Inked Up

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Inked Up Page 17

by Terri Thayer


  Her life with Mitch could begin now, really begin. The weight of Ken had been lifted and she felt nearly giddy. All the disagreements she and Mitch had had this week faded. She set out the bottle and glasses in the kitchen and dropped her paperwork on the countertop, still dusty from installation.

  “Where are you?” she called.

  “Kid’s bath,” was the answer.

  April went down the hall. The walls had been painted the color that Xenia had picked out. She pushed down the sadness she felt. Now she had something to celebrate.

  Mitch was in the bathroom hanging the medicine cabinet. “Hey, you’re just in time. I could use an extra hand,” he said. “Push up while I attach this side.”

  April obliged. She had to use two hands to hold up her end.

  “Good news,” she said.

  “Really? I could use some.” The sound of the electric screwdriver drowned his voice out.

  She wanted his undivided attention. “Finish up first.”

  Together they installed the mirrored cabinet. April could see her grinning reflection. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  “That your last job of the day?” she said. “Please?”

  “Well, I was going to caulk the shower again.”

  April put on a pout. She didn’t often resort to feminine wiles but she’d make an exception. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  She pulled him toward the kitchen. She pulled the cork on the bottle and poured.

  “Champagne?” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

  She waved the papers in front of him. “Ken was here . . .”

  “Ken?” Mitch looked around. “Here?” He was on high alert.

  “At the barn. It’s not a problem, though. He dropped off his divorce papers. Signed.”

  “You’re divorced?” Mitch said, accepting the glass April gave him.

  “Good as,” April said.

  The declaration had the desired effect. The worry lines around Mitch’s eyes smoothed out.

  He caught her around the waist and lifted her off the floor. He kissed her heartily. She giggled at the feeling of being airborne. The feeling of freedom.

  He put her back on her feet and raised his glass. She grabbed hers.

  “To us?” she said. She couldn’t keep the question out of her voice. He’d been saying all along he wanted her to be free to date him, really date him, but what if he didn’t mean it.

  Mitch tilted his head back to drink. His throat exposed. All April wanted to do was kiss it.

  “To us,” he said, banging his glass on the table.

  She felt her heart soar as his smile grew larger. This was a real beginning for them. She was glad to see he was as excited as she was.

  April grabbed Mitch by his shirt front and pulled him closer. He was wearing a golf-style shirt and her legs weakened at the sight of the hair on his chest peeking out. She kissed him.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” She had to stop kissing him long enough to breathe. His response was lost as he moved down her neck, his lips hot. Her feet felt disconnected from her body.

  “All those nights you went home . . .”

  He stopped nibbling on her collarbone, and straightened.

  “Yes?”

  She laughed at his eagerness. Instead of answering, she leaned in for another kiss. She couldn’t get enough of his lips. Her insides were molten, each contact with him melting her a little more.

  “We won’t have to stop anymore,” she said breathlessly.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long while,” he said. “Let’s go back to my place and get started.”

  Their bodies refused to untwine, and they kissed their way through the kitchen to the front door. Mitch turned off lights as they went. She held his hand as he ran back to turn off the bathroom light, and followed as he turned the deadbolt on the kitchen door.

  “Beat you home,” Mitch said, as they exchanged a kiss just inside the living room.

  “It’s a bet,” April said, digging her keys out of her pocket. She reached in his pocket and grabbed his car keys. She tossed them into the darkened dining room.

  “Hey,” Mitch said. “Unfair practices.”

  April laughed, and ran out the door. She’d just gotten to her car when she heard a crash. It sounded like glass breaking. April’s skin went clammy.

  “Mitch!” she yelled.

  “I’m fine,” he said from inside the house. “Someone threw a rock through the window. I’m going out back to see if I can see who did it.”

  April caught sight of something—someone—moving around the house. A car door opened and closed. April moved in the direction of the noise. A car was parked a hundred yards away. She heard the engine sputter, and ran.

  The driver tried to make the ignition catch, but it was not turning over. She moved quickly. The whitewall of the tire shone in the darkness. April knelt down and felt her way to the valve. She pulled it open and heard the tire let out its air. The car settled, listing to one side.

  “Over here, Mitch,” she said.

  April pulled open the driver’s side door. The man at the wheel cowered as though she was going to hit him.

  “Hector? What are you doing here?”

  Hector turned the ignition key. The engine started with a roar. He put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. April jumped back to avoid being hit by the door. The flat tire dragged and the car lurched to a stop.

  April heard a metallic rattling and looked into the back seat. A can of black spray paint lay on the floor of the backseat. Hector was their vandal.

  April knelt by the open window. “Why did you do this?”

  No answer. She looked in his car and saw an envelope addressed to Mitch. “Are you behind everything—the letters, too? Why?”

  Hector reached for the door handle. April backed up to allow him to get out. Her heart beat faster and she called for Mitch again. She could hear him in the woods over to the right.

  Hector Valdez pulled himself up to his full height and regal bearing. He kept his arms limp at his side. April relaxed.

  He said softly, “Everything I do, I do for the cause. Our fight is never over. I needed to keep it alive in the hearts and minds of the people.”

  “So you sent threatening letters?”

  He nodded. “But your boyfriend never told anyone. I had to escalate things. I can’t let the plight of my people be ignored.”

  “All for TV coverage?”

  April opened the back door and picked up the can of paint. Mitch raced up, breathing hard. April handed him the can of paint.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hector Valdez has been sabotaging your houses. He’s the one that sent the nasty notes, the letters to the editor, the spray paint. All to further his own agenda.”

  “Is this true?” Mitch said, his eyes narrowing at the older man.

  “This problem is bigger than your four little houses, sir. Bigger than your little project. Much more is at stake. I saw an opportunity to bring more attention to the plight of my people, and I took it.”

  “I could have you prosecuted,” Mitch said.

  Hector stuck his chin out. “Do what you will.”

  That would give him more publicity, April thought cynically.

  “Let’s bargain,” April said. “Let him give you more money for the Foundation.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Hector said. “MAC is broke, too. I could give you some men to help you paint. And some landscapers.”

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said.

  “No, it’s a good idea,” April said. “You could get done much faster that way. The family could move in earlier.”

  April searched the man’s face. He was trying to do the right thing.

  “I’d watch out who your Foundation gets in bed with,” Hector said.

  Mitch started. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Ferguson.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The next morning Apri
l was up much earlier than she’d planned. She’d been so quiet, tiptoeing up to the loft just past two when she’d come home from Mitch’s, but this dawn, her roommates weren’t as considerate.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want holes in the wall, Grizz.” The whispery voice traveled up the barn walls, more disturbing than a shout. April came awake and sat up in the loft.

  The Campbells were early risers. Like predawn. In the pitch dark. They couldn’t see well, so had turned on every light downstairs. The brightness struck April like a dentist’s drill on a cavity.

  She lay in her bed, turning her face to the wall, pulling the covers over her head. This was only the second morning with her new roommates and already she was running a sleep deficit.

  A hammer hit the wall beneath her, sending her down the ladder before she could consider whether she was fully awake or what she was wearing. As she descended, she noticed Charlotte frowning. She realized she was dressed only in a threadbare T-shirt that barely covered her tush. She went back up for her robe.

  A moment later, now properly covered, April approached Grizz, who had used a twenty-pound hammer to put up a picture. She wanted to protest, but words wouldn’t come. Her throat was raw and her brain slow from lack of sleep.

  “Told you she wouldn’t mind,” Grizz said to his wife. “Besides, my son owns the place.”

  “Half,” Charlotte said. “Ed and Vince are co-owners.”

  April moved closer to what he’d hung up. What was the urgency? Not a picture. A certificate of some kind, with fancy writing. She deciphered the calligraphy across the top: Ferguson Enterprises. The certificate was for one thousand shares.

  Another hammer blow. April spun around. Grizz was hanging another picture, this time on the post just below her California art. She grabbed her frame before it fell. The Campbells’ photo was one of a multistory building on a beach. The pink stucco walls undulated. Looked like Florida.

  “Will you be needing more wall space?” April asked.

  “That’s all, young lady,” Grizz said. He missed her ironic tone completely.

  April decided she had to choose her battles. The smell of coffee tickled her nose. The Campbells had used her French press. April poured herself a cup. Charlotte was manning the stove like a short-order cook, flipping eggs.

  Grizz seated himself at the table, unfolding the daily paper. He must have already walked the mile into town to buy it, unless he stole the copy from one of the neighbors. April wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  She sat at the table, sipping coffee, waiting for the caffeine to break through the brain fog that four hours of sleep engendered. She ate what Charlotte put in front of her. She already knew it was useless to protest. Besides, Charlotte was a good cook and April had enjoyed yesterday’s hot breakfast. She’d forgotten what homemade pancakes tasted like.

  Charlotte settled into a chair when everyone was served. Her husband was done eating already. He grunted at his plate. She got up and cleared it, then sat down to eat. April worried that Charlotte’s eggs would be cold. Nothing worse than cold eggs. She’d already finished hers and was starting in on the grits.

  “Sit,” April said.

  Charlotte looked worried. “Sorry about waking you,” Charlotte said. “When Grizz gets a notion to do something, he just does it. We’re not used to living with other people.”

  “Is that your place?” April said, pointing her fork at the photo. “Is it in Miami?”

  “Is it, Grizz? I always forget,” Charlotte said. She ate with tiny, quick bites as though she didn’t deserve to take time out to eat.

  Grizz looked up from his paper, his lips moist from his fried egg. His whiskers never seemed to grow; they were always at the same level of straggle. If he were fifty years younger, the scruff might look sexy. As he wasn’t it merely presented a place where food could get caught. April tried not to look too closely for fear she’d see last night’s scalloped potato caught on the wiry ends.

  “It’s Miami Beach,” he said. “We have a share.”

  “What time of year do you usually go?” she asked. How about now? She chastised herself for being unkind.

  “Oh no, we’ve never been,” Charlotte said.

  April was confused. “Why not?”

  Grizz ignored them and went back to the paper. He seemed to be reading the minutes of Lynwood’s city council meeting.

  “Scott and Ferguson Enterprises use it as a sanctuary. Young people, mostly Cubans, who need refuge.”

  “And so you’ve never been there?” April said. A share to her meant you got a week or more at the place. She’d had a share in a house in Capitola one summer. She’d had seven blissful days at the beach, only slightly marred by her room-mate’s tendency to not flush. “Let yellow mellow” was her mantra.

  Charlotte smiled. “Someday.”

  Grizz rustled his paper as though he didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “You got firewood that needs splitting?” he said.

  April had her doubts. She looked at Charlotte, who nodded her head sagely.

  “There’s a shed out back,” April said. The sun had come up enough that he’d be able to see what he was doing.

  Grizz stood, pulling up black suspenders that were drooping around his waist, and went outside without another word.

  Charlotte, watching him go, said, “He likes to stay busy.”

  April said, “He doesn’t like to talk about money.”

  Charlotte sipped her coffee. She started to get up to clear the table, but April stopped her, reminding her of the deal they’d made yesterday. It was her job to clean up. April knew Charlotte only acquiesced because she was afraid of the high-tech dishwasher.

  “Tell me about Ferguson.” Now that she was in cahoots with him, April wanted reassurance that she’d hooked up with the right guy. “He seems to have a knack for making money. You own stock in his company?” April pointed to the certificate.

  They could hear Grizz splitting wood, the thwack of the axe like the sound of someone slapping the side of the barn.

  Charlotte pulled out a bag of crocheting. She was making hats for newborns to send to a hospital in Costa Rica. The yarn was striped with pink and yellow.

  “A thousand shares, at ten thousand per,” Charlotte said proudly.

  April did the math quickly. A hundred thousand dollars, no wonder they lost their house. That had to be their life savings and then some.

  Charlotte continued, “Indeed. He was paying us interest well over the bank rate, and we were getting great dividends.”

  “Were?”

  Charlotte’s hands stopped moving. The noise outside had stopped. April held her breath waiting for Grizz to come through the door missing a limb.

  The wood chopping started again.

  The crochet hook swerved in and out of the yarn. New stitches appeared. “Scott’s hit a rough patch,” Charlotte said. “His investments have been impacted by the global economy.”

  That sounded so rote, April wondered who’d fed her that line. Charlotte didn’t sound like she knew anything about the economy, global or otherwise.

  “As soon as he gets back on his feet, we’ll start getting money and we’ll be able to live in our house again.”

  April couldn’t tell if Charlotte was naïve or just overly optimistic. The way she understood it, the house was gone. Foreclosed on by the bank. On the market probably being sold to a young couple, ecstatic to get into a house at such a great price.

  “All of our friends have their money with Scott,” Charlotte said, turning the tiny cap around and around as it grew from the top out. “He’s just devastated.”

  Ferguson spread his money around. Investing in Xenia’s new company must have been part of his strategy. Judging by his reaction, the other day had been one of the few times he’d met Vanesa. Xenia had been smart to keep them apart. April vowed to keep an eye on the teen this afternoon and make sure Vanesa didn’t get herself in over her head, flirting with a guy old enough to be her father.
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  April tried to get ahold of Trish, but her call went straight to voice mail. She left a message and asked Trish to call her back. She intended to ask her what she knew about Xenia’s new company.

  April spent the day at work. She rounded up all the stampers who agreed to work at the telethon the next day. She got home after dark, worn out from the week, looking forward to an early night. She was hoping Charlotte had cooked something comforting for dinner. She was in the mood for mashed potatoes and meatloaf.

  The telethon was to start at noon. Ferguson would film the first three hours live and then replay it several times over the next twelve hours. The stampers had volunteered to man the phones for the afternoon.

  Ferguson filmed his show out of the plain cinder block one-story structure set up behind his retail store that April had seen the other day. Inside, it was state-of-the-art, with the latest digital technology.

  April was impressed. She’d volunteered at the local public television studio in San Francisco several times and hadn’t seen such good equipment. The hosts at KQED would be envious of this setup.

  Ferguson had spent a lot of money in here.

  The first hour featured a lineup of local talent. The Lynwood High School choir; a local grunge band; Dance, Dance Academy. Between acts, Ferguson talked about the importance of his cause. He talked about the problem of fatherless children in Scotland. April hadn’t realized AIDS had devastated families there.

  He was dressed in full regalia today—a black watch plaid kilt, topped by a short black velvet formal jacket. His sporran was heavily fringed as was the trim on his socks.

  The phone rang sporadically. April and the other stampers had plenty of time to chat between calls.

  “Did your mother like the finished invitation?” Mary Lou asked.

  April smiled. “She did. She teared up.”

  “I bet Clive bawled,” Rocky said.

  “You guessed right. Like a baby,” April said.

  The phone rang. April grabbed it, laughing as Mary Lou shook a fist at her, pretending to be angry. They’d all rather be busy answering phones.

 

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