Closing my eyes, I leaned against the door for a moment just to steady myself.
But then, that image once again flashed through my mind. Of Monday, May 12.
And an intestinal volcano rumbled inside of me. By the time I felt the gurgles in my throat, I was in the bathroom, seat up, head down.
I wanted to throw up. I needed to throw up. And that’s just what I did.
Chapter 18
I felt the leg on my shoulder and then the giggle in my ear. Still, when I opened my eyes, it took a few moments for my mind to remember: this was not my bed, not my bedroom. We weren’t in Haverford. We were in Springfield at a three-star hotel, hiding out because of what my husband had done.
I rolled over and looked into the green eyes of the only one who could still make me smile.
“Morning, Mommy.”
“Good morning, sweetheart.” I pulled my son into my arms. “How’s Mommy’s baby?”
Billy giggled. “I’m not a baby.”
“Yes, you are,” I said, and tickled him, sending him into a frenzy of giggles.
He rolled around the bed, laughing loudly, and that was when I had my first real thought of my husband: Where was Wyatt? I could count the number of times in our seven years of marriage when Wyatt had opened his eyes before me.
Swinging my legs over the side, I grabbed my bathrobe and asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Uh-huh.” Billy nodded. “I want cereal. Cap’n Crunch.”
I cringed, but nodded at the same time. I was not a fan of all the sugary cereals that had been staples of my childhood diet, but over the last three days, I’d given Billy whatever he’d wanted—my attempt to assuage the guilt I felt from uprooting my son so suddenly and completely from his life.
I hoisted Billy onto my hip, swung the bedroom’s double door open, but I didn’t take another step.
All three men looked up—Wyatt and his brother from the sofa, and Newt from the chair.
“Oh!” I clutched the collar of my bathrobe, covering up what little of my chest showed. “I didn’t know . . . I thought we were alone.” My glance moved between my brother-in-law and our attorney.
Wyatt wore a frown as he looked me up and down. Still, his tone was candy-coated when he said, “Sweetheart, you’re not dressed.”
Didn’t he hear what I’d just said?
“I was going to get Billy some breakfast first, and then—”
He jumped from the couch. “I’ll take Billy.” Our son crawled from me into his father’s arms. Wyatt leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You get dressed. That cop will be here soon and we decided that you should be there this time.”
“Me?”
Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “You.” Then he turned to our attorney. “Newt thinks Ferguson needs to see me with you, see me as a family man so all of this nonsense can stop.” He paused. This time it felt as if Wyatt was looking through me. “So you need to get ready.” He spoke slowly as if he wanted to make sure I understood his words. “Ferguson will be here at nine thirty, so get ready.” He stopped. “And get dressed.”
I nodded and turned back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. It was 7:48, according to the digital clock on the nightstand; I had more than an hour to get dressed, but I’d need a lifetime of hours to get ready. Was the policeman going to ask me questions? What was I supposed to say if he asked me what I knew.
I squeezed my eyes shut and remembered what I wished I could forget.
Just as I adjusted the blanket over Billy, a sudden pop cracked through the silence of the late night and made me pause. I listened to see if I’d hear it again.
Nothing.
So I let the sound slip from my mind, kissed my son’s cheek, and tiptoed out of his room . . .
That night, I had no idea that the sound I heard was a gunshot. That night, I had no idea that the sound I heard would change my life.
And now, I had to talk to this detective. Of course, I didn’t want to, but what excuse could I give to explain why I didn’t want to stand by my husband’s side?
There was nothing I could say, so I rushed to the closet, where my clothes were crushed in a space smaller than one corner of my closet at home.
I knew I needed to be understated, not only because this was serious, but because I didn’t want the policeman to see me at all. Because maybe if he didn’t notice me, maybe he wouldn’t ask questions that I didn’t want to answer.
I grabbed my navy sheath just as the bedroom door opened. Glancing over my dress, I said, “I’m just picking out what I’m going to wear.”
Wyatt walked toward me and planted another kiss on my cheek. “Good morning again, sweetheart.” Then, stepping back, he said, “Did you pack your green dress?”
I frowned. I had a closet the size of this suite filled with a wardrobe that had come from seven years of having an unlimited budget.
Wyatt answered my unasked question. “The emerald-green V-neck I bought for your birthday.”
Now my frown was so deep I felt my eyebrows touching. “No. Why? Are we going out somewhere?”
“That’s what I want you to wear this morning.”
“Wyatt, that dress is evening wear.”
“We’re having that meeting with Ferguson,” he said, as if stating a fact that I already knew was a good enough explanation.
“Well, I don’t have it here.” And I was so glad that I didn’t.
“No problem. I’ll have Newt send someone to pick it up for you.”
“Wyatt!” I hoped that the way I said his name would remind him of what I looked like in that dress, which he’d bought more for his delight than mine. It really wasn’t something that I needed to wear outside of our bedroom.
Like he said, he’d given it to me for my birthday, but then he asked me to wear it two nights later when we went to a neighbor’s New Year’s Eve party. I’d felt so uncomfortable in the neckline that almost cut to my waist and the hemline that left no room for error.
“So, it’s in your closet, right?”
I shook my head. Maybe I needed to say this another way. “That’s not business attire.”
“And who said this was business? This is all about having the upper hand. And you, my dear, are the weapon that gives me a million upper hands.” He kissed me before he moved toward the door. “You can take your time bathing. By the time you get out, your dress will be here.”
I was still holding on to the navy sheath as Wyatt walked out of the room.
There were so many ways to say no, but Wyatt never heard me. He never listened to any of my protests about anything, including when it came to what he wanted me to wear.
Sometimes it was hard for me to believe that this was the man that I’d met eleven years ago. That man hated the exploitation of women; at least, that’s what he led me to believe.
I tugged at the pink shorts the way I’d done every day for the past week. But the fabric didn’t come down. The barely-there shorts were still barely there, but at least they covered up more than the cropped top. The top was already a size too small, leaving no need for imagination. My 36DDs were on display. And that was before I put on the two bras that management insisted we wear to hike up the cleavage. My cleavage didn’t need a bit of hiking, but I needed this job.
Though I didn’t like the shorts, and could do without the top, there was a part of my uniform that I really hated. The Hair and The Makeup.
I was a ponytail, smidgen-of-makeup kind of girl. But not at Twin Peaks. Here it was hair down—all the time. Makeup—natural, but applied to accentuate my features, whatever that meant.
But it didn’t matter what I liked or didn’t like. I was a Twin Peaks girl on a mission to make enough money so that I could move out of the one-bedroom apartment I shared with my mother. At twenty-two, it was time.
So I added one more coat of mascara, covered my lips with another layer of Glorious Red shiny gloss, and then fluffed my hair.
Turning sideways, I asked, “How do I look?”
&n
bsp; “Fabulous,” my new friend, Keisha, said. She’d been with Twin Peaks for over seven months, so she was the expert-in-residence. All last week, anything that I needed to know, Keisha told me.
She said, “Let’s go out there and make some money.”
We walked out of the locker room together, checked in with the manager, then got to work.
As I took one last glance in the mirror between the dining room and the kitchen, I was still amazed at just how ordinary my life had turned out.
Four years out of high school and I hadn’t set the world on fire. Even though I’d always been told I had the looks, a modeling gig that a friend of a friend of a friend had set up for me in New York had turned out to involve no clothes and a camera. So less than a week after I’d made the trek from Philly to New York, I was back home, once again living with my mother.
I’d tried a few corporate temp jobs, but since I knew nothing about technology beyond my cell phone, I couldn’t find a place to fit in the corporate world.
But there was one thing I knew how to do—wait on tables. It was in my DNA since that was the only job I’d ever known my mother to have.
Since high school, I’d worked at five different restaurants, nothing too upscale. I was still trying to put together a plan, though, because God knows this was not the way I wanted to spend my life. But what was a high school graduate with average grades and below-average scores on the college entrance exams supposed to do?
“You ready to hit it?” Keisha asked, bringing me back to my reality.
“Yeah.” At least I’d gotten this gig at Twin Peaks, where the tips were way better than at other places. After my first week, I’d tripled what I’d been making in tips anywhere else.
I walked into the front of the restaurant at exactly the same time as a group of five guys barged in.
“Hi! Welcome to Twin Peaks,” I said as if I were glad to see these dudes. I could tell these five forty-something-year-old men with their boisterous talk and laughter were going to be rowdy.
As the suited men sat at their round table, I glanced down at their shoes—a quick assessment that my mother had taught me when I was just eleven.
They had on the usual black business shoes shined to a high gloss, except for one; this guy wore suede ankle boots. Not at all flashy like the other guys.
I liked him already—until I looked up. I guess you could say that he was kind of cute—if you liked walruses. Because he looked like a walrus. With hair. Lots of hair. Like a mop of hair. A walrus with a mop of hair.
I didn’t get much time to study him, though. They hadn’t even sat all the way down when they were all over me. Not in a physical way.
It was with their eyes. They leered at me as if I were dancing naked. But I smiled like I enjoyed being ogled and took their drink orders, wondering how bad it would be once they were drunk.
Their order was simple: beers for all, except for the walrus guy, who ordered a scotch, straight, no chaser.
“And put it all on one tab,” the one who was sitting closest to me said.
Ah . . . the leader. I now knew where to direct my attention.
When I returned with their drinks, I asked, “So what are you having today?”
The leader leaned forward. “What about you?” he said. “Can we all have you?” He made a circular motion with his hands, letting me know that he meant the whole group.
Four of the five laughed. The walrus guy was the only one who looked away and down into his scotch.
I kept my smile as I said, “Nope, I’m no groupie.”
“Ah . . . that’s pretty funny. Group, groupie, get it?” the leader interpreted for the rest as if he were the smartest.
Then he scooted to the edge of his seat and lowered his voice, as if he and I were about to have a private conversation. “So what if it’s not a group? What if it’s just you and me?”
Inside I sighed and wondered, Why did I have to go through this just to get a paycheck? But I remembered that I was an entertainer. And the tips. I had to remember my tip.
So I laughed (although there wasn’t anything funny) and I said, “I don’t do married men either.”
For some reason, that was even more hilarious to all of them . . . well, except for the walrus, who was still studying his drink.
The leader actually pouted as if he’d meant what he’d said about us getting together and he was upset that I wouldn’t consider it. “Well, all of us here are married.” He glanced around the table and paused on Mr. Walrus. “Except for Wyatt over there.” He pointed him out. “Hey, Wyatt, she’s looking for a guy who’s not married.”
More laughter and then the walrus guy looked up. Wyatt. I was glad to have something to call him in my head besides a funny-looking mammal.
“So, would you marry him?” the leader asked, daring me to tell the truth.
When I said nothing, they cracked up so hard I thought some of them were going to start rolling on the floor. But Wyatt didn’t laugh. He returned his glance to his glass and I felt sorry for him. These guys were the male version of the mean girls in school. And I hated all of them.
But—the tip. And since it was probably the intellectual leader who would be paying, I laughed, took their food order, and bantered with them for the next hour while they devoured curly fries and wings and a couple of pounds of crab legs.
The whole time, I watched Wyatt the Walrus. Though he chatted and laughed a little with them, he wasn’t of their nature. Really, he seemed to be the only one who had any sense. For sure, he had respectability; at least he had my respect, because never did he join in when they talked about the way my tank top fit my “twin peaks,” or the things they imagined I could do with my legs.
What was Wyatt doing hanging out with these guys?
That table worked me, making me go back for a couple more rounds of beer and more orders of fries. But I kept up with them, glad that they were pushing up the bill.
When I brought the almost-two-hundred-dollar check to the table, I left it near the leader, but Wyatt leaned across and grabbed the folder.
That made me smile. These guys might have had the big mouths, but it seemed Wyatt had the big wallet.
And . . . the big tip! When he signed the credit-card receipt, he’d scribbled “100” in the gratuity line.
My eyes widened, and when I looked at him, he winked. And he smiled. Really smiled for the first time.
I said good-bye to the other four, but I gave Wyatt a personal farewell. “Thank you,” I told him when he lingered behind.
“You’re welcome,” he said. Then he added, “I hope you’re okay with the way they talked to you the whole time.”
I laughed. “That’s just what happens at Twin Peaks.”
His eyes roamed over me, but when he did that, it didn’t feel as disgusting as when other guys did it. “And the way you’re dressed.”
I shrugged. “It’s just the uniform I have to wear.”
He nodded as if he understood, but then he said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be working here.”
That made me laugh harder than before. As if I had options. “I don’t have anywhere else to work.”
“Maybe I’ll have to do something about that.” He gave me another quick scan while he said, “You deserve better than walking around half naked.” Then he kinda swiveled in his suede boots and walked out of there, leaving me wondering all kinds of things about him.
Wyatt had gained my respect that day back in 2003. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, but I would always remember how kind he’d been. And how he cared about how women were exploited.
But then we were married and Wyatt became the Exploiter-in-Chief. He’d drag me to all kinds of business meetings, using me to close a deal with financiers, or to negotiate better prices with suppliers, or even to hire a top employee away from a competitor.
But today with Detective Ferguson—this was the lowest of Wyatt’s lows. Did he really believe that he could influence someone who was investigatin
g the killing of a young man by distracting him with his nearly naked wife?
No, this time, I wasn’t going to do it. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t wear that dress. I was already saving Wyatt’s life by not saying anything about what I knew. That would have to be enough.
Tossing the sheath onto the bed, I dashed into the bathroom. I had two hopes: one was that whoever was being sent on that errand wouldn’t find the dress, and the other was that if I was already dressed before the errand runner returned, Wyatt wouldn’t send me back to change in front of Newt. It would look too ridiculous, and that’s one impression Wyatt never wanted to give—that he was ridiculous. Or stupid. Or anything that negated all of his country-boy-done-good accomplishments.
So I jumped into the shower. And then I prayed. I prayed as I bathed and I prayed as I dried off. Prayed through my routine; prayed for the whole hour that it took me to get dressed.
As I looked in the mirror, I knew Wyatt would approve. My hair was blown out—full and a little bit frizzy, the way he liked it. My face was plastered with makeup that was way too heavy for daytime, especially the bright red lipstick that made my collagen-filled lips the first thing everyone saw when I entered a room.
But Wyatt liked that, too. He’d like this whole look. Once I stepped into the living room, Wyatt would realize that with my hair and my makeup, and my dress and my pearls, this was far more appropriate for a meeting with a man who could take or make his life.
I stepped into the sheath, then glanced at my reflection in the mirror. As I zipped up the back, I checked the clock—just a minute before nine.
I’d won.
That was when the bedroom door opened. Wyatt walked in, a garment bag folded over his arm. His disapproval was in his glare.
“I . . . I put this on because . . .” I pointed to the clock. “Won’t Detective Ferguson be here at nine?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “He’ll be here at nine thirty.”
“Oh, I thought you said nine.”
“I said nine thirty.” He spoke to me in the tone he used when correcting Billy.
Stand Your Ground: A Novel Page 14
