She smiled, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes bright with happiness. “I’m exhausted, so my eyes are closed more than they’re open these days, and I’m so ready to be done. But this little bugger just won’t get out. I keep tellin’ her she’s got all these women she needs to meet, but she’s a stubborn one.”
Marybell laughed. “Like mother, like daughter? Or are we forgettin’ Flynn?” she asked, referring to a time not so long ago when Cat and Flynn, two very different people, were going around in circles without realizing they belonged together.
Cat swatted at her arm playfully. “Oh, you just hush. I came round when the time was right. Got myself knocked up to boot to seal the deal. Now, tell me all about you and a Hawthorne boy, Miss MB. I hear ya’ll been givin’ purpose to these gosspin’ ninnies.” She pointed at Dixie and Em and fluttered her eyelashes, snatching a cookie from one of the plates.
“I meant to call you, but things have been so hectic.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, you and me, we need a sit-down next week. Late lunch at Madge’s on Wednesday?”
“It’s a date. Now go sit before you burst.” She grabbed a chair for Cat and led her to it.
Cat settled in and folded her hands over her belly in a protective manner. “So, I hear Louella’s been stirrin’ up trouble, picketing and bringing the newspeople from Atlanta here. What’s that about, Dixie?”
Dixie rolled her pretty eyes. “Just Louella bein’ Louella, Cat. She dragged that poor plastic man, Dave Davison, all the way here for a whole lotta nothin’. Word is, she was hoping to get people all in an outrage over our little town harboring a bunch of dirty talkers. I think she forgets, outside our little burg, the big bad world awaits, and phone sex is hardly news. No matter where it’s done.”
Cat chuckled. “Oh, that woman. She really picketed?”
Marybell nodded, rearranging the cookies on the plate. “Spellin’ errors and all. It was quite a sight for a little while, but we locked down tight and kept our mouths shut. Dave Davison seems to have lost interest. Haven’t seen him lurking around for a couple of days now.” Making that one less issue she had to worry about.
“Uh-oh,” Cat mumbled from behind the curtain of her shiny hair. “Speakin’ of our intrepid gossiper. Incoming, girls. Fake smiles all round, now.”
“So, ladies, I see the Call Girls made a contribution. Who knew women who did what y’all do for a living would want to help raise money for a bowling team’s trip to Atlanta? Have too much money in the furry handcuff fund that you have money to spare?” Louella drawled, smoothing a hand over her blond hair.
“We’re equal opportunity fund-raisers,” Dixie said with a sweet smile.
LaDawn held up the plate of cookies and wafted them under Louella’s nose. “And look, Louella. We did ya proud. They’re not even in the shape of man parts.”
Marybell fought a giggle when Em slapped at LaDawn’s hands and took the plate of cookies away.
“Ladies,” she whispered, fighting a smile. “We will remain ladies.”
“Ladies,” Louella murmured. “What a funny word when attributed to all of you. Most especially Marybell.”
Marybell yawned, digging her heels into the VFW Hall’s floor, contemplating whether a lady would snarl at Louella. “Are you going to attack my lady-hood now, too? You can’t have it all, Louella. First it’s my hair, then my nails and then it’s my love of Satan. Choose one path and stick to it.”
“I don’t have to attack your lady-hood.”
Dixie began to rise from her metal chair behind the table of cookies, but Marybell held up her hand. “Then what are you attacking today, Louella? Hurry up, already. We have cookies to sell.”
Louella wagged a finger at a figure lurking in the crowd. He strode over to them, his suit a bit wrinkled, but his hair gleaming and dark under the lights of the VFW Hall.
Dave Davison. Perfect. Keep your mouth shut, Marybell. Keep it shut tight. He knows your voice.
A cameraman followed him, hiking the heavy camera on top of his shoulder.
Across the room, she caught sight of Tag, who began pushing his way through the crowd, his eyes on her. Obviously he felt she needed protecting.
The look in the reporter’s eye made her uncomfortable. It was penetrative and beady, as though he were looking for something else, investigating some hidden facet to her.
Relax, MB. He has no clue who you are. Just don’t say anything.
In that moment, the one when she wondered why she was so fascinating to him, a chill of apprehension, so bone-deep she had to grit her teeth, raced along Marybell’s spine.
Louella smiled at her, her wide eyes flashing before she turned that smile on the reporter. “This is Dave Davison from Channel 7 Cable Network News in Atlanta. You’ve met him. He has a question for you, Marybell.”
She relaxed a little. He probably wanted a comment on the petition to shut Call Girls down. Louella had probably pressured him to come back.
But why did they want a comment from her? Dixie was the woman in charge. She glanced up at Dave Davison and the microphone he’d shoved in her face and said nothing.
Dave’s sharp eyes roamed over her face, as if he was seeing something impossible.
She considered growling at him the way she did Louella, but thought better of it when Em’s reminder to behave like a lady prevented her.
When Dave spoke, his smooth voice washed over her, a voice perfect for television broadcasting. Perfect diction, perfect timing. “Is it true, Ms. Lyman, that underneath all the hair and makeup, you’re really Leon Kazinski’s intern, Carson Chapman?”
A bulb popped in her face. Then another as Dave Davison’s camera crew took her picture.
Everything faded away. The crowd of people milling about the VFW Hall. The gasps of her friends. The delicious aroma of cookies and pies. The only thing that remained was Tag’s face.
His shock. His narrowed eyes and the immediate flash of rage in them.
And she knew she had to run. Run far, run fast.
Run.
* * *
Tag felt as if he’d just been run over by a semi as he watched Marybell flee the VFW Hall. He didn’t know which way to go first, chase after Marybell or punt-kick Dave Davison’s head off his shoulders.
He cornered Dave Davison, looming over him until he shifted uncomfortably. “Where the hell did you get that information?”
“He got it from me,” Louella offered from behind, a phony smile plastered across her face.
Dixie was the first to react, her eyes shooting daggers at Louella. “You’d do anything to get rid of us, wouldn’t you? Even concoct a crazy lie. What kind of a leap did your brain cells suffer for that one, Louella? Does your head hurt now?”
Louella shrugged, folding her fingers behind her back. “I didn’t have to work at all. I just had to find the tattoo.”
Tag’s head would explode. Right here, right off his shoulders. He spun around to look Louella in the eye. “The tattoo?”
“Well, yes. Carson Chapman has a tattoo on her left shoulder. You can see it right in this picture here.” She pulled the infamous picture of Leon Kazinski’s alleged mistress out of her purse and pointed. “I magnified it, of course, for truth-seeking purposes, but when it began to circulate again, you know, with all the supposed Leon sightings all over the internet, it looked so familiar. I admit, it took me a little while, but then I remembered last summer, when Marybell was wearing those oh-so-fashionable tank tops day after hot day, she had a tattoo on her left shoulder, too, just like this one.” She held up the picture, jamming it in Tag’s face. “Imagine the coincidence that she has the very same tattoo as Carson Chapman. So when I accidentally spilled that coffee on your Marybell at Madge’s, and offered to clean her musty jacket, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Her tattoo is identical to Carson Chapman’s. You remember her, right, Tag? The woman who helped steal all those retirees’ money? You couldn’t have missed it—it was global news. Just ask Marybell. I mean, Carson...
”
How could he have missed something so significant? He’d seen that picture of Carson with Leon a million times, and it had never clicked. The thumbs-up with the pink fingernail...
A haze of red filled his eyes, and if he didn’t punch someone, hard, square in the head, he’d lose his mind.
Em was there then, placing a hand on his arm. “Tag, I need you to go with Jax now before they realize who you are, please. Please don’t make this worse.”
What she really meant was, Don’t make a scene. Don’t make a bigger ass out of yourself than you already did once before.
Em gripped harder, her voice urgent. “Walk away, Tag. Right now. I will not have you make a scene when there are children present. Especially Maizy and the boys. Please leave like a gentleman.”
Jax clamped a hand on his rigid shoulder, forcing him to reenter the VFW Hall. “Tag. Now.”
Gage was suddenly in his line of vision, his eyes flashing warnings at Dave Davison and Louella. “Take it elsewhere, buddy. You stick that microphone in his face, and you’ll never sit right again.”
Jax and Gage surrounded him, grabbing him on either shoulder and dragging him out of the VFW into the cold day. The harsh glare of sunlight prevented him from seeing clearly until he heard a scuffle of feet and shouting.
“There he is!” someone yelled.
“Fuck,” Jax muttered. “Head down, brother, keep moving. We can’t keep them from finding out who you are, if you don’t move your ass.”
Gage began dragging him, coaxing and prodding his numb feet to move. “You put that in his face and you’ll be eating it for supper,” he growled. “Move, Tag. Move fast.”
Gage’s urgent warning set in, pushing the haze of red in his brain around, allowing the buzz of noise full focus.
Jesus. There were people littering the square, vans parked up and down the street, men and women with microphones, screaming his name.
All of them asking the same questions. Did he know Carson Chapman? Was he really dating her? And was Marybell Lyman actually Carson Chapman?
* * *
Marybell flew into her apartment, slamming the door so hard the bowl of balls on her coffee table shook, her breathing ragged, her heart crashing so painfully it made her chest hurt.
They knew. Oh, God, they knew.
Don’t let panic set in. Don’t do it. Move your feet. They haven’t found out where you live yet, but it won’t be long. Go! Go now. Get your emergency bag, and get in your car and go!
Where! she wanted to scream. Where can I go? They know what I look like now. There’s nowhere to hide.
Her feet were frozen in her heavy boots, but she forced them to her hall closet, yanking out her suitcase and throwing it in the hall. Then to the bathroom, trying to make a list of what she could feasibly carry and still make a hasty escape.
Marybell didn’t think; she just began pulling things off the shelf, her hands shaking so violently she kept knocking things over. The green face mask cream she’d put on to keep Tag from recognizing her the first time they’d met fell to the floor, smashing in thick bits of goo and glass.
She brushed them aside with her boot and grabbed an overnight bag, stuffing her pounds of acquired makeup into it, her hair gel, her spray-in hair dye, and hauled it over her shoulder.
The bedroom. Grab clothes from the bedroom, as many as you can stuff in a suitcase and run, Carson Chapman. Run until you can’t run anymore.
She turned to make a break for her bedroom, ticking off items in her head to bring with her. In her haste, she slipped in the green goop, and crashed to the floor, landing on a piece of sharp glass. It sliced the heel of her hand, cutting the skin cleanly, leaving a gash and a bloody trail dripping to the floor.
As she looked at the bloody mess, the fear that had been a part of her life for so long assaulted her. Clawed at her, made her angry, made her want to hit something, hurt anything in her path. It welled up, bubbled to the surface in a furious boil and exploded.
She grabbed the bag with her people shield and hurled it against the shower curtain, screaming a raw, hoarse yell of frustration, heedless of the crash of the curtain’s rod as it clattered to the floor.
She rose to her knees and screamed louder, piercing the empty silence with her long-overdue rage. Cleansing herself of it, pushing it out of her heart, ridding herself of the lies, the half-truths, the hiding. Tears sprang to her eyes, hot tears of shame and loss.
And as they began to fall to the tiled floor, inky-black with mascara, she doubled over, pressing her face into her knees, and sobbed for the first time since she was five.
* * *
“Open this door right now, Marybell Lyman, or I swear to you, I’ll pull my skirt up around my waist and climb in that doggone window! If the press gets a picture of my backside, you’re on my bad list!” Em yelled from outside.
Someone pounded on the door and then Dixie, “Do you see this purse, you maggot? It doesn’t just hold my pretties. It’s considered a lethal weapon. Now back off or I’ll show you what some good ol’ Southern rage is!”
There was the screech of metal, distant and far off to Marybell from the floor of the bathroom. Her ears heard it, but she couldn’t move. Nothing on her body would move.
A sharp crack filtered the thick haze she was lost in and then more Em. “I told you, y’all better move on outta here! I am not afraid to use this umbrella!”
Her window in the living room crashed shut to the tune of pounding footsteps. “MB!” Dixie screamed. “Where are you, honey?”
“MB, you answer me this instant!” Em was in her bedroom, riffling around, and still, she couldn’t move.
A nudge on the bathroom door pushed at her hip. “In here!” Dixie called. “Honey, let me in. Please, please let me in. Em, there’s blood on the floor!”
“Move, Dixie!” Em ordered, yanking the door open and falling to her knees, hauling Marybell up in her arms. “Oh, heaven, MB. What have you done? Oh, sugarplum!”
Hands were touching her, dragging her out of the bathroom and she knew she had to speak, but her throat was raw. She held up her hand to the tune of Dixie’s sigh of relief.
She knelt down in front of her, her eyes wild, but her words, her words were calm. Dixie-calm. “MB, oh, MB. Give me your hand. Let me see.” She lifted MB’s hand up to the light in the hall and winced. “She’s got a pretty bad cut, Em. She needs stitches.”
Marybell began to squirm, shaking her head, forcing her words to string together. “No stitches. No hospital. I just slipped and fell on some glass.”
Em rocked her, hugging her so hard she couldn’t breathe. “MB, oh, MB. You scared me so bad. Let me help you up. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Marybell let Em help her off the floor, catching the worried gaze passing between her and Dixie. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” What else was there? What other words made this all better?
Dixie was a flurry of high heels and movement while Em brought her to the couch and set her down. “Close those curtains, Dixie! And peroxide, find some. We need peroxide and a cool cloth for her face and bandages. Get some bandages.”
She was limp, limp and too weak to protest. Not even the angry buzz of voices just outside her door motivated her.
Em forced her chin up, wiping away the streaks of makeup from her face with a tissue from her purse. “Talk to me, Marybell. You had us sick with worry. You talk to me right now. Never you mind those animals outside, but you talk to me, tell me how we can make this better.”
Tears began to flow again, harsh and rushing down her cheeks. “I lied to you. All of you. For so long...I lied.”
Em was always so warm, so gentle, and now was no exception. “You sure did, but why? Why didn’t you come to us? We’re friends, honey. We’re your friends, and all this time you’ve been hidin’ like this. Why?”
Defeat punched her in the gut, hard and sharp. “How do you tell someone something like this, Em? How could I tell you I was Carson Chapman? I’ve been p
ainted like some Jezebel for so long, why would you believe any different?”
Dixie handed Em a cool cloth and some peroxide. “Because we’re your friends, Marybell Lyman. We know who you are. That’s how. You tell us and we find a way to help you. That’s how friendship works.” She came around the couch and nudged Marybell over, taking the bottle of peroxide from Em and ordering her to hold her hand still.
Em put the cloth under her hand while Dixie held the bottle up. “This will sting, but not nearly as much as it stings to know you didn’t trust us enough to let us help you. We made complete asses of ourselves talkin’ all that nonsense about you and Leon right in front of you and you never said a word. Not one.” Dixie poured the liquid over her open wound with thin lips, making Marybell hiss.
Em closed the cloth around her palm, her eyes filling up. “That’s why you do this, isn’t it?” She circled Marybell’s face with a finger. “Because you were afraid we’d recognize you.”
She tucked her chin to her chest as more tears fell. “Terrified.” That felt so good to say. Whether it was going to work in her favor or not, the terror of discovery was gone and all that was left was the fear of rejection.
“Oh, MB. Why didn’t you tell us?” Em soothed, pulling out a pile of tissues and wiping her face with tender fingers. “We love you. You don’t really think we’d believe you had anything to do with stealin’ people’s money, do you? Do you?”
She swiped at a tear with her thumb. “Is this the girlfriend card?”
Em gave her shoulder a hard shove. “This is the family card, MB. Don’t you use that against me. I won’t have it. I love you—we all love you like you’re kin. I love you more than some of my kin, and you know my kin. So don’t you go crackin’ wise about my hurt feelings. There isn’t anything you can’t tell me—not ever—and had I known you were sufferin’ like this for all this time, I’d have made it my mission to figure it out. I knew somethin’ was wrong.”
Talking After Midnight Page 20
