by Cecy Robson
“Do you have any money?” she asks, her voice absurdly deep for a woman who appears so small.
I lie, steeling a glimpse at the setting sun, the bits of light it offers pushing between the bare branches of the old magnolia trees. “No, Fernie, I only have food.”
She shoves her hand into the largest bag, crumpling the paper with her dirty fingers. The sound is loud and bitter, reflecting her mood yet not quite muffling the encroaching sound of shuffling feet. I edge away. It seems Fernie brought friends. Like always, they appear to be the wrong kind of people and the last ones she needs.
A man with a long beard and tattered red beanie reaches Fernie first, his glassy eyes and volatile stare alerting me that he’s already high and seeking more than another hit. He ignores Fernie and the bagel she attempts to hand him, unlike the other man and three other women who eagerly stretch out their palms.
“Bye, Fernie,” I say. I keep the man with the red beanie within my sights without looking at him directly. Like with Fernie, I’m wary of him, and the people accompanying him.
Fernie doesn’t glance up from the bag, nor does she bother thanking me. I’m not surprised. Fernie . . . she isn’t capable of much.
“Next time bring money,” she tells me.
I don’t answer, hurrying away when the man in the beanie takes a step forward. My pace and heartbeat quicken when I sense him follow, and I reach for the mace in my pocket.
My shoulders slump and I breathe a sigh of relief when I return to the busy walkway and a police cruiser pulls in along the curb. Two officers slide out, their attention drifting from me to somewhere behind me. Almost immediately, the steps following me abruptly cease. I glance over my shoulder in time to see the man in the red beanie inch back into the park.
I don’t stop, moving ahead and away. The police officers nod in my direction. I’ve seen them before, usually around this time. While I welcome their presence and the safety they offer, I don’t welcome what the younger patrolman has to say.
“You shouldn’t be here at this hour,” he mumbles as I pass.
I have to. It’s the only way I’m sure my mother eats.
I don’t say the words out loud, and I don’t speak to anyone about Fernie. I visit her privately, hoping that one day, she’ll give in and allow me to get her the help she needs.
I wipe my eyes. After a lifetime of being pushed away and abandoned by the woman who gave me life, I should be immune to the way she treats me and accustomed to the circumstances I find her in. Like the rest of my family, I should be able to turn my back and let her go.
But I can’t. I never could.
I was six when she dropped me off on my grandmother’s front porch. She didn’t bother to knock or ring the doorbell. My grandmother wasn’t expecting me and I was so certain Fernie would return, I stood on that porch waiting for her.
It wasn’t until my grandmother walked out to throw away her garbage that she realized I was there. She hurried to embrace me, realizing what happened when I broke down crying.
Whether I want to be or not, I’m still that little girl, hoping for the mother Fernie never was.
I return to the building and take the elevator down to the parking deck. My phone rings as I crank the engine to my RAV 4. I hit the Blue Tooth, my hand and voice trembling as the memory of that day pokes me hard enough to sting my eyes with tears.
“Hello?”
“Luci, it’s Blythe. Quit blowing me off and come to Kiawah with me.”
I tug off my scarf, realizing I never responded about the party. My big plan for New Year’s was a hot bath, a warm bed, and a Stranger Things Netflix marathon.
As pitiful as it sounds, I was looking forward to three days of doing nothing, until Riley said what she did, and Kee-Kee agreed with her.
Mostly though, I think about my mother, how I constantly look for her on that bench and how there will come a day when I’ll never find her.
“Luci?”
“One drink and we leave?” I ask.
Her pause is brief. “Yes,” she adds quickly. “If you’re not feeling it, I promise we can leave whenever you want.”
“All right.”
“All right what?” she asks.
“I’ll go to Kiawah with you.”
“Yes!” she squeals. She rattles off a storm of details, telling me she’ll be at my house by nine in the morning and that this party is going to be epic.
I ease my way into the growing traffic. She’s excited, her perky voice animated. I unbutton the top of my coat, wishing I could share her excitement, but more than anything wishing my life could start like I needed it to.
Chapter Three
Landon
I step into Becca’s house, handing my coat to the staff member who rushes toward me.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say when she lifts it from my grasp.
The band, the Three Amigos (all five of them), blast their version of Cake By The Ocean, the explosion of bass pounding against the marble floor. Streamers of gold and silver fall like icicles from the ceiling, sparkling against the spinning strobe lights while waiters dressed in head-to-toe black weave through the crowd, hoisting trays covered with booze, more booze, and tiny hors d’oeuvres of shrimp and thinly sliced filet.
I’ll give Becca this, she knows how to throw a party.
“Landon?” she yells from clear across the open foyer.
I offer a small wave, not expecting her to leave the group of men gathered around her with their tongues waggling. I recognize most of them, professional ballers from the Carolina Cougars. She doesn’t pay them any mind, too busy pretending she doesn’t notice Hale standing a few feet away.
Hale has his own entourage of admirers closing in fast; long, leggy women he finds about as interesting as Becca found those ballers. He and Becks had a bad falling out years ago, so bad neither have recovered from it, but not so bad they still don’t find ways to run each other. When you love hard, you hurt even harder, and those two . . . yeah, they ain’t done hurtin’ or lovin’ yet.
The woman closest to Hale skims the back of his neck with her nails and whispers into his ear. He doesn’t respond, too busy watching Becca and how she shakes her ass a little harder when she passes him.
“Hi, Becca,” I say when she reaches me. I put an arm around her and give her a hug. After all these years, she’s more family than friend, that doesn’t mean I don’t notice how pretty she looks.
A strapless mint dress hugs her figure. She holds out her drink and kisses my cheek. “Hi, baby,” she says. “Look at you being all social.” She steps back, giving me the once over. “Damn. Trin was right, you look like shit.”
There’s a reason she and my sister have been best friends since they tore off their diapers and went skinny dipping in the ocean.
“Still,” she adds. “I’m glad you’re here.” She fusses with my sweater, smoothing it out. “There’re a couple of ladies from the cheer squad I’d like you to meet, and some I’d like you to stay away from. Not because they’re not friendly, more because they’re a little too friendly, if you know what I mean.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, not that I could get a word in, even if I tried. I edge back when she starts stroking my beard. “Oh, Lord, I’m not sure about this thing,” she says.
“You don’t like the beard, I get it.”
“Yes, that, and the hair isn’t working for me either. Goodness, Landon, when was the last time you had a decent cut?”
I’ll admit it’s been a while. I’ve always kept my hair short all around and a little long on top. The top’s now long enough to brush my eyebrows, and the back, well that’s grown out too. I didn’t think it looked bad, except according to Becca, I’m dead wrong and shouldn’t be out in public without a paper bag covering my head.
She purses her lips like my beard physically pains her. “No, this just won’t do at all. Let’s get you upstairs and give you a little trim.”
“It won’t take long,” she says, as if that’s the issue. “I have a beautiful grooming set one of our sponsors gave me. High-end, expensive, it will do the trick nicely.”
“The beard stays and so does the hair,” I tell her. “And I’m not interested in meeting cheerleaders.”
“Are you gay?”
I roll my eyes. “No, Becca.”
She points at me. “Then trust me, you’re going to want to meet dem cheerleaders, son.”
“Where’re Trin and Callahan?”
She smirks, knowing I’m trying to distract her. Becca may be blond, but she’s never been dumb. “Upstairs. Hmm, come to think of it, they’ve been gone a long time. Must be they’re working on baby number two. Shit, it’s like they’re twenty or something. Every time he touches her, it’s like they’ll burst into flames if they don’t fu—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” I say.
She throws back her head, laughing. I’m not laughing, that’s my baby sister she’s talking about. Grown married woman or not, that’s who Trin’s always going to be to me.
I step away and around her. “Hey,” she calls out. “What about the cheerleaders?”
“If I need to score a touchdown, I’ll be sure to find them.”
I follow behind a waitress hustling back into the kitchen. Becca’s place is roughly ten-thousand square feet like mine. Except where my house is two-stories and wide, hers is tall with three levels. Just like I’ve made my money, she’s made hers, snatching the public relations world by the throat and shaking it hard.
I’m near the band who’ve been strategically set on the second floor overlooking the foyer. Smart. With the acoustics, they probably don’t need speakers, except here they are at full volume, converting the foyer into a dance club.
Hale nods as I pass, easing away from a redhead and “the whisperer” who seem to be getting a little too close for his and Becca’s taste. I grin, pausing to take in the show.
Becca shoves her way between the women and Hale. “Hi,” she says, all Southern lady like. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Becca Shields.”
The women smile the way hyenas do when a lioness tries to invade their territory. Neither say much, eyeing Becca like she’s interrupting and needs to leave.
That’s when the Southern lady shows her claws, all the while hanging tight to her smile. “Becca Shields,” she repeats. “This is my house, my party, and my man. Keep your hands to yourself, watch your manners, or get the fuck out.”
And how about that, those other women are no longer smiling. They are, however, stepping way back. Becca waits until every last hyena abandons Hale Mountain, the martini glass dangling elegantly between her fingers as if she wasn’t ready to toss it aside and scratch their eyes out.
“Hale,” she says, giving him a stiff nod as she turns on her heel.
He hooks his arm around her waist, and drags her to him, slamming the front of her into the front of him. If he were anyone else, I’d already have him on the ground. But like I said, there’s something there neither seem ready to let go of.
Becca’s breath catches, her eyes widening briefly as she meets Hale’s face. “So now I’m your man? Could have fooled me, sugar.”
Becca rises to her full height, her grit and fire returning. “Just trying to save you from yourself,” she glances over her shoulder to where the women watch her from the corner. “And from any communicable diseases you may or may not acquire.” Her gaze is rock-steady as she turns it back on him. “You’re welcome.”
Hale laughs, his hand sliding down her back and over her ass as he releases her slowly. The contact is brief and barely a touch, but I can feel the heat from here.
“Thanks, Becca.” He loses his smile. “What would I do without you?” he asks, drawling out the words.
He walks away without another glance. That doesn’t stop Becca from watching him leave. The ballers who couldn’t seem to get enough of Becca’s presence, eye Hale closely as he passes them, the one in the front appearing seconds from taking a swing.
“Watch it boys,” Hale tells the large group. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish.”
I turn in Becca’s direction when Hale disappears out the door, and the ballers don’t follow. Hale’s a friend and if those men had started in on him, I would have started in on them.
For a fleeting moment, I see a chink in that magnificent armor Becca keeps perfectly polished. “Damn it,” she mutters, her heart appearing to sink.
I start toward her, but as quick as a snap, that peek into her vulnerability is stowed away. She beams at a couple who approaches. “Hey. So glad you could come,” she says, hurrying to kiss cheeks in greeting.
Hale and Becks, they have it bad. I only hope they can work through what’s keeping them down and soar off into the sunset together.
I push off the wall and bump into a man kissing his very pregnant wife. “Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he tells me, chuckling when the woman wipes the remnants of her lipstick off his face. “Is it that bad?” he asks her.
She grimaces. “Sorry, honey,” she says.
They ignore me and kiss again. I give them space and work my way to the rear of the house. Bernadette refused to kiss me in public, always worried I’d mess up her makeup. Maybe that was part of the problem, I needed a woman who cared more about loving me than loving what she looked like.
I head toward the kitchen, nodding to a few more of Trin’s friends. There’s Sean at the bar, just as tall and lanky as the day he turned fifteen and already slamming back shots. Some blonde I don’t know jumps up and down, giggling and egging him on.
Mason stands nearby, one woman on each arm. He was always the strong silent type, built like a brick wall and about as brilliant as he is tough. He’s never been chatty, but whatever comes out of his mouth works well enough.
Women love Mason. Sean, well, he’s always been one toy shy of a Happy Meal, but he means well. “Damn,” Sean says, wiping his mouth. “That was harder to swallow than a cow’s teat.” He holds out a hand. “Not that I’ve ever tried.” He pauses. “At least not on purpose.”
The blonde stops laughing.
“Hey, Landon,” Sean says, waving to me.
Mason, like Hale, offers a tilt of his chin. I answer with another nod. They’re good men, but I only told Trin I’d stop by. I’m not in the mood to shoot the shit.
Nor am I in the mood for some of the looks cast my way.
I don’t know any of the professional players, but you’d think with them here, all those people who’ve known me most of my life would be somewhat distracted. Instead, there’s Darlene Sotta watching me like she expects me to keel over and die.
She and the woman beside her exchange glances, whispering low. I don’t know her name, and I don’t want to especially after that.
“Poor thing,” Ivy Lionelle, mouths to her friend, her attention latched on me.
Four men who used to play ball with Hale glance at me as I pass. I keep my focus ahead. I don’t like the reception I received from Darlene, Ivy, and those women they’re standing with, and I don’t want to hear shit one way or another from these men. As ballers in high school, they were the first to get laid. None are married, to my knowledge, which means they’re still getting their fair share of dates.
Hale, Sean, and Mason took me out the moment the ink dried on my divorce papers, insisting I needed to get some, and doing their damnedest to make it happen.
They ended up getting drunk and (I shit you not) hooking up with triplets. I ended up driving their drunk asses home and pouring myself a cold one to drink alone in my living room. Although Hale’s clearly into Becca, and Sean and Mason have plenty of company, I know them and my sister well enough to guess they’re going to try and fix me up tonight.
Fuck that.
I step inside the large kitchen that opens up into an even larger great room wher
e a New Year’s Eve show is taking up the giant flat screen along the wall. I glance at the time at the bottom of the screen. Damn, it’s only eight-thirty. Why am I so tired?
I slide into a stool at the raised counter where another bartender is mixing specialty drinks. It’s a lot quieter in here which is fine by me.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.
She’s blonde, with hints of leftover tan like a lot of women here on Kiawah. The only difference is she’s in a tight black T-shirt and pants as opposed to a tight dress. “What do you have, ma’am?”
Her lips curve at my “ma’am” remark. Even before she spoke, I knew she wasn’t originally from the south. In the south, your parents are your “momma” and “daddy” no matter how old you get, and everyone is “ma’am” or “sir” regardless of age.
“You can just call me Apple, cowboy,” she tells me.
I could also probably get us a hotel room by the sounds of it. “Why Apple?” I ask, ignoring the cowboy reference.
“My specialty is Appletinis.” She points to all the drinks along the counter. “But tonight I’m making Jack’s Grand Ball, Royal Clovers, B-52s, New York Cocktails, and Romance.” She plays with her bottom lip. “But if you’d like something more like Sex on the Beach, just let me know.”
“I’ll take a beer, thanks.”
I’m trying to be polite, and maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe I should take her up on the offer, or tell Becca that yeah, I’d be happy to meet one of her cheerleader friends. But her offer, and all the ones I’ve received this year, aren’t what I want. They don’t mean shit.
Until I see her.
A redhead, almost as tall as Becca trails in, sprinkles of freckles in all the right places peppered against her cream-colored skin. A deep green velvet dress hugs what looks like a dancer’s body. I only know she dances because her figure is similar to Bernadette’s, though I can’t be sure this woman dances as good on the pole.
She’s a gorgeous girl. There’s no denying it. But she’s not who my focus trains in on. Behind her is a petite, slender young woman with light eyes and a pale pink strapless dress. The skirt doesn’t hug her body, it flares out, skimming just above her knees.
