by Kristen Lamb
“Two weeks ago, in Hawaii. The Kahala. Both families flew in and all our friends. Three hundred guests. It was a zoo.”
“Must have been fabulous,” I said, but felt the slow blade between my ribs. The Kahala was where Phil and I had announced we’d wed.
“I swear if Mama hadn’t hired J-Lo’s wedding planners, it never would have happened. Can you imagine? Trying to herd the Barrington and Cunningham family together in one spot? Like herding cats,” she said and laughed.
Or snakes.
I swear the floor shifted under my feet. “Cunningham. Which one?”
“Mark Cunningham, of course. He is the most handsome of the Cunningham boys.” She glowed with pride as she showed me her wedding set. She could have guided in ships on foggy nights it was so big. “Mark left his job this week to help us get started.”
“Left his job,” I said.
“Dreadful government work.” She made a face. “But it made his daddy so proud that at least one of his boys wasn’t too good to help the less fortunate.”
“Mark is here?” Kill. Me. Now.
“Yes, of course. Next month, we’ll start clearing the land of this dreadful trailer park. The town is thrilled and giving us all kinds of tax incentives to get rid of that junkyard. Riff-raff dragging down everyone’s property values.”
“Great.” I had a vision of Claire in dressage attire atop a bulldozer as she plowed down my home.
“You’ll have to come to our party,” she said, oblivious to the fact that I’d likely turned the same shade as her dress.
“Party?” I scrambled for a polite window of escape, but saw no clear retreat.
“We’re celebrating the new vineyard, and I haven’t seen you in forever. We have so much catching up to do,” she said as if we were best girlfriends. She brushed Fernando’s arm. “Can you be a doll and add Romi to the list?”
Fernando said, “I cannot, Mrs. Cunningham. Miss Lachlan is about to be one of our staff.”
“Can’t you make an exception?”
Fernando shook his head then in a low voice said, “It’s against the resort’s rules for the members to fraternize with the help.”
“But Romi is my friend. I won’t tell,” she said.
He shook his head, face dire. “My apologies, Mrs. Cunningham. I cannot permit it. Creates all kinds of management complications. I hope you understand.”
“Oh dear,” Claire said, her voice shocked, yet I doubted it. She’d lured me into this conversation. “I’m so sorry. At least it will be good to see you at the resort. You’ve always been such a hard worker, and I know Fernando will adore you as much as we do.”
Fernando nodded. “Her sister’s a good worker, which is why we hired Romi for housekeeping without even interviewing her. Heather’s word is gold. We wish we had more like her.”
“Seems you do,” Claire said and gave me a smile so chilling, so disconnected from essential human emotion that I nearly spun off my center.
Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Mark sidled up to Claire, “Honey, the mayor’s waiting.”
I willed myself to become one with the carpet. Thought maybe if I stayed still like a mouse in the shadow of a rock, the rattler would slither past.
“Romi Lachlan. Small world,” he said, grinning that porcelain-veneered smile.
“Yes, it is.”
I prayed Claire would give me a pass that she would let me go, but then she said it. “Romi works for the Vista Grande Resort. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Is that so?” he asked, cocking his head.
“I tried to invite her to our party, but Fernando told me Romi’s on the housekeeping staff, so it’s against the rules.” She gave an artificial pout and stroked her husband’s back.
“What a shame,” he said but his eyes sparked with triumph.
I muttered something about having to go, but Claire stopped me.
“I love your shawl, Romi,” Claire said. “That would be so perfect for at least a dozen outfits I have. My sister’s housekeeper has the same exact one.”
“Really.”
“I begged her to pick one up for me, but she said Walmart had already sold out. I was crushed.”
“Thanks,” I said, no idea how to answer.
Her amber eyes locked on me and dared me to forget my place. “You look beautiful and it’s so wonderful to see you again.”
“Excuse me, but I was headed to the ladies’ room.”
She stopped me. “Oh, if you could be a dear, the first stall needs toilet paper.”
I balled my fists. One punch and I could crush her nose where no Highland Park surgeon could repair it. But then I thought about my mom and drew a steadying breath. “I’ll tell one of the staff,” I said.
Cunningham winked. “If they’re out, I’m sure you still have plenty of copies of your résumé. Save some trees.”
Claire play-punched her husband. “Don’t be mean. That was rude. Romi’s my friend.” She lightly touched my shoulder as if we were sisters. “I’d chat more, but the owner of the resort flew in from Paris to attend,” she said and looped her arm through Mark’s.
He muttered loud enough for me to hear, “Daphne brought us information on some more property she wants to discuss. Could double the size of the vineyard.”
“Duty calls,” she said apologetically.
“I understand and wish you both all the happiness you deserve,” I said and dashed away before I had a breakdown. At what point did they think they’d hurt me enough? Did they really need to rub it in that they were plowing over my home? Make fun of my clothes? Make fun of my job? When exactly was rich, rich enough?
I sought shelter in the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, alone in the dim light that warmed the rich mahogany and polished Italian marble, I brushed my fingers over the shawl I once loved then balled it in a wad and threw it in the trash.
I needed to get the hell out of there.
As I passed the bar, I spotted our server. “Can you pack up my food for me? I have to leave. And this is for the check and your trouble.” I pressed two hundred dollars cash into her hand. I’d be damned if I was going to sit next to Sawyer another minute. If he couldn’t stand to be near me, he should have left me alone. And he wasn’t going to pay for my meal either. Granted, it was money I didn’t have to spare, but my pride had suffered enough.
Within moments the server returned with a decorative bag containing my dinner. She whispered conspiratorially, “I put in a free dessert and a bottle of wine. Some of the servers heard how that bitch and her husband treated you. We’re so sorry.”
I merely nodded, overwhelmed and aching inside as if someone had peeled back my ribcage and punched my heart.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll give it a few minutes then tell your date you had to leave.”
“Not my date, but thank you,” I said, knowing I couldn’t hold my composure much longer.
“You know, we’d be happy to drop their food on the floor a few times,” she said, tipping her head the direction of the private party. “That bitch wants toilet paper? We can make her steak—”
“Tempting, but no. We’re better than that.” I willed a smile.
“You said it, sister.” She gave me a quick hug. “Get some fresh air. There’s a coffee shop one block south with nice outside tables. The staff here goes there after work. It’s quiet, well-lit, and safe.”
I thanked her again and rushed through the front doors and into the night, no longer caring if someone was out to kill me. A part of me wished they’d get it over with and put me out of my misery. If Sawyer wanted to talk to me, he could issue a warrant.
Chapter Ten
A gentle night breeze caressed my skin as I rounded the building in search of the coffee shop the waitress told me about. I needed to eat, especially if I was going to walk the six miles home. I stopped outside the restaurant window and watched Claire and Mark laugh and kiss over champagne and fine crystal. To my dismay, I recognized a
lmost everyone at the table, the cream of Dallas here to carve out their section of my home. I even recognized Sheriff, now Mayor Ferris. Instead of the brown law enforcement uniform, he wore a tailored suit, sparkling cufflinks, and a heavy gold watch. He hadn’t changed much aside from a bit more gray hair and a thicker middle, a born politician.
Bisby is the new Santa Fe.
Something about that line bothered me, but I was too upset to think. A stunning brunette chatted with Mark and Claire over what appeared to be a map. A curtain of glorious chocolate hair fell over the woman’s face so I didn’t get a good look, but then again, why did I need to? Probably Daphne. Not like she was going to sell me a vineyard.
I strode off into the darkness, getting distance as fast as I could. Sawyer probably already knew I’d bailed on him and was probably relieved. Not only did he get rid of me but he also was the one who ended up with the free meal. Sweet deal for him.
I hesitated at the coffee shop patio, and could see why the wait staff gathered here. The wrought iron tables and large planters of bright flowers and cacti made for a pleasant place to relax after a hard shift. I wolfed down the flourless chocolate cake the server included in my bag. Though the aroma of the filet beckoned, I needed to keep going. The only reason I’d inhaled the dessert was to curb the rush of intoxication.
The night breeze vanished and the air grew hot and still. Sweat pricked my hairline and made my shirt stick between my shoulder blades. I picked up my bag and purse and struck the direction of home, but chose a different route off the main roads, all the while thinking what it might feel like to die being garroted. Sawyer said it was quick.
I cut through the old neighborhoods of large gingerbread homes nestled beneath a dark canopy of ancient trees. The early German cattle ranchers who’d settled the town built them well over a century ago, and probably planted the trees about the same time. I remembered walking these streets, holding my mother’s hand on her way to work. She’d spin stories about attending nursing school, how we could buy one of the rundown homes and restore it. It had been her dream to live here, and I wondered what she’d think now. There were no more abandoned gingerbreads waiting for the right owner to resurrect them. Most had been plowed down and new, ritzy bungalows stood in their place. Only a handful of the original gingerbreads remained, and most had been converted into offices with fancy glass fronts.
I finally made it to one home in particular my mom had always wanted, the gingerbread she coveted most. The last time I saw it, the paint had all but peeled away and the wraparound porch and gables sagged from neglect. Now? It seemed as if someone had transported it through time. The old leviathan had been repainted a crisp yellow, and the once-dead lawn was a thick carpet of verdant buffalo grass. Decorative lights illuminated a wide path of cut stone that snaked up to broad wooden steps. Dense clusters of foliage and rose bushes, heavy with blooms, made the front feel like an English garden had somehow wandered into the desert and taken root. Jasmine and honeysuckle climbed the lattices along the sides, soaking the air with perfume. Moon vines opened their petals to catch beams in the night and would bow to the Morning Glories come sunrise, passing new flowers the day shift. My mother would have loved to have seen this home restored. She would’ve been sad it wasn’t hers, but happy the house had been given new life. Standing here, I could almost feel her rough hand, calloused from scrubbing floors, holding mine.
I couldn’t help myself. I crept up the steps and noticed, this home, too had been converted to a business. I squinted in the dim light and tried to make out the fancy gold lettering on the window. Something called Halcyon Financial Services. Halcyon, the good old days. How depressing, I thought and left.
The town is thrilled and giving us all kinds of tax incentives to get rid of that junkyard. Riff-raff dragging down everyone’s property values.
For the first time ever, I understood my father’s disdain for the wealthy. I always assumed it was because he was jealous, embarrassed about his lack of an education. My parents fought savagely in my growing up years. My father hated that my mom wanted to go to school, that she dreamed of living in the big houses on Elizabeth Avenue and that he wasn’t enough. He told her the rich were different, that we’d never fit in, never be accepted. My mom hadn’t believed him and neither had I until now.
Claire had no understanding that ‘the riff-raff’ had been the backbone of Bisby for generations. It wasn’t like those of us who lived in The Cactus Flower were a traveling band of gypsies who’d decided to erect a makeshift town in the middle of million-dollar neighborhoods. Yet, all Claire could think about was her name on a bottle of overpriced wine, and hadn’t a hint of compassion for the families she’d rendered homeless.
After a mile or so, my feet started to sting and throb, and I could feel the blistering even though I had a long way to go. Ballet flats were meant for cute, not trekking. I slowed my pace and noticed that same dark Buick pass by one of the cross streets. That was beyond coincidence. Now certain that car had been following me, I rubbed my throat, took another turn deeper into the neighborhood and picked up my pace. I held my bags on my left arm and the bottle of wine in my right hand, ready to brain someone if I had to.
If memory served me, I could cut over by the railroad and then follow the tracks home and shave off half the distance. The streets grew dimmer as I walked, and heard the distant wail of a train, which told me I’d gone the correct direction. My sister and I’d spent many summer days playing down there, placing coins on the tracks and planning to one day jump on one of the train cars like hobos and run away. We’d been planning to run away together since I was six, so I never did understand why Heather refused to leave, why she’d abandoned the plan then resented I didn’t.
After another two blocks of limping I had to stop under a streetlight and inspect my feet. I sat on the curb and eased off my shoes. Large meaty holes of broken blisters oozed and throbbed. I fished some paper napkins from my doggie bag, stuffed them in my shoes then continued toward the train tracks. As I made it to the dead end of the street, headlights shone behind me. I didn’t even check to see who it was, and dashed for a thin trail almost totally obscured by wild grasses, Yucca, and knobby mesquite.
“Romi, stop,” Sawyer called. The lights turned off and I kept going. I heard him follow, so I loped faster through the darkness, hoping I could lose him in the wild turns and twists of the trail that led to the train tracks. I knew my calves would be full of prickly pear needles and bug bites, but I no longer cared. I plowed through the pitch amazed I still remembered my way. I heard him yell my name, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t take any more confrontation today. The napkins in my shoes disintegrated with wetness. Blood. My shoes had eaten into the real meat of my heels and toes. Grasshoppers darted past as I disturbed their sleep in the tall blades of grass, and I swatted off the ones that tried to hitch a ride on my clothes. I hobbled on and took a sharp turn up a steep slope of sandstone that led to a copse of old growth trees.
Legend had it that many Indian treaties had been signed and broken under their boughs, that blood from betrayal was why they’d grown so large. Only locals knew this place and it was as if my legs held their own stored memory of the way. I hoped Sawyer would give up searching for me in the moonlit maze of turns through chigger-infested grasses and cacti.
I found the trees and flopped down on a flat rock where my sister and I used to pretend we were Indian princesses. After a few moments, I no longer heard him calling out for me. The rock was warm with stored sunlight and I removed my shoes and allowed air to caress my feet and ease the sting. The waitress had uncorked the wine, and I helped myself to a couple gulps to ease the pain then returned the bottle back to the bag. I stretched out on my back, and simply stared at the full moon overhead, then closed my eyes and let the wine relax me. I’d take some time to recharge then continue home and soak everything in Epsom salt. I’d made it this far. Home was only a couple more miles.
Right as I drifted off, a bright bea
m startled me.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sawyer flicked off the flashlight, leaving me momentarily blinded. I struggled to sit up, but he was already next to me. The flashlight lit up once more and he ran the beam over my legs and feet. “Oh, Romi.” He sat down and drew my mangled feet into his lap, and I didn’t stop him.
He ran the Mag light over my wounds. My arms, shins and calves had long bleeding scratches and my feet looked like they met the wrong end of a meat grinder.
“What were you thinking?”
“That you’d eventually give up and go away.” I moved my legs off his lap. Emboldened by the wine, I charged in. “Why’d you ask me to dinner if you didn’t want to be there? Why not let me stay home?”
“You’d had a rough day. I was trying to be nice to you.” He frowned in the dim light afforded by the moon. Shadows of the branches overhead streaked his features.
“I don’t need your charity, and I don’t like being treated like I have some disease.”
“The waitress told me what happened, what Claire Barrington did to you.”
“Claire Cunningham now,” I said. “It’s nothing.” I crossed my arms, and moved away from him, damn near dangling off the very edge of the rock like he’d done to me at dinner. “How’d you find me?”
“The waitress clammed up, but then I told her you were in federal protection. She coughed up the direction you’d left. Then my…partner spotted you when he was combing the back streets.”
