by Dawn Atkins
“I hear you. Now stop slapping me.” Rosie pushed Cara’s hand away and sat up.
“You fainted.”
“I’m fine. I got up too fast. No big deal.”
“Has this happened before?”
“A few times. When you’re old, shit happens.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“I will not be interfered with. If it’s my time, it’s my time.” She pushed to her feet.
Cara stared up at her, stunned by her attitude.
“Don’t look at me like that. People pass young in my family. I’ve had a good life.” She wobbled, so Cara jumped up and helped her into a chair, ignoring Rosie’s attempt to slap away her hand.
“You haven’t even seen a doctor and you’re giving yourself a death sentence. Maybe your thyroid’s off or your blood pressure’s wonky. Insulin issues make people faint. It could be a million minor things.”
“Eddie’s hernia was minor, but the surgery killed him like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I know what I know.”
“Rosie…that’s crazy.”
“No. What’s crazy is running out on a good job with good money and free room and board.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Cara grabbed a cloth to wipe up the spilled tea. “You need to get checked.” She dabbed at the wet paper.
“I’ll take that.” Rosie tried to snatch it from her, but Cara held it long enough to read FORECLOSURE NOTICE in red letters. She handed it over. “Are you losing the café?”
Rosie balled up the paper and tossed it, missing the egg-basket-shaped trash can by a mile. “When something’s done, it’s done. That goes for people as well as diners. You take a dignified bow and let the curtain drop.”
The double whammy of bad news left Cara speechless. Rosie was sick and at risk of losing her café. “But you live here. You’ll be homeless.”
Rosie’s face went slack, her eyes distant, and she spoke softly. “My friend Frieda in Tucson will let me stay with her through the end if I need that. I might not. It takes a while to evict a person.”
“Through the end? You seriously think you’re dying? Does Jonah know this?”
“No. And don’t you say one word to him or Evan.” She jabbed a finger at Cara. “I want them living their lives when I clock out. They’re not to spare me a thought.”
“They’re your family. You owe them.”
“You owe me. Swear you won’t tell.”
Cara’s mind reeled. It was Rosie’s life, of course, but she was acting irrationally, wearing a bullheaded expression exactly like Cara’s grandmother’s the time a commercial for a new heart drug listed heart-attack warnings, which matched what her grandmother called heartburn. Cara had pleaded with her to get checked. That’s just drug company scare tactics. They want you to buy their pills for a hangnail. That had been that.
Six months later, her grandmother was gone.
Not this time. Cara wasn’t about to back off with Rosie. She had to get through to her. In an instant, she knew how.
“Okay,” she said. “I won’t tell Jonah under one condition.”
“What’s that?” Rosie said warily.
“You go to the doctor and get checked out.”
“Shit.” Rosie banged the table, making the jelly beans rattle in the bowl. “What’s it to you anyway? You’re on a bus Monday.”
“I care about you,” she blurted.
Rosie’s face softened for a second, then she made herself glare. “Then you’ll respect my wishes.”
Cara’s rebuttal popped instantly into her head. “Eddie wouldn’t want this. Mr. Never Say Die, right? You’re not acting like the woman he believed in.”
This time, Rosie took longer to get back her game face. Cara had made headway.
“Don’t you dare wave my dead husband’s flag at me.” Her eyes sparked fire.
Cara went for the throat this time. “Jonah has lost too much already. He can’t lose you, especially for no good reason.”
Rosie opened her mouth, then closed it. They stared at each other over the soggy bank notice like two gunfighters, the chicken clock clucking down the seconds until the showdown.
Finally, Rosie blinked. “If I do go and I’m not saying I will—” she swallowed, then finished in a shaky voice “—you have to stick around for the verdict.”
Cara considered that. She wanted to repay Rosie’s kindness. Beth Ann did like it here. So did Cara. She loved working in the café. Jonah was here. But he was more of a reason to go than to stay.
Their future was in Phoenix—their future and their safety.
Always there was Barrett and the impulse that hounded her: Run, run, go, get away, don’t stop until you’re truly safe.
If she left, Rosie would not see a doctor. Cara could tell Jonah, but she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t backfire. For Rosie’s sake and in Cara’s grandmother’s honor, Cara had to stay.
It wouldn’t take more than a week, maybe two, for an exam and lab results, right?
“As long as my job and the apartment in Denver will still be there, it’s a deal.” She was reasonably certain of that. Families cycled through the shelter and there were always minimum-wage jobs.
“You’ll work in the café?”
“But Bunny and I leave the minute you get the results. And no putting it off.” Jonah would ensure Rosie got whatever treatment was required. Hopefully, it would be minor. A pill. A change in diet.
“So, deal?” Rosie held out a hand.
Cara shook it. “You’re doing the right thing.”
“You just shoved the foul end of the stick at me. Don’t act like you’ve done me a big hairy favor.”
Cara fought a smile at Rosie being so Rosie.
She remembered the other problem. “Now what about the café? We can’t let you lose it.”
“We, is it now? We’re going to save the café?” A wily look came into Rosie’s eyes. “I might have an idea or two, but you’ll need to figure out how to bring back the customers. Like the coffee and French toast and whatnot.”
It was immediately clear that Rosie had it all figured out, but let her health troubles sink her too low to take action. The plan was to catch up on her mortgage payments by selling half the space in her shop to the owner of the gallery next door, who’d been after it for years. Rosie gave Cara free rein to make changes in the café.
Two weeks wasn’t much time to turn around a restaurant, but seeing the new light in Rosie’s eye, buoyed by Rosie’s confidence in her, Cara would do her best. She felt similar to when she’d started college, like she belonged, she counted, she could make a difference. Maybe Barrett’s release hadn’t set her as far back as she had thought.
“I’m done in now,” Rosie said when they’d finished talking. “Something tells me I should have sent you on your way that first day. If you hadn’t flashed me those sad puppy-dog eyes…”
“Come on. You practically shackled me to the counter.”
“Yeah, well I can be my own worst enemy.” But there was new life in Rosie’s face. She had hope. Cara had given her that and that made her heart sing. She couldn’t wait to get to the café in the morning.
What about Barrett?
Panic caught her short, but Cara forced it back. He had no way of knowing where they were. A few more days couldn’t possibly hurt.
Could they?
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MOUTHWATERING scent of fresh-baked pastry hit Jonah’s nose fifty yard
s from the café, making his stomach growl. It wasn’t yet five and CJ had been busy, making the most of her last day, it seemed.
Inside, the smell was so strong and so good he felt dizzy with hunger.
He noticed she’d set up a cart with coffee fixings. That to-go idea Evan had suggested. What the hell? It was bad enough that customers would gripe when the French toast went away with CJ. Now this.
Frowning, he followed the sweet aroma to an even sweeter sight—CJ bent over, hauling a tray of whatever she’d baked from the oven.
“What are you doing?” he asked gruffly, covering for his dazed look.
“Oh!” She jumped, tilting the tray.
He caught the rolls that slid off. “Ow. Damn. Hot.” He dropped them on the counter. “That makes three,” he said.
“Three what?”
“Injuries you caused me.” Blisters added to the scraped thumb and the lump on his skull. At least the powdered sugar hadn’t hurt.
“That was your own fault. You made me jump,” she said indignantly.
The sight of her backside had fogged his reflexes, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
“Could you help me frost these?” She motioned at four trays, a bowl of frosting and two pastry bags. “They’re pecan rolls for the express coffee service and a side dish for breakfast or lunch dessert.”
“Hold on. You’re leaving. I won’t have a waitress, let alone time to run a coffee cart, squeeze lemons or bake any damn—”
“But I’m not. Leaving, that is.” Her cheeks went as pink as she smelled. He noticed dots of dark blue in the pale sky of her eyes.
“You’re not?” Despite the risk of personal injury that would entail, he wanted to grin. Maybe some football pads would help....
“Not for a week or so. It’s better for my, uh, job. Plus, the money’s good.” She glanced down, so he knew that wasn’t the whole story. What was up?
“While I’m here, I want to spiff up the menu.” She picked up a roll, swirled frosting on it and thrust it at him.
“Spiff up the…what?”
“Taste first, bitch after.”
He took a bite. Wham. Sweet, spicy, nutty glory, the dough so flaky it dissolved on his tongue.
“Tastes great, huh?”
He couldn’t pretend not to agree. She’d no doubt seen his pupils pulsating again.
“It feels good to bake again.” CJ sounded relieved, as if she’d been afraid to try. She frosted more rolls while he savored the rest of his, explaining how easy they were to make, that Ernesto could do the baking and they could freeze ready-to-bake trays.
Jonah reached for a second, but she slapped his hand. “No eating up the inventory. Start frosting. At a price point of $3.95, that’s $3 profit. Rosie needs the cash.”
“Rosie won’t care. She’s pretty laid-back about the café.” He picked up the pastry bag. Whatever the reason, CJ was staying. He decorated the first pecan roll with a heart made of lips he could draw from memory.
* * *
BARRETT WARNER RAISED his face to the sun, soaked in the endless blue of the California sky and inhaled his first breaths of sweet free air. It was the same sun, sky and air he’d experienced in the prison yard, but the sky had seemed grayer, the sun dimmer and the air had tasted bitter on his tongue.
He’d endured three long years of gray sky, dim sun and bitter air. Three years behind bars, each minute of each day a slow drip of acid on his soul. He’d felt like Prometheus—his liver plucked by talons from his stomach each day.
Three years for an accident. If Cara hadn’t struck her head so hard on the washing machine, he would have apologized for losing his temper, held her, convinced her not to tear apart their family, and all would have been well.
Instead, she’d accused him of trying to murder her and the best his lawyer could get him was six years. Six years.
Anger flared, but he quashed it. In prison, he’d discovered it was a personality disorder that caused his rages. He’d learned to manage it with pills, mental tricks and the lesson of prison: patience.
It’s over now. He was out. The horror was behind him. Soon he’d hold his wife and daughter in his loving arms again. They’d been a closed circle, inviolate, which he’d broken with his unknowing outburst.
When he’d married Cara, he’d sworn before God and man to love and protect her. Instead he’d attacked her. Even if he’d been out of his mind for that wild moment, he’d still committed the act.
Cara hadn’t answered a single letter. She’d no doubt kept the ones he’d written to Beth Ann from her. How dare she? By what right?
Rage swelled, but he pictured a manhole cover dropped over bubbling magma. Easy now. Slow down. It will be okay. You’ll see them soon.
Barrett couldn’t wait to begin fresh, united as a family, never again to be parted.
The macadam grit crunched beneath his shoes as he crossed the street, leaving behind the clang of steel locks, the meaty stench, and the bellows and grunts of the animals he’d been forced to live with all these months. Barrett looked ahead toward his mother, standing beside the Range Rover, as elegant and self-possessed as ever.
As he reached the curb, her polished smile faltered. He’d changed. He knew that. He was all muscle now, his face gaunt and raw-looking, his lips red and chapped, his eyes haunted, circled in black.
His mother reached to embrace him, but he held up his hands. “Not while I stink of prison.” He saw dry-cleaning bags through the window. She’d brought fresh clothes as instructed.
Barrett noticed tears on her cheeks. “No more tears. It’s over.”
His mother shook her head. “It’s not over, Barrett. They’re gone. I’m so sorry.”
“Gone? What do you mean…gone?”
“Cara and Beth Ann took off. They wouldn’t tell Deborah where they were going.”
He felt like he’d been punched. His insides seemed to collapse and his knees sagged. “She ran away? She took Beth Ann?”
Rage surged, rattling the manhole cover. “She can’t do that. I have rights. She’s breaking the law. I won’t have it. I won’t permit it.”
His mother jerked back, frightened of his outburst.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said. “It’s a shock, that’s all.” Hands shaking, he took a pill from the envelope in his pocket and swallowed it dry.
“Cara has been so cruel,” his mother said bitterly. “She refused my help, cut me off. She’s probably brain damaged from the accident. She shouldn’t be allowed to raise Beth Ann.”
“Stop,” he snapped. “Cara is my wife and I love her. Don’t speak of her that way.”
His mother’s cheeks turned red at his rebuke.
“She’s afraid,” Barrett said. “She can’t help that.” He’d studied psychology in the prison library and identified Cara’s condition. “It’s part of her disorder to be paranoid and hysterical. When I find her, we’ll straighten it all out.” He’d get her the psychiatric help she needed.
“I’m sure you will.” His mother was always on his side. He was grateful to her for that.
“First, I want to change my clothes, then I want prime rib and two martinis. Then I’ll make some calls.”
He knew exactly which investigator to hire. Francis Malloy knew how to bend the rules when the case required it. Certainly this one did. They were putting a broken family back together. They were on the side of the angels.
He would let Malloy start skip tracing—u
sing database searches and other means to track someone down—while he went to see Cara’s mother. Deborah adored him. He’d bent the rules to handle her asshole boyfriend all those years ago. The creep had been stubborn, requiring an overnight in an emergency room to convince him to leave the state.
Deborah probably knew more than she realized about Cara’s plans. Barrett was very good at ferreting out information.
“It will be all right,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, reaching for the fresh clothes. He would make it all right. He had to. If he didn’t get his family back, all his suffering and sacrifice would have been for nothing.
Barrett would get his family or die trying.
* * *
LOUIS STEPPED SLOWLY into the circle of sun where Beth Ann had put the cream. She held her breath, held still. Today was the day she would pet him.
Monday, he’d taken one sip before he ran. Tuesday, he’d drunk half the bowl, watching her with his one eye. Yesterday, he’d finished it, hardly giving her a glance. He was used to her.
She was glad they were staying long enough for her to make friends with Louis. It was because her mother had talked Rosie into going to the doctor, which was so dumb. Doctors helped you.
She wasn’t supposed to know about Rosie, but Beth Ann was excellent at finding places to hear important facts adults wanted to hide.
Sometimes she was sorry later—like the night her mom and grandma had argued about Beth Ann’s dad, with her mom saying he was mentally disturbed and Grandma Price saying her mom exaggerated. It was an accident. You were both struggling. You hit your head.
I know what I saw, her mother had snapped. He had murder in his eyes.
Murder in his eyes. That made Beth Ann feel as cold inside as if she’d gulped a whole ICEE at once.
Had her dad wanted to kill her mom?
But her dad adored her mom and Beth Ann. He used to say so constantly, his eyes all watery with love. Her mom said he’d hidden his bad side from them, and that was even scarier. Did everyone have a bad side?
