“Did you think I was just going to hand over five hundred thousand dollars to you two?” Little did she know that a mere three days ago I was actually considering it, but after this stunt—after realizing there isn’t a shred of decency under that platinum bob—my tune has changed, and it’s not one she’s going to want to hum along to.
Lucy’s eyes pop. “What are you talking about?”
“I know about the will.”
“How did you—?” The shock behind the question is genuine.
“You didn’t know I took it?” I don’t believe her.
“No—no—” she stammers. “I—I—”
“Roland said you went ballistic last week, searching for something in your desk.”
“Unbelievable.” Lucy snorts, shaking her small nugget head. “I thought that temp had stolen my secret stash of cigarettes.”
“So you didn’t even think to bring it with you today?” I ask dubiously. All that worrying, wasted on this dope.
“Of course I did,” she snaps. “But when I couldn’t find it, I figured it had been misplaced, not that it had been stolen.” She jabs the last word at me as if I’m a criminal who should be prosecuted for theft. When she’s done something far worse for years—kept the truth from me. That should be a crime, too.
“He’s got a copy,” Judd pipes up confidently, motioning to the office and the lawyer inside who will not be billing for his services today.
“It doesn’t matter who has what,” I say. “I’m not going in there, Luuccyy.” I draw out her name so it sounds like a dirty word. Her body caves in, as if I’ve shoved her in the chest.
“I know everything,” I continue. Sweat drips down my face, probably taking mascara with it. But I don’t care. Let me look ugly, even menacing. “My father may have left you money, but he left me a box, and in it clues I needed to uncover the truth about my real mother. A truth you obviously had no intention of telling me.”
“Can we just go inside?” Lucy asks again. Her patience is wearing thin. If I poke her a couple more times, she should snap.
“I’m not going to make it easy for you two clowns to cash in on my father’s death—”
“He left it for me, Rosie. In the will.”
I have to hand it to her. She’s doing her best to stay calm in the face of the hellfire I’ve unleashed right in the parking lot of some crappy strip mall. “I know. I read it.”
There’s the snap. “Your father’s wishes will be honored, so we are going into that law office.” She grabs my arm, her shiny red nails digging into my flesh. “Now move. I didn’t wipe your snot and clean your ass for nothing.”
I wrench out of her grip and almost back into a car that was driving around us.
“Hey, move it!” the guy yells, making an exaggerated turn of his steering wheel. Lucy flips him off, while Judd curses at him.
The driver throws his car into park. A big, muscular guy pours out. “You got a problem, buddy?” He’s younger and taller than Judd, with a red buzz cut and arms laden with colorful tattoos. Judd cowers behind Lucy.
“Hiding behind your old lady,” he says, then spits on the ground to show his disgust.
Even with her face partially covered by the straw hat, I can see Lucy flinch at the comment. If she grips the napkin any harder, she’ll be sure to squeeze the blood out of it.
“You had some nasty words for me, tough guy. Now you can say them to my face.” He cracks his knuckles, right out of a movie. I’d love nothing more than for this guy to take Judd down, but I have a feeling he’s a lot of talk, too. Something in his face looks soft.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Lucy says, waving her hands apologetically. She’s petite, but still manages to shrink like a piece of withered fruit. “Tell him you’re sorry, babe.”
This guy and I stand as a team, opposite Lucy and Judd.
“Didn’t mean anything by it. I lost my temper,” Judd says. “Just having a little family squabble.”
I turn to the guy. “Don’t believe him,” I whisper, to which he snickers.
“Rosie!” Lucy snaps.
“And while you’re at it, don’t believe her, either.”
The guy snorts. “You got a messed-up family.” Then whispers, “But who doesn’t?”
If he only knew.
Now that I’ve softened him up with some humor, he says, “Get out of the middle of this goddamned parking lot, or someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“Okay, okay,” Lucy and Judd say, almost too gratefully, like they’ve avoided the guillotine. “Come on, honey, let’s go.” Lucy extends her hand to me as if I’m a little girl who needs help crossing the street.
The guy has returned to his car and unnecessarily revs the engine. I tap on the window. He cranks it down, because it’s a junky old Camaro.
“Hey, can you give me a ride?” I ask. He hesitates, shaking his head in that I-don’t-want-to-get-involved way.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Judd asks, reaching me before Lucy does. Two rabid dogs fighting over a bone. “She doesn’t need a ride,” he says to him, a hand clasped around my sweaty neck.
“Yes, I do,” I plead, then silently mouth, “Save me.”
Lucy yanks on my shoulder with her nails, then spins me around so I’m facing her when she delivers this warning: “Don’t you dare get in that car.”
She’s desperate, dreams of the money disintegrating right before her catlike eyes. A coughing fit grips her, has her folding in on herself at the waist.
I gather up all the broken pieces of my shattered ego—the pieces that always hoped for Lucy’s love—and hurl them at her in a single dagger. “Why don’t you just die already?”
The suggestion earns me a slap across the face. Instinctively, I shove Lucy in the chest, which sends her tripping backward into Judd’s stunned arms. Her tote falls to the ground and out tumble at least a dozen tissues soiled in blood she and Judd race to scoop up.
Cars have backed up behind the Camaro. People are laying on their horns, cursing through windows they’ve rolled down for that purpose.
Finally, the guy says, “Get in,” and unlocks the door.
I’m barely in the car before Lucy charges us like a blonde bullet. She lunges for the door. I almost smash her hand in it when I slam it closed.
“Buckle up,” he says.
Lucy grabs for my seat belt through the open window. Her face is slick with sweat, red lipstick smudged into the skin around her mouth. Or is it blood?
“Don’t think for one second that I won’t tell the whole goddamned world your father’s secret.”
“You mean about my mother? I already know, Lucy. Go tell whoever you want.”
The guy revs his engine, but Lucy maintains her grip. “More, Rosie girl. I know more.”
41
MY RESCUER’S NAME is Tom Van Epp, but he told me to call him Van. He’s not much of a talker, prefers banging his hands against the steering wheel to the thumping sounds of Megadeth. So I stare out the window, hoping to safely reach my destination, and, thanks to Lucy’s parting shot, working to bury the worm gnawing its way through a dark, murky corner of my brain.
I want to tell Mary everything that just went down, but I’m not about to ask Van to shut his music off so I can call my best friend and yak for the next twenty minutes. So I text her.
U were right. No crab cakes.
Toldja
We text a few more times, but I tell her I’ll call her later. Besides, I keep getting interrupted with calls from Lucy that I ignore. When my phone buzzes for the twentieth time, I’m ready to shut it off, but it’s not her. The number isn’t familiar, so I ask him to turn the music down so I can answer it.
“Rosie? It’s Elaine.”
“Hi!” I say excitedly, somehow trusting she wouldn’t call me unless it was good news.
&nb
sp; “You have a minute?”
I turn to Van. “Is it okay if I take this?”
He nods like he understands, so I say, “Sure, what’s up?”
“My daughter thought your portfolio was excellent.”
Thank God. I actually feel that part of my chest—tightened after I got denied by the Fashion House—begin to loosen. “Really, Elaine? That’s awesome.”
“She wants to set up an appointment for you to meet with an admissions counselor next week. Does that work for you?”
“Yes! Oh, Elaine, that’s incredible. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’ve passed on your phone number and e-mail address. Hope that was okay.”
“Of course,” I say, and thank her ten more times before hanging up and telling Van this awesome news, as if he cares.
So much has happened this afternoon. It’s been like a seesaw—riding high with good news one minute, then hitting the ground in despair the next. I need to get my head straight and get off that seesaw. I use the rest of the car ride to focus, and by the time we reach the Coastal Square mall, I’ve got a plan.
“I saved you so you could go shopping?” Van asks as we slowly rumble through the parking lot.
“My friend works here.” I had already texted Mac with an alert that I’d be coming by.
Van pulls into the first empty spot he finds, lets the car idle. “You gonna be okay? Your parents are a couple of whacks.”
“They’re not my parents.” I yank on the door handle to let myself out.
“Take it easy,” he says.
Out of the car I hesitate, then lean back inside. “Today’s my birthday.”
His pale face stretches into a toothy smile. “Well, happy birthday.”
“Thanks for the gift.”
“Anytime,” he says, then reverses and rumbles off into the distance.
I blast up the stairs, through the front door, and into John’s office first. He’s not there, but the light’s on and his laptop is open, so I figure he’ll be back soon. A few steps back, and I’m in Mac’s office.
“What happened?” he asks, closing a file when I appear. If I wasn’t so angry, I’d take a moment to appreciate the worry in his voice, the concern on his face.
“Birthday lunch, my ass!” I toss my backpack on the floor. “They were dragging me to some lawyer so she could offer me up as proof. ‘Lookie! I raised the little brat until she turned eighteen! Check the date on your desk calendar! Today’s payday!’”
Mac strokes his chin, leans back in his leather chair. “The minute you told me about Judd’s invitation, I knew something was up.”
That’s weird. I don’t remember telling him, yet I must have. So much has happened these past few weeks, I can’t even keep my social life straight.
“You did, too,” he says, another thing I don’t recall.
I pretend to remember and add, “So did Mary. Now I feel like such a fool, falling for it.”
He sits next to me, still absorbing the news. “I can’t believe it. I never thought she’d—”
“What, actually be the gold digger we knew she was?”
“No. That we knew.” He smirks, giving my shoulder a soft squeeze. “I just thought since she knew you’d taken the will, it would’ve gone differently, that’s all.”
“She didn’t know.”
“But I thought her boss said—”
“He didn’t actually say anything at the wedding, did he? We assumed her freak-out was because she discovered the will missing. Turns out, Lucy was only searching for a pack of cigarettes she suspected the temp had stolen.”
“Unbelievable.”
He hands me a cold bottle of water from the small fridge near his desk. I sip it before launching into the new theory I developed on my ride here with Van.
“She’s sick, Mac. I mean like really sick.”
“Lucy?” Mac joins me with his own water bottle, then offers me an open bag of pretzels.
“She’s spitting up blood,” I say. “Can’t smoke for twenty years and not pay for it.”
“So the timing of the wedding may have meant something after all,” Mac says. “As her surviving spouse, Judd would inherit her share of the money.”
“Oh my God. You think she’s going to die?” The thought of it—even after everything she’s done, even after I wished that very fate on her an hour ago—still gives me a jolt of sadness.
“I don’t know, Rosie, but last I checked, healthy people don’t cough up blood.”
I’m not heartless. The thought of Lucy dying is terrible, but the thought of Judd inheriting Dad’s money is almost as bad. I hold a pretzel, unable to eat it. “No way. My father didn’t save all that money for a twenty-nine-year-old scumbag who hit on his seventeen-year-old daughter.”
The news shocks Mac. He beats on his chest to prevent an all-out choking fit.
“I’m fine, Mac. It happened a couple weeks ago. I set him straight. Don’t worry.”
“I certainly hope so,” he says, in a way that makes me think he’d straighten him out properly if I hadn’t. “How did you get away from them?”
“I took off with . . . ,” I begin, but I’m not sure I want to tell him I hitched a ride with a complete stranger whose most redeeming feature was a fist aimed at Judd’s face.
“On, I mean, on a bus.”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as you got out of there unscathed.” He laces his fingers through mine. “So what’s your next move?”
“I’m not going back to the house, that’s for sure.” I hold up my cell to show him a string of unanswered calls and texts. “They’ve been blowing up my phone. Like I’d answer either one of them.”
“At least everything’s out in the open, though, right? Everyone’s cards are on the table.” I slump in my chair, tapped. But then Mac pops up and says, “Oh, I got you something.”
My heart picks up pace. A gift! For me! From Mac! I play it cool. “What for?”
“Lucy’s not the only one who remembered your birthday. Hold on,” he says, and disappears down the hall. When he returns, he’s carrying a big white box with a pink ribbon on top. It feels cold when he places it in my hands.
“Was this in the refrigerator?” I ask. “Guess it’s not a shirt.”
“Just open it.” He hands me scissors from his desk to cut the ribbon, and under the bow I find a sticker that says Islamorada Outpost. Inside is, of course, a cherry pie—an entire cherry pie with a perfect golden lattice crust and dark red fruit oozing through the holes.
“Don’t tell me you drove all the way down to the Keys for this.”
“I did,” he says. “But I made it worth the trip and bought one for my family, too.” He winks, and I can’t help but lean across the cold box and kiss him. The last time I tried kissing him in this office, he pulled away. Now he’s all in, returning my kiss, holding me around the waist. Even with a cherry pie between us.
“Why are you crying?” he asks.
I didn’t know I was, but when I put a finger to the corner of my eye, it’s wet.
“You wanted to try the peach, right?” His smirk makes me laugh and blubber at the same time.
“No,” I say, placing the box down on his desk. “It’s perfect. You know it’s my favorite. This just happens to be one of those rare moments I’m not in the mood for cherry pie.”
Mac drops his eyes.
“But I have to admit, I’m glad it happened. It shut the door on any hopes I’d had about Lucy. I’m free now.” With our hands clasped, I fix my eyes on him and say, “You asked me about my next move.”
Mac nods with brows knitted in concentration.
“I have to go.”
He doesn’t ask me where. He knows. We start poking around online, getting a better sense of where she is and how I’d get there.
“I’m afraid to fly,” I confess.
“There are charter buses, things like that.”
The thought of sitting with a bunch of strangers for a hundred hours makes me twitch.
“I thought you liked buses,” he says playfully.
“No one likes buses. They’re only transportation for people without cars.”
Mac pauses, and I can see his wheels spinning. “I have a car,” he says.
“No, Mac.” I shake my head. “I’m not taking your baby.”
There’s a loud knock, and when we look up, there’s John, his hulking frame filling the entire doorway. I wonder how long he’s been standing there.
“You can’t just waltz in there, you know,” he says. He’s wearing a bright floral shirt and jeans, a University of Miami baseball cap clutched in his hand.
“Oakridge is a mental institution, which means it’s a secured facility. You have to be on a list,” John says, helping himself to a pretzel from the open bag.
“What kind of list?” I ask.
“One that allows only certain visitors to see a patient.”
My balloon pops. A minute ago, my body was fueled with adrenaline as Mac and I charted my course to Burlington, Colorado.
“How do you get on the list?” Mac asks before I do.
“A therapist, a counselor—someone like that has to approve you. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or a family member, perhaps the individual that had your mother admitted.”
“Like a hundred years ago,” I say, defeat settling into my bones.
John raises an eyebrow. “It was a little less than that. More like fifteen.” He pauses, takes a seat on the edge of Mac’s desk. “Call Oakridge. You’ve got nothing to lose. Identify yourself, tell them your relationship to the patient. You never know. Someone may have placed you on the list.” His face creases with that familiar smile, the same one I saw when we first met at Lou’s. When he told me he once found a needle in a haystack.
Mac finds the website, and I punch in their number on my cell. If I get blown off, at least I won’t have wasted my time making the trip. I’m connected with one person, then another, and then another who asks me a ton of questions. Mac pleads with his eyes for me to tell him what’s going on, and I keep signaling him to hold on, relax. I’m nervous enough for all three of us.
Rosie Girl Page 27
