by Laura Drake
Ryan was fun-loving, and no more interested in ties than she. They fit.
She lifted her face to the wind. But Boulder hadn’t really been like that in a while, had it? Certainly not the sex part, anyway. She couldn’t exactly say when it happened, but things were off, somehow. Ryan was on the road more this spring, putting on skateboard tournaments, or filming them. And when they spoke over the phone he seemed distracted, distant.
Her temp office jobs felt mundane lately. And when she wandered down to the bar with her friends, the laughter there sounded forced, almost fiercely jolly—as if a sparkly facade would make happiness sink in and become real.
A bit cynical maybe, but you’ve been to your mother’s grave today. That’s bound to stir the shit on the bottom of the tank.
But Priss was the one who demanded truth above all. She couldn’t lie to herself. She knew what was wrong. Her perfect, shiny gold life was flaking away, revealing a cheap dime-store bauble underneath.
And that scared the crap out of her.
What if she’d run from her mother’s world—the grinding poverty and the bogus rosy future of the next man at the bar—only to settle for an upscale version of the same life?
She crammed her icy fists into the pockets of her jacket. She had made sure not to get trapped by the chains that had held her mother captive. Priscilla Hart wasn’t getting tied to anything: a man, kids or a dead-end job. Better to just fly above it all. Jettison weight and take in the good things that came to her.
That philosophy had served her well for ten years. The past stayed in the past, and the present...
If Colorado had lost its shine, there were lots of other places to explore. She turned her back to the ceaseless wind and let it push her to her car. Maybe it was time to hit the road and get out of Boulder. There were plenty of other chances just waiting for her to swoop in and claim them.
The comforting thought lasted until she slid into Mona, turned the key, and hit the button to raise the top. The cold had whipped past her flimsy barrier of skin and muscle to freeze-dry her bones.
Nacho.
He was a good-looking kid with his dark eyes, soft mouth, and the same widow’s peak and cowlick their mother had. The same one Priss saw in her rearview mirror.
But his tawny skin was his father’s. Priss knew, because she’d met the man. Her mom’s shift from losers to married losers was the gas that fueled Priss’s flight from the bad side of Vegas, from the “slut spawn” taunts of her classmates, from her mother’s assurances that with this man things would be better.
And her mother’s record for losers stood unbroken, since it seemed he was now in prison. She rolled up the windows and cranked the heat.
Nacho wouldn’t have the luxury of driving away. She wondered where they had taken him.
Not your problem. He’ll be fine. They’ll take care of him.
Wherever they put him would be safer than being alone on the rough side of town at night, while his mother worked as a barmaid in an area likely even rougher.
“He’s better off.” She ignored the shiver that ran through her like ice water, and put the car in Reverse.
He’d stood there, waiting for her to make some kind of decision. A decision that told him he didn’t matter any more than the trash blowing around their feet.
She knew that feeling. She’d lived that feeling.
After checking for oncoming traffic, she hit the gas and pulled onto the open road. It wasn’t her job to save orphans. At eighteen, she’d left that fouled nest back in Vegas, spread her wings and flown, never looking back.
And she wasn’t starting now. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She drove south on PCH, planning to pick up Highway 15 out of L.A., driving on autopilot. The spectacular vistas of bluffs tumbling to meet the ocean barely registered.
Those eyes.
He’d looked right into her, seen that she knew. Knew about lying in the dark alone as your mom left for work. When she leaned over to give a kiss goodnight, he’d begged, just like Priss had begged.
Don’t leave me. I’m afraid.
Yet she’d always left. And with the closing door, the shadows would shift. The space would change from something warm and safe to a place that hid bad things and held scary sounds, just on the other side of the flimsy walls. A kid’s imagination was worse than reality. Most of the time.
Again she pictured him lying in the dark, alone. Night after night. For years. Waiting for Mom to come home, bringing the smell of cheap perfume and menthol “smokes” with her.
“Goddamn it!” She pulled off at a scenic overlook. Below, crashing waves drove the spray up a cliff face with the same relentless battering of her conscience.
She knew nothing about taking care of a kid. After all, her mother hadn’t been a shining example. And she had no interest in learning.
But she also knew what could happen to a kid in foster care. She shuddered.
Why would you even consider this? It’s not like you can save yourself retroactively.
Maybe not, but she might be able to save another kid. Her half brother.
“I am not my mother.” She put the car in Park, picked up her phone and with shaking fingers, dialed.
Shouting in the background. “Damn sketchy trick but he nailed that pop shove-it, didn’t he? It’s gonna make epic film. Hang on. Hello?”
“Hi, Ryan. I’m—”
“Hang on, babe, I can’t hear you.” The background noise faded, then a door banged.
“Okay, I’m outside, but it’s like ten degrees. If I stay here long they’ll use my balls to chill some loser’s drink. How’s it going?”
“Well, Mona broke down for a couple hours in Arizona, so I missed the funeral.”
“Oh, hell, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Hey, listen, when are you coming home?”
“We’re filming at one more indoor park, in Albany. I’m planning on being back by next Tuesday. You’ll be back by then, right?”
“Yeah, no problem. But Ryan?”
“Damned wind is brutal. Yeah?”
“Um. I ran into my half brother. He’s like ten. They’re putting him in foster care.”
“That sucks. What’s it got to do with you?”
“Well, I was thinking...what would you think if I brought him with me?”
“To Boulder?” His voice rose higher at the end than the question warranted. “Why would you want the baggage? You always said you were a free bird.”
“I know. I am.” She pulled at the roots of her hair as memories chewed at her with wolf-size bites. “Damn, Ryan, I told you what those places are like. Believe me, I don’t want the hassle. But I’m not sure I can leave a kid to that.”
“Um, Priss, I don’t mean to sound all evil, but I didn’t sign up for that gig, you know? We got a good thing, just you and I.” She heard his teeth chatter. “Listen, I’ve gotta go, or they’re gonna find me freeze-dried like that guy in that Stephen King movie. But I gotta tell you, Priss, three’s a crowd that I’m not interested in hanging with. See what I’m saying? I mean...”
She let her head fall on the back of the seat, suddenly weary down to her DNA. “Yeah, I hear you. Listen, I’ll call you later, okay?”
He must have walked back into the bar, because Rihanna wailed in her ear. “Yeah. Later, babe.”
Click.
Talking to Ryan only solidified what she’d almost known before the call. She was done with Boulder. But of the zillions of flight paths she had, was one of them taking custody of her half brother?
She hadn’t realized until she stepped into that apartment how much the past weighted her. The fact that she hadn’t made it ten miles out of town was proof that today her wings had been clipped.
“Shitshitshitshit!”
Leaning her head on the cool plastic of the steering wheel, she waited until her breath stopped hitching. Then she sat motionless for a long time, poised between past and present, between facts and emotions, between flight and landing.
Her stomach pitched with the rapid altitude change.
Maybe doing this would be the last payment, the final stamp that said “paid in full” on the chit she owed her mother for giving Priss life.
Then she could fly off, unencumbered. Karma balanced.
But don’t think you’re forgiven, Mother, for leaving this mess for me to clean up.
She sat up, pulled the county social worker’s card out of her back pocket and after staring at it for a while, called the phone number listed.
* * *
“MOTHER, BE LOGICAL.” Adam Preston lifted a box of dishes and carried it to the hallway to add to the rest of his mother’s carefully selected household goods. “If you’d look at this unemotionally, you’d see I’m right.”
She stumped behind him, one wheel of her walker squeaking. “Don’t you ‘Mother’ me. I’m allowed to be emotional. This is the house your father and I bought when we married. Leaving it isn’t easy, you know.”
Olivia Preston wouldn’t let a little thing like recovering from a broken hip keep her from looking presentable—from her beauty-shopped silver hair to the soft loafers on her petite feet.
“That’s my point. You don’t have to leave. We could set you up in the downstairs bedroom, and have a ramp put in so you don’t have to navigate the porch steps. And I can take the bedroom upstairs.” Thank God his mother was healthy, but at seventy-nine, brittle bones and balance issues were an accident that hadn’t waited to happen.
“Ruining the facade of this cottage with an ugly, old-lady ramp would be criminal.” She straightened to all of her five feet. “And you are not moving in with me. How would it look to my potential daughters-in-law, you living with your mother?”
He wasn’t touching that one. “Your friend Lily lives in that retirement place in Santa Maria. Why don’t we look into it?”
“And leave Widow’s Grove? I’ve lived here all my life. Besides, can you see me getting on one of those odious little buses to go for a rousing night of bingo?”
Not without a partial lobotomy, he couldn’t. She’d been a professor of philosophy at UC Santa Barbara for thirty years. “But, Mom, above the store?” The only reason this was remotely possible was the elevator that survived the renovation when his father bought the two-story Ben Franklin dime store, back in the ’60s.
“If I can’t stay in the bedroom Tom and I shared, I’d rather be in our old apartment. That way I’ll still have his memories around me.”
His dad had died six years ago but you’d never know it, hearing his mother talk. He was proud of how she’d soldiered on afterward—not that there’d been any doubt. His mother was a strong woman. Maybe too strong. Because this was a crazy idea. Adam had moved into one of the apartments over the family drugstore when he’d returned from college with his degree and pharmacist’s license. “You’d be all alone up there.”
“You’ll be working right beneath me. Besides, if you hadn’t broken that sweet little schoolteacher’s heart she’d still be living in the apartment across the hall.”
He dropped the box on the growing pile. “Mom, let’s not start that again.”
“Why else would she have left in the middle of the school year if not because of a broken heart? I hate to point it out, but you’re not getting any younger and neither am I. I’d like to meet my grandchildren before I move on to whatever is next. But if you keep being so darned picky—”
“Mom. I didn’t break her heart.” He looked at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “She was gay, okay? She said that dating me made her sure that she wasn’t interested in men. She moved to Carmel and in with her ex-girlfriend.”
Mother winced. “Ouch.”
“And thanks for reminding me of the lowest point in my love life, to date.”
“Well, then, you need to pick yourself up and get on with your life, Adam.” She patted his hand. “Jesse at the café gave me a couple of names of nice girls you can call.”
He had to get out of here before his head exploded. “I’ve got to get to softball practice, Mom. I’ll stop by on my way home with a load of my stuff.” He walked out, shaking his head. His mother discussing his love life, or lack thereof, with the town matchmaker? How pathetic was he? He bounded down the stairs to his midsize sedan, the backseat loaded with bats, bases, and dirty laundry.
So maybe pharmacist wasn’t on the “top ten sexiest careers” list. But he wasn’t hideous looking. He was neat, led a quiet life, and—
And arguing your good points with yourself is even more pathetic.
Mom was wrong. He waved to Burt Hanks, who drove past, then unlocked the car and sank into it. But lately, the safe life he’d put on like a Teflon suit so many years ago had started to chafe—as if it were made of wet wool.
But just the same, the thought of stepping out of it made his stomach muscles clench to guard his guts.
CHAPTER TWO
A WEEK AFTER her mom’s funeral, Priss walked down Hollister, Widow’s Grove’s main drag, trying not to sweat. It had been chilly when she left the hotel this morning, so she’d worn a turtleneck with her pencil skirt and heels. But the day had turned warm, especially downtown, where the buildings blocked the breeze.
She paused at the display window of Hollister Drugs, more to rest her feet than to window-shop. Toeing out of one shoe, she rubbed her toes on the back of the other calf while glancing at the merchandise.
It had taken some convincing but Ms. Barnes had finally agreed to a temporary custody hearing with the Family Services Court. She didn’t seem to trust Priss or her intentions but didn’t have much choice since Priss was Nacho’s only unincarcerated kin.
The judge seemed wary as well, in spite of Priss dressing up and being on her best behavior. Though to be fair, her lack of a job and spiky hair probably had something to do with it. She hated looking so young. People often guessed her ten years younger than her twenty-nine years and assumed her maturity level matched her youthful face. They had no way of knowing that she’d gained her street smarts at a younger age than Nacho was now.
But the judge did grant Priss temporary custody, with strings. That meant home visits and interviews, and the judge had left the timeline open-ended. Priss would have to prove herself as a parent to Ms. Barnes’s satisfaction before she and Nacho could leave Widow’s Grove.
Priss had agreed to their terms. This would be as good a place as any to settle, at least in the short term. If she didn’t like it down the road, she’d make a different choice. What worried her more was the fact that she hadn’t a clue about how to be a parent. After all, she’d never been exposed to a good one.
But the worry about screwing up Nacho’s psyche had to take a backseat. They had to eat in the meantime. She needed a job.
The lady at the temp agency had no openings for office workers. Turned out tourist towns weren’t big on office management. And the few jobs they did have wouldn’t support Priss, much less her and Nacho. She had to find something soon. The hotel was expensive, and Ms. Barnes wouldn’t release Nacho into Priss’s care until she had a job, and a proper place to live in. The apartments she’d looked at on the outskirts of town were way too expensive, and too far from Nacho’s school.
So here she was, footsore and sweating, walking the streets looking for work. She’d stopped in The Gift of Words bookstore, a trendy clothing store for kids and an antique boutique. She’d never been a store clerk, but if it paid enough she’d find a way to become the best damned clerk they’d ever hired. But none of the shops needed help.
God, she was thirsty. She leaned in, cupping her hand around her eyes to see past the window’
s glare into the drugstore, but still couldn’t make out much. Surely they sold cold soda. She slipped back into her shoe, stepped to the door and opened it.
Her heels tapped hollow on the wooden floor. A wall of blessedly cool air bathed her face, bringing with it the smell of coffee, French fries and old building. Two checkout counters faced her and beyond that, several shoppers wandered aisles that led to the pharmacy counter against the back wall.
But it was the area along the left wall that snagged her attention. An old soda-fountain counter stood on a black-and-white-checkerboard tiled area with a huge mirror behind it, reflecting stacked parfait glasses and sundae boats. Several of the frilly white wrought-iron tables were occupied by early lunchers. The whole area was bathed in light streaming through the huge front window, making it look like an oasis in the desert—or heaven.
Her feet led her without conscious direction around the tables and chairs, straight to the counter where she collapsed on the red vinyl stool farthest from the sun.
A girl stood behind the counter, flipping burgers and snapping gum.
“Could I have some water?”
Snap, snap, snap. “Okay, but you gotta order something. You know, something that costs money.” She didn’t move to get a glass.
Probably just out of high school, the girl wore a pink, sixties-throwback A-line dress, with a white frilled apron and a pink pillbox cap perched on hot-magenta shoulder-length hair. The rims of both ears were encrusted with stud earrings, and her lipstick and short nails were both painted black.
Rising irritation only made Priss hotter. “You’re going to lecture me on manners?”
The girl rolled her eyes to the back of the store. “Hey, it’s not me. I could give a crap. It’s the boss’s rule.”
“Okay. After you bring me water...” She glanced to the menu board on the wall to her right. “How about a BLT and a diet coke.”
“Coming up.” The girl finally moved, albeit slowly.
