Bitterroot Queen

by Jove Belle

  Olly washed her hands in the sink. “Yeah. There’s a ton of useable shiplap and hardwoods, plus the fixtures and some of the windows.” As she talked, she washed and peeled the big russet potatoes George had set out on the counter for her. “Do you want these mashed, steamed, or fried?”

  “You pick.” George shrugged and started in on the next knife.

  “Well, what kind of meat?”

  “Steak. It’s in the fridge,” George said. “I’ll throw it on the grill outside when those are near to done.”

  “Fried it is.” She sliced the potatoes thin and dropped them into a pan with some olive oil, basil, salt, and a bit of pepper. “I’ll make some gravy, too.”

  They had some leftover sausage from that morning, and that was the perfect starter for some hearty country gravy.

  “Do you have a good knife?”

  Olly glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah, I keep one in my pocket.”

  George nodded once, and the set of his jaw seemed to say that she’d passed an important test. “Good.”

  “How would you feel about a wall of windows separating the living areas from the bedroom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That hotel has a wall of Tiffany windows. They’re gorgeous, and I’d like to use them in the loft. They’re not quite tall enough to reach the ceiling, but I thought I’d do a short stub wall, frame in the windows, and then put a header along the top.”

  “Hmm. Will that reach?”

  “Nah, but I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll wall it in with that shiplap. Or maybe I’ll find some other windows to put in the gap. It can stay open for a while until I do, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” George more grunted than said the word, but that was enough for Olly. She liked him because he didn’t have to fill the air with the sound of his voice. Silence was better than other nonsense.

  “My sister is here.” Olly didn’t mean to say that. She had no reason to bring George into her family drama.

  “Here?”

  “In town. I took her to the hotel.”

  George continued to sharpen his knife without responding.

  “She...is hard to explain.” Explaining Genevieve had never been a problem before because she’d never felt compelled to do it. She typically didn’t give a damn what others thought about the total dysfunction of the Jones family.

  “Okay.”

  Olly went back to her cooking. “She won’t be here long.” She hoped. “So, you probably won’t even meet her.”

  George set his knife on the table and said, “Do you want me to meet her?”

  A flutter of panic rose up in Olly’s throat. “Why? Do you want to?”

  “Olly, why don’t you say what you need to say? But first, stir those potatoes.”

  She did as she was told and used the time to collect her thoughts.

  “She showed up without announcing it, and I’m worried that she’s going to do something to ruin things here. I like it here. I don’t want... I don’t want to leave because of her.” Olly twisted a dishtowel tight in her hands.

  “Why would you?”

  Olly took a deep breath. “Gen is a lot like my mom. They...take advantage of people. They use people.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re grifters.” Olly glanced at George to gauge if he understood what she meant. Grifter was a term most people weren’t familiar with.

  “Like snake-oil salesmen?”

  If the situation wasn’t so serious, Olly would have laughed. “Yeah, something like that.” “Well, it seems to me like you need to live your life and stop letting them decide things for you.”

  She’d done just that when she’d hit the road all those years ago. This time, though, maybe it was time for her to take a stand without leaving.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  George snorted. “Usually am.”

  ∞

  Later that evening, after the dinner had been eaten and the dishes done, Olly went back to the hotel where she’d left Gen. The desk clerk, a twenty-something guy with a tragic amount of acne, gave her the room number for the price of a smile. She stood outside her door for several long moments, tried to knock more than once, and then finally sucked in a deep breath and rapped her knuckles against the door twice. Sharp and quick. If Gen didn’t hear her, then she’d just have to come back later.

  As she waited, counting silently to ten under her breath, she rested her hand on Rampart’s head. He leaned into her side and issued a soft, happy dog sigh.

  The door flew open just as Olly reached nine, and Rampart came to alert, sitting up straight, his nose forward, ears up.

  “Olly? What’s up?” Gen held her cell phone to her chest.

  “Can I come in?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, of course, sure.” Gen stepped to the side, and as Olly entered the room, Gen lifted her phone to her ear and said, “I’ll call you back.”

  She disconnected the call and set the phone on top of the hotel stationery on the desk, obscuring the writing on the top page, something Gen had scribbled down quickly, judging by the sloppiness. Gen sat on the end of the bed and motioned toward the chair. Olly sat and Rampart curled up at her feet.

  “So, what’s this about?” Gen asked.

  “I was really mad earlier, about you being here.”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I should have asked why you’re here.”

  Gen raised an eyebrow. “What about a hug? Being happy to see me? You know, the way normal people greet their siblings.”

  “We’re not normal.”

  “No,” Gen conceded. “We’re not.”

  “As I was saying, I should have asked why you’re here, but I didn’t. Now I’m asking.”

  “I’m here to see you, of course.” Gen waved her hand, a breezy gesture meant to dismiss and disarm, but Gen’s tactics didn’t work on her.

  “No bullshit, Gen. Did Linda send you?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means that she knows where you are, but the idea to come was mine.” Gen dropped the performance. Her voice was clear, concise. No nonsense, reminiscent of Linda as she recapped their performance after a job.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.” She looked at Olly, a dead-eyed stare that made Olly shiver.

  “You used to hate this stuff. Hated Linda. Now you’re setting up your own marks?”

  “People change.”

  “Who’s your mark, Gen? Me? You don’t know anyone else here.”

  “That’s not true. I know Bobby at the front desk, the guy who owns the gun shop across the street, and tattoo Barbie at Bitter Ink. I’d say I know plenty of people.”

  “I’ll warn them about you.”

  “Will you? Take out a notice in the town paper?”

  Actually, she’d put a notice on the bulletin board. “Gen, please. Pick a different place. I like it here.”

  “I know. You told me, remember? You found it. That’s what your text said.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Because you can’t stand the idea of me being happy?” Jesus, Olly hated the sound of her own voice as she said those words. The tone and message were straight off of trashy daytime television. The calm that she’d worked so hard to achieve was completely broken.

  Gen laughed. “Believe it or not, Olly, you are not the center of my universe.”

  She remembered a time when Gen made her feel like the most important person in the world, but that seemed like a lifetime ago, back when Olly was too young to understand anything at all.

  “Can you just tell me what you want?” Her shoulders slumped. She’d almost forgotten how exhausting it was to simply be in the same room with her family.

  Gen relaxed incrementally, the tension visibly draining from her body. “Truth? I just wanted to see you. See what about this place is so perfect.”

  “That’s it?” Olly remained skeptical.

>   “Yeah, that’s it. I miss you.”

  “You’re not working some angle with Mom?”

  “No. She doesn’t even know where I am. I left without telling her.” Gen looked and sounded sincere, and Olly hated that she couldn’t be sure. It sucked not to trust her sister, but experience had taught her it was better to approach with caution than to jump in with her arms open. It could mean the difference between surviving the swim or being used as a flotation device.

  “You’re not really casing the people you mentioned?”

  “I’m really not.”

  “So how long do you plan to stay?”

  “Dunno. Depends on a lot of things, like whether or not my kid sister stops treating me like the enemy,” Gen said, her voice deadpan.

  “Your kid sister would be less inclined to treat you like that if you hadn’t ambushed her.”

  “That wasn’t an ambush, Olly. It was a surprise. Most people like surprises.”

  “No one over the age of six likes surprises.”

  “God, you’re a cynic. When did that happen?”

  “When I realized that my mom had been grooming me my entire life to be a part of the family business,” Olly said.

  “Yeah. You always were braver than me.”

  “Remember that time Mom ran that scam on that rich guy in Boston? He thought she was actually talking to spirits.” Olly had been ten at the time, so the memory was clearer than she generally liked.

  “Yeah, and she had you do crazy shit like flicker the lights and bump tables. You thought it was a game.”

  “I did. Until he caught me.”

  That man had twisted her arm so hard she’d gone home with a spiral fracture to go with her already long list of injuries and broken bones.

  “Mom lifted his wallet while he was distracted. That sucked,” Gen said, a wistful quality to her voice.

  “She always was more interested in money than her kids. Parent of the year, our mom.”

  “I always thought that’s the way all parents are.”

  “Not so much,” Olly said.

  “I’m sorry,” Gen said softly, her voice so quiet Olly could have missed it if she hadn’t been paying close attention.

  “For what?”

  “Coming here.”

  Olly stared out the window. Under the blanket of darkness, Bitterroot looked the same as every other crap place her mom took them when she was little.

  “I’m sorry too. Are you staying?”

  “Yeah, have to.”

  “How long?”

  “Depends.” Gen laughed humorlessly. “Are you going to make me stay in this hotel?”

  “Yeah, have to,” Olly mimicked Gen’s earlier answer, wishing things could be different, but unable to imagine how to make that happen. She patted Gen’s shoulder and stood to leave. “Please don’t wreck this for me.”

  She left then, Rampart at her side, her stalwart companion no matter what kind of shit the rest of the world had to offer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam watched Olly working on the antique cash register. In the past week, she had finished stripping and refinishing the floors in her apartment, helped empty out the storage container so that it could be removed, salvaged two box-trucks full of materials from Missoula, and had just started on the main lobby area. When it was done, she’d move to the rental rooms.

  “I’m really glad you answered our ad.” Sam hadn’t said that out loud to Olly until now, but for some reason, she really needed her to know.

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Olly smiled in that way she had, lopsided and sexy, as she moved the antique register from one end of the counter to the other. She grunted with the strain of it, which made her that much sexier, and Sam wondered what she would do when things were finished at the Queen. Would Olly stick around? Or would she hit the road again?

  “Too bad that register doesn’t actually work,” Sam said, more for something to say than because she wanted to use it. The computer system was scheduled for delivery next week, and that included keycards for the rooms, along with fancy registration software that cost a fortune but didn’t come close to the functionality of the system she’d used in Vegas. The difference between small-town America and the Strip.

  “Yeah, but polish it up and it’ll make a beautiful decoration.”

  Beth entered from outside where she’d been washing the exterior windows. Rampart followed behind her, staring at her with loving devotion. Beth started on the interior, and Rampart sat next to her feet.

  “What do you have planned for this area, Mom?” Beth asked.

  Since she’d confessed her pregnancy news, Beth had been a changed person. She looked worried more often than not, but she approached Sam with a newfound respect.

  “First, clean. Then we’ll paint, put in that awesome bar top that Olly picked up, deal with the hardwood floors like our apartment, and shiplap on the front of the counter. Then we’ll have to find some durable, affordable furniture.”

  “What about breakfast? Most motels like this serve something,” Olly said as she wiped down the soon-to-be counter, a genuine saloon bar top reminiscent of the Old West that she’d salvaged from the hotel in Missoula. According to her, it only needed a good sanding and a coat or two of finish. It fit the property.

  “Yeah, I thought perhaps we could set up a station in that corner, with a few small tables and chairs.”

  The lobby extended past the check-in area to a large open space that would be perfect as a staging area for guests to meet up with the rest of their party, as well as providing space for serving a meal.

  Beth stopped and studied the wall, a small crease lining her forehead. She tilted her head to the side. “Can I have that wall?”

  Sam hesitated. Yes, she believed in Beth’s talent, but that didn’t mean she’d produce something that was appropriate for a public area. “I don’t know...”

  “Mom, I won’t embarrass you. I know which walls should get what. I promise.”

  “Okay.” She could always paint over it if it wasn’t appropriate or didn’t work.

  “It’d be a nice touch to have a fireplace or woodstove in here, too,” Olly said. She was working on the shelves beneath the counter, filling bag after bag with debris and detritus from the previous owner.

  “How long would it take to put in something like that?” Sam didn’t even mention the money or the permit process for that kind of addition.

  Olly stood, clapped the dust off her hands, and said, “Depends. We can talk about it later, after we get some rooms up and available for use.” She hefted three full large black trash bags, making her muscles flex hypnotically. Sam swallowed, staring at her.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  A moment after the door swung shut behind Olly, Beth tossed a wadded up newspaper—she was using vinegar and newsprint to prevent streaks on the glass—at Sam’s head. “Seriously? Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “What?”

  Beth was looking at her, half-teasing, half-disapproving. “After telling me I needed to finish things with Denmar, and here you are, lusting after—”

  “First, I’m not lusting. Second, if you’re referring to Karen, she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “I know you keep saying she’s not, but she sure spends a lot of nights in your bed, so....”

  “We’re friends,” Sam reiterated.

  “Oh, okay. Does she know that?” Beth asked, succinctly getting to the crux of the matter.

  Sam huffed. She loved Karen and loved sharing sexy times with her, but it seemed more and more as though Karen’s feelings had deepened beyond strictly friends. She’d known that after her disastrous date with Alan and hadn’t done anything to dissuade her. Shit. She wasn’t being fair to either of them.

  “You know it shouldn’t take that long to answer that question, right?” Beth went back to cleaning the windows. The view of the mountains just beyond the lot and stretch of highway was spectacular.

  “You’re right. I should talk to
her.”

  “Yeah, especially if you plan to do more than just stare at Olly.”

  “Do—what?” Sam sputtered, unable to defend herself and completely flustered by the implications.

  Beth laughed. “Don’t strain yourself, Mom. Not like it isn’t obvious.”

  Sam started to retort just as Olly returned to the lobby and a car Sam didn’t recognize pulled into the lot.

  “That’s Rachel,” Beth said.

  “Rachel? The girl—”

  At that, Olly spun around, went out the door, and marched up to the car.

  “Oh, shit,” Beth muttered. She and Sam stared out the window, at Olly talking and gesturing emphatically. Something about it warmed Sam’s heart, because she knew Olly was talking to Rachel about the party and probably demanding answers.

  Beth sighed, breaking the moment. “I should probably go talk to her.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I mean, I kinda have to. Don’t I?”

  “Not really.” Sam would be happy if Beth said she never wanted to see her again. Anybody who took her daughter to a party like that didn’t deserve further attention.

  “I need to give her a chance to explain.” Beth shrugged. “I like her, but I’m beginning to think that I have crap taste. I want to be wrong about that.”

  “Honey, you’re fifteen. You don’t even know what your taste is, yet.”

  “Well, so far, it’s bad.”

  “Speaking of, have you heard from Denmar?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know what to say. He hasn’t called me, either. I might have to break up through text.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you’d call him and do it. Or at least leave a phone message with the option to talk about it.” Sam gave Beth a hug. “Sorry.”

  “So, how long should I let Olly yell at her?” Beth asked when she pulled away.

  “I don’t know. I’m usually the one yelling, and you hate when I do that, so maybe not much longer?”

  “Yeah.” She stared thoughtfully out the window. “It’s really sweet that she cares enough to do it.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Sam watched her, too. Olly’s gestures slowed to a less angry energy, and Beth visibly relaxed.