by Susan Hunter
“How about a drink? Miguel mixed up a big batch of margaritas, and they’re pretty good.”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Be right back.”
I wandered into the living room and sat down on a folding chair near the fireplace. As I did, Miguel spotted me and came dancing over. He leaned in and gave me a big hug.
“Chica! I saw you talking to Ben. Nice, yes?” he nodded his head up and down.
“Yeah, he seems pretty nice.”
“Pretty nice? I special ordered him for you.”
“What?”
“You need a little spice in your life. Ben, he’s perfect for a little spring fling.” He grinned broadly and lifted his eyebrows up and down in mock lechery.
“You didn’t! Miguel, I hate set-ups and I don’t have time for one now. I can’t—”
Instead of listening, he reached over and undid a button on my shirt, shaking his head. “This a party, chica, not a deposition. You gotta work it a little. C’mon. I can’t do everything. Ben’s hot and hetero. Get in the game.”
Before I could answer, someone yelled to him from across the room that the empanadas were running out. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “I’ll be back. Now get out there and make the magic happen.”
I was mortified. Who knew what he had told Ben—take pity on my desperate, lonely friend? I headed through the patio doors and out to the backyard in hopes of avoiding him. I made a beeline for a punchbowl set up on the picnic table, filled a plastic cup to the rim, and took a big gulp. Whoa! That was one strong margarita. I found an empty chair in a corner of the yard, and sat down to nurse my drink and watch the revelers.
Several couples were salsa dancing with varying levels of skill, and I recognized Courtnee’s flag of Spain colors swirling around. She and her boyfriend Trent were actually pretty good dancers. The stars were out, the music was lively, and the embarrassment over Miguel’s match-making began to fade as I downed my margarita. I started to feel a pleasant glow that ended abruptly as my benevolent gaze picked up Ellie steaming across the yard toward me.
“Leah, is it true you confronted Miller Caldwell at his home and accused him of being involved in Lacey’s death?” she demanded without preamble. A fresh grassy smell wafted off her.
“Miller asked me to stop by for coffee. He invited me, I didn’t call him. We talked about Lacey. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I just asked a few questions.”
She shook her head, making flame-colored hair swirl round her shoulders and land in charming chaos above her close fitting purple tank top. I had the urge to tell her she looked like the Little Mermaid and smelled like a field of clover, but fortunately my prefrontal cortex hadn’t yet surrendered to the tequila.
“I’ve asked you, begged you, and Max has ordered you to stop this stupid attempt to rewrite your family history. It’s bad enough to fool yourself, but your selfishness is hurting my family. I won’t have it.” She was actually shaking her finger at me.
“You know, I’m getting a little tired of you telling me how to live my life. How is me finding out how my sister died hurting your family, Ellie? I mean, seriously. I make sure everyone I talk to knows this is my deal, not Max’s.”
“I wouldn’t care what you’re doing, Leah, if it didn’t affect Max. I don’t know why he’s so fond of you, because you sure don’t seem very fond of him. All you care about is what you want to do, what you think is important, and to hell with everyone else. But I care that my husband is juggling creditors, and cutting his pay in half, and dodging old friends, because he owes them money. I care that he has to take Ambien every night to get to sleep. I care that you’re a major part of the stress he’s feeling.
“And no matter what you tell the nuns, or Miller, or anyone else connected with DeMoss, nobody likes feeling they’re under investigation. Least of all the Catholic Church. And that kind of people take care of their friends, and they don’t leave fingerprints. They won’t have to refuse Max’s loan to punish him. If they delay acting on it long enough, Max will go under. And I hope you can live with that, knowing it’s partly your fault, after all he’s done for you.”
I didn’t know that about Max. I didn’t realize he’d cut his own salary.
“Look, Ellie, I’m sorry. I really am. But Max’s problems with the paper started long before I got back. You know that. I’m finally getting somewhere with this, and I can’t stop now. Things are starting to make sense. I’m even beginning to see how Sister Mattea fits into the picture.” OK, so I was exaggerating, but in the face of Ellie’s anger I guess I was trying to justify myself.
She looked at me nonplussed.
“You are unbelievable! Now we’ll have every Catholic in town cancelling his subscription to the paper because you’re trying to dig up dirt on a nun!” Then she turned on her heel and strode away. Ellie’s rant shook me up. It made me sick to think of Max’s situation. Maybe there was a little truth in Ellie’s fears. If someone like Reid Palmer or Miller Caldwell thought I was going to hurt something they cared about—in Palmer’s case the DeMoss family legacy, in Miller’s his political future—they might put pressure wherever they thought it would help. No matter what I said about Max not being part of it.
I became aware that someone was watching me.
“I’ve been looking for you. You’re not trying to avoid me, are you?” Ben asked, but in the teasing tone of someone who knew he never had to worry about being ditched. He held a plastic cup toward me. I accepted and took a big gulp. One and a half margaritas in, I was a little less uptight about Miguel’s matchmaking efforts.
“Hey. Thanks. I just saw someone I know, and we got talking.”
“Ah.” He nodded as he pulled up a lawn chair and sat down beside me. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it sure is.” We were both silent for a minute, then both started talking at once.
“So Miguel says—”
“So where are you—”
“No, you go,” I said.
“All right. Miguel said you’re a big time journalist. What are you doing back in Himmel?”
“He’s exaggerating, as usual. I’m back to take care of some family stuff. You know,” I said evasively and took another sip. His hand accidentally brushed against my arm as he leaned over to reach for the chips sitting on the table next to us. He really was good looking. Or did I just think so because I was in the middle of a long dry spell, tempered now by a wet margarita haze?
“Yeah, I hear you. So, you’re from here then?”
“Born and raised. How about you?”
“I live in Chicago, but I used to spend summers here with my grandmother. She died a couple of months ago. I’m staying at her house, trying to fix it up to sell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well, she had Alzheimer’s. It was pretty hard to have her go like that. She was a special person.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I changed the subject.
“So what do you do, Ben? When you’re not fixing up houses?”
“I’m an IT security consultant.”
“No way.”
“Way. Why not?”
OK, I wasn’t so far gone that I was going to tell him he looked too hot to be a computer geek. But I was close. “You just seem too, too, uh—social. You seem too social.”
“C’mon. You don’t seriously think all IT people are awkward social misfits?”
“Um, kind of.”
“You’re a very biased person, Leah. I’m surprised. I thought journalists were supposed to be all about getting the facts, no judgments, just the facts.”
“I think you’re thinking of Joe Friday.”
He looked blank.
“ ‘Dragnet.’ ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’ 1987 Tom Hanks/Dan Aykroyd movie? Old-timey TV show? Really bad remake with Ed O’Neill 2003?” Oh boy. He looked dreamy, but he was dropping in my esteem. I put a lot of store by old movie and TV references.
“Sorry.”
&
nbsp; “I forgive you.” He really was very pretty. “So how long will you be here?”
“Couple more months, I think. Until the house is in shape to put on the market. Right now the interior needs a lot of work.”
“I hope you’re handy.”
“I’ve been told I am,” he said with a grin. I was glad it was dark as I realized I’d walked right into that double entendre and felt a flush rise on my cheeks. And remembered Miguel’s comment about picking Ben out special for me. I was going to make an excuse to circulate, but he said, “Would you like another drink?”
Suddenly, that seemed like a really good idea. Why couldn’t I just once, just let things happen? I wasn’t judgmental. I wasn’t obsessed. I knew how to have a good time. I could get in the game.
“All right. Sure.”
As he left, I heard a burst of laughter from across the yard. Coop was walking toward my little corner of the party with Sherry holding so tight to his arm she looked like a third appendage. He caught my eye, then we both looked away. Sherry must have seen the glance, because she gave his arm a proprietary squeeze, then leaned her head on it for just a second. As they turned and changed direction toward the house, she cast a triumphant smile at me.
Dumbass. Coop could date all the bimbos he wanted. I wasn’t interested in him as a boyfriend, but I sure did miss him as a friend. I stood up to stretch my legs and someone tapped my shoulder from behind.
“Karen! I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I know. But I hear all about you from Carol,” she said, leaning down from her 6-foot height to give me a hug.
“I bet. You look great. Your hair is super cute.” I was used to seeing her silver-blonde hair in a no-nonsense short cut, but she’d grown it out to a layered bob that suited her narrow face.
She waved away my compliment, then hit me with what was on her mind.
“Leah, what is going on with you? Your mother is really worried. She told me,” and here she leaned in a little and dropped her voice almost to a whisper, “she said you’re convinced that Lacey was sexually abused, and you’re risking your job and Max’s business to prove you’re right.”
“Karen, don’t you start on me. Despite what everyone seems to think, I didn’t just dream this up.” I gave her the shortest version I could of what I’d discovered, and to my surprise, instead of telling me I was crazy and irresponsible, she nodded her head.
“I see. That’s not exactly how your mom explained it.”
“No doubt. Look, I get she’s concerned, but I’ve been doing investigative reporting for 10 years. I know when something is off. Yeah, yeah, so I’m emotionally involved in this. That doesn’t mean I’m not on to something, does it?” I tried to keep my desire for her validation out of my voice.
“Kiddo, if you say there’s something wrong with Lacey’s death, then I have to take you seriously. But at this point, it looks to me like you know too much for your peace of mind, and not enough for a court of law. And Carol’s right you’re treading on dangerous ground.
“Miller is very powerful, and Georgia is very protective. She’s not going to let a threat to his election go. And DeMoss Academy has influential friends. This priest you’re after, the Catholic Church is going to protect him, too. You’re out on your own on this one. Max has taken a clear step back. You could be sued for slander. And that could be a very expensive, career-destroying court case. Your professional and personal life, everything will be up for grabs.”
“It doesn’t matter. If it’s true, it isn’t slander. I just have to prove what I’m saying is true. And, Karen, I don’t know all the answers, but I’m getting closer.”
“Leah, are you getting enough sleep? You look so tired. You know, you’re all your mother’s got. You need to take care of yourself. She loves you like crazy. And so do I,” she said, reaching out and putting a hand on my shoulder.
A warm glow infused me, and I thought, take that Coop, everybody else loves me. I had moved into a very mellow place in Margaritaville, and all things seemed possible. I reached up and pulled her down in a hug. “Karen, it’s OK. I’m OK. And you’re OK. And everything is A-OK. Don’t worry.”
“How much have you had to drink, Leah?”
“Oh, a couple. Small ones. I’m good,” I assured her. I really was. I’ve heard that drinking brings out the side of your personality that you keep under wraps—that’s why some people who are jovial, funny types turn into mean drunks. In my case, drinking turns me from a cynical smartass to an affectionate extrovert. With each sip, I become more enchanted with everyone.
At this point I found it hard to keep from giving Karen a pinch on the cheeks, because she looked so darn sweet with her face all scrunched up with worry lines, looking at me with big sad eyes.
“Look, give me a call tomorrow. I want to walk through this with you when you’re fully functional. You need to understand what could happen if you’re wrong. And maybe even more important, what could happen if you’re right. Now, you settle down and eat something. I’ll talk to you later.”
As she started to move away, Ben came up with our drinks.
“Wait, Karen, this is my new friend Ben. He loved his grandma. Ben, this is Karen. She’s really nice. Do you like her hair?”
They exchanged glances. “Nice to meet you, Ben. Take good care of your new friend.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
“Who was that?”
“My mom’s boss. Karen. She’s a good lawyer.”
He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind if I need one.”
He sat down next to me, and I drank freely from my replenished margarita while he started on a long story, which I vaguely remember had to do with a road trip with a friend in a 1982 Plymouth Reliant. I absolutely remember I found it hilarious. Toward the end I noticed I was getting cold. And I was hungry.
I stood up a little woozily and reached down to pull Ben up beside me.
“Whoa, steady there. You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just hungry. Let’s go in and get something to eat.”
Inside I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. “Be right back.” Of course, there was a line up. When I finally got through and headed for the kitchen, I saw Karen and Ben in conversation. Walking up to them, I said, “Hey, you guys. I really like you. Did you know that?”
Miguel came up just then, and I threw an arm up and pulled his head down and gave him a big kiss on the top of his head. “Miguel! Ben and Karen this is my Miguel.” Which struck me suddenly as very funny, especially when I began to sing the Beatles “My Michelle,” replacing it, of course, with “My Miguel.”
In the middle of the chorus, I saw Coop in the doorway. I broke off mid-song. “Coop!” I shouted, so happy to see him. Then I remembered. “You’re an asshat. This is my new friend, Ben. And this is my true friend, Miguel. And, Karen.” I fixed him with a withering stare. Or at least what in my mind was a withering stare.
“Leah, don’t you think it might be time to go home and get some rest?”
“Quit telling me what I think. I think you should just go call your best friend Miller Caldwell. I think you don’t know who I think you aren’t. Are. Thought you were. Think you know!” I finished incoherently, but with an unwarranted sense of triumph, as though I had scored a major verbal putdown. “I am going. I am going with my new true friend Ben.”
From somewhere in the dark recesses of a childhood spent listening to my mother’s Best of the ’70s albums, I dredged up the Michael Jackson song “Ben.” None of the words came to mind, but that was OK. I settled for humming and ad-libbing something along the lines of “Ben, my new best friend. And I will not pretend. That you are not my friend. And I will never bend…” And then, mercifully my lyric machine ran dry, and I sat down abruptly in the nearest chair. From there memory dims.
Twenty-One
I woke up to the nauseating smell of bacon frying. I was in a bed I didn’t recognize in a room I’d never seen before. Not a good fee
ling. I remembered the party. I remembered Ben and drinking margaritas and laughing and maybe singing and maybe, sort of, coming back here with Ben. But nothing was very clear.
I threw back the cover, saw that I was still wearing my jeans and oxford shirt. That seemed like a positive sign. I sat up. Then promptly laid back down and closed my eyes. My head was pounding. Was this Ben’s house? I tried again to get myself upright, this time more slowly. I opened my eyes carefully and looked around.
The room was small and held only the bed I was in, a battered nightstand, and a threadbare rug. The wallpaper was a faded dark green festooned with big pink cabbage roses. The bed itself was the kind you see in old Westerns, a metal frame and springs topped by a blue ticking mattress. Well. No one could say I wasn’t a cheap date.
OK, OK, pull yourself together. I swung my feet onto the floor and felt around for my shoes, which I located tucked under the bed. As I leaned over to put them on, a wave of nausea hit me, and I stopped mid-reach and took a deep breath. By employing this torturous start-stop-start method. I was able to get my shoes tied. I rose from the bed and grabbed my purse, which was sitting on the night table, and slowly made my way to the door.
The bacon smell now mingled with the scent of strong coffee. I made a stop in the bathroom across the hall, where I repeatedly splashed cold water on my face. I squeezed toothpaste on my finger and ran it across my teeth and tongue a few times. I studied myself in the mirror. There were huge bags under my eyes, and my hair was sticking out as though I was a cartoon character with a finger stuck in an electric socket. I dug around in my purse for a hairclip, yanked my hair back and clipped it up, searched within my soul for the few shreds of dignity I could muster, and followed the breakfast smells down the stairs.
I walked through a formal dining room and into a kitchen that looked like it came straight from the set of a 1950s sitcom. A big roundish refrigerator was set against one wall, next to a white stove with a solid door and chrome knobs. A dinette set with yellow Formica top and yellow-padded chrome chairs held center stage in the room. That’s where Ben sat drinking a cup of coffee, as I trudged shamefacedly in.
