She growled, grabbed the soggy money and stuffed it in her front pocket. Her official wage was ten bucks an hour, so this was a lot for six hours’ work. The boys knew she could be bought, and though she had once had vague misgivings about taking their money, that false pride vanished long ago. She always needed money, and they had it to spare. The fact that they were born into so much wealth wasn’t her business or her problem. This money would more than make up the bulk of what she needed to buy Mrs. Tenorio’s saddle.
She gave them a quick rundown on what had been delivered today, who was coming in to pick up feed and other things they’d ordered.
“John Preston’s picking up that fencing for his Labrador puppies,” she told Evan who had settled down on the stool behind the counter, making eyes at a young woman who was perusing the new horse blankets Mel had ordered from a family of Spanish weavers in northern New Mexico. They were going like hotcakes despite the fact that they were five times as expensive as normal horse blankets. The young, affluent horse girls going to Cal Poly loved the bright, Native American- style patterns and were using them to decorate their dorm rooms. Bill would be pleased at the profit margin.
“Yeah, okay,” Evan said, not looking at her. The girl, a willowy redhead with a French braid, giggled to her girlfriend and made eyes back.
Mel sighed, then reached over and knocked on his head like she was testing a cantaloupe. “Earth to Ernie. Just don’t close before he gets here. He’ll be here by four.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, turning to grin at her. “John Preston. Puppy fencing. Four o’clock.”
“You’ve got the camera all charged up for tomorrow night?” Brad asked.
“Don’t worry, it has plenty of time to charge.”
“So, got a wild Friday night planned?” Brad laughed.
“The wildest,” she said, her voice sardonic. They knew that the rowdiest thing she ever did was go to dinner with Love. Sometimes, after Love went home, Mel went for a beer and some pool at the Rowdy Pelican. But usually she just walked home. “Don’t forget to balance the cash register.”
“Okay,” Evan said.
“No, I meant Brad,” she said.
“Got it,” Brad said. “What’s with the grody saddle?”
“It’s mine,” she said. “I’m going to put it in the back. When I finish cleaning it, I think I’ll take it out to the Johnsons’, see if it fits one of their horses.” In reality, she was going to stick it in the corner of her living room. She kind of liked the idea of Oscar Tenorio’s benevolent cowboy spirit watching over the place while she wasn’t there.
“Whatever.” Brad lifted one shoulder.
Deciding to fix herself a sandwich at home rather than go to the Buttercream, she walked the five blocks to her house. The streets were starting to get busy. Tourists were already straggling in for the lighted boat parade tomorrow night. Though many locals complained about out-of-towners coming in and taking over Morro Bay, Mel had a more practical view. She’d grown up in Las Vegas, a town that depended on tourists to survive. She knew that without tourists from L.A. or San Francisco or the Central Valley, the town of Morro Bay would eventually dry up and blow away. Though it had originally started as a fishing village, commercial fishing hadn’t truly supported the city for many years. And with ranching rapidly becoming a thing in the county’s bucolic historical past, tourism and the state university in San Celina twelve miles away were becoming more important in keeping Morro Bay’s little businesses alive. Yes, the tourists could be a pain in the butt sometimes, but the town needed them. When locals complained at the Buttercream, Mel rarely joined in. She was tempted to say, You haven’t seen truly world-class jackass behavior until you’ve worked the eleven p.m. to seven a.m. Las Vegas Boulevard beat. Every bad behavior known to man and woman was quintupled in Las Vegas.
She unlocked the front door of her house and immediately checked the answering machine. There was one flashing light. Her left temple started throbbing. Patrick again? She was tempted to just grab her personal papers, a few clothes and her favorite books and take off. But she couldn’t do that. A part of her was stubborn enough to think, it’s my life here. I’m not going to be intimidated by anyone. She’d figure out some way to convince Patrick that he was barking up a tree that was completely empty. Mel punched the Listen button with more force than needed. She was relieved to hear Love’s voice.
“Hi, it’s Love. I guess you’ve already gone to the feed store. I won’t bother you there, but give me a call when you hear this. I’ll fill you in on the latest about my granddaughter. Bye, now.” The call came in at seven thirty a.m.
Mel played the tape another time, trying to discern from her friend’s voice whether things were going well or not. But Love rarely showed in her manner or her voice what she was really feeling. She was one of the most even-tempered and calm people that Mel had ever known. Such a contrast to Genetta LeBlanc, Mel’s mother, who still lived in Las Vegas with her fifth husband. At least, Mel thought it was her mother’s fifth. She didn’t really try to keep track anymore. She hadn’t gone into details with Genetta about what really happened with Sean. Though it had been in the newspapers for weeks, her mother wasn’t the type to pay attention to the news. Drinking, dancing and playing blackjack were about all that interested her mother. She’d been that way for as long as Mel could remember. Genetta had been beautiful at one time, was a showgirl at the old Stardust hotel, where she’d met Mel’s dad. Now, at fifty-nine, she looked ten years older, though she tried to hide her age with glitzy clothes and thick pancake makeup. Just another aging showgirl drinking watered-down whiskey sours and dreaming of the big jackpot. Had Patrick called Genetta to find out where Mel was living? Once Mel settled down in Morro Bay, she’d told her mother not to tell anyone where she was, though she also knew that if Patrick called Genetta when she was drinking, she’d probably reel off Mel’s whereabouts without a second thought.
It was more likely that Patrick just used his police connections to find Mel or paid some computer geek to find her online, despite the fact she’d tried to stay under the radar by not opening up any bank accounts or credit cards, and not giving her old job a forwarding address. Still, she did have a social security number and did pay her income taxes. That put her on the grid. Maybe the next place she went, she should just work for cash under the table.
She picked up the phone and dialed Love. Listening to someone else’s problems would help her forget her own. While the phone rang, she tried to ignore the heavy feeling that crowded her chest, like a balloon filling with helium. Would Patrick call again? Or worse, show up on her doorstep?
“Hello?” Love’s voice was strong, upbeat.
“It’s Mel. How’re things going with the kid?”
“We’re managing.” Love gave a quick laugh. “She’s got the flu. Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s not funny, just ironic.”
“She going to be okay?”
“Yes, she’s much better this morning. I asked Clint’s son to look at her last night. He’s a doctor.”
“He made a house call? Man, you do have pull in this town.”
Love laughed again, more relaxed this time. “I think Clint just wants to make sure I get my column in on time. Do you mind if Rett joins us for dinner tonight? If she’s up to it, of course.”
Mel took a deep breath. “Sure. Actually, I thought you might want to have dinner with her alone.”
“Plenty of time for that. I like our dinners. I don’t want to miss one.”
“Me either.” Mel almost said thanks but kept silent. Did Love understand what a profound thing she just said? Mel would have totally understood if Love had said she needed time to visit with her granddaughter, that her friendship with Mel would have to take a backseat. But she essentially told Mel, you’re just as important to me as family. It made Mel’s chest tight with gratitude.
“Okay, see you at the Shrimp,” Love said. “Bye, now.”
When Mel hung up the phone, stubbornness started to take
hold inside her chest. Like her father’s Cajun ancestors, she had a deep-seated sense of survival. No one was going to take her new life away from her. She’d dig her heels into this loamy soil and fight to keep it. It’s what Cy would tell her to do. It’s what Grand-mère Suzette would expect from her.
“Bring it on, Patrick O’Reilly,” she said out loud to the empty room. “If you come here and mess with what I have, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
SIXTEEN
Rett
Oh, my dear little Loretta,” Polly cried, when Rett climbed out of Love’s truck. The old woman’s wrinkled cheeks were a shiny rose color. “I’m your great-grandma Polly, and I never thought I was going to see you again this side of heaven!” She came down the front steps of the brown and white two-story clapboard ranch house.
Rett walked tentatively across the mottled grass toward the woman who was dressed in a full print skirt, a high-necked white blouse and new-looking red sneakers. On the fifteen-minute drive to the ranch, Love told her a little about the Johnsons, Rett’s great-grandma and great-grandpa, how the ranch had been in the family for almost a hundred years, how August once worked at some famous guy’s ranch, Hertz or something, who built a castle for his girlfriend. The castle was somewhere around here. She told Rett how Polly had made a hundred quilts by hand to give away to foster kids. It was like some weird dream or a Lifetime cable movie.
Rett let the woman hug her and ramble on while Love unloaded the bags of milk, butter and cheese they’d bought at the grocery store. The woman—her great-grandma—smelled like cinnamon and flowers. Rett circled the woman’s narrow shoulders with her own arms, feeling like a complete idiot. What was she supposed to say?
“Uh, it’s good to see you too.” Now that sounded totally lame and bogus. Why hadn’t she thought up something cool to say? Some creative artist she was.
“Come in, come in,” Polly said. “Do you like chicken salad? I baked a peach pie this morning. Peaches from our own trees from last summer. Used my last frozen bag. They weren’t as good this year as last, but still pretty tasty.” She glanced over at Love. “Do you need any help, sweetie?”
Love smiled at them both. “You two just go on in. I can manage.”
Polly looped her arm through Rett’s and practically pulled her up the steps. When they got to the top step, an old man came out of the front door. He wore a pair of faded overalls and a plaid shirt. He stooped a little at the shoulders, reminding Rett of the gnarly old apple tree that grew in the backyard of their house in Knoxville.
“Now, who is this?” the old man said, not moving toward Rett.
“This is Loretta,” Polly said. “Your great-granddaughter from Tennessee. “Loretta, this is your great-grandpa August.”
August stared at her a moment, then he smiled. “Oh, Polly, you kidder. You think I don’t know my own baby sister, Agnes?” He came over and hugged Rett. “You’re looking good, Aggie. How’s things in Kansas City? That husband of yours keeping you busy?”
Rett turned her head to look at Love, who had just come up the steps in time to hear the old man’s comment. What was she supposed to do now? Did this crazy old guy really think she was his sister in Kansas City?
“August, quit your teasing,” Polly said, her smile stretching across her face. “Let’s go have lunch.” She moved past Rett and opened the wooden screen door, letting it slam behind her with a thunk.
“How about giving your favorite daughter-in-law a hug, August,” Love said, rescuing Rett, trying to communicate something with her eyes, though Rett couldn’t figure out what.
“You wait your turn,” he said, giving a deep, rumbling laugh. “I haven’t seen Aggie in years.”
“This is Rett,” Love said evenly, holding out a bag of groceries.
He automatically reached for it, letting go of Rett. Rett moved quickly away, not sure what was going on here.
“Rett?” he said.
“Yes, this is your great-granddaughter, Loretta Johnson. But she likes to be called Rett.”
He smiled over at her, touched a free finger to his green sun-faded Farm Supply cap. “As in Butler?”
Rett was on familiar ground now. Old people always said that. “Yeah, except there’s no h in my name. And I’m a girl.”
“Well, so you are,” he said. “Hope you like peach pie, Rett who is a girl.” He opened the screen door and went inside without waiting for her answer.
“What’s going on?” she whispered to Love.
Love touched her bottom lip with her fingers. “Aggie was his little sister who died sixty years ago. He gets a little confused sometimes.”
A little? Rett thought. Get a clue, Grandma. He thinks I’m a dead woman.
“Let’s just go in and enjoy lunch,” Love said with a sigh.
“Whatever,” Rett said under her breath, following her into the house. What was she supposed to do if he called her Aggie again, pretend that she was this dead woman?
Rett could tell everyone was on edge, trying to be friendly. She wished she could just tell them to chill, that she wasn’t going to bite. Then again, it was kind of cool, in a mean-girl sort of way, to be the one people were trying to impress. Usually it was she who was all nervous and shaking in her boots.
They ate in the dining room seated at a round oak dining table with claw feet. There was enough food to feed twenty people.
“We’ll eat like fancy folks this time,” Polly said, “because it’s your first visit. After this, it’s lunch at the kitchen table like any other member of the family.”
Love winked at Rett. “I had to marry their son before I was allowed to eat in the kitchen.”
“That’s when you became family,” Polly said, completely serious. “Rett was family the moment she was born.”
Rett looked at Love, expecting her to be mad. It seemed like kind of a snarky remark. But Love just smiled.
After lunch, her great-grandpa suggested taking Rett on a tour of the ranch.
“We can all go,” Love agreed.
“I’ll stay here,” Polly said when Rett helped her carry the dirty dishes into the big yellow and blue goose-themed kitchen. “I’ve seen every inch of this ranch a million times. When you get back, we’ll have peach pie with ice cream.”
When they went to the barn, Love argued with August about who was going to drive the jeep. The rust-eaten vehicle was from the fifties and it no longer had windows and the windshield had a long crack down the passenger side. Rett would have loved to have driven it, but she wasn’t in the running.
“I need the practice on the stick shift, Pop,” Love said, climbing into the driver’s seat.
He grumbled but took the front passenger seat, anyway. “Women these days. You all want to run the world.”
“Yes, sir, we do,” Love said, starting the engine. “You know it all began during the war when they let us start wearing pants.” She turned and gestured at Rett to hop in the backseat. “Why don’t you tell Rett what you did in the war? She hasn’t heard your stories a hundred times like the rest of us.”
“You’re the youngest,” Love said when they came to the first gate. “That means you’re in charge of the gates.”
“I’m what?” Rett said.
“You jump out and open and close the gates behind us,” August said, chuckling. “Youngest cowboy always gets that job.”
She didn’t mind it too much except that each gate seemed to have a different kind of lock or homemade hooking system so each one took her forever. Couldn’t these people, like, buy one kind in bulk at Costco?
They drove around the ranch on narrow dirt roads Love told her were built by August; her grandfather, Cy; and her father, Tommy. After pointing out different wildflowers and trees, so many that there was no way Rett would remember them all, August told stories about his time as a signalman on a ship—the U.S.S. Teal—outside the Aleutian Islands during the war.
“I couldn’t wait to get back to California,” he said, turning back to give Rett a wid
e, yellow-toothed smile. “No siree, Bob. We knew what war was. And it was cold up there! Makes a man appreciate the Central Coast. But sometimes I miss it. Wonderful men I worked alongside. You kids now don’t know squat about fighting a real war. Our war was a real war.”
“You mean Vietnam?” Rett asked, not exactly certain where the Aleutian Islands were. The shocked look on his face made her realize her mistake. “Oh, I get it. World War II. Like my—” She almost said boyfriend’s. “My banjo. It’s a prewar Gibson.”
August’s wrinkled lips turned up in a smile. “You play banjo?”
She nodded, feeling on more comfortable ground now. “Also the guitar, some mandolin and a little fiddle. But mostly I like the banjo.”
“Do say,” August said. “Maybe you’ll play for us sometime.”
“Sure,” Rett said, embarrassed now that she’d bragged about an instrument that wasn’t technically hers. The thought of giving it back made her stomach hurt. That was stupid. Was she in love with Dale or his banjo? His dark eyes suddenly painted themselves inside her head, and she shivered, remembering the feel of his full bottom lip. She blinked quickly, trying to outrun the tears. Would she ever be able to think about him without feeling like she’d been slapped in the face? What was it going to be like to see a reminder of him every time she saw her niece or nephew? What if he and Patsy got married? She pressed a fist on her stomach, feeling like she was going to throw up.
Love didn’t join the conversation, though Rett thought she saw her grandma’s back stiffen when Rett called it her banjo. Fine, so her grandma thought she was a total thief. Who cared? Except that deep inside, Rett knew she really did. She wanted her grandma to . . . she wasn’t sure what . . . be proud of her? Why did she care about what someone who didn’t even know her thought?
After the hour-long tour, when they were back in sight of the ranch house, Love brought the jeep to a stop under a huge oak tree in the middle of a smooth pasture.
“This was where your grandpa and I got married,” Love said. “So did Polly and August.”
Love Mercy Page 15
