Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “That’s good?” I asked.

  She looked at me from under her eyelids like Are you kidding me? and said, “How’d a young girl like her get money for an art gallery, much less that car she was driving? There was no wedding ring on her finger, either.”

  “Did you see her?”

  She snorted. “Gidget didn’t darken my door.”

  Her pain about Anna was so palpable it hurt me.

  “So she became Ms. Big Shot in Houston. We’d see her in magazines, at parties with the wealthy and degenerate. She always looked two sheets to the wind, if you ask me. And I know for a fact she had to take the treatment for drugs and alcohol.”

  “Did you ever talk to her again?”

  “Oh yes indeedy, I did. She came back for her parents’ funeral—let’s see, that was seven years ago—and tried to speak to me. Here.” She waved a hand around us at the church. Her lips pressed together, grew tight, and then shook ever so slightly. She lowered her voice. “I said hello and tried to act as the Lord would have wanted me to, to set an example of forgiveness, but it was hard, I’ll tell you. It was hard. Her mother had died of breast cancer, and her father shot himself when she took her last breath. And she shows up here, as if she’d been a good daughter.”

  I gasped. Tears sprang into my eyes. I could relate to that kind of loss.

  “I’m going to tell you something. I never married.” She raised her chin, as if I was judging her. “My brother Bubba went off and started his seismic business. Lee County Seismic. He’s been real successful. But our parents are older. They needed me. Do need me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Later that night she came driving up to my house. Her visit was very strange. Not to mention she looked awful. Like a drug addict. She made me repeat what she said to me, as if it mattered.”

  “What was that?”

  She recited it to me like an English assignment. “If anyone were to ask me where I was the happiest, it was in the rumble seat, giggling with you on our magic picnics in the woods. It’s like I left my heart there and never found it again.”

  “What did she mean?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Could it have anything to do with a baby? A daughter?” I’d held back on asking, fearing it would be too “unsavory” for her to address.

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m sure I don’t know. There were rumors. I never put any stock in them. I can’t imagine why her will—”

  My phone alarm went off. I’d set it so I wouldn’t be late heading back to Gidget’s to get ready to meet Rashidi. We both startled, and I jumped to my feet. “My apologies. I’d almost forgotten. I have an engagement and have to dash. This has been amazingly helpful. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Just one more question.” I smiled to soften it, because it was an abrupt shift. “Were you at Gidget’s place last week?”

  Her eyes widened. After a long pause, she said, “I haven’t been to see Gidget since I was nineteen years old.”

  Not according to jilted, widowed Jimmy. I sensed she had more to say, whether she was willing to or not, but I was out of time. “Thank you, Lucy. If you think of anything else, you can find me at Gidget’s. And if I have more questions, how do I get hold of you?”

  She nodded, holding her shoulders high and her back straight. “Here. Or call information for George Thompson. That’s my father.”

  For the sake of propriety, I walked to the door, but once outside I ran to the car and raced down the back roads toward Gidget’s. I’d compartmentalized so well today that my anxiety about dinner with Rashidi had stayed at bay until now. Once unleashed, it couldn’t be contained. I wanted to go back over my conversation with Lucy, to record the important points on my voice recorder. Because she’d said some hugely important things. But my hands were shaking too hard to hold my phone, so I just hung on to the steering wheel with both hands and concentrated on remembering to breathe in after each exhale.

  Chapter Twelve

  I strode into Home Sweet Farm trying to show more confidence than I felt. Why did meeting Rashidi have me so bunged up? My nails ached to be bitten, my mind threatened its fanciful tricks, and a body-punishing run sounded bueno. Edward Lopez had laughed at me when I’d get like this. He was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected. But it had driven Cindy Lopez crazy. She’d see it coming before I did. Papa would soothe me. Mom would seethe. “Really, Michele, people are staring at you. Hands out of your mouth. Come back from wherever you just escaped to in your head, and sit still.” And other mantras on the same theme. I stopped mid-stride on the creaky old floors, smack in the middle of organic produce. Did she see it in me because she knew it in herself? Lord knows she could be uptight and controlling, and I had inherited that (and fought against it) from her. But had her mind taken her on flights of fancy, too? Was I more like Mom than Papa?

  I reached for my butterfly necklace and gripped it tightly. It felt cold. Just as I was about to bolt, I heard Rashidi’s voice. His sexy, lilting island voice.

  “Michele, over here.” He was out in the biergarten.

  My stomach felt funny. “I’m sorry, Adrian,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  Rashidi walked into the store toward me, acting like he didn’t notice I was impersonating a marble statue. Heads turned as his smile and brilliant white teeth lit up the place. Objectively speaking, he was a very attractive man. Maybe a hair under six feet. Dark skin that refracted the light. Dreadlocks tied back at the nape of his neck. Lean, very lean, although still muscular. But his onyx eyes were his best feature. They were like bottomless pools. Smart, kind, with a sense of fun shining in them.

  I didn’t want to notice. I couldn’t help but notice. The first time I laid eyes on him outside a courtroom in Amarillo, I’d noticed. Everyone was being introduced to everyone else outside the surprise wedding of our friends Emily and Jack. When he had taken my hand, he looked into my eyes with such probing intensity that I’d felt naked.

  He’d held onto my hand and pulled me a little closer. “So nice to meet you, Michele.”

  It had scared me then, like I was scared now. He was a threat. A threat to the life I didn’t want to let go. So if I didn’t want it, then why was I reacting to him like this?

  I knew the answer. It came from that part of Tlazolteotl I had suppressed. She wasn’t just the goddess of filth, but of vice and sexual misdeeds. She was the patroness of adulterers. The forgiver of sexual sins. She was the reason my traitorous mind and body were acting this way, when my heart said no, and with Adrian gone no more than a year. I stiffened. She was another way I was like my mom.

  He’d reached me now, and instead of taking the hand I held out to him, he wrapped me up in a hug. He smelled so delicious it made me dizzy.

  Stop being ridiculous, I told myself. He’s not a chocolate lava cake. He’s a person.

  I swallowed hard and patted him on the back, pulling away from the warmth and hard contours of his chest. He let me go, but held onto my shoulder.

  “You a sight,” he said, grinning. “Come. I have a table and a pitcher of Holy Crow beer.”

  This brought my first feeble smile. “Welcome to Brenham.”

  He let go of my shoulder, but somehow caught my hand and pulled me along behind him as if leading me through a crowd, even though there was barely a handful of people around. My hand started to sweat. Go away, Tlazol. I reject you. I am not you.

  Rashidi had claimed the end of one of the biergarten’s long picnic tables, closest to the stage. In front of the instruments and microphones was a sign: the Anthony Moreno Band. Apparently they were on a break, and while the biergarten was nearly full, there was no one else within six feet of us. It was as if we were completely alone.

  “Did you order any food?” I asked him as we sat. There was a pitcher of beer and two cups.

  His island accent disappeared. “No. I’m not hungry yet. You?”

  I wasn’t, but I needed s
omething in my stomach besides craft beer. On the other hand, I didn’t want to drag this out any longer than I had to. I was starting to get control of myself, to win the battle over the moon goddess. “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  He poured me a beer and took a sip of his own, then stuck a toothpick between his teeth. The band members started taking the stage, rejoining their instruments. They launched into a song, and they were so loud that talking was impossible. “Amy’s Back in Austin.” They were good.

  For the next half hour, they played country, pop, and rock. We drank the dark beer, which I liked. It was a stout, which I liked, too, since it smoothed my edges out faster. Between songs, Rashidi told me about his job as a professor of botany at the University of the Virgin Islands and his specialty, aquaponic farming. It was actually very interesting, and hearing about it helped settle my nerves even more—and keep the Tlazol thoughts at bay. Without realizing it, I emptied my glass, which Rashidi had topped off several times. I felt loose, or looser, which was saying a lot for a woman whose first husband said she was wound so tight, she sprang when he touched her.

  I smiled.

  “What’re you smiling ’bout?” Rashidi asked.

  “I don’t drink very often. My lips feel funny.”

  He squinted at me, the toothpick back in his teeth. “They don’t look funny.”

  Suddenly, I felt dizzy. The way he looked at me didn’t seem like the way a friend would. “Listen, Rashidi, I need to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  A tall man with gray hair, white at the temples, and the most recognizable face in Texas walked by. He caught me staring and nodded at me. A burly guy followed in his wake. They sat at the table closest to the door.

  “Do you know who that is?” I clasped the top of Rashidi’s hand.

  He flipped it over and we were palm to palm. “Who?”

  “That’s Boyd Herrington.”

  “I know the name. Why do I know it?”

  “He’s a U.S. senator, from Texas. Big-time Tea Party conservative.”

  “He lives here?”

  “Not in Brenham, but close to here.”

  “Ah.”

  I pulled my hand away.

  Rashidi looked at my hand for a long second, then back up at me. “So you’re an editor.” The toothpick waggled in his teeth.

  I explained my job in Houston.

  “But you’re living in the country, right?”

  “I am.”

  And this is where the stout took over. I started rattling on about moving into a new house and researching a book I was writing about the former occupant, who’d left it to me in her will and who maybe had a daughter that no one had ever heard of and I had to find along with an antique car. When I’d finished, I gasped in huge lungfuls of air.

  Rashidi busted out laughing, and his accent returned. “We need food in you belly.” Then, “We take you car?”

  I gave him a thumbs-up.

  “But I drive.”

  I gave him two thumbs-up.

  In the car, I directed him to the town square. We grabbed a table outside at 96 West, an eclectic tapas/fusion restaurant with truly arresting local art. The server lit the candle at our table. As Rashidi ordered a bottle of Machete red, I studied him. He was the polar opposite of Adrian. Adrian had been blond with beautiful green eyes and a permanent tan to his very fit body. He didn’t like going anywhere he couldn’t wear cargo shorts, a race T-shirt, and flip-flops. Rashidi had on dark jeans and a collared shirt despite the heat. Adrian loved words, like me. Rashidi loved plants and the little fish that nurtured them in his aquaponic world. I wasn’t even sure whether aquaponic was one word or two. Or hyphenated. I giggled. I was a little drunk.

  We studied the menu in silence until a waitress reappeared with our water and wine. I should have said, “No, thank you,” but instead I said, “Yes, please.” Rashidi was a vegetarian, so we ordered a tableful of tapas, everything from hummus to yucca fries and black bean, pumpkin, and quinoa sliders.

  I held up my glass. “Last one. I’ve got a bicycle race tomorrow.” Which was going to be bad enough without a hangover.

  Rashidi raised his eyebrows. “You’d best eat pasta and a lot of bread, then.” He’d found another toothpick and stuck it in his teeth.

  I took a sip of my wine and nodded, my head wobbly.

  ***

  My phone alarm went off at six a.m. As I rolled over to grab it, nausea almost sent me sprinting to the bathroom, but I held very still. It went away, and I hit snooze. My little canine heating pad wriggled closer to my bum. As I rolled back over, I bumped into another body, this one not a canine.

  I screamed and shot upright.

  Rashidi yelled “yah” and was on his feet before I could blink.

  Gertrude yawned loudly and extended her body full length into the spot I’d vacated.

  “What the matter?” He grabbed me by both my upper arms.

  “You,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Rashidi grinned.

  “You not remember?”

  “I remember having dinner at 96 West in Brenham and red wine and—”

  He nodded.

  I stopped.

  “And—?” he prompted.

  “And that . . . well . . . that’s where I go blank. I hardly ever drink—and then just a glass.” I was so mortified I could barely look him in the eye, but was relieved that he was completely dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. I looked down at myself. So was I.

  “Oh, Michele,” he said, then started to Yank. “You don’t hold your liquor.”

  “Apparently,” I muttered.

  “I drove you home. The couch is too short for me, too lumpy for you. We fell asleep in here.” He bumped me with his shoulder. “And nothing happened.”

  I whispered, “Oh, thank God.”

  “Hey, I’m not that bad.” He pulled an exaggerated sad face.

  I wasn’t ready to laugh yet. “It’s not that.”

  “Yah, you gave me an earful a’that last night. You’re not ready. You’re married even though he’s gone. I understand.”

  I drop-sat on the bed.

  He wagged a finger at me. “But you agreed we’ll be friends. And you said you’re racing this morning.”

  “Oh no.” I leapt up again.

  I scrambled around the house, grabbing water bottles and coconut water along with Gu and yet more Quest bars. I heard the sound of the coffee percolating in the kitchen. The scent wafted toward the back of the house, promising I’d feel better soon.

  I swigged water to down three Excedrin. Another wave of hangover roiled through my gut. I leaned over to brush my teeth, and my whole body protested. Sleep matted my eyes, so I splashed water on my face. I crammed my hair into a scrunchie—once I had on a helmet it wouldn’t matter anyway. I threw on my bicycling shorts and a tank jersey, all in bright orange, yellow, and black, to match La Mariposa.

  Rashidi hollered, “You got any travel mugs?”

  “No,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Use whatever you can find.”

  I took the bicycle and my bike bag and loaded them in and on the car. I had downsized to a rooftop bike rack a few months ago from the larger rear-hatch model Adrian and I had used. This one still felt wrong.

  Rashidi came out the door, bearing two bluebonnet mugs. I was confused for a moment and spoke before I thought. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

  “It that or I stranded,” he said, island style.

  All right by me, I thought. I didn’t want to have to explain him to Wallace and Ethan. But that wouldn’t be nice. It wouldn’t be what friends would do. “Up to you.”

  He set the mugs on the roof of the Jetta and opened the passenger-side door. All righty, then. Gertrude put her paws as high on the gate as she could. She barked, a pouty yip.

  “You’ve got water, food, and shade, girl. You’re going to survive.”

  I slipped into the driver’s seat and drov
e as fast as I dared toward Fayetteville. I saw the magenta pickup outside a cute little shop I’d never noticed before, on the outskirts of town. Flown the Coop. I made a note to check it out, when things slowed down.

  Rashidi was so quiet the first twenty minutes I thought he’d gone to sleep, until he let out a low whistle. “It’s really pretty here. A deer!” He gestured with his right hand, sloshing coffee.

  “It is.” I took my cup and sipped. My stomach didn’t like it. “Can you grab me one of those bars out of my bike bag?” I pointed to the back seat with my nose.

  Rashidi held his coffee aloft and half pivoted toward the back seat. His cup rose higher as he leaned for the bag, almost to the ceiling as he grabbed a chocolate chip bar.

  “One for yourself, too, if you like.”

  He scoffed. “I’m not eating mystery food.”

  I vaguely remembered him explaining his dietary principles the evening before.

  “Do you want me to stop for something? This area is mostly country gentleman farms, so there’s a few gourmet grocery stores. Lots of organic whatnot.” We were driving through Round Top.

  “Nah, I’m fine. They have food where we’re going?” He bit the end of the wrapper off a toothpick he fished from the depths of his front pocket after handing me my bar, spat out the plastic, and pulled the toothpick out with his teeth. I itched to pick the wrapper up, but I didn’t want to run off the road, so I resisted.

  “Well, it’s a town. A small one, but I’m sure there’ll be something. At least a gas station with a banana.”

  “That’ll work,” he said.

  Blessedly, he left me mostly to my thoughts. I was mortified that I was about to ride a bicycle in front of my friends and him. They were under the misimpression I was a triathlete. I was also mortified that I hadn’t quit noticing Rashidi. He radiated vitality. I wished that my body—no, more than that . . . my whole person—wasn’t reacting to him. It felt like cheating on Adrian’s memory as this interloper intruded on an activity that had always been ours alone.