Oh, so the mysterious F. H. was Farley Hampton? "Wow. She okay?"
"Yeah. For someone who's under indictment," Marian said. "But we think Farley had someone run her down. Want to help us prove it?"
"Next week," I said. "Hey, I'm supposed to write a romantic suspense party for that guy!"
Marian said, "Don't bother. Hampton's toast with this scandal. No parties for him.”
"Who was Jackie protecting with her confession?"
"Oh, gee. Must have been George. He was acting so strange that maybe she thought he'd done it. But then we found out he'd just fallen for Yvette, who's really a lovely girl."
I groaned.
Marian said, "Rhonda, Yvette's a journalist who was investigating James for an elderly aunt of hers who he'd stolen work from in one of those board and care homes. But she could never get conclusive proof that he'd done anything except flirt with every woman alive. She called your bluff that first night, thinking you were helping him, and then later you really confused her by confessing to being Jackson, you little dickens. By the time she realized you were the new target and not part of the plot, James had destroyed all the evidence that you'd written the book and wouldn't let her near you. Do you ever listen to your cell phone messages, by the way? She left you about a hundred."
I had to call Monica and get that password.
She went on, "And now she and George are engaged, you know. He inherited a mint from his uncle, and they'll be married as soon as she divorces Damned James.”
"Oh, great. Copper curls in the roller league forever." I said, "Marian, I finally found the evidence for the plagiarism suit today—my flash drive from August, with every version of the story on it."
"Great!" she said. "I found your book on CD today, too. It was mixed in with a bunch of CDs my—um—personal trainer borrowed months ago. He thought it was a cookbook. Now you'll be on the bestseller list."
"Maybe. After a long lawsuit." I looked at Dal. "Marian, please tell George I finally found a decent guy to save my life."
* * *
By the time we got back to Acorn Street, trailed by a media caravan of news vehicles, it was nearly midnight. My mother and Arlene were serving all the media folks pinwheel sandwiches and popcorn in the living room, so I headed toward the family room, where Harley was watching Jay Leno. She had scary scarlet hair, with very curly bangs and little horn-like pigtails.
Warily, I flopped on the sofa and let my aching body turn to mush.
"You coming to practice on Thursday?" Harley said. Good. She wasn't spewing pea soup or anything.
"I wish. Falling on a nice, flat wooden floor seems pretty trivial now."
"Hey. We set up the banked track now, so you can fall from eight feet up.”
There was a pause, filled only with the smell of Mom's popcorn and the inane chatter of TV.
"You still mad at me?" I said in a little girl voice that I hated.
The old wild-eyed Harley grin flashed. "Hell, no, Rhonda! I finally found my man! He's not one bit slimy, well, not around me. In the courtroom, he may be a bit … elastic." She yelled, "Henry?"
Henry Dantzig, the boy lawyer from Wonder Bras, appeared at the door, just as a reporter in the hall caught sight of me and lunged my way. Henry stuck out a foot and tripped him, then hauled him back into the living room.
"Wow. Nice guy," I said.
Harley looked at me. "Amazing what you can find on a barroom floor.”
I giggled and high-fived her.
She gestured at her very perky chest. "And check this out. Henry gets me the coolest bras. You need one? What are you, like a 40 AA?"
I punched her. Like old times.
Dal came up behind her, steering clear of her flaming clown hair. Harley saw him and froze.
Uh-oh.
But Harley just fluffed her pigtails. "Guys, I got a new derby name. Braggedy Anne. It was either that or Bipolar Woman. No more copyrighted characters for me."
"But isn't Raggedy Ann … ?" I stopped. "Well, I'm off the team. But if I ever skate again, forget Boudicca. The red hair, the leather bustier, the spear, they just aren't me. I'd prefer someone more Hollywood."
"Gena Rollands?" Harley said.
"No. More fun. Sparkly. A queen of both rink and screen." I grinned.
Harley said, "If you're thinking Kansas City Bombers, the name Raquel Belch is sadly taken."
I rolled my eyes.
"Is it a booty name?" Harley asked.
I reddened.
Dal said, "Not … You aren't thinking of … Sonja Hiney?"
I threw my pillow at him. "You poop! How did you figure it out?"
They both cracked up, and Dal, choking with laughter, ran to the kitchen for a drink.
"Hey, I liked her movies!" I yelled after him.
Harley got serious. "Rhonda, why are you off the team?"
I lowered my voice. "The folks need a new full-time nanny—me.”
* * *
After everyone left, while Dal was helping Music Man, Mom found me dozing on the sofa. "Rhonda, I've decided to stop protecting you."
Good Lord. I sat up. "From what?"
"Well, from responsibility." She looked at her perfect nails. "See, I was the youngest in my family, and I know what it feels like to be that free. Once upon a time, I had a career in TV. I was a reporter on a local news show. I'd been the weather girl, and had my sights on a talk show.”
OMG. My snide fantasy was really true? ROFL.
She continued, "Then when I was twenty-six, there came Harold on his white horse, and freedom became a memory. When I went back to work fifteen years later, after having you kids, I couldn't get news work anymore. I'd lost my looks. I had to be a secretary instead. Well, I couldn't protect Monica from the same path, she married so young, but I thought with you …" She looked away and shrugged. "In a way, I think I put your father in Nadja's home just to keep you free.”
I hugged her. "But he and I were okay here."
She said, "Well, somebody let him store milk in the linen closet. The smell! And you lost him ten times.”
"Four." I said. Or five.
"And he said you never lock the doors around here!"
"Mom, I'll keep my word. Tomorrow—"
Mom said, "Rhonda, you're just—"
I was really exhausted, but I pulled myself up tall and yelled, "Mom, I am not 'just Rhonda' anymore! I'm a talented writer and a good librarian and a damn good sport and a decent daughter and I really can do this job. I will take care of you both! Starting tomorrow."
She looked abashed. "Of course you could, but I never said—look, Ed's a great guy. He's explained everything about that Bjorn guy planting the check and the bacon in his pocket. But if you still insist on helping us after you get m—"
"I'll take it from here, Mrs. Hamilton." Dal had come in. He took my hand and pulled me outside toward the van.
"Call me Ethel, Ed!" Mom threw after us. "And in any wedding planning, I look best in neutrals!"
We drove to my place in a pregnant silence. Crap. More wedding talk? Not tonight, surely, after the day I'd had. I put my head back and drifted into visions of fourteen giant roller girls surrounding me in huge white meringue dresses and veils, leering and flashing scabby legs and bruised thighs and torn fishnets over huge white satin quad skates.
A flood of camera flash woke me in the condo driveway. A din of voices rushed at us from my front step and closed in three deep on the van. We tried to run for the house, but got pushed back inside the van by the aggressive crowd, so we clambered over the seats into the rear crimson boudoir. I landed on the cherry-quilted futon, right on top of Bing, who licked my face until Dal shoved him over.
Dal reached for me. "Get your own girl, Dog. She's mine.”
"They conned you into dog-sitting again?" I was too tired to laugh.
Photographers rapped hard on the van side. "Hey, lady!"
A tear plopped on the quilt in fron
t of me. This was going to be hard, but I had to do it. "Long day. I need a shower. That cliff face was filthy. And sharp. Ow.”
Dal laughed. That deep, lovely laugh. "The filthier the better." He kissed me long and hard. I melted under him, a big, tearful, sweaty mess.
Pound-pound-pound. The van rocked under a full assault of reporter fists. "Hey, Reynard! Come out and talk!"
But Dal seemed unconcerned, even playful. "I know. Let's sell this thing and get a full RV with a shower. Big enough to share. And a king-sized bed."
I swatted Bing's nose away from my pockets and sat up, sad as hell. "Dal, I don't have time for RVs." Or you, you lovely man. "I have to get a serious job tomorrow and arrange day care for Dad." Sigh. "And put my house on the market and move back home with the folks. I can't even afford the legal battle to get my name on my own book. Want a used laptop?"
Knock-knock-knock. "Hey, Reynard Jackson, give us a quote!"
Dal yelled, "She's not Reynard Jackson. She's Janet Jackson!"
The pounding resonated in my aching head. Oh, get it over with. "And you …" I patted Bing and wiped my eyes, trying to find words. " … surely won't want to stay in a house full of crabby old crazy people, but—but I just can't put Music Man at Shady Acres."
Pound-pound-pound. "Talk or we'll slash your tires!" they yelled.
Dal caught my hand. "Honey, I'll help you with him. Don't worry."
"Help? Look. I'm a black hole of neediness. Time, money, skill. You name it, I need it. Don't get sucked in. You'll resent it. Please. Just … go now.”
"But your name will be cleared. Jackson's been unmasked."
A grating sound of metal on metal came from outside.
Dal sat up and opened the back door of the van, pulled out his wallet, and gave a guy something, then returned to my side. Outside went blissfully quiet.
"Did you just bribe—?" I asked. "Can you afford—?"
He said, "Rhonda, listen. You kicked me out of my stupor when I got here. I thought my fiancée was the best woman in the world, following me around doing rescue work. When she died in an ambulance accident in Iran last year, I was devastated. But you know—I know this sounds bad—but in a way, I was relieved not to be marrying her. I felt terrible about it. I mean, she was so efficient, so perfect. Yet, I don't know, she never made me laugh. And she didn't get my art at all."
My head still throbbed. "So?"
"So you do." He took my hand and kissed it. "You make me laugh. You get my art. You, my raccoon, are a roller coaster ride, nothing like Linda, but …"
"I'm not a raccoon. And she was probably little and cute.”
He snuggled up to me. "Honey, if you'd been very little, you'd never have reached over that big hole in Besker Park."
"True." Even his words caressed me. Why did he have to be a gambler?
"Rhonda." He turned my chin to face him. "Sweet Raccoon. I was miserable without you after your mom threw me out. I knew James was fishy, so I went to his old stomping grounds in Virginia and New York to check him out. He has a string of pseudonyms this long—" He pointed at his arm. "—and his sister was married to an editor. How fishy is that? So my lawyers—"
"Your lawyers? Plural? How can you afford lawyers? You're a student!"
"Actually, I've dropped out of school.”
I sat up. "Again? And you gave that guy money just now?"
"Yeah, but—"
"You must be gambling again. Dal, I'm sorry. I just don't do gamblers." I backed away from him. "I need someone supportive, for once." Sniff.
"Rhonda, I love you, I'll be supportive. And the gambling—"
"You love me? And my mother approves? The woman who saw me taken to the cleaners by three different gambling boyfriends? Why doesn't she just send me to Afghanistan as a mail-order bride?" I crawled toward the door.
He caught me around the waist. "Honey, wait. See, there's this casino in Minnesota—"
"Your lucky spot? Send me an email, okay?" I jiggled the door handle.
"Help me, Rhonda,” he sang. “Please, help me, Rhonda.”
"Not funny. Is this locked?"
"The casino's on our tribal land.”
"How convenient. No need for an email reminder to spend all your cash.”
He gently pulled my hand away from the lock. "Raccoon Lady, I'm an Indian. My money comes from other people's gambling. Not mine. I don't gamble. I don't even do slots."
"Huh?" I spun around. We came nose to giant nose.
"It used to drive me crazy, taking other people's gambling money, hand over fist. That's why I went out to save the world. Pure guilt.”
"So you're not Nathan Detroit?"
"Nope."
"Or Gandhi?"
"More like Brother Teresa. But if it makes you feel any better, I killed a goldfish once. And I felt responsible for Linda's death. I thought she stayed out there for me."
"What? No way! My God, if I took the rap for Dad getting sick, I'd be depressed, too." I sat down by him.
Stroking my thigh, he said, "I probably always knew, deep down, it wasn't really my fault she died there. She was very committed to her work, and she wasn't there just to please me. I mean we did awesome things, helped a lot of people, and felt pretty good about it. But I secretly missed home. Then Linda died, and I was just frozen and lost. There's still so much suffering. I felt like all my efforts hadn't even made a dent. And I was furious at myself for never putting down any roots, not bringing her back home with me.”
"You can't save everybody. It's hard enough to save one crusty old fart," I said.
He nodded and pulled me down to spoon me. Bliss. "And who has time for it since you skated into my life in that silly bustier? With Harold. Neither of you blame anyone or anything for his problem. Heck, you're not even angry. You just take it day by day. And you're so clueless about handling him, but you do it anyway. That takes guts. Man, that scene at the azalea bushes that first day. I had to bite my cheek to keep a straight face. But then, the longer I knew you, the more I got it. Stuff just happens. Good and bad. To everybody, not just me. People die. People get sick. You can't control anything or anyone."
"Man, I wish I could," I said, starting to tear up again.
He whispered in my ear, "You know, my high school math teacher used to say this thing when we failed a test. I think it was: 'Kids, you gotta roll with the punches.'"
Melt, melt, melt. I was a puddle of crayon wax.
"And then he tested us even harder the next week, crusty old bastard," Dal said.
I poked him.
"But I love that spirit. I love your spirit," he said.
Suddenly, I was inside another garden of a kiss, full of roses and starlight. I smiled, putting a finger to his jaw. "So … um … that 'hand over fist' income would be roughly … "
"Oh, $56,000 a month, give or take. Small tribe, big city nearby. My mom gets double that and invests half for me. And supports charities and other tribes. She keeps it quiet, though.”
Test question number six about income? Ka-ching. "Aren't you worried I'll marry you for your paycheck?" I said.
"Nah." He frowned and fished in his pocket.
Oh, God. I'd said the M-word. "Um, I mean … "
He was still fishing and glancing around the futon. Finally, he produced an envelope from another pocket. Too flat for a ring, thank goodness. Good Lord, was it a bill?
He opened it and pulled out a chunk of thick, brown hair. "Look.”
"Huh?"
He explained. "When Yvette was sitting on James tonight, she pointed out a long chunk of his bangs that really bugged her."
"And?" I knew that chunk of his bangs very well.
"And I happened to have a pocketknife."
God, please, no. My formerly favorite lock of James's hair sat in Dal's hand. I'd slobbered over that damned hair lock for a year. How did Dal know? Should I confess all now? I stifled a nervous giggle.
Dal looked stern.
"Look, Rhonda, I brought you a scalp, see? So now will you marry me?"
I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants.
He waited until I stopped hooting. "If that's a yes, I still have one small confession."
Crap. Was anything ever simple? "Um. Yes?"
He said, "I didn't steal your—um—gift."
"What a relief," I said. "Who did?"
He looked abashed. "Look. I sort of co-own a tabloid, and today I paid a couple of paparazzi overtime to watch your room at the hospital and follow you until I could catch up with you to talk. Is that creepy?"
I wiped my eyes. "Well, kind of sweet creepy. But next time, give them skates." My stomach fell. "But what about Mom and Dad? They need—"
"A cushy little retirement home. I'll pay.”
"No more weird care homes for Dad," I said, "Ever."
The nose caressed my neck, driving my headache away. "Fine. Good live-in help. And you and I can go off in the sunset in our RV.”
"From disaster site to disaster site?" I said. "You helping victims rebuild their homes, and me writing their stories? Thanks, but from what I’ve seen of the sucky local caregiver pool, I should probably stay near the folks for a while.”
Dal's low, sexy laugh rumbled through our red velvet love nest, making every fiber of my body vibrate. "Fine. We’ll stay here, mostly. You know, the architect dreams were my dad's. I just want to be with you, do something fun, maybe work in emergency services. Give the kids a—"
"Kids?" I started choking.
He cocked his head. "You're right. Emergency work's too dangerous for a dad. I need a sane job. Hey, let's open up a cool board and care home, completely centered around Harold. With a whole wing just for him. I'll do art therapy sessions for the residents. You can take down their stories. And upstairs, you'll have a cushy office for your novel writing."
Oooh. Tempting. I croaked, "Uh … really?"
He pulled me into the front seat and started the engine. "I can just see the place now, with a cute little sign in front. Ethel's Old Farts' Home. In yellow, red, blue, and pink."
"No," I said. "Ethel is green, black, brown, and gold. Way too dark. Bing's Dangly Wrinkly Parts Home has better colors."
Roll with the Punches Page 37
