And she loved necklaces. Today she had on a silver rope that twisted and held a chunk of unpolished green stone.
The rock was not as bright a green as her eyes. Thick black lashes, green fire flashing, slightly almond slant. How could I have ever forgotten this face?
“Are you feeling sick, honey?” Her Georgia drawl was as thick as bread pudding with whiskey sauce. She pressed a button and asked her assistant to bring us something cold to drink. “Iced tea?”
I nodded, sure that it would come in a crystal glass with slices of orange and lime and lemon. Her specialty. I never really cared for the sweetened tea, but it was my little secret. She was so proud of it, I drank it and she thought it was my favorite.
“It’s this heat,” she said. “I don’t know why civilized people ever settled here in the first place.”
She was chattering away, trying to put me at ease. It gave me a chance to soak her in. Lightning in a bottle. Effervescent as a shaken bottle of champagne. Gypsy hip, city slick. My girl.
The tea came, just as I remembered it. Too sweet, too fruity—I drank it as if it were nectar. She nodded her approval.
“See how much better you feel? The color is coming back into your face.”
She sipped her tea and half sat on the edge of her big desk, showing off legs a dancer would have been proud of, ending in a pair of heels even I recognized as Jimmy Choo. I used to laugh at her stilettos, telling her it was clear she hadn’t been a lesbian long. It was an old joke—before it was okay to say gay, we were women in comfortable shoes.
“I love those shoes,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Do they hurt your feet?” I waited for the usual answer and it came right on cue.
“Only when I walk.”
My girl, still my girl.
“Your call said you wanted to get some help with a charity fundraiser.” She walked behind her desk and flipped open her planner. “Want to give me some details? What kind of charity are you working for?”
“Outreach Oaklawn. We help women and children who are in abusive relationships.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute, but her body language changed. The open, easy warmth cooled a few degrees, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Get back. No closer. I’d read that message before and knew exactly what it meant.
“I don’t think I’m the best person for this job,” she began.
“Why’s that?” I kept my tone light. “You got something against women and kids? Forget them. I could change the place. Turn it into a refuge to save the fire ants. That’s a mistreated species that nobody else has claimed. Lots of places helping those darned women and kids in the first place.”
“No, that’s not true. Everyone else is income-based or they have too many rules about who they allow in. The Outreach—” Her defense was automatic, her smile, sheepish. “You were setting me up.”
“Damn, I’m good,” I said. “Look how well it worked.”
“I’ve had some dealings with the Outreach before. They do good things down there.” She bit her bottom lip, pulling it slowly through even white teeth. I had to tear my eyes away from her mouth. “It’s a personal matter. I don’t think I can go down there.”
“Why not?”
“I lost…someone. I lost a friend who used to run Outreach Oaklawn.” She flipped pages in her day planner, stalling until she could speak. “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think it’s safe for me to be hanging around the place. Especially not with you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” I was flabbergasted. She didn’t even know she knew me. How could she not want to be around me?
“Not a thing.” She looked up at me, peering through a few inky strands of hair that had fallen over one eye. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”
“Okay. I’m the soul of open-mindedness.”
“You are a very good-looking woman.”
“How can I take that the wrong way?” I smiled and leaned forward, noticing her glance flicker over my shirt, then quickly away. “Thank you.”
“The last time I got involved with a good-looking blonde from the Outreach, it ended badly. Really badly.” She gave me a look that made me a little jealous of myself. “I won’t go into details, but it was dangerous.”
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.”
“That’s what she said.” Her eyes clouded, lost in an old memory. “That’s what Cotton said.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Your friend Cotton let you down.”
“Don’t you dare say that!” Jo glared at me. “What do you know about Cotton anyway?” Her eyes narrowed and she lifted her chin defiantly. “Why did you choose me for this project? Something isn’t making sense here.”
“I got your name from Aggie Burke.”
“You may have gotten my name from Aggie, but she doesn’t know where I am. I didn’t contact anyone from the Outreach after—” She shook her head. “After Cotton died.”
It hurt to see her like this, sad and angry and uncertain. That was everything Jo wasn’t. The only time I had ever seen her upset was when we had decided to live together. She had gone into a panic that her husband—soon-to-be-ex-husband before I was in the picture at all—would never let her go.
“He’s a jealous maniac. When I moved out, he told me if he ever caught me with another man, the guy would be a dead man soon. I think knowing I was in love with a woman would be even worse for his ego.”
“He was just trying to scare you, Jo,” I had soothed. “People don’t go around killing people because they move on after a divorce. If they did, we wouldn’t have to wait for a table at any of the good restaurants. Half of Texas wou
ld be six feet under.”
She wasn’t mollified.
“You don’t know Max. He’s used to getting his own way about everything. When I moved out, he laughed and said I should have a nice vacation. I’d be back soon.”
Suddenly Jo looked at me and uncrossed her arms, relaxing the totally rigid posture, opening the gate a tiny crack.
“This is so wrong—telling you about my private life. Not at all professional.” A small, apologetic smile made me want to comfort her. “There are certain rules in business that I’m not doing very well with.”
“I’m not that big on rules, Jo. You can talk to me.”
“I haven’t known you for fifteen minutes and I’m spilling my guts. I’ve told you things I never talk about to anyone.”
“Maybe we knew each other in another lifetime,” I said in a teasing tone, testing the waters. “You believe in that sort of thing?”
“It’s a nice thought.”
“Haven’t you had that feeling before?” I coached. “You meet someone you have never seen and there’s something familiar about them. Something inside them that you recognize?”
“I do feel like I know you,” she said grudgingly. “I feel too much, too close. This isn’t right.”
“Maybe we’re soul mates.”
“Maybe you’re coming on to me,” she said. “Do you use this line a lot?”
“Not a lot.” I smiled at her. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little.”
She was flirting with me—with J.C. Winters. Part of me saw this as progress—I was getting through to her; we were connecting on a higher plane. Another part of me, the more earthbound, realistic part, said, “Bullshit. She’s flirting with some chick she just met. Not exactly pining for old Cotton. At least not for too long.”
“Will you reconsider helping me with the project at the Outreach? I really need your help. The misunderstood little fire ants need your help.”
“No one will ever donate money to help fire ants. Low cuddle factor.”
