by Sofia Grant
“No, I’m not. I’m just telling you to think for a minute. If Scarlett left, it’s because she wants to go back, and neither you nor I are going to change her mind. Don’t you think I’d like to see that worthless piece of humanity squashed like a bug? Don’t you think I’d like to be the guy who does it? Scarlett . . . she’s like a little sister to me. But that’s why I’m playing the long game here. Whatever it takes, you know? I’ve let him know that the minute he makes a mistake—and he will—he answers to me. But the last time I went to see him, he called the cops after I left and said I’d threatened him, and I almost had a restraining order put on me. And I’m no good to her if I get locked up.”
“That’s . . . that’s so unfair.”
Jam regarded her steadily. “Seems to me you should have figured out by now that life isn’t fair. Look, this class is over in another half hour. Go on home, and when I’m done talking to the parents and the kids are all picked up, I’ll come get you. We can go to Scarlett’s place so you can see she’s safe—but then we leave. Got it?”
“Got it,” Katie said in a small voice. “And thank you.”
She watched him jog back toward the kids; nearly all of the dogs had gotten bored with sitting and were now sniffing at each other’s butts and rolling on the grass.
“Place!” he commanded. Most of the dogs snapped to attention and sat up, with the exception of the beagle mix, who was now straining to drag his child toward a butterfly that had settled on a nearby bush.
Jam walked over to the beagle and stopped a few feet away. He dug something from his pocket and held it at his side. “Place,” he said again, and this time the beagle sat down, sniffing the air, and Jam palmed him the treat as though he was bribing a maître d’.
Whatever it takes.
“I GOT YOUR note,” Jam said, holding out the only piece of paper Katie’d been able to find, a decades-old diner menu she’d unearthed under a stack of cookie sheets that featured a Deluxe Salisbury Steak Dinner for $1.99. She’d written “I’m in the garage” on the back and jammed it in the front doorframe. “I wasn’t sure it was meant for me.”
“And yet here you are.”
That got her a ghost of a smile. “I’d say I liked your outfit—except I don’t think it quite fits you.”
“No?” Katie smoothed her hands over the hot pink belted minidress that barely covered her butt and gapped across the bust. “Maybe I could get it tailored.”
“Did you make this mess all by yourself?”
Katie looked around the room. As she removed things from the cabinets and dresser drawers, she’d been sorting them into piles on the bed and chair, trying on a few of the more outrageous outfits. Originally she’d planned to have a “keep” pile for the things that someone might buy at the garage sale, and a “trash” pile for everything else, but she’d begun to realize that she’d stumbled on a veritable fashion time capsule that spanned the fifties, sixties, and seventies.
“This is so weird,” she said, holding up a pair of orange Dacron pants that flared out at the hems. “Most of this stuff had to be my mom’s, right? I mean, I can’t imagine that Margaret would have worn something like this in the seventies. She would have been—what, forty-something?”
“Is that the sort of thing your mom would wear?”
“Back then? Who knows? I mean, she’s definitely a clothes-horse. She’s got accounts at Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom and half a dozen boutiques in Dallas.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of hard to explain my mom’s style. She puts out a bit of a cougar vibe, but deep down she’s kind of . . . sweet.” Was she really defending Georgina? “Did you ever watch the TV show Dynasty?”
Jam snorted. “I’m a guy. But yeah, I know what it was.”
“It was my mom’s favorite show. We used to watch reruns together when I was in middle school. And she identified so hard with Krystle Carrington. Remember, she was the blond one? And Georgina did her hair the same way, and every once in a while people would tell her she looked like Krystle . . . and that made her so happy, because Krystle was gorgeous and glamorous and rich. But she was also nice. She was like the opposite of Alexis Carrington, who everyone loved to hate.”
“And was she? . . . Nice, I mean.”
Katie laughed. “Not really. Not unless you were a rich guy who wanted to take her out. Then she bent over backward. She could make a man feel like he was on top of the world.” She paused, remembering those evenings when her mother started preparing for her dates hours in advance, telling Katie to go to her room and watch TV when the man arrived. “And it worked. I mean, we never wanted for anything, even though she only worked part-time—and the last guy she married left her enough money that she’ll never have to worry.”
“She sounds like . . . like she’s not like you.”
“Yeah. I guess. What about you?”
“Ah, you know, pretty much the same story—single mom, doing what it takes, raising a kid on her own. Only, my mom wasn’t all that good at it. She . . . well, we’re not really close.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”
“You didn’t.” Jam picked up a brown and gold maxi dress with gauzy printed bell sleeves. “So, what are you going to do with all of this stuff?”
“I don’t know, actually. I think some of it might be valuable. Like, look at these—they’re practically mint condition.” She went to the kitchenette counter, where she’d stacked the board games and puzzles, and boxes full of Barbie dolls and clothes. “Check this out, there’s even a Barbie VW Camper. And you’ve got to see this—still in its original packaging.”
She offered him the pink box reverently: a Barbie “Dream Furniture Collection Bath Chest and Commode”—complete with tiny pink towels.
“That’s a pretty swell-looking pink toilet,” Jam commented, handing back the box. “I wonder what the ‘real water action’ is.”
“Well, that’s the dilemma, isn’t it? It might be worth thousands of dollars as long as we never open it.”
“So that’s what was up here this whole time? Just your mom’s old clothes and toys and stuff? Margaret never brought me up here.”
Katie sat down on the bed, in between a stack of furry ponchos and crocheted afghans, and a box of old costume jewelry, strings of plastic beads and medallions and mood rings. Suddenly she felt tired and a little defeated. “Yeah. I guess I was hoping . . . I mean, I thought my mom might have left more of herself behind. She never really talks about what it was like for her, living here with Margaret and her grandmother, just that she hated it and couldn’t wait for the day when she could leave.”
Jam cleared his throat. “I can relate.”
“But you moved back here!”
Jam stared out the window, which looked out onto his own yard. In fact, Katie had covertly watched him say goodbye to the kids and dogs, shake the dads’ hands, chat with the moms. Several of the moms seemed to be in no hurry to leave.
“Yeah, well. Sometimes the best way to deal with the past is to beat it into submission.”
His gaze locked with hers, and for a moment they just looked at each other, inhaling the scent of old clothes.
“So,” Jam finally said. “You want to head over to check on Scarlett now?”
“I was thinking about what you said. That you’re probably right. I thought . . . I don’t want her not to trust me, you know? I thought maybe we could wait until tonight and kind of drop in and see, like, casually ask if she wanted to get some dinner or something. And you could glare at Merritt and flex your muscles and look terrifying or whatever.” A thought occurred to her: it was Saturday night, and judging from the moms’ reactions, Jam had no shortage of admirers. “Unless you’re busy, of course. I didn’t mean to presume—”
“I’m not. But I’m not playing games with Scarlett. We make sure she’s okay, let her know she can call anytime, leave. And then you can buy me dinner. There’s a good Burmese place right outside of town.”
“What—are you serious?”
/>
“About which part?”
“Burmese. Back when I lived in Texas, the most exotic place I ever ate was El Fenix—and that was in Dallas.”
“Well, little girl, things have changed since you left.” That gaze again . . . and the room was feeling warmer and warmer. “So, pick you up later?”
“Um, sure. Unless—I mean, you don’t have to go. If you don’t want to. I could use some company.”
Jam looked around dubiously. “You want me to help you go through these clothes?”
“No, I need a break from it,” Katie said, picking up a box from the stack of games. “I was actually thinking we could hang out in the backyard and play Battleship.”
THEY FOUND AN old iron table on its side in the garage, pulled it out, and placed it under the cedar elm tree. Low branches drooped almost all the way to the ground, making a sun-dappled, shady cave. Jam went next door and brought back a six-pack of beer and a container of bright green olives and a box of Triscuits, and warned her that he had never lost a game of Battleship while they set up the plastic pegboards.
“I’ll be red,” Katie said. “It’s my lucky color.”
“Red, blue, it doesn’t matter—I’m going to crush you either way.”
But as they drank beer and nibbled at the olives, Katie sunk two of his ships in quick succession.
“You’re cheating,” Jam accused.
“You just can’t admit you’re being beaten by a girl, even when it’s obvious you’re outplayed,” Katie said, twisting the cap off her second beer. It was delicious in the heat of the day, the icy condensation dripping on her thighs. “Story of my life.”
“You always have trouble with men?”
“Ha. Funny.” She considered. “Although I did just get fired by one man, mugged by another, and . . .”
And then there was Liam.
“And?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking how nice it was to take a break from my life, actually.”
“Yeah? Is that what you’re doing?” Jam had been tilting back in his lawn chair, but now he lowered it to the ground and leaned forward, his knees brushing against hers. “Seriously, why have you stayed away from Texas so long?”
Katie shrugged. “I mean . . . my mom likes to travel, and she comes to visit a few times a year. And . . . and we moved around a lot in Dallas, switched schools every year or two, and Mom had all these relationships—I didn’t ever live anywhere long enough to make friends.”
“It’s too bad you weren’t closer to Margaret and Scarlett. And Heather—Scarlett’s mom—she was kind of a mess, but she meant well.”
“You know more about my family than I do,” Katie said wistfully.
“Yeah, well.” Jam stared at the ground, which was carpeted with leaves and moss and weeds. “I didn’t really have one of my own. When I joined the marines, that’s the first time I ever really felt like I was . . . part of something.”
“Why did you—”
“Still not talking about that.” Jam cut her off. “My bad, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Ouch,” Katie said. “You know about my messy and embarrassing past. Fair’s fair—if you don’t want to tell me about the marines, tell me what you did before.”
“Smoked a lot of weed,” Jam said. “Started a few community college classes and dropped ’em. Worked on the line at the processing plant long enough to earn a thirty-five-cent-an-hour raise and an aversion to chicken. Got my nose broken by a girl’s boyfriend.”
“So you’re a rogue,” Katie said. “A bad boy.”
“Only when the situation calls for it.” Jam reached for a stray curl that had sprung free from her headband and gently tucked it behind her ear, sending a bolt of desire rocketing through her.
Katie caught her breath. “Jam . . .”
“I know you’re married. I also can’t help noticing that he couldn’t be bothered to come here with you, and that he doesn’t much care how you’re doing. Yeah, Scarlett told me.”
“She . . . shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t take it out on her. I asked. I texted her that first night. I told her I wanted to know about you.”
“I was sure you thought I was an idiot.”
“But that’s how I like my women,” Jam said, closing his hand around hers. “Helpless, messy—oh, and rude.”
Katie stared down at her hand in his. She ought to pull away—but she didn’t. “Is this like summer camp or something?” she asked. “Doesn’t count because I’m thousands of miles away from home?”
“Oh, it counts, all right,” Jam said.
Then he kissed her.
Or she might have kissed him first—Katie wasn’t sure of the order of things, and it didn’t really matter because she was pretty sure this was the best kiss of her life. Jam’s muscles were hard and his lips were soft and he smelled like dog and soap and leather, but in a good way, and he was doing something with his hand on the nape of her neck that seemed to have a direct connection to the commotion in her lady parts, and if she didn’t stop soon she was going to drag him into the house and make love to him on her grandmother’s bed.
There was a rustling in the branches. The leafy curtain parted, and there, panting from exertion, was Georgina. She stared at Katie and Jam as they hastily tried to disentangle from each other, and gasped.
“Katherine Jennifer Dial, what on earth are you doing in my dress?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
May 1977
Stop moping,” Margaret snapped.
Caroline had been clutching an embroidered napkin—one that Margaret had laid on her tray next to the gruel that she was tasked with getting her mother to eat each morning by the home aide, who would arrive soon, but not soon enough—letting her bony wrist flutter languidly. Her sighs were long-suffering, and it didn’t help as much as it might have that she actually was suffering, as her expiration was taking too long in the opinion of everyone but the doctor and aide who seemed bent on squeezing a few more weeks of life out of her.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Caroline wheezed, “but in my condition, there are few options left to me. Sleep and stare out the window, except when you force me to eat that disgusting swill. I wish God would realize that I’m ready to go.”
Immediately Margaret’s irritation drained away, and she set down the dust rag she’d been using to tidy for the aide and came to sit next to her mother. The folding chair was too low, or perhaps the bed was too high, but either way, she was at a distinct conversational disadvantage to her mother, who reclined on a mound of pillows arranged to keep her more or less upright.
“Maybe,” Margaret began, and then had to stop while she collected herself. She cleared her throat. “Maybe I’m not ready. For you to, you know.”
Caroline tsked. “Now, now, enough of that. You’re just put out because Georgie hasn’t written you back yet.”
Instantly the ire was back. “Written? I told her she could call collect. I offered to send her things. The only address I have for her is this—this hotel.” A note had come from Georgie two weeks after she’d left home, on cheap notepaper printed with “Elizabeth Ann Mercer Hotel for Women.” In all of four sentences, Georgina had communicated that she planned to be a fashion model and also an artist or poet, that everyone in Manhattan was super nice, and that Caroline and Margaret should not worry about her. That last bit was underlined three times above Georgina’s sloppy signature. “I mean, it sounds like a house for unwed mothers.” A thought stopped Margaret in her tracks. “You don’t—you don’t think she . . .”
Caroline laughed, a dry, papery rasp that ended in a series of gasping coughs. “And wouldn’t that be rich,” she wheezed. “A taste of your own medicine. But no, our Georgie’s too smart for that.”
Something in her mother’s voice caught Margaret’s attention. “What do you mean, Mother?”
Caroline managed a coy shrug. “Girls have resources these days that you and I never had.”
Suspicion turned to c
ertainty. “Mother! Did you—is she on birth control?”
“Oh, calm yourself. It was just a box of rubbers. And if I didn’t buy them for her, she probably would have just stolen them. Besides, you should be glad. One less thing to worry about.”
“Glad?” Years of hurt that Margaret had kept carefully buried threatened to spill over the levee of her heart. “Glad? I should be glad that my mother and my daughter have been sneaking around behind my back—you probably had a big laugh at my expense too, didn’t you?”
She burst into tears.
Not dainty ones, either, not the silent rolling kind that she’d usually been able, whenever she argued with Caroline or Georgina, to conceal with a cough and a quick swipe at her cheek. No, these were gusty, loud sobs, and despite snatching the napkin from her mother’s hand and blotting for all she was worth, she couldn’t stop.
“Margaret,” Caroline said in alarm. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
“She’s gone,” Margaret wailed. “She didn’t love me, and she’s been waiting her whole life to leave me. I tried. You know I tried. But no matter what I did, I could not make that child love me.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Caroline said, but in a gentler tone. “Margaret . . . oh heavens, come up here.”
Margaret wiped her nose on the hanky and blinked. “Up where?”
Caroline patted the bed next to her. “Up here, obviously. It’s not like I can come to you.”
“But . . . is there room?” Margaret asked. Only, that wasn’t the question at all; the question was why, three months before the seventieth birthday she would not live to see, her mother was finally offering an embrace.
For a moment, Margaret wondered if Caroline was about to die. As in, right now, right in front of her. Then she pushed the thought away and climbed carefully into the bed.
The hospital linens were cool and smooth and perfectly white. The aide had changed them before she left the night before, and she’d tucked and turned them more perfectly than Margaret ever could, and her mother somehow still managed to look elegant in her satin pajamas with her hands folded on the turned-back picot edge of the sheet.
